There was a bunch of stuff taped or glued to the wall behind the bar.
A defaced Led Zeppelin album cover, a betting slip from a torn down race track, a stuffed porpoise.
Nothing gave away that the bar was an actor hangout, except the occasional conversation and one faded picture of one of them, unautographed, who had made it out of the Great Lakes states and was the alcoholic next-door neighbor on a sitcom that lasted three seasons.
Chelsea Norris was teaching herself chess moves on a little mini-magnetic board that sat next to a pint of some new IPA she wouldn’t finish.
Her feet were up on the seat next to her.She didn’t mean it as a hint she didn’t want company until Randy Beard walked in.
Then she wished she could stack every chair in the place on the Metallica pinball machine.
He ordered a top-shelf scotch, Chelsea guessed by the name, with four rocks and Ray Boonie, the bartender smiled.
Ray might be the best actor in the place, Chelsea thought.
Randy had played an FBI agent in a Soderbergh feature, did a decent job with it, and had been letting his ego surf that wave until he was in the parking lot of the beach hotel and everything had dried up around him except the ego.
He sat down at Chelsea’s table.
Chelsea picked up a white chess piece without looking.
Randy was gonna tease her about her ubiquitous and constantly running attorney commercial, in which she was the victim of a hit and run and collected three-point eight million dollars.
Chelsea Norris, the actor, had collected twenty-eight hundred for the commercial, and if they picked it up for another year, they’d owe her another fourteen hundred.
“You are the queen of the ambulance chasers,” Randy said.
Chelsea looked at the piece between her fingers. Of course it was the queen.
“That didn’t take long,” Chelsea said.
“I’m sorry,” Randy said.” You must get tired of hearing about it.”
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