Lost Angeles

by David Louden

  “So this is the bit where you say you’d love to come!” He guides me to my half of the conversation.

  “Right.” I pitch in.

  “Fucking Irish.” He stubs his cigarette out “It’ll be nice, you won’t have to crash this party and you’re her friend. She needs as many of them around as possible when she’s this way.”

  “That does take some of the fun out of it.” I’m nervous but I want to see her.

  Don turns to walk away but one last thought pulls him back.

  “Oh yeah and don’t take this the wrong way buddy but have a shave for fucks sake you look like the Shoe Bomber.”

  20

  TOKYO LOOKED SMALLER. I couldn’t help but reminisce on the first time I had passed through the wooden archway and followed the pathway, lined with cherry blossom trees and climbed the steps to the doors of the super trendy eatery. I had taken Don Johnson’s advice; I spent forty dollars on a haircut and bought a razor from the drugstore and in doing so took years off myself. I kept the handlebar moustache that I had been playing about with in front of the mirror; I figured it added a certain promise of buggery to my look. Shortly after arriving at Lost Angeles I had come to the conclusion that deciding what to wear on a daily basis was tiring. Sifting through tee shirts and hoodies and shirts for what’s clean, then refining the search by how I was feeling or what jumped out was all a little pointless. I had taken my suitcase, clothes et al, down to a neighbouring building that was in the process of renovation and dumped everything into the large yellow skip that sat outside, filled with plaster board and porcelain sinks. I then went to Wal-Mart and bought seven pairs of jeans, seven white tee shirts, seven pairs of pants and seven pairs of socks. This quickly became my alcoholic uniform. I wore this to Tokyo; along with the jacket from the suit I had bought to attend Herb’s funeral and Billie’s recital all that time ago. I hitched a ride to Beverly Hills where I spent two hundred dollars I could ill afford on a birthday present for Billie before hopping the bus to La Brea and walking the distance up Hollywood Blvd to the restaurant stopping only momentarily to key the Russian’s car which sat outside my first hostel.

  I’m one of the first at the party, the staff are still hanging banners, inflating balloons and the DJ is fiddling with his PA system in an effort to get the speakers to work. I place my present on a large rectangular table by the main window next to a smaller but no doubt more expensive present and make my way to the bar. The barman, who I think recognises me and who I think sold me weed one time, tips me off as I hand him a twenty.

  “Mr. Galligan’s putting five grand behind the bar in twenty minutes.”

  “Can I have ten dollars worth now and then maybe you can ring it through in a half hour?” I say, chancing my arm.

  He nods and pours me a double.

  I take a sip before heading to the rear patio for a cigarette. Don had redone the decking since the last time I had been in Hollywood. I light up and swallow half my drink to deaden the nerves. I’m hugged before I can realise what’s going on.

  “Hey man, how are you?”

  Her hair is shorter and electric blue but I recognise the swallow tattoos on her wrist.

  “What’s going down Chloe? Thought you were in San Diego?”

  “Oh I was. And then Mexico, Guadalupe actually,” she nods a recognition towards the tattoo I only vaguely remember that’s now part of my left arm. “…and I see you’ve been busy.”

  “Yeah. Little memory there. You back long?”

  “Two weeks. You’ve landed on those spring heels of yours getting in with Galligan and his posse. Smooth move Douglas.” She winks.

  “It’s not like that…not entirely anyway.” I finish my drink.

  “You up for partyin’ later?” She asks as I look around, searching out anybody familiar I can use as an excuse to get out of her questioning.

  I rattle a white plastic bottle of Tramadol and smile.

