by Rowan Casey
"Okay, so let's say I buy what you are selling, why these not quite stars?"
"You have to understand the nature of fame. These victims have an allure that goes beyond simple bone structure and skin, they are the recipients of adoration, and in this town that is everything. They are worshipped."
"I can just see Wonder Woman and Spidey on their knees outside the Chinese Theatre saying a quick prayer to Victim Number 3 on CSI: LA to watch over them."
"You know that is not what I mean. This is a city unlike any other. The nature of the place is so incredibly superficial, for one thing. It is a place where you have to be skin and bone otherwise the casting director will ask if you've ever considered losing a few pounds. Skin and bone, Sam. You see the point he's trying to make?"
I did. It was about as subtle as a brick to the side of the head. "He's quite the social commentator," I said.
"Oh, he is so much more than that. He has been a regular visitor to my parties. Don't look so surprised. Everyone who is anyone has splashed around in that pool. One day, when all of my tricks are dead I shall write a book and scandalize polite society. I'm quite looking forward it, to be honest. And given the modern world's penchant for recording everything and everyone, believe me, every claim will be backed up with irrefutable proof."
"I'm looking forward to it," I said.
"Then you better not die before it comes out," again with that smirk. That one bit a little too close to home for comfort. She knew something all right. She was up to her perky little bank balance in all this.
"He finds his sacrifices in the Garden, Sam. That's what I'm trying not so subtly to tell you. He preys on my pretty boys and girls. That's the link the cops aren't seeing. That's why I need you. My pretty ones aren't safe here, and I need them to be safe and happy."
"Because safe and happy deviants pay top dollar to get their kink on. Gotcha."
"Because I promise them a safe space," she said, like that wasn't exactly what I'd just said.
"So, your next party is soon I assume, and you're worried about victim number fifteen?"
"Tonight," she said. "Every night is a party in the Garden. But tonight is special. One of my girls is bringing along someone the whole world loves. That kind of adoration...you don't need me to tell you just how potent it can be. You feed yourself off it."
"That I do. amongst other things."
"You're a noble soul," she said, and I knew she was mocking me, but I wanted her to be right. I wanted to be a noble soul. It sounded more in keeping with the imagine I had of myself in my head. I mean, you get it right, we're all the heroes of our own lives. I never thought I was a bad guy, even when I was halfway up a tree trying to snap a candid shot of some new girl on the block who didn't know how she was meant to get out of a car without showing the world her Victoria's Secret.
"So what, you want me to pay creepy guy a visit, warn him off?"
"Again, something like that. I want you to use your initiative."
"So, who are we talking about?"
She looked at me, those dark eyes piercing. Behind me the boys stopped splashing in the pool. It was one of those fateful time stand still moments. The second the words were out of Evienne's mouth I was screwed. This was the path that I'd walked that first today, before Dante Grimm had wound the clock back and given me a do over. But she'd said those two words last time, and she was about to say them again this time, like fate was determined to have its way and nothing could be changed.
"Jonas Holm."
"The director? We're talking about the guy who put out The Sufferer's Song last year? Beloved of the academy, heir apparent to Ron Howard and Steven Spielberg. That Jonas Holm?"
She nodded.
"Fuck me," I said.
"If you come back later, maybe.".
I was so screwed it wasn't funny. That guy was serious Hollywood. We're talking bodyguards, serious muscle. The kind of thick necked small-brained goons who liked to hurt people. And last time I looked, I was people.
"I don't work on half-promises," I said, meaning she was going to need serious dollar bills to get me to stick my neck out.
"Come to the party. I promise you a photo that will change your life. That's better than me just giving you money isn't it? Feeling like you have a hand in your own destiny?"
"I prefer cash, but if we are talking You Know Who, I'm happy to be paid in kind. That boy, in flagrante, that's worth...to be honest, it's worth me not getting high and joining those boys in the pool for the afternoon, and believe me that is one tempting option right now. Have you seen them?"
