“You’re giving Mike Barker therapy?”
“Yes, Nicky. Movie stars need mental help, too. More than the rest of us sometimes.”
Nicky shook his head. “It’s like just when I think you can’t get no crazier, you bring Mike Barker up in my restaurant, talking about therapy and asking me to feed his ass.”
“Nicky, please. Mike needs this. I need this—”
Nicky cut me off. “Stop begging. I taught you better than that. I’ll send over the chicken piccata, but only because it’s a slow night, and this shit is sort of amusing. Does Chloe know he’s here?”
“Davie!” Chloe said behind us.
I turned around to see Chloe standing there in her evening gown, her hands bunched up like she was fixing to hit somebody.
“What is he doing here?” she demanded.
“Atonement. Same as you,” I told her straight up.
Chloe wrinkled her pretty little forehead, she was so angry. “He got everything he deserved.”
“No, he didn’t, Chloe, and you know it. But he does owe you an apology. So come on, Mike.”
Mike blinked, surprised. “You want me to apologize?”
“No, I want you to start taking responsibility for your actions. I hurt you. I’m sorry about that. And you hurt Chloe, so tell her.”
“But I only hurt her because you bet me.”
I shook my head. “C’mon, little boy. You can’t possibly believe that.”
Mike’s mouth opened and closed a few times, but finally he hung his head and said, “Chloe, I’m sorry, okay?”
Nicky and I looked at Chloe for her answer.
“Does he even know what he’s apologizing for?” Chloe asked.
“Sure he does,” I said. “Mike, tell her you’re sorry for using her, because you know that was wrong. And don’t act. Tell her for real.”
Mike drummed his fingers on the bar and rocked back and forth a few times before saying, “Chloe, listen. I’m a user. I’ve always been a user. And I’m sorry I used you, okay?”
Chloe pursed her lips. “Apology not accepted.”
She then flounced away. To tell you the truth, I was real proud of both of them. I didn’t think Mike had it in him to give an actual heartfelt apology, and I definitely didn’t think Chloe had it in her to throw it back in his face.
Nicky cackled and waved down a passing waiter. “Get this man a chicken piccata on the house,” he said to the waiter. He pointed to Mike. “You real entertaining.”
. . .
So that’s how it went with Mike and me. We developed a nice little routine that first week, with me getting him up to exercise for forty-five minutes every morning, then making him breakfast and eventually lunch, with a lot of talking in between.
On the eighth day, I asked him for his phone.
“What do you need my phone for?” he asked as he handed me his BlackBerry.
I scrolled through his contacts until I came to a name that didn’t look like it belonged to an actor. “Who’s Gerald Epstein?”
“He’s my agent.”
I pushed the button wheel and raised the BlackBerry to my ear.
Mike’s eyes widened. “Are you calling my agent?”
“Gerald Epstein’s office,” said a chirpy woman’s voice on the other end of the phone. She sounded blond.
“Why are you calling my agent?” Mike asked.
I held up a finger for quiet. “Hello,” I said to the assistant. “This is Mike Barker’s mama, calling on behalf of Mike. May I speak to Mr. Epstein.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Barker. Mr. Epstein isn’t available.”
I waited for her to offer to take a message. But that seemed to be all she had to say on the matter.
Which made it much easier for me to say, “Well, could you pass on a message, then? Please tell him that Mike will no longer be needing his services, and he’s fired.”
“What?” The assistant’s voice faltered. She now sounded confused.
“Thank you,” I said, and hung up.