Peter went to the big marble desk and sat on it, cross-legged. “You look about my age. How old are you?”

“Thirty-eight.”

“I’m thirty-nine. We talked to some cop who said you were in the Nam. That true?” He leaned forward and said the Nam like they do on television, full of excitement and appeal and unreality. The way Bart Simpson would say it.

“Unh-hunh.”

He slurped up more of the M&M’s. “The cop said you racked ass over there and got a fistful of medals.”

“What do cops know?”

“I tried to join up, but they wouldn’t take me. I got this bone thing in my hips.” He was looking at a poster of John Wayne in Blood Alley. It showed the Duke firing a machine gun at some Commies. More shoulders than hips. “The Nickster was in the Nam, too.” The Nickster.

The Nickster nodded. “Airmobile.”

Peter said, “Man, I wanted airmobile bad. Ride the skies. Ace a few Cong. I wasn’t so old, I’d’ a signed up for Saudi.”

The Nickster said, “You woulda been a natural, buddy. I’d’ a rather had you than half the turds in my unit.”

T.J. said, “Fuckin’ A.”

Peter nodded, regretting the lost opportunity to ride the friendly skies of Vietnam and Saudi Arabia.

Donnie put down the phone and turned back to us, making the big smile and the there’s-no-problem-here hand gestures. “Hey, Pete-man, you wanted that TV putz off the picture, he’s yesterday. Gone. A memory. So tell me what you wanna do about a production designer? We’ve gotta make a decision and start building the rest of the sets.”

Peter said, “Forget about it, Donnie. I’m into something now.”

Donnie’s face pinched and he looked nervous. “But, hey, Peter. We got a movie to make, man. We gotta get with it. These things won’t wait.”

Peter didn’t look at him. “Donnie?”

“Yeah, Pete-man?”

Peter spit a chewed M&M at him. It hit Donnie’s right pants leg, hung there a second, then fell. It left a green smear. “Hit the road.”

Pat Kyle made a hissing sound. Donnie’s face went white and his body stiffened as if the M&M had been a turd pie, and for just a moment, his face was clenched and hard and angry. Then, a little bit at a time, the anger was stored away as if little men inside of Donnie were disassembling it block by block. When enough of the blocks were gone, the little men built a smile. It wasn’t a very good smile, but the little men were probably tired from all the overtime they put in. Donnie said, “Sure, Pete-man. Whatever you say. I’ll call later. Hey, I’m really sorry you got stuck with those TV clips.” His voice was tight. Trainee in the voice-box crew, no doubt.