Fool Me Twice

10

Harry Kaplan, the process server, found Ryan Rooney in front of the trendy industry restaurant Craft, talking with a prospective agent, a toothy shark of a woman in her twenties, dressed entirely in black.

Kaplan interrupted them.

“Mr. Rooney,” he said.

“Yes.”

Kaplan pressed the summons into Rooney’s hand.

“You’ve been served,” he said, before disappearing into the crowd on the sidewalk.

Ryan shrugged.

“It was nice to meet you, Ryan,” the woman said, and hurried away. Ryan watched her leave.

Then he opened the document and began to read. Several lines caught his eye.

“Marisol Hinton vs. Ryan Rooney . . .”

“Reference is made to the prenuptial agreement between the parties. . . .”

“The aforementioned will immediately vacate the premises of the residence located at . . .”

“Mr. Rooney’s executive position at Marisol Hinton Enterprises shall be deemed to have been terminated. . . .”

“No further financial obligations regarding Mr. Rooney shall accrue either to Marisol Hinton or to Marisol Hinton Enterprises. . . .”

Ryan folded the summons, put it in his pocket, walked to the parking lot, and got into his Prius. He sat there for a while, considering his options.

The prenup he had signed deprived him of access to any of Marisol’s assets.

He had very little money, having mostly relied on her largesse for his expenses. He owned the Prius, but his insurance was due for renewal. Without work, his future was uncertain.

He was considering a move to New York, where he might find work in the theater and where Marisol’s influence was less pervasive than it was in L.A. But he would require more cash to establish himself there.

He hoped she would stake him. One final gesture for old times’ sake. He figured she owed him. After all, it was because of her that his career had stalled in the first place.

He switched on the Prius and pulled out of the parking lot onto Century Park Boulevard. The towering skyscrapers of Century City had long since replaced the back lot of Twentieth Century–Fox, which had originally stood there.

All that remained of William Fox’s dream factory was a replica of a New York City street and an elevated train platform on which Barbra Streisand’s Hello, Dolly! had been filmed.

He headed for the freeway, which would take him back to Camarillo, an industrial city located in the outer reaches of Los Angeles where he was staying in a low-rent residential motel managed by one of his would-be actor friends.

He thought about Marisol and his need for resettlement money. Surely she wouldn’t refuse him. They were still married. The divorce papers had yet to be signed.

And if she said no? He’d deal with that if the time came. But he was already formulating a backup plan. One that would carry with it an exceptionally hefty price tag.