by Aubrey Dark
“Huh? Oh. Yes. Right. Yes, you’ll need to do that.”
He looked me up and down one more time, then nodded.
“You’ll do.”
“Thanks,” I said again, grinding my teeth. “Roger said this was a one-day part.”
“Yes,” the man said. “We’ll start now.”
He stood up and began walking to the door. I followed him. So much for him buying me coffee.
“There’s a dress shop down the street here,” he said. “We’ll see if some clothes will make the difference.”
“Okay. What kind of a part is this?”
“Later,” the man said. “I’ll explain later.”
“Okay, but I’d like to know, you know, how much the pay is, what I’m going to be doing. Union rules—”
“Yes, yes,” the man said. He darted a quick look down one side of the street, and then took my arm and began walking the other way. “Later. My guy said you were a method actor.”
“That’s right,” I said, feeling inordinately proud. I wasn’t just the chubby brown-haired girl. I was the chubby brown-haired girl that took her acting very seriously.
We walked quickly down the street toward the dress shop, stopping in a drugstore to pick up some cheap colored contacts. I wish I could say that mornings in L.A. were refreshing, but the smell of piss really comes out of the alleyways once the sun rises. The man couldn’t stop looking back over his shoulder.
“Do you have a stalker?” I asked.
“Excuse me?” The man’s face froze in something like fear.
“Do you have a stalker? The way you’re looking behind us at every corner, I thought maybe your ex-wife might be joining us with a knife.”
I swear to God, this guy’s face went dead white. He looked like he’d just seen a ghost. What kind of a job was this? I was beginning to reconsider staying with Roger as an agent.
“Let’s go inside,” he said, coughing through his words and avoiding my curious gaze.
“This place?” I asked, looking up at the storefront. It was one of the most expensive couture shops in West Hollywood. Not the discount costume racks I was used to when I played an extra. My curiosity level bumped up one notch.
“This place.”
I must have tried on every dress in the shop, and some more they had hidden behind the counter. The saleswoman gushed over each one, but the man stood in front of the dressing room critically, arms crossed, and rejected them one after another.
“Too sexy.”
“Too bold.”
“That’s not her style.”
I wanted to ask who she was, what kind of character I would be playing. The thought crossed my mind that maybe this guy wanted to take me somewhere as his escort. That would explain why he was dressing me up in such fancy clothes.
“That one. That one’s perfect.”
I looked up at the dressing room mirror. I had to agree with him. The dress was a dark navy A-line cut with a boatneck collar. It came down to just above my knee and hugged my curves loosely at the hips, accentuating my hourglass figure. The navy pumps had a bit of a wedge, giving me some more height than normal. I turned sideways and preened. This was the kind of thing I should be wearing to auditions. Classy, but not ostentatious. Sexy, but not like a hooker. It was perfect.
“This belt would go perfectly,” the saleswoman said, hooking the gold-braided patterned belt around my waist. It clinked softly as it settled against the fabric.
“We’ll take it,” the man said decisively.
“Do you have earrings that would match?” I asked. The saleswoman scuttled off to find them.
“Earrings?” the man asked, frowning. “I don’t know if she wears earrings.”
“Trust me, she wears earrings,” I said. I didn’t know what this character was, but if she wore this dress, she would definitely wear earrings.
“Fine,” the man grumbled. “Leave the dress on, and cut the tags off.” He took out his credit card and left it on the counter. I turned sideways in the dress, admiring myself and fixing my hair. He went to make a phone call while the saleswoman rang up the purchase.
“All set?”
He held out his arm, and I tucked my hand into the crook of his elbow. So what if I was playing an escort? I could get into that role. I could get into any role.
Outside of the dress shop, a black sedan idled.
“This is our ride,” the man said, opening the back door. “Get in.”
I hesitated for a moment. Wasn’t this how horror movies started? A woman getting into an unmarked black sedan with some rich guy she didn’t know? This guy hadn’t even told me his name yet. What if he wasn’t from Paramount? What if he was taking me out to the back woods to kill me and wear my skin? Okay, okay, so I had an overactive imagination, but still.
“I’ll explain everything,” the man said, his finger tapping against his thigh. “Once we’re on our way.”
“Look, I just want to know what I’m getting paid,” I said. A fifty dollar extra role wasn’t worth this risk, and even though I was curious who this guy was, I had to go out and find another job.
“One thousand dollars,” the man said. “In cash.”
“Okay, then,” I said, sliding into the back of the car before he could change his mind. I didn’t know what I was doing, but Roger had just gotten me the best paid gig I’d had in years. And if the guy turned out to be a murderer, well, maybe I could escape and sell the story rights to Paramount. Win-win.
CHAPTER SIX
Rien
I cut through the brain, paring away the outside layers. The claustrum is down on the very underside of the neocortex. Right in the center of the brain. It’s amazing how our bodies try to protect us from being turned off, it really is.
I used the small scalpel to carve out that little curved piece of brain tissue. Gently, gently, I put the center of Bob’s consciousness on the metal surgical plate. It was a perfect specimen, the tissue as thin and unblemished as any I’ve ever come across. I smiled.
