“I can’t promise anything, but assuming that this doesn’t take forever, I’d say let’s plan on it.”
“Cool. You can choose the restaurant, as long as they’ve got plenty of vegetarian fare. You know we swore off meat literally eons ago,” Chakra reminded.
“Of course. So Ruth’s Chris is out of the question. Listen, just make yourselves comfortable. I don’t have a lot in the fridge, but there’s a market three blocks away, so if you need anything…”
“We’ll manage. Go fight crime,” Spring said, beaming at him, and as low as he felt about his mixed emotions at seeing his parents again, he found an even lower rung at that moment. What the hell was wrong with him? They’d flown into town, taken the time to see him, were offering to take him to dinner…and all he could muster was a desire to escape that was as palpable as thirst to a man lost in the desert.
He straightened his jacket lapels as he left, despising himself even as the weight that had been suffocating him lightened with each footstep he put between himself and his shabby front door.
Chapter 6
Gracie greeted Black like a sailor on shore leave, threw him an eighty-proof smile, and gestured for him to come in. A twenty-something slacker with two days’ growth on his thin face and fashionably unkempt hair sulked on one of the two sofas. He made no attempt to stand as Black stepped inside. Gracie’s cat, Blackjack, occupied the space beside him, in typical fashion: indifferent to them all.
“Black, darling, you want a little pick-me-up? Something to keep the demons at bay?” Gracie offered, her hunger at having someone to drink with as desperate as Black’s impulse to abandon his parents.
“No, thanks. I’ve got a lot to do. Is this Jarod?” he asked, eyeing the sullen young man.
“It’s Jared. Ja-red, like the color,” Jared corrected, his tone annoyed at Black’s mispronunciation of his name. Black could relate. Try wearing Artemus for a few days and see how you like that, you little prick.
“That’s an unusual name,” Black offered, and then turned his attention to Gracie, who was at the breakfast bar mixing herself something in a highball glass that smelled like paint thinner even from across the room. The pervasive stink, coupled with the cloying, decaying smell of thousands of packages of menthol cigarettes consumed in the confined space, triggered his gag reflex, and he made one of endless mental notes that he had to quit smoking for good.
Possibly tomorrow.
“Jared, why don’t you take my friend Black here through your story so he knows where you stand?” Gracie asked, taking a cautious sip of her amber liquid, two rapidly shrinking ice cubes mirroring Black’s waning interest in whatever was bothering Gracie’s punk-ass relation.
“You really a PI?” Jared asked, his glare radiating anger at the world – a look that for a brief moment was startlingly familiar to Black; like looking in a mirror. Something inside Black softened, and he resolved to at least try to play nice. He knew that look and that feeling, and for a second he and Jared were kindred.
“That’s right. Duly licensed.”
“You carry a piece?”
“I have a concealed carry permit. I didn’t bring my gun to this meeting, though. Do I need it?” Black asked casually, amused by Jared’s interest in his weaponry, which in truth amounted to a small Glock 17 9mm he’d bought at a gun show in Pasadena for half its new price, and a K-Mart box of ammo that was at least five years old.
“Just start at the beginning, honey. That’s always the best way,” Gracie chirped from her end of the room. “Take a load off, Black. Sure you won’t join me for a cocktail?”
“Positive.”
Jared cleared his throat and stared at the ceiling, as though gathering his thoughts. On the television, Animal Planet soundlessly broadcast a muted program about wild ponies. Black looked over at Gracie, who sat staring at her freshly lit cigarette, a Salem 100. Thick coils of serpentine smoke drifted from its tip as she stared at Jared expectantly, having gone the extra distance to drag one of her tenants from his touching family reunion to hear his story.
“I met them at a club up on Sunset. Valentino’s. A lot of actors and show business people hang out there,” Jared started, and Black nodded encouragingly.
