Throb(3)

“You’re right there. She is beautiful.” And damn crazy too.

I change into some sweats and take a look at the package. Mile High Productions. Great. I can’t think of a more appropriate way to end this crappy day, reality TV.

I grab a beer, take a long draw and slip the DVD in. The first ten minutes introduces half of the women. The method is interesting enough, although the responses fall flat. The host, who I’m actually pretty impressed Miles was able to score, is a well-known name. Each girl is on screen for a minute as he plays word association with them. Great concept, predictable answers. By the sixth woman who associates the word profound with the lyrics of Macklemore, I’m done. Maybe tomorrow, things won’t seem so bleak.



Friday is appointment-free day. My father passed the tradition down to me, and it makes the day before the weekend something I look forward to. It’s the one-day that Helen keeps clear. No appointments, no conference calls, no lunches, no meetings. It’s my choice, all day. This week I need it more than ever. I do my morning run at the studio lot, knowing Miles is going to be shooting some promo work for Throb. I decide I’ll drop in unannounced and check out what’s going on.

I’m surprised to find the lot empty, so I head over to security to see what Mile High has planned for the day.

“Hey, Frank.”

Frank Mars is sitting in front of a dozen security monitors, alternating between flipping cards on his desk and studying the video feed. Same uniform, same mustache, same cigarette behind his ear—even though he quit twenty years ago. He looks a bit more seasoned, more salt than pepper in his thick mane, but he hasn’t changed all that much since I was a kid.

Frank’s been our head of security as far back as I can remember. He was also a standard in my father’s poker foursome, along with the CEO of a rival movie production company and one of the lighting grips. Every other Friday night, I could always find them in the empty studio hangar with a card table and a few cases of beer. Walking into that room, no one would ever know that two of the players were rich, powerful, Hollywood execs and the other two were average guys on their payroll.

“Cooper! Where you been hiding, kid?” Frank stands, shakes my hand, and slaps me on the back.

“Busy. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“A while? Last time you were down here Grip hadn’t even retired yet.”

“Grip retired?”

“Going on two years now.”

Two years? The thought scares me. I would’ve guessed the last time I was here was more like three months ago. “Damn. I can’t believe it’s really been that long. You still have your Friday night games going?”

Frank pats his chest, hand over his heart. “As long as my ticker keeps going, that game will be around.”

“Grip still playing even though he’s retired?”

“Winter months. Summers, his wife drags his ass to Arizona. Their daughter lives out there now, got two grandkids too.”

“Still rotating Dad’s chair?”

“Yes, sir. No one man can fill that chair. Hey, why don’t you join us tonight? We were going to ask Ted over in finance to play, but that guy always takes my money.”

“Are you saying I won’t take your money?”

Frank laughs. “You got your father’s good looks, you didn’t get his poker playing abilities, kid.”

“Might have to take you up on it, just to kick your old ass, Frank.”

“You do that.” He smiles, the creases on the sides of his eyes deepening. “Eight o’clock?”

“Why not. Hey, do you know where Miles is? I thought he was shooting a promo here today.”

“He’s shooting on location, down at a beach in Malibu.”

Figures—any chance Miles gets to throw a girl in a skimpy bikini. “All right. Well, I’ll be back later to take your money, old man.”

“You keep telling yourself that, kid.”



It’s eight on the nose when I return to the studio lot, looking forward to sitting in on one of my father’s favorite pastimes. Frank’s setting up the card table and Ben is packing a cooler with Heineken.

“What? You think you’re rich or something? Heineken? What happened to Budweiser?” I call out, walking toward Ben with a case of Bud in tow.

“Only your old man drank that shit.” Ben Seidman, the founder and CEO of Diamond Entertainment, clasps my hand as he takes the case. Diamond Entertainment is the second largest movie studio in Hollywood—second to Montgomery Productions, of course. Ben also happens to be one of my father’s oldest friends and my godfather.

“He drank it because it’s good. Not like that imported shit you’re packing in there.”