ROCKET RANDY

He’s the kind of agent who makes everybody feel super. Almost everybody

I COULD tell Rocket Randy was important, because his office was large. Most people in his company have offices the size of closets. And every detail of Rocket Randy’s house is exquisite. From the spray of orchids in his bedroom to the electric-blue tile around his hot tub, all of it perfect. But even Rocket Randy makes a mistake every few years. His wine was one of them. He had bought, some years before, many cases of fine white wine. He thought it could only appreciate. He let it appreciate too long. So he gave a party before it all turned to vinegar.

Rocket Randy is called such because of the verve and speed with which he makes deals. His skills as an agent include giving good parties. He’s adept at making everyone feel pretty, important, or, at the very least, well fed. I often feel pretty, occasionally important, but not always well fed. So I stayed next to the caviar, of which there was lots. I ate most of it. Everything flows plentifully in Hollywood as long as you’re in favor. Rocket Randy beamed at me as I wolfed down his caviar. For the moment I was in favor.

Then there was a sit-down dinner, which was fine, and after that Havana cigars, which I love; they’re the only big cigars I can smoke all the way down to a butt. Most everyone puffed and then everyone gasped. Rocket Randy s huge, perfect white worsted-wool couch showed evidence of a big black hole, and there was no obvious criminal in sight. I twitched though I was not the culprit. At least I didn’t think so.

Rocket Randy tried to look cheerful—it’s really one of his nicest expressions—but a jaw muscle jumped. This is a man who before going to work in the morning erases every trace of whatever went on the night before. He would not be able to erase a cigar bum. The twitch in his jaw spread until, despite his smile, his entire compact body quivered. I prayed that someone powerful had made the hole.

But, as it turned out, the villain was anything but important.

Like his house, Rocket Randy presents a glittering facade which few penetrate. The villain, poor soul, had no facade. His face shone with pain and guilt; it hurt to look at him. The man had once had the temerity to make a film about which everyone had raved. Before release. After release everyone tried to backpedal. For when the critics hated it, and then the public hated it, then Hollywood hated it. Only a few people remembered, with shame, that they had once been enthusiastic about it. Only now, ten years later, has the guy begun to show his face. And it’s a sad face, wounded— it even has craters in it. It was he who burned a hole in Rocket Randy’s couch.

Alas, he made matters worse. Instead of admitting his guilt, he did the following: He pulled Rocket Randy aside and said, ‘ ‘I didn’t do it! But I feel bad about it! Let me pay for half!”

‘‘Can you believe he said that?” announced Rocket Randy to the party. The man crept off.

The whole incident made me nervous. I figured I better cash in while the going was good. On the way out the door, I wangled two Havana cigars. They were really very good, and I didn’t even burn a hole in my own couch.

Lucretia Bingham