  More guests have arrived. There’s still ten minutes until Don Johnson’s tab kicks in but the barman hooks me up with another twenty bucks worth of whiskey. Don Johnson catches my eye and calls me over. Several of the guests look familiar; the director of the failed TV pilot is amongst them. He catches me “fuck you” eyeballing him and then spends the next ten minutes trying to work out where he knows me from. Breaking me off from the Prada suits who seem incapable of opening their mouths without trying to broker deals Don Johnson guides me towards a cool looking black man. Light grey suit, hair in loose short corn rolls and a designer beard. Stretching out his hand Don pats the trendy man on the arm and invites him to shake my hand.

  “Winston this is the ignorant fuck who was meant to call you months ago.” Introduces Don.

  “Ignorant fuck this is Winston.” Don Johnson directs to me.

  We shake hands.

  “Please, call me Iggy.” I say firing Don a fuck off grin.

  Winston’s about to say something to me and I about to make up some bullshit excuse when a hysterical woman running around the bar as though she’s on fire passes us repeating “She’s comin’ she’s comin’!”. The music goes off and several party guests attempt to hide in a room that’s been cleared of most of the furniture.

  “Surpriseeeee!” Screams the room.

  Billie looks genuinely surprised and happy. A huge smile adorns her face. Benoit is making the most of his supporting role. I step back as a queue forms to hug, kiss and wish Billie a happy birthday. As I step out she spots me. Her face barely moves and most people in the room don’t know her well enough to know the difference but Billie’s smile has changed. Though it’s hardly moved a millimetre it’s now hollow. I know this so I get myself another drink and return to the blossoming conversation with Winston.

  Winston had shot a pilot which was rejected and he subsequently re-edited it in order to market it to the DVD audience as a feature film with limited success. He was in the middle of securing funding from multiple small companies and benefactors. Businessmen who could use the line “I’m in film” as a way of picking up out of state tail while making the venture of most lunches between finance and completion tax deductable. Don had recommended me to him as someone who could chaperone the D-List movie stars in the film. Apparently there was something about me that was friendly and easy to be around. I got Winston another drink and he told me all about his vision.

  “Swasucka.” He announced.

  “Excuse me?” I fought against choking on my drink.

  “The film’s called Swasucka, it’s about a group of Black Nazis who get out of Germany before they lost the war and end up settin’ up a camp in the valley. Plenty of blonde prisoners with big ass tits…all that exploitation shit!” Pitched Winston.

  “Ok.” I digest “So it’s kinda like The Black Gestapo crossed’ with Women’s Camp 119 right?”

  “Shit it’s nothin’ like Women’s Camp…or Black Gestapo” Winston got defensive quickly.

  “If you say so…but it kinda is.”

  “What do you know?”

  “I know anyone involved in making this film is probably gonna die a slow and painful career death. You ever been to Canada?”

  “You don’t know shit!”

  “I know Hollywood is run by Jews and the King Jew, there’s a King Jew right? Well he probably ain’t gonna ever look down that CV and think Swasucka…oh cool you’re that guy.” I finish another drink.

  “I don’t give a fuck about that!”

  “Oh…ok then. Well then if you need a hand let me know.”

  “Don thinks you are good with people?! What makes you think I’m going to want your help after you were such a little bitch?” Asks Winston.

  “Probably cos I’ve a ton of knowledge on this shit and Don Johnson knows this and that’s why he’s hooked us up on a man date.”

  “What’s with you calling him Don Johnson?”

  “Seriously?!” I ask baffled “He looks exactly like the fucker.”

  “All you crackers look-a-like to me.” And with that
Winston finished his drink.

  I had managed to avoid Billie longer than I had expected. She was out of sight and then suddenly she was there. Standing a foot away from me, waiting to be served at the free bar of her own birthday party. My barman handed me another whiskey, I had coaxed him up as far as a half pint and was working on the other half. She smiled awkwardly, it was a little stingy to have her so uncomfortable with me.

  “Happy birthday.” I offered.

  “Thanks.” She responded, already looking for a way out of this short and painful conversation.

  “I can go.”

  “No, don’t.”

  “Seriously it’s no big deal.”

  “Why’d you come?”