"All morning she said. And most of last night."
"Lucky you."
4
I needed to pay Holm a visit.
Problem was I couldn’t just rock up to the studio and say ,"Hey, I need a few minutes with that deranged psychopath you call a boss," and expect to get through the layers of security. And the Lot was worse. Ever since the spate of dead rising stars the studios had started employing private security–of the jackboot and Desert Eagle toting variety–who would shoot first and then blame the whole dead body on the asphalt thing over the fact they thought the camera was a gun. Can’t be too careful, etcetera, etcetera.
The other obvious alternative was pay him a home visit, but the problem with that was pretty straightforward; I had no idea where he lived, and people like Jonas Holm didn’t exactly have their number listed.
Thankfully the answer was waiting by the side of the road when I pulled up outside the office in Westwood: an open top bus tour, complete with its own star map and all of the desirable residences of the equally desirable stars handily highlighted, X marks the weirdo’s spot. There were dozens of these tours every hour, some specializing in old time Hollywood and the houses of your Crawford’s and Hepburn’s of the world. Others specialized in the cribs of the Rap royalty with all of their gold blinged up excess. Others did the sitcom tours promising to show you the gate of Jen’s place in the hills, and where the latest Harry had hooked up with his bubbly Sally. There were three buses in a line. The front one promised the whole Beverly Hills package, with a mix of old and new Hollywood. The second was the Slasher tour, hitting all of the grisly locations of the horror movies we know and love, and promising to show you the homes of Jason and Freddy among other Hollywood monsters, and the home of Pinhead’s creator. The last bus was the LA Crime Tour, which sounded like a barrel of laughs.
I killed the Mustang’s engine and put a sign in the window that promised there was a doctor on call, then clambered out and crossed the street to buy my ticket to wonderland.
There were a lot of people already on the open top bus, including a group of Asian tourists with their cameras already out in anticipation of the thousands of photos of brick walls and empty windows they would take. I’m sure there was some sort of metaphor about the pointlessness of celebrity in that, but I wasn’t smart enough to put it together.
"Twenty-five bucks," the guy at the door said. I looked at him like he was speaking Swahili. "Twenty-five dollars to get onboard," he repeated, like maybe I didn’t understand English.
"How much just for the map?"
"Twenty-five bucks," he said.
"Cheap at half the price," I said. I paid my money, grudgingly, and went up to join the excited tourists on the top deck., ready for the tour. I figured if the guide didn’t point out Holm’s place I’d make a point of asking, then I’d double back to get the Mustang and go into work mode, stalk the guy’s place out, find the vantage point with the best views, and watch a while before I walked up to the front door. The kind of houses you found up in the hills weren’t made for people who liked visitors. We are talking cameras on the gates, security gates operated from the main house, the works.
The other thing you should know about me, I’m very good at what I do. There isn’t a gate in this city that can keep me out when I set my mind to it, cameras or not.
The bus promised three hours of behind the scenes secrets. The guy’s voice
was already grating on my nerves before we’d made it off Hollywood Boulevard. He was pointing to a fairly non-descript yellow building and telling us that was where Miscavige controlled the Church of Scientology, and how if we were lucky we might spot one of their more famous members going for a weekly audit on the e-meter. Some kid at the back asked what the chances were of seeing a Thetan and I burst out laughing. It led to a whole conversation about poor Katie and Nicole that I kinda blocked out. Instead I watched the people hustling along the street. It took me all of two minutes to spot a drug buy going down. A guy in a Goofy costume was dealing out of his oversized dog-head. It was pretty ingenious, I have to admit. I mean, who’s going to set the Narcos on Goofy? That’s just harshing the whole Magic Kingdom buzz.
A saw a cop that was far too pretty to be a real cop come out of the Bean House and I wondered if he had some cute nickname written on his paper cup.