Bob was a typical Los Angeles businessman, I imagined. Faker than a three-dollar bill. His suit was a cheap Armani knock-off. I didn’t even mind sending it down into the incinerator with him. But he must have messed with the wrong people.
You only get sent to me if you mess with the wrong people.
The small chunk of brain went into the formaldehyde bath. I took Bob’s body and shoved it down into the incinerator, the surgical drapes going right in after him. You might think the smell of burning human flesh is bad, but really the plastic sheeting smells much worse. I lit a vanilla-scented candle and went back to work on my trophy.
The brain tissue was set, and I took it out of the formaldehyde with gloved hands. The next step was tricky. I put the tissue in a acetone bath and stuck it in the freezer. The acetone would suck out the organic tissue and replace it with acetone. This would take a while, but I had other things to do.
Like cleaning up the blood.
The song playing on the stereo transitioned to a faster beat, and I moved to the rhythm of the music as I got the brand-new mop out of the closet. Bleach and water and a nice mopping. The smell of the bleach mixed with the vanilla bean. Sterile, but homey. Just the way I liked it. The mop smeared the blood over the white tile, then soaked it up. Three passes with a new bucket each time, and the tile grout was pristine.
Four hours to go.
I took the brain tissue out of the acetone bath. It was frozen, the crinkles in the brain fixed eternally in the position it had been in when Bob had died. This was the last step. I transferred it into another tub, this one filled with epoxy resin. It was the same stuff that you would put on your hardwood floors, if you were as wealthy as my victims. The acetone took the place of the brain, and the epoxy resin would take the place of the acetone. And when it was all done, we’d have a nice plastic copy of the brain. Well, part of the brain. The important part. Francis Crick, the man who helped discover DNA, said that the claustrum was like “a conductor coordina
ting a group of players in the orchestra.” I liked that.
I liked it so much, I had collected seventy-two of them.
Sara
The man shut the privacy window between us and the driver. He pulled out the drugstore bag and gave it to me. Blue contact lenses.
“Put these in,” he said. I did as he asked. My heart raced. One thousand dollars? I blinked, the eye drops running down my cheeks. The windows were tinted. Was this a sex thing? I didn’t know if I could handle it if Roger had accidentally set me up with somebody who wanted to hire a prostitute.
“Fix your makeup,” the man said, handing me a mirror. “And put all of your belongings in this bag.”
“Okay, but could you tell me please what’s going on here?” I asked. The car pulled away from the curb and began to drive down Van Ness Avenue.
“I’m sorry for all the secrecy,” the man said. “My name is Gary Steadhill.”
“I’m Sara Everett,” I said, holding my hand out for a handshake. He didn’t take it.
“No,” he said. “Today you’re not Sara.”
“I’m not?”
“Today you’re Mrs. Susan Steadhill.”
I blinked hard. The man was looking at me cautiously, waiting to see what I would say.
“So, is this some kind of sexual role play?” I asked. “Because I was told—”
“No, no, nothing like that,” the man said.
“Then what?”
The man leaned back in his seat and exhaled.
“You’ve heard of my name before?”
“Gary Steadhill? Sorry, no. Are you with Paramount?”
“I’m a businessman.”
“Oh. Oh.” The name flashed through my mind, this time in large bolded caps. “Steadhill Tech. That’s your company?”
“That’s right.” He smirked proudly. “See, you have heard my name.”
“So are you getting into the movie business?”
“No. That’s not what this is. Here is the—ah—the contract,” he said, pulling out a sheet of paper. “Before I say anything more, I’d like you to agree to the terms of secrecy. You can’t let anybody know about this role.”
Gary took out his wallet and began counting out crisp hundred dollar bills. I skimmed the contract and signed my name at the bottom.
“Okay,” I said, eyeing the cash. “Now what?”
“Here. This is half of the money up front. You’ll get the rest at the end of today.”
My eyes nearly bugged out of my head at how casually he flicked five hundred dollars toward me.
“Great,” I said, stuffing the money into the bag with all my stuff. “What next?”
“Next, I need you to pretend to be my wife.”
“Susan Steadhill. Right. Why, exactly?”
Gary coughed into his hand and looked out of the tinted window.
“It’s a long story,” he said. “Remember, you’re bound to secrecy.”
“Cross my heart and hope to die,” I said, a finger over my lips.
“My wife and I were… are very public personages. We co-own the business. And recently we’ve been fighting. Naturally, I can’t let the details of our relationship leak to the public.”
“Naturally.”
“I’m supposed to have a bit of plastic surgery today,” he said, shifting uneasily in his chair.
“Surgery?”
“It isn’t anything big, I’m getting some moles removed and a bit of a facelift. Susan is supposed to be there, you understand, for liability. She’s my medical trustee. And since they’re putting me under general anesthesia, she has to be there in case anything goes wrong.”
“And your wife can’t be there because…?”
“We’re not—ah—currently speaking to each other,” Gary said, his skin flushing a bit red at his shirt collar.
“You’re fighting.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“What about?” I wanted to know exactly what it took to make Susan mad.
“That’s not—ah—necessary for you to know about.”
