Company Town

by Paul Neuhaus

  “Hollywood is a place where they’ll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul.” —Marilyn Monroe

  Prologue - Aisling

  A clash on an African veldt. The defenders try in vain to hold a city of ziggurats. Alien overlords, gray; stately; and inscrutable, direct desperate human troops. Angry, not comprehending how what they’ve built could shatter so quickly, the Asura rage. The invaders—men and women of many nations—swarm through broken gates and onto stone roads. They pour through the culverts beneath, against the flow of running water. Ants swarming a scorpion, overwhelming it with numbers.

  At the city center, near a bubbling fountain, two of the old gods stand, fighting not with weapons but with ancient magic, a force which ignites even rock. Interlopers scream and fall back, their very essences burned from them.

  A new infusion of attackers enter the square, drawn in the wake of their leader, a small figure with vivid green eyes. A woman, men on both sides of her. In her right hand is a sword. Embossed on her upraised left is an arcane circle, inset with a five-pointed star. From this left hand, an orange fire burns. As she passes through a broken archway, a flock of tiny blue birds flow all around her, harbingers of her power. The woman (Aisling is her name) hurls devastating energies at the overlords’ men. With each barrage, defenders scatter or die. With the blue birds dispersed and heading skyward, the Jihma, men, soldiers of the mind like Aisling, move around her and cast their own spells of war. Behind the Jihma, soldiers with swords, vibrate, eager to have their leash snapped off.

  Near the fountain, the gray gods stop and look at these new invaders. They glare at the Aisling. Their slitted eyes burn with betrayal and hurt. What they asked for—loyalty, and flesh and pain—were small price to pay for the gift of maya, of magic. Petulant children, that’s what these interlopers are. Ungrateful. Faithless. Like their masters, the defending troops stop fighting and look to the general with her Jihma and her soldiers. Like their masters, they know this will be the final engagement in a short and terrible war.

  A new sound from above. Unaware of the lull beneath, two clouds of birds—one blue and one black—mirror the conflict below.

  The levees break and the old way dies. Ancient gods flee the city, chastened and exiled. The overlords, the Asura, run toward a mountain, its slope dotted with cave mouths.

  Their long rein in a forgotten age comes to an end.

  1

  Quinn

  Quinn Henaghan walked east on Hollywood Boulevard. As she passed the McDonald’s, a homeless man tugged at the hem of her skirt, causing it to stretch and trail behind her. As soon as she was aware of the resistance, she turned and pulled the fabric out of his hands. The man was in his thirties and had all the earmarks of a long-time meth abuser. “Really?” she said to him.

  “Baltimore,” he replied.

  Quinn was floored by how unhelpful a response that was, but she didn’t linger to find out more. She spun and put herself back on course. The Boulevard could be a creepy place even in broad daylight. Not that the sun was shining. It was mid-October and the sky was a dingy gray. But she wasn’t afraid it would rain. It almost never rained in Los Angeles. As in never.

  Henaghan cast her eyes down, and used the stars to navigate. Doris Day, 6724, Church of Scientology Information Center. Sylvester Stallone, 6712, The Egyptian Theater. Steven Spielberg, 6801, Taft Books. She hung a right into the welcoming arms of the store’s inset entry way. On either side, before the door, were windows. Quinn raised her head and looked at the displays designed to comfort the faithful. (Taft’s was, after all, a church of sorts.) A stack of Hitchcock: Truffaut, lobby cards for The Prisoner of Zenda, Jane Eyre and Night of the Hunter. Beautiful, garish posters for Bride of Frankenstein, Casablanca and East of Eden. Quinn had committed the content and arrangement of those windows to memory long ago (they rarely changed). Here was one of the few places in modern Hollywood where she did not feel threatened.

  Darren Taft, his belly protruding over his belt, sat on his stool. Taft always sat on his stool. When a customer needed a book fetched from the backroom, the shopkeep sent one of his boys, his acolytes. These followers never lasted long. Their love of the shop’s mystique drew them in, but Taft’s erratic temper drove them away. Anger issues aside, Taft always had a smile for Quinn. Henaghan knew it was because she was young and pretty, the kind of girl Taft coveted and never got. He flattered her by putting down his ever-present newspaper. There were no customers in the store. There were never any customers in the store. Quinn wasn’t sure how Taft kept the lights on.

