The director comes in with the rest, and he searches the room over his nose. I mean he leans his head back and it looks like he’s siting a gun down his nose. A double barrel shotgun nose. When he sees Jane Fonda and me together, his eyes and nostrils flare out. He takes in a huge breath and expands to twice his size. He comes over to our table like a king bestowing his blessing on his subjects. His mouth working around until it finds a smile. Not an easy smile, but some semblance of smiledom. He sweeps out a chair with one hand, dragging its back legs across the wooden floor. He spins the chair around and sits astride it backwards and tosses his hard safari hat onto the table. I grab my beer bottle just in time. He crosses his arms over the hat and rests his forehead on his arms. There is a bald spot the size of an orange on the top of his head. Jane Fonda and I look at each other across it. I think we are both going to laugh, but we don't. The director raises his head, his eyes roll up at the ceiling. His eyes are big look like they were stuck on his face afterward and might fall off anytime eyes.
"Aaaahhh!" he says, "These people, they are so hard to work with. They don't understand the simplest..."
"They aren't professionals, Ricardo." Jane Fonda says.
"Yes, yes, yes," Ricardo says, waving his hand, "but still, the simplest of concepts. It is beyond their, their, their..."
"Grasp?" I say.
"That's it!" Ricardo says. He slams his hand down on the table and points his nose at me, his eyes wide and shining over it.
"Ricardo Paploosa, at your service!" he says. Ricardo Paploosa sticks out his hand. He wears a black glove with no fingers. The glove, I mean, his bare fingers stick out of the glove.
"Vinnie Goldsmith," I say, I hoped that sounded New Yorkish. I give it a hint of that Lawn Guyland accent like my sister has.
"Plessed to meet you," he says, just like that, "May I ask you... You are here to..."
He looks at me like he wants me to finish his sentence again.
"I'm down here," I say, "because Mr...."
"Mattinsky" Jane Fonda says.
"Mattinsky," I say, "just has a kind of a interest, you might say, in your progress. Seein's how you been down here, what...."
"Six, seven weeks" Jane Fonda says.
"Six seven weeks now," I say "and it's costin’ the investors a bundle and so they was kinda innerested in knowing about when you was expectin’ to be finishin' up here, so to speak."
Ricardo's face has frozen. His eyes the only things that can move. He is smiling, but it doesn't look like a real smile. More like a kind of smile someone might have if they opened up their birthday present and found an alligator.
Ricardo gulps. He actually swallows and licks his lips before opening his mouth to answer. The last time I saw that was on a sitcom. The one with the two women and the guy.
"Well, Mr. Goldasmith," Ricardo says, just like that, "I... well, I..."
"I think you'll be finished by the end of next week, don't you, Ricardo?" Jane Fonda says, "Isn't that what you were telling me just yesterday?"
"Next week?" Ricardo says. Ricardo doesn't sound very sure of that. He turns his head away from me, like maybe his neck is getting rusty and needs oil. Ricardo and Jane Fonda look at each other. She raises her eyebrows and nods at him.
Ricardo takes a deep breath. He stretches out his arms, cracks his knuckles, eyes on his hands. He pushes his lips out like he’s sizing up an order of antipasto.
"Yes, yes, of course," Ricardo says, his voice squeaking a little, "We are almost through here. Fini. Next week, for sure."
His nose comes back around to me with his eyes looking like normal Ricardo eyes and I smile my best New York gangster squinty eye smile back at him. His own smile freezes into place again.
"That's real good, Ricardo, real good." I say, "Mr. Mattinsky gonna be real glad to hear that. Y'know, he's puttin' a lot of trust in you. It would not be very nice on your part to.... let him down, y'know?"
Ricardo nods like his neck got even rustier and he has limited movement.
“If you will excuse me,” Ricardo says, “I must see about dinner.”
He stands up, neck still looking stiff. Turns and walks into the crowd.
I look at Jane Fonda and Jane Fonda looks at me. I think we are both going to laugh again. This time, I’m right.
* * *
The next day, as I am about to head out. Jane Fonda comes up to the car.
"Did you ever think," Jane Fonda says, "Of a career in acting?"
"Well, no" I say, "Okay, sometimes."
"When you get back from Antarctica," Jane Fonda says, "You should call my agent."
Jane Fonda gives me her agent's card.
I look at Jane Fonda’s agent’s card in my hand.
When I get back, I think.
“Thanks,” I say.
She gives me a little wave while I drive away south.
When I get back, I think, from Antarctica. Get back, I think. Getting back hadn't occurred to me before. Hmm.
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