  “Your brother bumped into me at the pier.” I confessed “Thought it would be weird if I didn’t.”

  “Be weird if you didn’t?” Said Billie confused.

  “He knows we’re close.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Were close,” I corrected myself “you look fucking beautiful.” I raise my glass “Again, happy birthday.”

  I down my drink and grab my cigarettes from my pocket and walk to the back patio. I don’t expect her to follow. She did look great. Hair curled into ringlets and her curves in a black pencil skirt and a matching black top v necked to the naval. Outside the air cooled my head, the whiskey and clipped conversation had pushed me to the point of overheating but the soothing breeze worked wonders on my constitution. Chloe stood collecting glasses at the other side of the decked patio. She smiled and made her way towards me. I remember fondly our marathon mattress romps, she could screw for mankind.

  We had agreed to meet upstairs in the staff toilets to do some coke that Chloe had acquired from a portly financer who was trying to shake her tree to see what falls out. She sized him up for a moment before realising that she’d probably kill him. As I finished my pre-coke smoke I turned towards Tokyo to be confronted by Billie. She stood reluctantly building herself up to something, three fingers of scotch sat on her breath. She smiled as I approached, as I went to squeeze past her she took my hand.

  “I’m an ass.” She offered.

  “A very fine one at that. You’re not.”

  “Then rude, I should’ve been pleased to see you.”

  “Well…you are what you are.”

  “That didn’t come out right.” Her rich eyes watered, her face reddened.

  “It’s ok Billie…seriously.”

  “I am happy to see you. I’m nervous. I missed you.” She said.

  “I missed you too…I’m sorry for what happened. Things got confusing and I know we got complicated…I’m sorry.”

  “You’re so sweet.”

  “Ouch…”

  We share a laugh, more out of relief than anything.

  “I didn’t mean it like that either.” The red appears again.

  “I know,” I take her hand again “birthday kiss?!” I offer.

  “You want tongue?”

  “Always muthafucka.”

  I lean in and give her a tender touch on her soft red lips. She runs her hand down my newly shaved face before our lips part.

  “Thank you for coming.” Her face beaming to match what I was feeling.

  “I’ll be around for a few more days; we should hang out a little.”

  “You’re leavin’?” Billie seemed shocked.

  “Can’t bum around Venice forever.”

  “You going home?”

  “You could say that.” Now my eyes are watering.

  Don Johnson appears over her shoulder, curious as to the goings on between his little sister and the Santa Monica hobo he had encountered earlier. Normally this would be considered the greatest of blockings to my cock but emotions surrounding Billie recently had been high. His appearance, his gooseberriness was welcoming.

  “Don Johnson!” I exclaim changing the mood.

  “I hear you’ve been chatting with Winston.”

  “And that’s my cue. Have an excellent birthday Billie.” I kiss her on the cheek before slipping past her and avoid the inspecting eye contact of her brother as he mentally searches our interactions to conclude what’s been occurring. As I reach the wall of sound that was Tokyo’s dance floor I hear Johnson…

  “So what’s going on sis…”

  Upstairs Chloe and I were joined by Gaz (the barman who had been serving me for most of the night) his girlfriend Tara who was also working the function and Winston who would brag about being clean since the Clinton years while simultaneously hoovering up more than his fair share without a hint of irony. The cobwebs were building in my brain, I had hit a line the length of a ruler before realising that I was outside of the room tucked into a corner near the staircase. I was fighting unconsciousness; I think I may have drunk too much. Yeah that was definitely it.

  Chloe emerged from the room, gliding and rubbing her nose. She docks with the outstretched arms of a man in an expensive dark suit with brown closely cropped hair. Her swallows meet around the back of his neck. Their faces collide and begin to rub against one another at the lips.

  “Hey man,” A voice calls out from an uncertain direction “…the birthday girl’s looking ya!”

  The two bodies separate. Benoit pats Chloe on the ass before fist bumping with his bro.