  “There’s my Southern Belle,” Darren said, leaning forward on his stool, sucking in his belly. His thatch of straw-like hair caught the light from outside. “Where you been, Georgia?” Georgia. That’s what he called her. Because she was from Georgia. A Southern Californian’s sorry attempt to sound New York City hip.

  “I been where I’m always at,” Quinn said.

  “Part of The Machine.”

  “The belly of the beast,” Henaghan agreed. “You called me.”

  “Order in?”

  Quinn nodded.

  Taft’s head swiveled on his thick neck. He looked at his acolyte du jour. “Go get Georgia’s book, will ya?”

  The assistant didn’t speak or nod. He stepped down from the raised platform behind the cash wrap and went into the backroom. Quinn didn’t know his name, nor did she go to the trouble to learn it. She wasn’t gregarious and it wouldn’t matter soon anyway.

  “Whatcha working on?” Darren asked, his leer only mildly disquieting.

  “The occult in Hollywood. Halloween.”

  Taft sat back, narrowing his eyes, his interest piqued. “And what do you know about the occult in Hollywood?”

  “Nothing,” Quinn said, pointing toward the stock room. “That’s why I’m here.” Turning her head, she realized she’d almost poked the acolyte du jour in the chest. She thought about apologizing but knew it wouldn’t matter soon anyway. The ADJ handed her a bundle—an old book wrapped in brown butcher’s paper. She was a fan of this technique—both for Taft's discretion and the feel of the paper.

  Darren smirked at her. “You realize whatever you’ve got there is sensationalistic clap-trap.”

  “Did you see the order?”

  “No, I’ve got bigger fish to fry.” This evoked a laugh from the ADJ (who knew the truth). Taft scowled, and the ADJ went back to sorting lobby cards.

  “How do you know it’s clap-trap?” Quinn said, feeling attacked. “I’ll have you know my neighbor wrote this book.”

  “Who’s your neighbor?”

  “Annabelle Grindle.”

  Taft nodded, just a trace of respect appearing on his face. “The Devil’s Garden?”

  Henaghan nodded.

  “Read it. Your Ms. Grindle was an honest to God journalist so that book’s a stand-out. My apologies for the clap-trap thing. It’s solid work.” Not surprisingly, Darren was a stickler and could smell horse shit a mile away.

  “I’ll let her know Darren Taft says she’s legit.”

  Darren Taft leaned forward again, burping slightly. “I won’t sleep nights if you don’t.” By the time he’d finished speaking, he had his newspaper back in his hand. Talking time over. Reading time now.

  Quinn’s mouth opened to respond, but brief eye contact with the ADJ stopped her. Wide-eyed, the boy shook his head “no”. A none-too-subtle indicator her conversation with Taft was over. She nodded and walked to the door. As she passed through it, Taft said, “See you soon, Georgia.”

  Back on the sidewalk in front of the shop, Quinn returned to stealth mode. Avoiding eyes and ignoring words. She had one more errand to complete before returning to the relative safety of her Gower Street apartment. Watching the stars
again, she stopped when she reached Stallone. She hung a left into the courtyard of the Egyptian Theater and picked up a schedule of coming attractions. The Egyptian was a repertory house, another holy site on the Boulevard.

  Being careful to steer clear of Mr. Baltimore, Henaghan returned to her Prius.

  Quinn lived on Gower Street in an area of Hollywood formerly known as Gower Gulch. As late as the 1950s, film companies headquartered there made shitty Westerns. Real cowboys would congregate at the corner of Sunset and Gower hoping for a shot at the movies. A strip mall themed with an Old West motif now stood at that same intersection.

  Henaghan drove over the flood control channel next to her apartment complex and into the lot next to her building. She’d stopped to pick up Chinese from Fang’s for her and Annabelle Grindle. She took the brown paper bag (folded over twice and stapled shut) and the book (also in brown paper) and climbed the stairs to Grindle’s unit. The older woman lived one floor below the younger.

  Quinn knocked and Grindle opened the door. As soon as she saw Quinn, her shoulders sagged and she sighed. Even so, she got out of the way so Henaghan could enter. “You’re a mutant,” she said.

