Lilith--Blood Ink
Page 5
Faustina heaved a little sigh, took a sip of her latte and turned back to me. “Now, where were we?”
“Talking about why you can’t get me work right now, even jobs that have crap for pay.”
“Ah yes, that.” She tapped her nails on the desktop again. “As to compensation, I know the pay rate on the jobs you’ve had aren’t what we’d hoped for—”
“But you know I appreciate the work, right? And if it means taking a lower pay rate versus not working at all, I’m okay with that. At least until things pick up.”
“I’m sure there will be other projects coming down the pipeline.”
“Just not right now,” I said bitterly.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Dammit.” I scowled, deciding anger was a better coping mechanism than despair.
“Be patient, Lee.” Faustina stared at me over the rim of her cup. Except it was now a mug, a very pretty piece of hand-thrown pottery with a gold, red and orange glaze that reminded me of a vibrant sunrise. My paper cup-turned-mug was in blues and greens, like the ocean. Nice trick, that.
“We need to let the furor over Pale Dreamer die down a bit,” she continued. “The lawyers and publicity team managed to hide the worst of things, but the project still has a little bit of—how shall we say?—the stench of death on it.”
And there it was—the decomposing elephant in the room.
“Yeah, but it wasn’t my fault.”
“I know that, hon.” Faustina’s manner was more sympathetic than impatient—a distinction for which I was grateful. “Problem is, word gets out. And you did kill a producer.”
I stared at her. “Again, so not my fault.”
“The people in the know realize that, but his lawyers threw a lot of money at this to preserve reputations. Mainly his.”
“What about everyone else who worked on the film? Ben Farrell just got a role on a big-budget horror flick. And what about the crew? I know for a fact that Connor Hayden isn’t having trouble getting hired. I saw his name listed under a few things in preproduction.” Nothing like following someone on IMDB to make a girl feel like a stalker.
Connor had been the director of photography on Pale Dreamer. He was a little full of himself, but good at his job. We’d locked horns at first—figurative horns, since Connor’s human—but by the last day of shooting I’d thought we could at least be friends, maybe even a little bit more. Hell, I’d saved his life—I’d expected at least a little gratitude. Other than a get well card after I’d ended up in the hospital, however, I hadn’t heard a peep from him. Then again, this was Hollywood, the land of “what did you do for me five minutes ago?”
“They didn’t kill the producer,” Faustina pointed out reasonably.
Well, hell.
“Now you know I’ll continue to submit your name for anything that comes up.”
“Hell,” I said with a sigh, “I’d even go for a Crazy Casa film about now.”
Faustina opened her mouth to reply, then hesitated.
Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me…
“They already said no, didn’t they?”
She nodded reluctantly. Now I knew what it felt like to truly hit rock bottom, when the bottom feeders turned their noses up at me. My expression must have shown my feelings because Faustina hastened to say, “You know you don’t want to work for them. Truth be told, I regretted submitting your résumé the minute I hit the ‘send’ button.” She reached across the desk and patted my hand. “Give it a little while, Lee. When enough time passes, I know we can get you back on some projects with a little bit of clout.”
And that was that. I thanked her for seeing me, and gave her a hug. Even ex-goddesses like to feel appreciated.
* * *
I decided to stop at Ocean’s End for a quick drink to cheer myself up. Once that thought crossed my mind, I gave Eden a quick call to see if she could meet me there. She could, and she would. At least the day wouldn’t be a total loss.
Ocean’s End is a quirky bar off Ocean Front Walk in Venice Beach, just a few blocks north of the boardwalk. It’s not for everyone. I mean that literally. It’s in between a bike rental place and craft brew pub, only accessible through a charming little alley that you won’t even see unless the owner, Manny, likes you or your timing is exceptionally good.
This was the first time I had been there on my own. I hoped I wouldn’t have any problem finding the entrance. You didn’t necessarily have to be a supe to get in—although it helped—but you did have to be aware of their existence… and be cool with it. Otherwise the concept of an entrance that worked kind of like a gateway into Fae-ville meets Monster Mash could cause some serious mental damage.