We carried on up the boulevard–which sounds so much cooler than road, doesn’t it? Hollywood Road just doesn’t have that same gravitas. A couple of minutes later I saw the huge silver globe of the theme park promising rides from every movie imaginable. My first thought was I’d love to see them go for a Devil in Miss Jones ride, but then I’m a bad man. We’ve already established that.
Kids lined up, ready to line the execs pockets. I pitied them. On the other side of that gate what was waiting for them wasn’t the rides of a lifetime, it was the queues of a lifetime. Okay, I pitied the parents that were with them, because they would rather be anywhere else, but that’s what you got when you settled down and did the whole 2.4 children happy life thing, a lifetime of queueing up at the gates of hell.
We made our way up into the hills, listening to the guide tell us about the Manson House, about Jimmy Dean’s crash and Tori’s house. The history was, I’ll grudgingly admit, pretty interesting when he started talking about Ronald Coleman and Errol Flynn, pointing out the proper old school icons of Hollywood. The problem was that every time he did he followed it up with a comment about how the original house had been torn down and the new owners had paid a lot of money purely for the address, the house itself was never what they wanted. My mind struggled with the concept of buying a twenty-million dollar house and tearing it down just because it had overlooked the pool of the house you owned next door, but that was Beverly Hills right there in a single, ridiculous truth. I thought about the kids who came here and ended up sleeping on the streets because they couldn’t make it in this town. Then I looked at the garden where twenty million dollars worth of house had been, and I gave up trying to understand the world. Maybe it was a good thing I was down to my last dozen or so hours?
Finally, we came to the house I was looking for. In retrospect it should have been obvious, given the fact the wrought iron gates had been fashioned into a creepy spider web and the gateposts were mounted with creature feature gargoyles. "And on the left you’ll see the house of A list director, Jonas Holm. The Swede has only been in residence for the last twelve months, since the runaway success of his most recent movie, The Sufferer’s Song. Before moving here, he used to live further down the hills. A lot of stars do that, they move higher up the hills the more successful they become. It’s a status thing."
I tried to get a good look at the house, and more importantly the ground around it. My needs were very different from the rest of the people on the bus as they all leaned to the side taking shots of the place, but I joined them, taking a dozen different angles and putting together a decent set of reckon images. If there was a good place to stake Holm out, it’d be in the photos somewhere. I sat back down in my fake plastic seat and listened to the guide tell more stories about fake plastic lives.
I got bored long before the tour finished and hopped off outside a porn mogul’s place. It amused me you couldn’t tell the difference between the Golden Globe Winner and the Golden Globes Winner’s places. But that was this place, too, it didn’t matter where your money came from as long as you had enough of it.
I Ubered back down the hills, the driver assuming I had to be someone because of the house he’d picked me up at. I told him I was particularly well hung and it had helped me get head in the business. He laughed, but man the jealousy in his eyes was a thing of beauty to behold. Men are simple.
5
Claire Grogan was singing happy birthday to me despite the fact it was pretty much the opposite, but Claire could sing anything to me and I'd be a happy soul.
I didn't get out of the car until the song finished playing. God bless dear old dad, he knew his Eighties pop heroines. I took a moment to flick through the photos again, double checking them against the reality of the view. The spot was pretty much perfect. It wasn't overlooked by nosy neighbors. There was a nice high growth of trees with plenty of low hanging branches--which are the golden goose in my industry. Paparazzi love their trees. We're like koalas.
Bowie was next up telling me he knew how to get things done. I've got news for you Davey, you're not the only one. This town bends to my will. Okay, maybe a little less Lex Luthor and a bit more Zuckerberg, meaning I know people who know people, not exactly friends, hence the whole Almighty Zuck thing. But then, in a nation of Trumps who wouldn't want to be a Zuck?
I got out of the car but left the keys in the engine. No one was going to steal a beat up old Mustang up here. They were more likely to run it out of town, call it a varmint, and curse the no good who gas and, judging by the mess on the passenger seat, Doritos.