  Quinn set the food and the book down on the glass-topped dining room table. As she took off her scarf, she said, “Nice to see you too.”

  Grindle shuffled over and grabbed Quinn by the shoulders. She then steered Henaghan to the five foot mirror propped against the wall next to the bedroom door. “Look at yourself,” Annabelle said.

  Quinn did as she was told. Her reflection was five foot two, green-eyed and red-haired. She kept her thick mane cut shoulder-length. “Do you think these shoes go with this skirt?” she said.

  “The shoes match the skirt and the skirt matches the sweater. You look like a million bucks. That’s my point.”

  Henaghan scrunched her nose. “I need a haircut. I look like seven-fifty. Tops.”

  “Do you know how old I am?” Grindle said.

  Quinn looked at the weathered face over her right shoulder. Annabelle was well-preserved for seventy-two. And her haircut was better than Quinn’s. “Seventy-two,” she said.

  “Seventy-two,” Grindle. “Seventy-two.” The older woman sighed and dropped her hands from Quinn’s shoulders. “Come back Saturday. Meet me here at ten. That’s when the SPCA opens. We’re going to go in and get you every cat in the place. Crazy Cat Lady Quinn. You might as well live up to the nickname.” She went over and opened the bag from Fang’s. “What’d you get me? Mongolian beef?”

  Henaghan went around Annabelle into the kitchen. She had to stand on tiptoe to get down two plates and two glasses. “Mmhmm. There’s a book there next to the take-out.”

  “What is it?”

  “Why don’t you open it?”

  “After I eat. Once I smell Mongolian beef my salivary glands turn into Niagara Falls.”

  “It’s a wonder you never married.”

  “It’s not though. I’ve been a cranky old bitch since birth. We need forks.”

  Quinn grinned. “I got you chopsticks.”

  “Fuck you. Give me a fork.”

  Henaghan pivoted and got Grindle a fork. Sitting, she took chopsticks for herself. Taking them out of their paper wrapper, she brushed them together for a moment as though she was sharpening a knife. She didn’t know why you were supposed to do that, you just were.

  Annabelle plopped her rice on her plate, followed by her Mongolian beef. Both held the shape of the rectangular container they came in.

  Quinn watched the older woman shovel in her first couple of bites. “Better?” she said.

  Grindle nodded with her eyes closed. “Better,” she said.

  “Open the book.”

  Still chewing, Annabelle peeled off Taft’s signature brown butcher’s paper to reveal the copy of The Devil’s Garden underneath. The book had a maroon cover with a black and white photo of an old school Hollywood premier. Embossed onto the photo was a pentagram, a five-pointed star. “Mmm,” Grindle said, chewing. “Thanks.”

  “I get to read it first,” Quinn said.

  “Knock yourself out.”

  Henaghan sighed. “You don’t seem that pleased. That book’s out of print. Took us a while to track it.”

  “No, I appreciate it,” Annabelle said, not sounding particularly appreciative.

  “I can’t believe you don’t already have a copy.”

  Grindle shrugged. “What do I care what a forty-something me had to say? I guess I’m not particularly nostalgic.”

  “Well, I’m interested,” Quinn said. She reached over and slid “Devil’s Garden” to her side of the table.

  “Of course you’re interested. You’re nostalgia incarnate. There isn’t an old building in this town you can’t point to and say what celebrity got either murdered or fucked there.”

  The younger woman poked at her sweet and sour chicken. “I like murder-fucks. Murder-fucks are my thing.”

  “Put that on your masthead. Company Town: Murder-fucks Galore.”

  Quinn kept a website of old Hollywood tales. Tales she researched and wrote herself. It had a small but loyal following. Mostly among young feminists. The site had female exploitation as a persistent theme. “Company Town” took up so much time, Henaghan doubted she had space in her life for cats. She sighed. “Should I not have come?”

  Grindle’s eyes softened. “Look, dinner is delicious and I do appreciate the book. It was, empirically, a nice gesture. All I’m saying is this: Maybe come over one night a week instead of five. And don’t spend the other two in front of that damn computer. The here and now is so much more interesting than the musty old past.”