I was pretty sure that Manny liked me, but I couldn’t help the little rush of anxiety that rose in my chest as I walked down Rose Avenue and turned right on the boardwalk. The anxiety disappeared when I walked past the brewpub and spotted the alleyway. I smiled in relief when I didn’t hit an invisible force field or encounter a bearded man in robes intoning, “You shall not pass!”
A wooden sign with “Ocean’s End” carved into it hung above a wood-planked door. It creaked gently as if blown by a nonexistent wind. I pushed the heavy door open and went inside.
Mellow Celtic music played softly, less soporific than Enya, but nothing that’d make a person want to kick up their heels in a jig or a highland fling. The décor alone—a grim selection of seascapes, all storms and ships foundering in white-capped water—was enough to make Michael Flatley hang up his dance shoes and drink himself to death.
The bar was practically empty, most of the wooden tables and booths scattered around the dark wood interior currently unoccupied. Only one of the booths near the front was occupied, by a pair of pale bardha having what appeared to be a very earnest discussion. Both had majorly frou-frou cocktails in front of them. You know, the type with umbrellas and pieces of fruit on sword-shaped skewers. Not surprising considering how much bardhas love sugar. There were also a couple of Nereids at the bar, water dripping from their long green gauze skirts. Hard-core regulars, they’d been there every time I’d come into Ocean’s End.
I headed to the bar, a twenty-foot length of smooth redwood at least six inches thick, with another piece about five feet long creating an L shape at the far end. The top had been polished by years of hands and elbows resting on its surface, but I had no idea how old Ocean’s End—or Manny—really was. I also wasn’t sure what he was, but my gut told me there was something big league in his origin story.
The man himself was, as usual, behind the bar, reading a magazine. Flaming red hair, mustache and beard, all at least a foot long—he kept the front of his ’stache neatly trimmed, but the sides flowed into the beard like tributaries flowing into a river. The front of his hair was pulled back in braids on both sides, with shells, silver beads and pieces of frosted, multicolored glass woven in. He put hipsters and their ironic facial hair to shame.
When we’d first met, Manny had been about as welcoming as the Cthulhuian nightmare pulling a wooden ship down into a storm-tossed ocean in the painting hanging up behind him. Luckily, he’d warmed up to me quickly, possibly because of my ability to spell “Cthulhu” without googling it. Considering his stellar beer list and the generosity of his pours, this made me happy. Although I still question his taste in artwork.
He looked up from his magazine as I approached, eyes currently a shade of green I’d call seafoam. I say “currently” because his irises changed color to reflect his state of mind, like an ocular mood ring.
“Hey, Manny,” I greeted him with a little wave, grinning as I got a peek of his reading material—the Fashion Police section of US Magazine.
“Mistress Striga,” he said with a nod, his thick Irish accent almost sexy enough to offset the facial fur. “And what may I be pourin’ for you this afternoon?”
I studied the What’s on Tap list, written in chalk on a blackboard next to an old-fashioned register. “How’s the Triple Threat?”
“Yes, please.”
He promptly filled a good-sized snifter and set it in front of me. I handed over a twenty-dollar bill, blinking when he gave me fifteen bucks in change. “Happy hour,” he said off my surprised look.
I gave him a sharp glance. “I thought happy hour didn’t start until four.”
“It’s my bar. Happy hour is when I say it is.” He glared at me, eyes darkening from seafoam to seaweed.
I held up my hands in surrender. “If you’re happy, I’m happy.”
He gave a harrumph of satisfaction.
“Eden’s meeting me here. She never lets me treat so can I just pay for her chardonnay now so she can’t argue with me? Pretty please?”
Manny nodded. “Happy hour prices apply, though.”
I gave him another five, put down a couple of ones for a tip, and went to the other side of the room, claiming one of the empty booths. Once there, I went over the conversation with Faustina in my head, trying to find anything positive to give me even a small injection of badly needed optimism.
