City of Angels

by Kristi Belcamino

  “How come you didn’t go to Eve’s, too?” I half turned back toward the door, ready to leave.

  He smiled. “I try not to get high much during the school year. It screws with my concentration. That’s why I didn’t eat the brownies.”

  For a second I wondered if he was making fun of me.

  “I’ve wanted to apologize about that,” he said. “I would’ve warned you, but I thought you knew they were dosed.”

  “Totally my fault for being so naïve.” I winced, remembering how clueless I had been.

  “Listen, have a seat. I’m sorry, I’ll be with you in a second…need to finish this—it’s homework. If I don’t, I’ll be lost when I sit down again tomorrow, okay?”

  I nodded hesitantly. He turned back to the table, but I stayed standing. Where was I supposed to sit? Besides his chair and desk piled with books and a mini frig, there was no other furniture in the room except his bed. The queen-size futon was on the floor and covered with Indian print pillows and colorful blankets. I stood there, uncertain.

  He scribbled for a few more seconds. With a flourish, he stood up and put the pen away in an old coffee tin full of pens and pencils.

  When he noticed I was still standing, he glanced down at the bed and saw my confusion.

  “Sorry, my bed has to serve double duty as a couch. Hope that’s okay.”

  “You’re in school?” I said, easing myself down on one end.

  “Kick off your boots. You’ll be more comfortable.”

  I hesitated. I’d worn boots ever since that day I’d found my mom in the crack house. They were my talismans. To most people, they were footwear, but to me, my Doc Martens sent a message—I can kick your ass if I need to, so don’t even think about messing with me, I’ve got a brand of crazy you’ve never even heard of.

  But it would be awkward trying to sit on the bed with my feet sticking over the edge onto the wood floor the entire evening. I reluctantly unlaced my boots and tucked my legs beneath my black skirt in an attempt to hide the hole in one of my black-and-white-striped socks. Without my boots, I felt more naked than if I had stripped off my top and was sitting there in my bra. Ridiculous, I know.

  “Just junior college. It’s all I can afford right now. I mean, you probably go to USC or something.”

  I bit my lip. I couldn’t even afford junior college right now. I pulled my mashed pack of cigarettes from my jacket pocket and lit one by leaning over a nearby red candle. My hands were shaking and I hoped Taj didn’t notice. I wasn’t usually this nervous. Maybe it was his intensity—the way he looked at me. The way he bent over that notebook concentrating. The way he sang on stage, pouring every drop of emotion into the words. It seemed like he wasn’t afraid to feel deeply and intensely and show this nakedness, this vulnerability, to the world. I wondered what that would be like.

  “What’s your pleasure?” Taj leaned over a small refrigerator. “I’ve got beer or wine.”

  “Wine’s good.” I tried to sound cool and causal and flippant, but I worried I seemed nerdy. And young.

  Taj handed me red wine in a coffee cup. He pressed play on a small silver ghetto blaster perched on top of the mini fridge before plopping down on the bed, nearly into my lap. He lay down with his head right near my hips, staring at the ceiling as he took a drag off his smoke. If I moved my leg even slightly, it would touch his head. I had to stop myself from either totally scooting away from him or grabbing his head and putting it in my lap.

  “This is that new band I was talking about—Nirvana,” he said. “They kick ass.”

  The music started with a heavy beat so loud it startled me. Taj began bobbing his head to the throbbing, contagious rhythm. He looked at me and grinned, revealing that gap between his teeth that suddenly seemed incredibly sexy. I looked away and sunk back into the pillows, closed my eyes, and felt the music course through me while I moved my own head to the deep rhythm. The singer’s raspy voice was perfectly filled with angst.

  The song abruptly ended.

  “That was…incredible,” I practically whispered. My praise sounded lame, but it was all I could come up with.

  “I know!” Taj said, sitting up beside me, his intense eyes even brighter than usual. One of his long legs in his faded black jeans was now pressed tightly against mine. I was afraid to move. He lit a cigarette and handed it to me, which seemed intimate. The next song was a bit mellower and I closed my eyes again. I felt Taj’s warm breath near my ear.