“I know the place.” It was filled with the detritus that inhabited the lower end of the Los Angeles wannabe TV and film crowd – aspiring starlets usually dumb as stumps and hard beyond their years, nobody actors professing to be only one meeting from their big break, writers who’d never sold a script, drug-addled porn stars and their pimps…the usual parasites and the prey they fed upon. Not Black’s thing at all, but it was one of the hot places these days, so all who wanted to bask in the near-celebrity of the almost-in crowd could do so for ten dollars per watered cocktail to a cacophonous DJ.
“It was last Thursday night, and it was going off, you know? Probably about midnight, and I was hanging out, chatting up some of the talent…and then I met these two guys and a girl. Preacher, Kevin, and Shelby. Shelby’s stone hot, even by Hollywood standards. I mean, a full on big screen ten. Anyway, she and I start rapping, and it turns out she’s going to be in a movie the two guys are producing. Low budget, but we had some drinks, and they explained their racket – they do an action or exploitation-type flick, make it for peanuts, put in some hotties who are willing to run around in bikinis or topless in exchange for the exposure, and sell it direct to DVD in foreign markets. Costs them sixty to a hundred grand, and they make four to five hundred. Investors get their money back up front from the first dollar, and then they get fifty cents of each profit dollar.”
“I guess it’s possible. Anything in this town’s possible.”
“Anyway, Shelby is telling me all this, because she’s super excited because she’s going to be one of the lead girls.”
“What’s the movie called?”
“The working title was Vampire Ho’s from the Hood. Apparently vampires are hot, so a flick like that’s easier to sell right out of the box. Anyway, everyone knows it’s cheesy, but it’s all about selling it to Korea or Malaysia or wherever, not producing Gone with the Wind.”
“Classy. Sort of sings. Especially given that it’s from the hood. Nice twist,” Black deadpanned.
“Apparently since Twilight…look, let’s not debate the merits of the movie, okay? Point is that it’s a racket, and they’ve made something like a dozen of these films before, and they’ve all made a nice profit, even if they’re junk.”
“And you know this because…?
“I hooked up with Shelby that night.”
“Really. It was an irresistible compulsion on both your parts?” Black asked. “Or did you feel like you’d won the lottery – that she was that far out of your league?”
“I guess more the second one. I mean, she was beyond a ten.”
“Fine. So young love found its way. Did you go to her place?”
“No. I rented a motel. I couldn’t bring her here.”
“Of course not. Trust me, the Paradise Palms doesn’t get the ladies squirming when they see it.” Black looked over at Gracie. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Gracie said with a toast of her half-drained glass, her eyes now on the TV, where the horses had given way to a honey badger on a rampage.
“Anyway, after…we got to talking some, and it turns out that they only need ten more grand to be fully funded and go into production, and they had their final investor who had committed to that, and then got hit by a car or something. So there was a slot.”
“Jared. Do you have ten thousand dollars to gamble on one of the most speculative plays aside from Russian roulette?”
“Of course not. And I told her that. I told her I only had five.”
“The last honest man.”
“Look, it’s such a sure thing that she offered to put up the other five.”
“Did she. I never saw that coming,” Black said. He wished he’d taken Gracie up on her offer. “Let me guess. She was able to put together a meeting with
you and the boys, they had a very professional looking contract with all kinds of legal mumbo-jumbo, and you, still flush with the chance of doubling or tripling your money, maybe with an associate producer credit, and of banging Shelby like a bongo at a jazz jam, signed and handed over your cash.”
Jared nodded, his look bleak.
“And now she’s not taking your calls, is she?” Black prodded.
“No. She said she had to go out of town for a week or two before shooting to see her aunt. Someplace in Louisiana. She’s sick. But she hasn’t picked up. It just rings.”
“Uh huh. And Kevin and…Preacher?”
“Like I said. They’ve made some movies. I went online. They’re legit.”
“Legit in the sense that they have their names on some also-ran flicks nobody has ever heard of?”
“Yeah. I only found out later, when I came to my senses, that they don’t have an office. They work out of one of their places. Preacher explained it as keeping overhead to a minimum.”