My career, while not entirely in the toilet, had at best moved into a low-rent neighborhood. Sure, I was getting jobs here and there. With production companies that realized they were getting high-quality stunts dirt cheap. Like a four-star dinner at McDonald’s Happy Meal prices. Not the kind of paychecks that could afford me a place of my own in any neighborhood I’d want to live in without 24-hour security. And now it seemed that the people whose lives I had saved were afraid to hire me or even recommend me for fear that the stench of death might stick to their clothes as well.
Hypocrites. Like none of them had ever fantasized about snuffing a producer or two.
There was no help for it. If Faustina couldn’t—or wouldn’t—get me work, I was going to have to do some schmoozing and see what I could do to fix my reputation. While I waited for Eden, I made a list on my phone of stunt coordinators who might want to hire someone with experience. I’d do some research, make some calls, and find out what they were currently working on. And if need be, I’d pay a few on-set visits. Not something I enjoyed, but without the safety net of the KSC, I would have to work on my hustling chops.
Ugh, with a side order of “screw this.”
As I scraped the bottom of my brainpan for likely suspects, I realized how insular my professional life with the Katz Stunt Crew had been. I knew more than a few stunt people by reputation, sure. I’d met a lot of them at the annual Taurus Stunt Awards. Some had even offered me lucrative work in the past. But would they be so gung-ho to hire me without my former willingness to throw myself off very tall buildings or dangle from moving helicopters? This was assuming they’d overlook the whole “killing a producer” entry on my résumé.
I had another twenty minutes before Eden was supposed to arrive. I took a deep breath followed by a big swig of beer, and started making calls. Fifteen minutes later, I’d scratched off at least three-fourths of the names on my list and was too discouraged to try the next one down. I heaved a dejected sigh and put my phone away, even more depressed than I’d been during the months of rehab and physical therapy after my accident.
A large hand plucked the empty glass out from under my nose, setting a fresh one filled to the brim in its place.
“You look like you could use another Triple Threat.” Manny smiled down at me. At least I thought the flash of teeth between beard and mustache was a smile. I was touched—Manny didn’t usually come out from behind the bar.
“And this—” he set a glass of white wine on the other side of the table “—is for Eden, when she deigns to honor us with her presence.”
I started to pull out my purse, but he shook his head. “You already paid for the wine, and the beer is on the house.” I nodded my thanks, not trusting myself to speak without getting all choked up. “I’ll just add a little extra to Marty’s tab,” he added. “He’s always stingy with the tips.”
That made me grin. Marty was a real demon of an agent. A Scaenicus demon, to be precise. They can change their appearance, which is a good thing considering their true form is butt-ugly. In Marty’s case, the ugly went all the way through. He was always after Eden to jump ship to his talent agency, couching the offer in the most skin-crawling terms imaginable.
“Can you do that? I mean, is it legal?”
Manny gave a great bark of laughter, the shells and bones woven into his hair and beard rattling like castanets. “Do you think Marty would have the balls to argue with me?”
I laughed. “I think it’s debatable that Marty has balls.”
“Well then.” Manny gave a satisfied grin and turned back toward the bar. Then he stopped and swiveled back around to face me again, his irises now swirling in stripes of blues, grays and greens. The colors expanded and retracted, each shade blending into the next like two pinwheels while pupils as black as onyx spun the other direction. Uh oh. Last time this happened, Manny had gone into a mini trance, prophesizing doom and gloom like a scary-ass, hirsute Cassandra, and I’d been on the receiving end.
“It’s starting again, lass,” he intoned. “Repeating the past, doomed to forget each mistake made unless you learn to break the chains that bind.”
Here we go again. Unless I was mistaken, this was a similar song and dance to the last time Manny had done his spooky prophet routine, before I’d started work on Pale Dreamer.