  “Mmm, you smell good.” He deeply inhaled.

  If I turned even slightly, our mouths would meet. His fingers were in my hair, stroking it and then tucking it behind my ear. “I knew your hair would feel like silk,” he whispered into my ear, his hot breath sending a shiver through me. Then his mouth was on my neck.

  His fingers twined through the back of my hair and turned my head softly so my mouth met his. He gently bit my lower lip and kissed me in a way that made me aware of every inch of my body. I’d never been kissed like that before. He pulled me onto him and I felt how bad he wanted me. I arched into him and moaned, an animal sound I’d never heard come out of my mouth before. I felt out of control, a feeling I always tried to avoid, one of the many, many reasons I didn’t want to do drugs. But I let myself go, feeling instead of thinking, letting Taj’s fingers work over my body, allowing my body to follow its desire.

  But then I remembered Eve saying the two Midwestern boys keeping her up nights and seeing Taj with a different girl a few nights apart. He was a player.

  I pushed him away and reached for my bag. I started rummaging around, unearthing my camera. Without meeting his eyes, I fiddled with it, snapping off a few shots of him looking dazed and flustered. He seemed confused for a second, but then he brushed back a stray wisp of my hair that had fallen into my eyes. “Sorry,” he said. “I got carried away.” His eyes were so soft I had to look away. A new song started and he leapt up to crank up the volume.

  “This one’s my favorite.” He started singing the first lines of Come As You Are as soon as it began.

  He smiled as he danced and crooked his finger at me to get up. I didn’t hesitate. I put my camera down and stood, grabbing his outstretched hands. We held hands and he spun me around and we laughed and danced until the song ended and we both plopped back on the bed, out of breath.

  The wine was making my cheeks hot. I snuck a glance at Taj, who had settled back onto the cushions with his eyes closed and a grin on his face. I grabbed my camera, kneeling and taking close-up pictures of him with his eyes closed, his dark hair spread on the burgundy pillow behind him. He squinted and peeked out of one eye.

  “You looked…so happy.” I knew it sounded lame.

  Carefully he unwound the camera strap from around my wrist and set it gently on a nearby table. I tried to reach for it but he grabbed my hand and began lightly stroking my palm with his fingertips. “Heard you’re from Chicago. What brought you to L.A.? What dream have you come here seeking in the City of Angels?”

  Maybe the wine had loosened me up, or maybe it was just the affect he had on me, but I wanted to tell him, to share myself, to talk to him about anything and everything.

  “A foolish dream I guess,” I said, pulling away so I could light another cigarette. “I was hoping to become a photography intern. I met this guy on a movie set in Chicago and he said he could hook me up out here. He ended up being a royal loser.”

  As soon as we got to Chad’s place in Venice Beach, I knew I’d made a mistake. He ignored me. It was clear he was no longer interested in me as a girlfriend. He slept on the couch and left me alone for days on end while he was off shooting commercials in different cities. My feelings were hurt but I filled my days exploring and taking pictures. I wasn’t interested in the stereotypical Venice Beach photos of fire jugglers or Rastafarian men on roller skates playing the ukulele. Instead, I photographed people like the little girl in traditional African garb sitting on a curb feeding a small dog bites of her sandwich or the pair of junior high school k
ids with mohawks eating cotton candy. But all that film was undeveloped, back at Chad’s place in Venice. Gone forever.

  Taj asked what my parents thought of me coming to L.A.

  “My mom passed away.” I didn’t want to talk about my dad. I folded my arms across my chest.

  “My dad died a few years ago,” Taj said.

  The two statements hung in the air. It was obvious neither one of us wanted to say anything else about our parents. Taj changed the subject.

  “Where’s he now?” Taj asked. “The movie dude?”

  “Dead, I hope.”

  He chuckled for a minute. My glassy stare shut him up. “Wait? Is he the one who gave you that shiner when you first got here?” His eyebrows furrowed as he stubbed out his cigarette. “That guy needs his ass kicked.”

  I was bored talking about me and reached for my camera again. He gently blocked my arm. “How come every time I start to bring up something you don’t want to talk about, you reach for your camera?”