“And that made sense at the time? That two authentic players who’ve made a bunch of movies, and make hundreds of thousands a year from them, needed your lousy five grand and can’t afford a five-hundred-dollar-a-month suite somewhere in Korea Town?”
“I told you, it was ten. Shelby was putting up five.”
“Super. Then what’s the problem? You’ll be rich in no time.”
“I…since she isn’t answering her phone, I’m getting a bad feeling about this.”
“No. Kind of like a really expensive night with a pro who conned you?”
Jared stared at his shoes.
“You have the contract?”
“Sure. I got a copy of it.”
Black watched him processing his question.
“Oh, you want to see it?” Jared asked. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer.
“That was the general idea.”
“Just a second. I’ll get it.”
Jared returned in a few minutes with a seven-page agreement. Black skimmed it and shook his head before standing.
“I’ll make a copy of this and look into it. My rate’s two hundred bucks an hour. I’ll take twenty percent of anything I get back. If I don’t get anything back, Gracie here will give me a five hundred dollar deduction off next month’s rent.”
“Two-fifty for two months, you pirate,” she said, instantly as sober as a judge, which wasn’t saying much.
“Deal.” Black swiveled back to Jared. “How much money do you have left?”
He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. “Maybe four hundred bucks.”
“Give me two of it.”
Jared’s eyes widened and he looked like he’d been stomach punched. “What the fu–”
“You blew your wad being a big stud, tough guy. Now you want me to try to solve your problem for you. Two hundred will barely cover my gas.”
“But how am I supposed to survive while I’m auditioning?”
“Get a job parking cars or flipping burgers or making coffee. You’re not a high roller. So start acting like what you actually are – a starving actor. Two hundred will last you maybe ten days if you’re careful. You aren’t paying rent. What it means is that you’ll have to get off your ass and stop watching TV all day and hanging at clubs at night, and actually work for your money while you’re struggling to get a break. That’s how it works in the real world.”
“Hey, it’s not like I didn’t work to save that money. I put away six grand back home. It took me two years, but I did it.”
“Then you know how that works. That’s a start. Now cough up the money and let me get on it before the trail goes cold. Either that, or find someone who will work for free. Good luck with that.”
Jared dug in the front pocket of his jeans, pulled a thin wad of bills out, and carefully counted two hundred dollars, which he placed on the coffee table. Black scooped up the money and pocketed it, then nodded at Gracie.
“I’ll be in touch.”
Gracie finished her libation and slid off the stool. “I’ll walk you out, tiger.”
Outside the apartment, she fixed him with a hard stare. “Why did you stick him for the two hundred?”
He pulled the money out and gave her half. “To keep him out of trouble. Now he’s got to find a job. Here. That’s for groceries and whatever. I need the other Benjamin for gas. The Caddy drinks it by the barrel.”
Her face cracked with a small smile. Red lipstick had worked its way up some of her smoker’s wrinkles, giving her the appearance of a demented clown who’d smeared makeup on with a paint roller.
“You’re a good man, Black.”
“I don’t know about that. Chances of him ever seeing the money back are slim. But I’ll do my best. Maybe this will serve as a wake-up call. And maybe he’ll be a little wiser next time somebody tries to scam him.”
“It’s a tough town, ain’t it, darlin’? Chew you up and spit you out.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
Gracie reached out and clutched his arm, and for a second he was afraid she was going to treat him to an inebriated hug. Instead, she felt his suit sleeve, evaluating the material with a practiced hand.
“They don’t make ’em like that anymore, Black. You’re a decent enough guy, and smart. If anyone can help Jared, it’s you,” she said, and then spun unsteadily and weaved her way back to her door.
Black shook his head morosely and looked up with the numb stare of a chain gang prisoner at his apartment where his parents, stuck in the sixties, were waiting. Maybe Gracie and Roxie had a point. Or maybe denial just ran in the family, and a refusal to acknowledge something as obvious as what era they were in was evidence of a deep-seated dysfunctionality that would have had Freud spinning in his grave.