I crossed the street. One thing that always amazed me this high up into the Hills, there was zero traffic. I didn't walk toward the gate. No point. I went around the side. My entire thieves kit consisted of a bump key I'd bought from a guy in an IHOP in exchange for bacon and egg pancakes, and a balaclava that made me look like I was auditioning for the role of sexy burglar number 2 in a cheap porn movie. I know my limitations, I'd never get a speaking role.
I moved quickly around the side of the house. I heard water spraying. Two possibilities, either one of the rich kids had hired themselves a gardener to tend to their own little Edens, or it was a sprinkler system. I was banking on door number two, knowing with my luck it was only ever going to be a toothless Mexican guy with a battered panama hat and a grin that said cross my palm with silver and I'll make like I never saw you. The last bit was me being decidedly optimistic.
The wall was an easy climb, made easier by the overhanging trees. Told you, they love their trees. I ran at the wall, planting one foot on the stucco, and boosted myself up and over, dropping down on the other side lightly. I crouched low and looked for the gardener. He was on the far side of the property. Done with the hosepipe he had turned his attention to the mini-tractor mower.
Head down, I raced across the killing ground between the wall and the house. It was a good three hundred feet, maybe more, with some bushes and stuff to offer cover if the gardener got it into his head to look up. So I ran. I ran so far...okay that's another one of the old man's summer one hit wonders. I swear I'm the only person in LA who is living in a box. Living in a cardboard box.
I ran straight into the glass bi-fold doors. I couldn't stop myself. You tend not to think about stopping distances when you're running. Or at least I don't. I'm normally fixated on the whole go, go, go aspect. The stop, stop, stop, not so much.
I hit it like a bird, the boom echoing out across the landscaped garden. Thankfully, our friendly neighborhood gardener had just fired up the mower's two-stroke engine and he wasn't hearing anything.
I looked at the two sweaty handprints on the glass and couldn't help but smile. It was stupid. But sometimes stupid was the right kind of cover you needed.
I tried the handle, just in case. No such luck. Still the lock wasn't exactly sophisticated, unlike the rest of the house. People overlooked what were essentially window locks so often. They'd spend a small fortune on security doors and fancy alarm systems, and leave the back door wide open.
The principle behind the bump key is pretty straightforward, it
's basically a blank that slips into any lock, then you bump it a couple of times, just hard enough for the tumblers to drop into place, and presto, turn the key and you're in.
I was greeted by the slow and steady beep of the alarm waiting for the code to be punched in to buy its silence.
I didn't have the code.
I figured there were a couple of ways I could play it, I could hot foot it out of there and let the alarm blaze away to its heart's content, or could avail myself of Jonas Holm's rather fabulous leather couch, fix myself a stupidly expensive single malt, and wait for the security company to come by and try and talk myself out of jail. Or, of course, I could spend the next 180 seconds trashing the place and run. 180 seconds was a decent response time in this neighborhood. It'd give me just long enough-in theory-to get out of there, over the wall and into the Mustang and away, hi ho silver, before they rolled up.
What you don't appreciate, until you try it, is just how much damage you can cause in 180 seconds.
I trashed the place.
If it could be broken, I broke it. If it could be slashed, I slashed it. If it could be torn, I tore it. Shattered, shattered it. You get the gist. And then the piece de resistance, I whipped my cock out and pissed all over his bed.
It was only as I was zipping up I spotted the security camera he'd got lined up just right to catch all the action that happened there, meaning he'd just caught my little act of rebellion in glorious technicolor. I smiled for the camera. That was the kind of message I wanted to leave. Holm wasn't going to mistake what was going on here. It wasn't just a home invasion. This was personal.
And assuming he had sound I had just the right parting message for a guy like him. I grinned at the lens and said, "Call me, Jonas. I know all about your little fetishes. Skin and bone. Skin and bone. I'll be waiting for you to reach out."
I hopped down off the bed and set off at a proper run, racing through the house because while the security guys might be 180 seconds plus away, the gardener wasn't.