  “What were you working on when I came in?”

  He went with it. His eyes gleamed and his voice raised a notch as he spoke faster. “Finishing up a song I’m writing. You actually inspired it.”

  “I thought you said you were doing homework,” I said, trying to ignore the part about me inspiring a song.

  “I did. I’m studying music at L.A. Community College. If I get the grades and get a scholarship, I can transfer to UCLA next year. I didn’t grow up dreaming of moving to L.A. and being a bike messenger.”

  “Of course not.” I was embarrassed for some reason and hid my face in my hair, leaning down to stub out my cigarette. I also felt intimidated. Even though he was ashamed of going to a junior college, it was still college. Something that seemed an impossible dream for me was his life. I bet he went to school with that girl who was on his motorcycle. A flash of jealousy surged through me.

  College seemed like something I had planned in a past life. What was once a reality for Veronica Black was a mirage for Nikki Black—something she could not reach, no matter how hard or how long she tried because she was too busy bringing tortilla chips to drunk cops and saving her measly tips to buy cans of food at the gas station convenience store.

  “The song I’m writing is about what we were talking about on Christmas. It’s called City of Angels. I’ll play it for you when it’s done. Right now I’ve got some of the lyrics and need to work on the melody.”

  Christmas was the night Rain disappeared. Remembering her made my stomach flip. Although hanging out with Taj had been a good distraction, the worry that had been gnawing at my insides had come back with a vengeance.

  “You haven’t asked me about Rain.”

  Had I imagined it, or had he swallowed hard?

  “Yeah, sorry about that. I don’t mean to seem like an insensitive prick, but…”

  The CD had ended a few minutes ago and the silence seemed heavy and awkward.

  “But what?” I prodded.

  Taj cleared his throat. “Maybe Danny is right. Maybe it wasn’t a kidnapping. Maybe Rain didn’t want to live here anymore. Maybe she wanted more drugs.”

  What the hell? My mouth opened, but it took a few seconds for any words to emerge. “I’m not sure exactly what happened that night, but I did see something and I did hear her scream. I was tripping, not unconscious. You really don’t believe me either, do you?”

  “I didn’t say that…”

  “Yeah, but that’s what you meant. Screw this.” I jammed my camera in my bag. “You act weird around her anyway. What did she ever do to you?”

  He stood up and his eyes glinted. “You don’t understand.”

  “You don’t like her and you don’t care that she’s gone and maybe lying in a gutter dead somewhere.”

  Taj clenched his fists by his side and seemed like he was about to say something. His nostrils flared and he looked right through me. “You. Don’t. Understand.”

  “You’re right. I don’t.” I yanked on my boots. “I don’t know what I’m doing wasting my time here. I should be out finding her right now.”

  Thoughts of my mother and her crack-fueled hell increased my rage. My throat felt like it was closing up and my chest grew tight, making it harder to breathe. Screw all of them. They had no idea what they were saying. I scooped up my jacket. Right then, the CD started blaring some hidden track on the album, an industrial heavy chaotic beat with possessed-sounding shouting, making me jump.

  “Hey.” Taj tried to grab my hand but I jerked away from his touch.

  I pressed my lips together. I gave my laces a violent tug and stood.

  “You know what your problem is,” he yelled over the thumping music. “Your problem is you’re scared.”

  That stopped me dead in my tracks. Without turning around, I said through gritted teeth, “I’m not afraid of anything or anyone.” Which, of course, was a lie. In an instant, he was right behind me. I could feel him before he spoke again, this time softer and in my ear.

  “Yeah, you are. You’re afraid that someone might actually get to know you and you can’t handle that. You’d rather be alone and small and miserable. That’s why you hide behind the lens of your camera. You feel sorry for yourself. You want to keep everyone at arm’s length so they don’t get to know the real you, Nikki.” He drew out the name. “Or whatever your name is.”

  His words felt like a slap. I turned, wide-eyed. He let go of my hand. He stared at me with something in his eyes that was both passionate and sad and angry all at the same time.