“I want to get the character right, Mr. Steadhill,” I said firmly.
“Yes. Yes, of course you do. Well, I took her to the Santa Monica pier for our anniversary. It was where we first met, you see. And she balked at my idea for our –our vacation. She didn’t want to do things my way.”
“Hmm.” Susan’s husband was a bit of a control freak. And Susan was a bit stubborn. Okay, I could do that.
“And I couldn’t convince her, and she got mad and we fought.” He looked away, obviously embarrassed to be talking about it.
“That’s fine. Okay. You couldn’t make up before this appointment, though?”
“She’s so stubborn,” Mr. Steadhill said, frustration running along his browline. “I can’t reschedule the procedure; it takes forever to get on this guy’s list. So I thought that I would hire someone who looks like Susan to come along.”
“Can’t you get another person to be your medical… whatever?” I asked. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I want the part. It’s just that…what if something does go wrong during the surgery?”
“Nothing will go wrong, of course,” he said quickly. “It’s a very standard procedure. All you’ll have to do is sit in the waiting room until the surgery is done, and then we’ll leave together. But I don’t want anyone knowing that my wife and I are having trouble. Especially a private surgeon… I’ve heard horror stories about rumors leaking from medical staff.”
“It’s easier to just pretend that everything’s okay between you two.”
“Exactly. Not perfect; we don’t have a perfect relationship, but...”
“Normal.”
“Yes. Normal.” He looked relieved that I understood. I kind of understood, but I suppose I didn’t have to understand too much to get paid a grand for acting like a Hollywood wife. “Do you think you can do it?”
“Absolutely,” I said, trying to sound like a confident actor. “Tell me more about Susan.”
Rien
I dumped the used scalpels, forceps, and retractors into a vat of antiseptic fluid to sterilize them. The incinerator roared, the rumble mixing with the sound of the music playing overhead. I fished a pair of forceps out of the vat and used it to take out the claustrum from the resin. My little plastic piece of brain. I put it in the heater to cure. Bake at 400 degrees for a half-hour, or until crisp and delicious.
The last album on the playlist started, and I knew I only had a couple of hours left before my next clients came in. I looked around to make sure everything was clean. White tile. New surgical drapes and sheets on the operating table. Check, check, check. I showered. I dressed. I burned my old clothes in the incinerator. Then I went to check on Bob’s brain.
After I took the brain tissue out of the oven, I flicked it with my fingernail to make sure it was hardened all the way. Done. It looked like a pink-gray scrap of Kleenex now, and it was ready to add to the others.
I ducked through the door into the waiting room, with its white tile and leather chairs. The waiting room was at the back of my house, only accessible through the alleyway. I’m a very private plastic surgeon. The pinnacle of discretion.
I took the latest edition of Reader’s Digest and Better Homes and Gardens from the mail and set them out on the coffee table. Then I took Bob’s little plastic brain tissue and put it inside the glass globe. I tilted my head and peered at the mass of brain tissues, all leaning against each other. Like they were talking to each other.
The word claustrum means “hidden away.” I think it’s fitting that my secret trophies end up smack dab in the middle of my waiting room, masquerading as modern art. I moved Bob’s piece a little to the left so that it abuts the glass. So you could see the main crinkle of his brain from the outside. Yes, that looked much better.
All that work, and everyone just thinks they’re little blobs of plastic. Such a shame.
I looked at the clock. It was almost time.
Sara
“So what’s my motivation?”
“Motivation?”
I only had a few hours to prepare for the role. We spoke in the back of the car privately and I took notes on Susan.
Part of method acting is sinking into the role completely. When you take on a character, you’re not simply acting like the character. You are the character. I quizzed Gary on every little detail about his wife that I thought I should know, from her favorite foods and TV shows to her childhood pets. Not surprisingly, Gary didn’t know everything about his wife. Little wonder they were on the skids. But I would do the best with what I had.
“You know, my motivation. Desires.”
“Desires?”
“Gary, I can’t become Susan unless I know what she wants. What’s her driving motivation? What are her goals? My goals? Maybe I want to be a good wife?”
Gary snorted. Okay, so that one was out.
“I need something to work with,” I said.
“Alright, how’s this? Your motivation is to suck all of the money out of the business and spend it on pedicures and antique furniture while your husband works overtime for you. Your goal is to flirt with every pool boy and waiter and pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about when I confront you at night. Your desire is to appear to the world like you’ve got it all—the loving family, the mansion on the hill, the high-powered career—even though you have a cold, hateful, spite-filled heart that doesn’t let anyone else in. You’re a shitty wife and an even shittier businesswoman, and you stab anyone in the back if they’re not looking.”
Whoa. I guess Gary and Susan really were fighting.
“Okay, then,” I said, pretending to take notes. “Got it. Unhappy marriage, pretending like everything’s good.”
“That stupid bitch,” Gary seethed, looking out at the pedestrians along Hollywood Boulevard.
“Can I ask you something?” I asked, hoping to change the subject. “About the surgery procedure?”
“What?”
“You said that I would be the medical trustee if anything goes wrong. So what do you want me to do if anything goes wrong?”
