LITMIR.BIZ

       SEVEN I CAN’T GET NO (SATISFACTION)

      Tommy followed Ira’s assistant into his office, trying not to stare too hard at the way her hips swayed in her little black skirt. From what he’d seen, all of Ira’s assistants were smokin’. His dad was clearly living the good life.

      “Mr. Redman, Tommy Phillips is here.” Her voice was prim, but the intimate look that followed was all Tommy needed to know Ira was nailing her.

      Well, at least someone in his family was having some fun. His mom had sworn off men long ago. Claimed to be perfectly happy keeping house with her bilingual parrot. And despite Tommy’s good looks, in a showy town like LA it hardly compensated for the crap car, the shithole apartment, and the nearly empty wallet.

      Tommy sat before Ira, wishing he’d taken time to prepare. He knew the importance of rehearsing for a gig, but when it came to the most important interview of his life, he hadn’t so much as bothered to go over some possible responses to Ira’s inevitable questions. And yet, nothing could’ve prepared him for the intensity of going one-on-one with Ira in a closed room with a pack of hot, clipboard-toting assistants standing by.

      Ira leaned back in his chair and pushed his sleeves up his forearms, allowing a glimpse of the bracelet of small round beads that reminded Tommy of the prayer beads his mom always wore. It seemed like an odd choice for a man like Ira. Then again, most LA moguls liked to feign a spiritual side, claiming to adhere to a rigorous schedule of yoga and meditation before heading out into the world and obliterating competitors, entire companies, and anything else that got in their way.

      Just above the bracelet was an expensive gold watch, this one a Cartier, as opposed to the Rolex of the other day. Probably had a whole collection of ‘em—one for every day of the month—while Tommy relied on his cell phone to keep track of time. And if things didn’t pick up, he’d be forced to hawk it on Craigslist.

      This was a mistake—one of his biggest in a very long list. He should’ve left that stupid flyer in the trash where he’d originally tossed it.

      “So,” Ira said. “Tell me something about you that I don’t already know.”

      Tommy hesitated, unsure what he meant. Did Ira recognize him from that day at Farrington’s?

      He forced his gaze to meet Ira’s, wondering how he’d react if Tommy said, “Well, Dad, as it just so happens, I’m the long-lost son you abandoned.”

      Would Ira lose his cool? Have him tossed from the room?

      Wasn’t worth finding out. Or at least not today.

      “Guess that depends on what you do know.” Tommy practically dared Ira to remind him of how he’d nearly cried when Ira bought his dream guitar out from under him. He was guessing Ira was enough of a douchebag sadist to do it.

      “You’re hungry.” Ira steepled his fingers and held them under his chin. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Question is, what are you hungry for?”

      Rent money, a shelf full of Grammys, to prove myself worthy and one day surpass your success in ways you never saw coming.

      Tommy shrugged and looked around the room. It was sleek, modern, minimal but expensive. Even the requisite ego wall, covered floor to ceiling with framed photos of Ira’s various magazine covers, was tastefully done. “I like to win.” Tommy shifted in his seat, then instantly regretted it. It made him look nervous, unsure of himself. He was, but it wasn’t like he needed to show it.

      “Who doesn’t?” Ira frowned, the steeple collapsed, and his hands fell to his lap, where he fiddled with the tiger’s-eye beads on his bracelet, as Tommy wondered if something from Ira’s brief dalliance with his mom had managed to stick.

      Tommy’s mom was one of those new-age hippies (except she really hated that word—the beliefs dated back thousands of years, she would say). Not only did she believe in the healing power of crystals but also that everyone was guided by angels, that Love with a capital L could cure anything, along with a whole list of other stuff Tommy could never fully align with. She was the one who should’ve moved to LA. It would’ve been a better fit. Though if he remembered correctly, she might’ve said something about tiger’s-eye being protective, guarding against curses and the like. All Tommy knew was on his first day of high school she’d slipped a similar stone into his pocket. By the end of third period he’d already lost it, and yet he still managed to survive those four years mostly unscathed. Though it made sense that Ira would need that sort of protection. A guy like that came with a long list of enemies just waiting to attack.

      Tommy counted himself among them.

      He picked at the hole in the knee of his jeans and waited for Ira to continue.

      “Heard I caused you some trouble over at Farrington’s?” Ira paused, waiting for Tommy to confirm or deny.

      It was a test. Every moment with Ira was a final exam.

      “He canned me.” Tommy lifted his shoulders as though it was no big thing, but they both knew he was lying.

      “You might think that makes me feel obligated to you.” Ira studied his nails, not polished, just filed and buffed, keeping the man in manicure. “But that would be a mistake.” He leveled his gaze on Tommy’s. “I tend to take a more nihilistic view—at least where the more mundane social mores are concerned.”

      Was this guy for real? Did all of the interviews go like this—with Ira aimlessly pontificating like they both had all the time in the world?

      And how the hell was Tommy expected to reply to a statement like that?

      Ira was a major windbag who loved to hear his own voice.

      Tommy was a man of much fewer words.

      Clearly he took after his mother.

      “You made a choice that day. You chose to act on your own and risk the consequence. All of our actions bring consequences. Getting fired was yours.”

      Tommy ran his tongue across his gums, flipped his boot on his knee, and messed with the gash in the shank. No longer caring if Ira saw the sorry state of his shoes, his finances, his life. Seemed like he’d blown the interview long before he arrived. It was Farrington’s all over again.

      The guy was completely devoid of an empathy gene. Great father figure he was turning out to be.

      It was time to head back to Oklahoma, where people at least said what they meant and never made sport of other people’s well-being. Back home, he didn’t know a single person who behaved like Ira. They were good, down-home, solid, dependable folks. He couldn’t believe he’d just used the word folks—but yeah, folks who would never so much as—

      “—which is why you’re not a good fit.”

      The room fell silent. Tommy had no idea what had just happened. “So … I’m not a good fit because you like to take a nihilistic approach, or because you got me fired so easily?” He scrambled to catch up.

      “What

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