  “You having a good night bro?” Asks the friend.

  “The best bro.”

  “Who’s the piece of ass?”

  “Waitress I’ve hit a couple of times…freaky lil bitch.” Boasted Benoit.

  “You takin’ a run at that tonight?” His friends asks with a tone of permission.

  “Road is clear man. I got to attend to Billie. She’s got ideas of leaving LA.”

  “You seriously ain’t leaving right?”

  “Fuck no. I’ll get her to stay,” Benoit continued “you put a ring there and they pretty much do whatever the fuck you want.”

  “Marriage?!” His friend sounded incensed by the word.

  “Fuck no,” Benoit was laughing “though it doesn’t hurt to let her think. Am I right?”

  I had heard enough. I was walking towards him before I had even realised it and before I could stop myself I was punching Benoit; two, three, four times. His friend laid a dig into the back of my head but the whiskey and coke had taken over. I turned and drew the butt of my hand down on his nose shattering it and spraying the front of both of our jackets in his blood. Benoit was back to his feet, I hit him again before grabbing him by the seat of his pants and throwing him down the stairs. He cleared ten of them before he hit the rest; tumbling down to the hard wood floor and a sickening thud. As I step over him I spot two teeth bathing in a pool of blood close to his head. It sobered me up quickly. The entire party, minus Gaz, Tara and Winston who were probably screwing by now, stopped what they were doing and turned their attention to me. As Billie appeared from the doorway of the patio she lets out a scream before running across the room. I turn and hastily exit Tokyo. Halfway towards Hollywood and Whitley Avenue Billie catches up with me, she digs her finger nails into my arm before spinning me around and slapping me across the face.

  “What the fuck is the matter with you?!” She screams, in floods of tears.

  “Me?! What’s the matter with me?!”

  “You could have killed him. You fuckin’ animal!” She slaps me again.

  “Fuck him.”

  “You cunt! I can’t believe I ever thought you could be…you fuckin’ asshole!”

  “Could be what Billie?”

  “What we did was wrong and I’m sorry if I hurt you but that doesn’t give you the right to beat my boyfriend to a…”

  “This is not about us,” I scream “seriously! Open your fucking eyes. He’s using you and you let him. He’s shitting all over everything you think is important and you let him.”

  Don Johnson and Chloe have caught up with us, Chloe has smudges of blood on her knees.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Billie says almost inaudibly.

 
; “Ask her,” I point to Chloe “ask Benny, or your friend upstairs,” I point to Don “ask them all.”

  “Doug I like you man but that shit is outta hand. You’d better get out of here before the cops turn up,” offered Don “and do me a favour buddy…stay away.”

  I turn my attention back to Billie. She’s still; perfectly still. Piecing together what little that came out of my mouth that made sense together. Chloe takes a step back and makes an effort to turn and run. Don Johnson grabs her by the arm.

  “No you don’t.” He says.

  Now Chloe and Billie are looking at me.

  “I’m sorry.”

  21

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING was the worst morning I had experienced since leaving Ireland. Normally the bad mornings were made from nights that couldn’t be recalled. You would spend hours trying to figure out who was staring at you, why they were looking at you that way. Who liked you, who hated you, who you had to apologise to. Eventually it was easier to just get drunk again and say “fuck it”.

  This morning was different. I remembered everything; I was a catalogue of pain, bruises, sickness and regret. I couldn’t think about the latter half of the evening without shuddering. When I finally braved opening my eyes my clothes were in a pile in the middle of the room covered in blood. It had dried to the carpet leaving a stain that glued my previously white tee shirt to the cheap black flooring. I hadn’t noticed but I had the six bed dorm to myself. The rest of the travellers of the world occupying room 106 had either checked out or requested to be sharing with someone who was less of a fucking lunatic. There was a knock on the door. Andrei entered with a written request from the management of Lost Angeles. It read: