by Rick Copp
Yes, we slept together. We were a couple of horny teenagers, groping and slobbering one another with kisses, finding solace in the fact that we were both experiencing the same strange feelings. And at the time we were conditioned to believe they were unnatural feelings. It was an intensely private affair, one we decided to hide from the world.
Our curiosity about others like us finally got the best of us, and we started making mistakes, the biggest one being our impulsive decision to make a surprise appearance at the rodeo. That’s when an enterprising photographer captured our brief, spontaneous public display of affection. That one picture made an indelible impression on the American public, as well as on all our friends and family.
Willard and I would forever be inextricably linked.
His mother Tamara hated me for it. She was convinced I had led her only son down a forbidden path, and there was no going back.
When Charlie and I started dating, I shared all of this with him in the interest of full disclosure. As always, he was sensitive and understanding and even encouraged me to keep up my friendship with Willard.
In retrospect, this may have been a mistake. Charlie was watching his other half doggedly pursue leads like some bereaved but fiercely strong-minded widow in a Lifetime TV movie. Willard had only been dead a week, and I’m sure Charlie didn’t expect me to put his death into some final perspective after such a brief period of time, but it surely must have hurt him on some visceral level to see all of my old feelings for Willard reemerge after such a long time.
During the last years of his life, Willard and I were close, but our bond wasn’t nearly as strong as it had been when we were kids. Months would go by without us talking on the phone, having lunch, or even running into each other at an audition. We were friends, but it wasn’t the kind of friendship that would merit such an outpouring of emotion and determination.
There had to be something else at work, something driving me forward and causing me to question all the evidence and speculation beyond my surreal attachment to the deceased.
When I stood over Willard’s floating, lifeless body, there had been a brief moment where I saw myself lying there, face down in the pool. It made me shudder. Could that be me? I saw so much of myself in Willard. We had traveled on parallel paths for years. And it chilled me to the bone.
There are no guarantees in life. What if Charlie left me? What if I couldn’t get work? What if I sunk into a depression? All of those things could happen, and send me spiraling down into the depths of former child star hell. It was a fear that ripped through me like a bullet. And that’s why I wasn’t being sensitive to Charlie, why I didn’t believe the police theory that it was an accident, why I was willing to risk more jail time to dissect all the events leading up to my discovery of the body. Because if Isis was wrong and it wasn’t murder, if Willard really couldn’t handle life without fame, money, and a high Q rating, and all of those losses led him down a path of self destruction, then it could also happen to me. And I wasn’t ready to accept that, for him or for me.
When the cab pulled up to the house, I could tell Charlie had already gone to bed. I let myself in, and quietly made my way through the house towards the stairs that led down to the bedrooms. Snickers dashed in circles, barely able to contain herself, as if I had just returned from a yearlong trip around the globe. Dogs don’t have any real concept of time. I had only been gone a few hours.
I opened the bedroom door and poked my head in to check on Charlie. He was bundled up in the comforter, and I could only make out a bit of his hair on the pillow. He was asleep. Or at least pretending to be.
I closed the door, and headed back upstairs where I mixed myself an apple martini and settled down in the den with Snickers on my lap to watch The O’Reilly Factor, a spirited chat fest that was always good for a few laughs. Host Bill O’Reilly’s panel was arguing over another military build up proposal, but in my mind, I imagined them debating the inevitable tabloid coverage of my arrest. Since I was caught breaking into Willard’s home, I was sure the photos of us smooching would once again surface for further public consumption. And who knows? By this time next week, Bill O’Reilly and his talking heads could very well be discussing my recent misfortune.
I hoped my enormous ego was blowing this incident out of proportion and no one would really care, or even devote much print to it. But I knew my fears had merit, having dealt with the media on many occasions.
I drifted off to sleep on the couch, and awoke the next morning to find Charlie already gone. I combed the kitchen for a note, but he hadn’t left one. He was still mad at me for storming out.
After walking Snickers around the neighborhood and brewing some coffee, I searched through the pants I had worn the day before and found the items I had lifted from Willard’s house. I unfolded the check that was made out to a “Terry Duran” and studied it. I was surprised the police had never found this, but since they were so convinced Willard’s death was an accident, it probably never crossed their minds this could be a clue.
On the check’s memo line, in plain view, Willard had scribbled “trainer.” How did I miss this? Willard himself was telling me exactly who Terry Duran was. Yes, it could mean “corporate trainer” or “horse trainer”, but this was Los Angeles, and here it could only mean one thing: personal trainer. Terry Duran was probably a young buffed stud Willard hired to help get him into shape. I pulled out the yellow pages and started calling every gym listed that was in a reasonable radius to Willard’s house in Brentwood. Finally, after calling about fourteen, I hit pay dirt.
“Hello. Custom Fitness. May I help you?” asked a cheery, relentlessly upbeat voice that can only be heard in LA.
“I’m looking for a Terry Duran.”
“She’s not in yet. Can I take a message?”
Terry Duran was a woman. I hated myself for assuming Willard would want a male trainer he could drool over. Then again, I understood his logic. With a woman, he could stay focused on his lifting and pumping without any unnecessary distractions.
“When do you expect her to come in?”
I heard a rustling of pages as the receptionist checked the schedule.
“She’s got a client at ten, but she does have a slot open at eleven if you’d like to make an appointment.”
“No thanks,” I said and hung up. If I hurried, I could pick up my car at the impound yard, and make it over to the west side before ten.
By the time I filled out all the paper work and inspected every inch of the car for any new dents, it was going on ten-thirty. I raced down Wilshire Boulevard, grateful that the morning rush hour was finally tapering off. I was hoping to catch Terry Duran before she finished up with her morning client and left the gym for parts unknown.
Turning onto San Vicente Boulevard, I searched for a space to park. It was prime shopping time in the business district of Brentwood, and all the wives (and a few husbands) of studio executives and Hollywood powerbrokers were out in full force. I finally found a space, managed to squeeze my BMW boat into it, and plunked a few quarters in the meter to buy myself enough time. Across the street, just above a small independent bookshop, was Custom Fitness.
After climbing the stairs to the top floor, I found myself out of breath. This was probably how they convinced you to join. You felt so out of shape from the walk up, you were compelled to hand over your Visa card for a lifetime membership.
The gym was quiet. Only one or two clients were working out with trainers. It was clean, sunny, and had a friendly atmosphere. On the Stairmaster was Marlee Matlin, the hearing impaired actress who won an Oscar for Children of a Lesser God. Since then, she has spent her entire career as the “go to girl” for any deaf female parts. I figured if she worked out here, then the place had an upscale clientele. There was a heavy man, his gray t-shirt drenched in sweat, reading Variety as he huffed and puffed on the treadmill, and two more men in the back near a weight rack. One, toned and tanned, spotted the other one who was far more pasty and flabby as
he strained to lift a barbell.
I was afraid Terry Duran had already left when the door to the women’s locker room flung open, and a tall, imposing woman, around thirty years old, came out. She was lean, in good shape, but there was a hardness about her, her demeanor vaguely masculine. She had Julia Roberts hair, curly auburn locks that flowed down to her shoulders in a tousled mane. She wore a purple sports bra and black spandex shorts that accentuated the curves of her perfectly formed butt. This girl had it going on.
Marlee Matlin smiled and waved at her as the woman grabbed a bag from behind the reception counter, and headed towards the door.
The exhausted man on the treadmill looked up from his Variety and managed to wheeze, “Bye, Terry.” Bingo.
I met her at the door. “Terry Duran?”
She looked up at me and smiled. “Yes.”
“My name is Jarrod Jarvis.”
Her eyes twinkled as she cocked her head and looked me up and down from head to toe. “I know who you are. So are you going to say it for me?”
I sighed. I hated doing it. But I wanted to pump her for information so I didn’t have much of a choice. I struck my impish stance, wagged my finger in her face, and said, “Baby, don’t even go there!”
She roared, and I have to admit, there was a small part of me that found satisfaction in bringing such joy to people with those five stupid words. Though I knew if one day I cured cancer or walked on Mars, it would still be those words that I would be remembered for. They would be engraved on my tombstone.
Terry was having a ball, repeating the phrase over and over. I decided to press my advantage. “I’m a friend of Willard Ray Hornsby.”
She stopped laughing. “Willard, huh? Well, when you see him, tell him he missed three appointments last week, and I have a rule. If you don’t give me a twenty-four hour cancellation notice, you still have to pay for the session.”
She didn’t know. And now I had to be the one to tell her. “Terry, I’m sorry, but Willard’s dead.”
She froze and just stared at me, not sure if she heard me right. I continued. “He had been drinking. The police say he tripped over something in his backyard and fell into the pool. He drowned.”
Her eyes welled up with tears. “I . . . I can’t believe it . . .”
I pulled out the check and handed it to her. “I found this in his house.”
She looked at it a moment, and wiped the tears away from her face. “Willard knew I was always having money trouble. Sometimes he’d pay three months in advance when I had rent due.”
She broke down sobbing. The other gym patrons watched us curiously. I didn’t know what I should do. Hug her? Leave her alone? I still had questions to ask.
Terry shook her head. “God, and I was so mad at him for standing me up last week and wasting my time. If I had only known . . .”
“Terry, I found a birthday card someone e-mailed to him.”
“Last week was his birthday? I had no idea . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“It was a threatening note. You saw Willard a couple times a week. Did he ever mention anyone who might have had it in for him?”
“No. Everybody around here loved Willard. I mean, sometimes the trainers would give him a hard time because he’d show up with a box of donuts and hand them out to everybody, but it was funny. Nobody got seriously mad.” She grimaced as she started putting everything together. “Are you saying someone murdered Willard?”
“I have no proof of that. But things just don’t add up for me, and I’m trying to figure it all out.”
She opened her bag, fished through it, and then produced a card. It had her name, address, phone and pager numer, and e-mail address. “If you need any help, call me. Please. I adored Willard. He was so . . .” Her eyes welled up again. “Excuse me.”
Terry Duran fled out the door, and I was left to face the hostile glares of the gym clients who watched the scene, and blamed me for Terry’s shattered state. I decided it was best I get out of there.
As I walked down the street towards my car, I thought about Terry Duran. Was it an act? I had no clues to suggest it was, but this was LA, a town filled with wannabe actors who could more or less pull off a convincing performance. If she was as fond of Willard as she said she was, why didn’t she call to check up on him when he didn’t show up for the second or even third training session? There were no messages from her found on his answering machine. Then again, their relationship was strictly trainer-client, so it wasn’t her job to follow up and find out why Willard was standing her up. She had other clients to train and money hassles to deal with. Which spoke to a lack of motive. Terry Duran desperately needed Willard and his generous checks in advance. Why would she ever jeopardize losing a cash cow like that, if her financial difficulties were as severe as she suggested? It seemed to me at the moment that Terry Duran was not on Willard’s enemies list. So I decided to look elsewhere for answers. And I was going to start with the shirtless young buck with the eagle tattoo in the Frontiers ad.
Chapter Eight
I pulled onto Wilshire, and stopped at the first Starbuck’s I came across. I was craving a hazelnut café latte, and I figured a jolt of caffeine would keep my energy level up as I followed my trail of clues.
As I waited for my coffee, my eyes fell to the basket full of sandwiches on display, and I ached to snatch them all up, everything from the mouth watering turkey pesto to the spicy cajun chicken. Laurette and I hadn’t discussed our diet in days, so I felt safe in assuming it was history. I grabbed the turkey and a bag of sea salt kettle chips and watched hungrily, my mouth watering, as the chipper clerk rang it all up. Then I settled down at a corner table, pulled out my cell phone, and checked my messages. One from Laurette, curious to know if Charlie and I had made up, another from Laurette asking me if I had lunch plans (she never did get to the Cheesecake Factory and it was driving her insane), and one from my dentist confirming my six month cleaning appointment for tomorrow. None from Charlie.