“You thought him dead,” he continued, “but he was only resting. Healing until the wheel of time once again turned in his favor. He is stronger, seeking to bring back that which has been lost—that which must not return. Shapes will form where none lay before. Harbingers to usher in a new age of darkness. Beware those who would betray you for their own glory. Be careful of spilling your beer.”
Huh?
Looking down, I saw that I was in danger of pulling the full glass off the table and onto my lap. “Oh.”
“Are you all right, lass?” Manny raised one bushy eyebrow in question, concern lacing his tone. His irises had settled back to seafoam green. He hadn’t remembered making with the second sight last time either.
One of the Nereids swiveled on her barstool, holding up an empty glass and giving a sad look in Manny’s direction. He nodded and went back behind the bar, leaving me to cradle my beer and wonder how much I should worry about what had just happened.
Last time he’d gone Oracle of Delphi, Manny had warned me about shadows that tore flesh. Nothing metaphorical about it—not long after his warning, there had been much rending of flesh and bone by some nasty shadow demons known as Davea. This latest round of prophesizing didn’t sound nearly as gory, more like a demonic amber alert. Although I didn’t much like the sound of a “new age of darkness.” Didn’t I have enough on my plate already?
I took a long pull of the Triple Threat. God damn, this is some seriously good stuff.
As the second high-octane beer and Manny’s generosity hit my system, my muscles relaxed. My shoulders dropped at least an inch and I heaved another sigh, a contented one this time around. I’d worry about harbingers and what not later.
“Well, you look much happier than you sounded on the phone!”
I looked up to see Eden standing next to the booth. As usual, she was wearing something in a shade of pink, this time a halter-top dress in a deep rose color that offset her natural beauty perfectly. Eden Carmel—pronounced Carmel, as in Carmel-by-the-Sea—could be glamorous or she could be the girl next-door. Golden blonde with cornflower-blue eyes. Tall and curvy, like a young Marilyn Monroe. Broad where a broad should be broad. She could probably stop traffic on the 405 freeway—when it was actually going the speed limit.
“I don’t know how you do it,” I said, shaking my head.
“Do what?” She slid into the seat across from me, plunking a large rose-pink leather bag next to he
r. One of her knock-off Coach purses. Eden was a great believer in bargain luxuries.
“Look at you, all fresh and cool and spring-like.” I gestured in mock disgust. “You should be walking on the beach holding hands with a hunky guy, both of you wearing white, or in a bikini getting ready to go for a swim while talking about confidence in your choice of feminine protection, and how you feel fresh as a daisy.”
Eden gave a distinctly unladylike snort of laughter. “That’s a compliment, right?”
“Duh.”
“Well, thank you.” Glancing around, she heaved a contented sigh of her own. “I love it when it’s quiet like this. Manny’s always so mellow when he doesn’t have to deal with throngs of sweaty demons.” She glanced over at the Nereids and lowered her voice. “Or soggy sea nymphs.”
“Have you ever asked him why he got into the barkeeping business when crowds make him anxious?”
Eden raised an eyebrow. “Even if I summoned up the courage to ask him, the odds of him giving me a straight answer are definitely not in my favor.” Her gaze fell on the glass of wine. “You got me a drink? You didn’t have to do that.”
“You’re always picking up the tab these days,” I said. “I figured I’d get a round in before you could argue with me.”
“Lee, you’re not working much right now. Not to rub it in, but I just wrapped up a national commercial. I can afford to treat you and I don’t mind doing it.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want you to think I take it for granted, y’know? Besides, sometimes you have to show the universe a little bit of faith to get it to move its ass and help you out.” I didn’t add that the more I held on to what little money I had, the poorer I felt.
Eden smiled. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who surprises me all the time the way you do.”
“Is that a good thing?” I hoped I didn’t sound as insecure as I felt. This whole friendship thing was new to me. I had work buddies, sure, but I didn’t remember ever really bonding with another female… well, ever. I couldn’t remember going to a slumber party as a kid, or even shopping at the mall with girlfriends in high school.