He briefly considered a cigarette, but the memory of Gracie’s puckered lips made him shudder and he lost the urge. A pigeon flapped overhead, another survivor in a town that ate its young and offered no quarter, and a warm gust of wind stirred an empty plastic chip bag near one of the desiccated rose bushes. For some reason the sight evoked a feeling of melancholy in Black, and for a moment he was overwhelmed, as if a great universal truth had been partially revealed. Then everything came back into focus and he reluctantly climbed the stairs, his gait that of a much older man as he went to see the only parents he would ever have and try to be civil to them while seething with resentment and blaming them for making him so imperfect, such a lost and directionless speck in a largely indifferent cosmos.
Chapter 7
“Cheatsheet” Leadbetter parked his beat-up Toyota Corolla two blocks from the Manchester hotel downtown and fed some quarters into the meter. He glanced around a final time, taking in the cardboard lean-to a dozen yards away and the filthy sleeping bags near it. The theater district in Lost Angeles had become a no man’s land taken over by the increasingly large homeless population, and both the city and the police seemed unable to make any headway against the rising tide of the indigent. His companion, “Bones” Ortiz, shifted his backpack, which contained their cameras, anxious to get moving.
The car would probably be safe, at least for the hour it would take for him to get his shot and get the hell out of there. Cheatsheet had been working for Freddie Sypes for three years, Bones for two, and they were typical of the paparazzi brigade: twenty-to-thirty-something, male, hungry, with the morals of starved piranhas, usually dressed in drab, dark colors, the better to fade into the background. Their code of conduct could be reduced to one axiom: Do whatever it takes to get the shot.
It was an interesting way to make ends meet – living by one’s wits, developing a circle of tipsters who could let them know when a noteworthy celebrity was going to be at an airport or restaurant, or if a starlet was drunk or high and making a fool of herself at a club. Cheatsheet’s usual payday for a shot could be all over the map, anywhere from nothing to a few hundred dollars to hundreds of thousands. He’d heard all about the guy who had gotten the shots of that vampire movie star kissing her
married director. Rumor was the snaps had sold for a cool quarter mil, and he believed it. Of course, that was the equivalent of the Holy Grail in his business, but the point was it could happen, and once or twice a year, it did.
Most of the time, though, he was lucky to get a few hundred here, a grand there. His employer hosted the top gossip website in the world, and it had an insatiable appetite for fresh meat – but it had to be juicy, or otherwise the work was worthless. Cheatsheet had long understood the game, and for all the uncertainty, he made over fifty grand a year basically hanging out and stalking the newsworthy. Bones made about half that, but he was an up-and-comer, and would do just about anything to get a scoop, even if it meant bending the law on occasion.
This evening’s exercise was based on one of the countless tips Freddie got every day, but it had seemed legit, which is why more dependable stringers like Cheatsheet and Bones had been deployed rather than any of the hundreds of aspirants who waited like starving pups for the food dish to be set out. There was a never-ending supply of paparazzi hopefuls trying to break into the business, but the plum jobs went to those in Freddie’s inner circle, into which Cheatsheet had worked his way after nearly a decade of living by his wits and selling to anyone with a checkbook.
The hotel was low profile, which was probably why it had been selected for the meeting rumored to be taking place in one of its conference rooms – a meeting with Andrew Hunter and his costar, their public relations people, their media handlers, and several trusted press contacts to coordinate the upcoming film release of Hunter’s latest and to manage the spin on his female lead having gone to her reward yesterday, along with two of Cheatsheet’s colleagues. Freddie was still waiting for the toxicology report on Melody, but he was willing to bet she’d been drunk and high at the time of the crash. He’d gotten a phone report from the assistant manager of the restaurant where she’d been hanging out with two friends, knocking back margaritas in the private rear courtyard, and judging by a scan of the bill, which had mysteriously arrived in Freddie’s email inbox, nobody had been feeling any pain by the end of the afternoon.
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