I wondered if I should just break down and call him? Both of us could be annoyingly stubborn. I decided to give him some more time to see the error of his ways and rush home to beg my forgiveness.
I dug the Frontiers ad out of my pocket as I dove into my sandwich, and studied the image of the tattooed kid again. I couldn’t be sure Willard even knew him. Maybe he had just ripped the ad out of the magazine and left it by his bedside in order to jumpstart a wet dream after he fell asleep. But I would never know for sure if I didn’t call the pager number listed in the ad. After a moment of hesitation, I put down my sandwich and punched in the number. The voice mail message was brief.
“Hi, this is Eli. Please leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Serious calls only, please.” After the beep, I rattled off my name (I decided to use “Brandon,” as a tribute to Jason Priestley’s ten loyal years on Beverly Hills 90210) and my cell number and hung up. Then I tore open my bag of chips and started in on those as I waited and watched a crowd of City National Bank employees from next door pour in for a quick pre-lunch caffeine fix. I sometimes forgot that there were people in LA who were not connected to the entertainment business. What did they talk about? The weather? It never changed. I found the whole idea of “non pros” inside the city limits fascinating.
Within five minutes, my cell phone was clanging, and I fumbled through my mess of plastic, half eaten sandwich, and empty potato chip bag to find it.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Brandon, this is Eli.”
I paused. I had no idea how to go about this. I had never called “a massage therapist” through a Frontiers ad before. I didn’t know the etiquette.
He decided to help me along. “You looking to get a massage today?”
“Um, sure.”
Another pause. He must have been used to dealing with frightened, blithering idiots, because he wasted no time in bailing me out again.
“You want to come here, or would you prefer I come to you? It’s
seventy-five dollars in, a hundred dollars out.”
“I’ll come to you.”
“Great. I’m up in Laurel Canyon. 8842 Lookout Mountain Avenue. You know how to find it?”
“I have a Thomas Guide.” I never left home without my handy LA County street guide for just such occasions.
“It’s a brown ranch-style house on the left just past East Horseshoe Canyon Road. You can’t miss it. Come around back. I’m in the guesthouse. You want to come, say, around one?”
An hour from now. Plenty of time to get worked up into a complete panic.
“Um, sure.” Now I was repeating myself. I always did that when I was nervous.
“Looking forward to meeting you, Brandon,” he said, an inviting tone in his voice. It was hard not to be intrigued.
“Um, me too.” At least I was now adding a bit of variety to my monotone responses. I pressed the “End Call” button and sat back in my hard wooden chair at Starbuck’s. What did I think I was doing? One fight with my boyfriend and suddenly I was driving up to some remote house in the hills to get an erotic massage from a tattooed hustler! I kept telling myself I was only doing this for Willard.
I looked at the photo of Eli in the ad again. I would’ve killed for those rippled abs.
After polishing off my sandwich, I jumped behind the wheel of the BMW again, and tore off down Wilshire, turning onto Crescent Heights Boulevard, and followed the stream of midday traffic up through West Hollywood, past the looming billboards of the Sunset Strip, and onto the calm rustic ambience of Laurel Canyon. As I made a left onto Lookout Mountain Avenue, all evidence of city life evaporated.
Like my own home in Beachwood Canyon, this was an escape from the bustle of LA life, and there was a peaceful silence that fell over the whole area. It’s hard not to feel a bit vulnerable when you’re up in the hills, all by yourself. Although houses populated both sides of the streets, an overwhelming sense of fear and loneliness washed over me. Here I was, driving up to a secluded house to meet someone I knew nothing about. It didn’t seem like the smartest move, but I had come too far already to turn back now.