  Quinn laughed. “You don’t even believe that.”

  “No, I don’t, but it sounded good in my head.”

  Henaghan was quiet for a moment. “You never went out,” she said. “You never got a life.”

  Annabelle jabbed the air with her fork. A triumphant moment. “Exactly! Look at me: I’m mean as fuck and twice as bitter. That wasn’t what I wanted, it’s just what happened. And who’s to blame? Three people: me, myself and I. Do yourself a favor… Don’t use me as a role model. By all that’s holy.”

  Quinn deflated. “What if I wanna be old and cranky?”

  Grindle shrugged. “That’s up to you. Just do it on your own time. There’s already enough old and cranky in this apartment to power a small city.”

  Quinn’s apartment was nicer than most people her age could afford. Thank you for dying, granddaddy. Old Southern royalty paying it forward. Though she lived comfortably, Quinn felt no allegiance to Dixieland. All her life, she’d had one goal: to turn eighteen and get the hell out of Dodge. She bore no accent, and she’d broken all ties with her family. She was Phoenix Quinn, risen from the ashes of an unloved childhood. But Henaghan had a practical side. She used her grandad’s money for rent only. Everything else came from her meager salary.

  Though she could afford fine furnishings, they weren’t in her plan. She had a couch, a television, a refrigerator, and a bed. By the window, was a simple desk, and on it was an iMac. The computers were her one extravagance. No machine lasted longer than a year. The latest and greatest model was always necessary. She didn't care that the work she did wasn’t processor-intensive, there was just nothing better than that new iMac smell.

  Sitting on the couch, folding her legs beneath her, she cracked open The Devil’s Garden by Annabelle Grindle. Quinn looked forward to the book now more than ever thanks to Darren Taft’s quasi-endorsement (a rare thing for the heavy-set crank). If “Devil’s Garden” had been sensationalistic clap-trap it wouldn’t have been a problem. Henaghan wasn’t a stickler and neither was her audience. A little clap-trap was okay, but, deep down, Quinn had a historian’s soul. Her work could be glitzy, but she didn’t want to spread outright falsehoods. Thanks to clap-trapper extraordinaire Kenneth Anger, people thought Jayne Mansfield lost her head in her famous auto accident. She did not. Only her scalp and her wig came off—a small but salie
nt detail. Though Henaghan wanted to entertain, she didn’t want to be another Anger.

  Quinn did what she always did when she got new books. She looked at the page edges to see if there was a glossy section in the middle—a section suggesting photographic riches. The Devil’s Garden, had such a section. With an expertly-placed fingernail, the girl flipped right to the pictures.

  Reading the captions would come later. The initial experience was always about drinking in the people, the places and the time. First was James Mason, one of Quinn’s all-time favorites. The actor looked dignified though inebriated. Not surprising, given his history. The next page was a group of people on a cavernous soundstage. Pics like this one sparked Henaghan’s favorite game—identifying as many of the faces as she could without looking at the legend. Charles Boyer, Michael Curtiz, Greg Toland, and Herman Mankiewicz, the writer of Citizen Kane. The guys were all tuxedoed and holding drinks. Since they’d never made a movie together, Quinn figured it was either a staged shot or from a social occasion. Behind Mankiewicz was a shorter, thinner man, not quite tall enough to peer over the writer’s shoulder. His face was unclear and small so Quinn did what any noir heroine would do: she went to the kitchen and got a clear drinking glass. She placed the glass over the photo to magnify the stranger. She still couldn’t place him. Henaghan was a big believer in letting her subconscious percolate over a problem so she moved the glass and turned the page.

  Before she could take in the next photo, her iMac dinged and the screen came to life. In the middle of the display was a dialogue box. An Apple Message. Owing to light astigmatism, Henaghan couldn’t see that far, so she stood and went to the computer. Sitting down, she squinted at the alert. It was from David Olkin, an agent at American Consolidated Talent. Quinn’s boss.

  The Message read, “Have you heard of The Guild?”

  Quinn scratched her nose. “Which one? Actor’s, Writer’s or Director’s?”

  Olkin’s response was immediate. “Not those guilds. The Guild. Weird old social club in Hollywood. Thought it might be good fodder for your site.”