Duke
When my agent, Larry Finkelstein’s name lit up my cell, I was skeptical. Since hiring him a few months back, he’d only come up with s**t offers. I needed more than he’d given me. But we had a contract for one year, so I answered the call, ready to shoot down his idea, “You’ve got Duke.”
His nasally tone filled my ear. “Duke, hey man, how’s it goin’ on this fine Monday morning?”
My shoulder ached, my knee throbbed, and I hadn’t had my coffee or the Aleve that wasn’t as all-day-strong as it promised—but at least it was half-a-day-strong, so I took a couple each day to combat the pain.
“It’s going, Larry. What ya got for me?” Rubbing my forehead, I got ready to hear some lame s**t.
So far, he’d come up with a role as a singer in a Broadway play about washed up athletes who couldn’t