  For a second, I stared back. Then I whirled and stomped away. Slamming his door and running down the hall to my room, I ignored the wetness on my cheeks.

  Sitting in my tiny room, I once again paged through the book, Insights. At a glance, it was dense reading. Had the homeless man left it for me? Or had a customer forgotten it outside the restaurant while waiting for a table? The cover claimed in bold type that the book was “America’s #1 Advice Book.” On the back was a picture of a guy who was a dead ringer for the skipper from Gilligan’s Island. The blurb on the back said people who read the book had the power to overcome any obstacle they faced in life. I flipped through it page by page in case the homeless man had hidden a note inside or written something on one of the pages.

  Nothing.

  Rain had been gone a week and I was no closer to finding her. The homeless man’s words haunted me—girls who got into that car never came back. Every morning before work I wandered the downtown streets, hoping to spot Rain. No luck.

  The day I’d read about the surfer’s deaths, I’d told Stuart, the bartender, about Chad and Kozlak, saying they wanted to kill me and might be able to trace me to Al’s Bar.

  “They couldn’t beat it out of me, sister. You’re cool. Relax. You’re a wreck,” he said, pouring me a shot of tequila. I didn’t tell him it’d be much worse than a beating.

  Every day I race-walked to work, keeping to back streets and ducking into the bushes every time a car came near. I was acting crazy, but I didn’t want to take any chances.

  And every time the restaurant door opened, I still jumped, worried that Chad and Big Shot Director would walk in.

  One morning, someone yelled my name. Poking my head out my apartment window, I saw a guy I barely knew, Steve, sticking his head out his first-floor window.

  “Stuart wants to talk to you,” he said, and ducked his head back inside.

  We didn’t have a doorbell at the American Hotel, and I didn’t think anybody had a phone line. People on different floors leaned out their windows and yelled at one another, like that game show, Hollywood Squares. People coming to visit stood in the middle of the street and yelled until someone tossed a set of keys down. It was the normal routine. But it was the first time someone had yelled for me. I didn’t even know that guy on the first floor knew my name.

  The bar was dark. Stuart’s dreadlocked head was bent as he fiddled with some musical equipment on stage.

  “Hey, girl. Dude came look
ing for you last night.”

  He described a skinny guy with a stringy blond ponytail. Chad.

  “Told him, sure I remembered you ’cause you looked like you were in elementary school so I carded you and kicked you out.”

  I grinned.

  “Told him you took off with some frat boys from Long Beach.”

  “Thanks.” I leaned over and gave him a quick, embarrassed hug.

  “No sweat.”

  Relief flooded through me. They’d be searching for me in Long Beach. Chad would never believe I could survive in this gritty part of town. For the first time since that night in Malibu I felt like I could relax. I finally felt safe.

  That night at work, I found out that the cop, Ernie, had come through.

  He stopped me in the bathroom hallway and told me no bodies of minor Jane Does were found in L.A County over the last week. I was relieved and a little surprised that he’d actually checked.

  I walked home from work to find a line in front of Al’s—people there to see a band called Jane’s Addiction. I wanted to go, but couldn’t spare the ten bucks cover charge. I was fishing for my keys in my bag when I saw Taj. With yet another girl. He was toward the back of the line that wound around the building, his arm around a tall redhead wearing a funky hat and thigh-high boots. She looked like a model. Or college girl. The girl nuzzled his neck. I couldn’t stop staring. The line moved and they scooted closer to the door. The redhead started walking backward, holding both his hands. Even from where I was, I could hear her low-throated laugh.

  Taj glanced over at me. His hands dropped to his side and he moved away from the girl. It didn’t matter. I knew where I stood. And it wasn’t in that college girl’s league. I flung open the door and ran up the four flights of stairs to my room without stopping, telling myself it didn’t matter, ignoring the disappointment I felt.

  Back in my room, I pretended I was at the show downstairs by sitting on the floor, bobbing my head. The band was amazing. I tried to shut out the image of Taj and that girl. Later, I turned out my light and spied on my neighbors across the street again. It was like watching a movie set to a hard rocking musical sound track.