Melanie tucked the phone under her chin and went into the kitchen to get a beer. If Jason thought his bluster would get her down, he really didn’t know her. But she played the part. “No need to be mean. We did have some good times. We can keep doing that. I know what you like.”
“I won’t say this again. Leave me alone, and stay the hell away from the show. If you don’t drop this right now, I’m going to talk to Scott.”
Like he was on a first name basis with Scott James already. “And tell him what, exactly?”
“The truth. That you’re a lying, conniving bitch, and he shouldn’t touch you with a ten foot pole.”
That was harsh, what the hell had she ever done to Jason? Show a guy a good time and this was the thanks she got? Like he didn’t get anything out of their relationship, like he wouldn’t have tried to glom onto her coattails if she had landed a big role? “I’m helping you out here. I could just as easily have gone up and kissed Michael Stevens at that press conference, he would have rolled with it.”
“Stevens spits out women like you every day. You think you can con him, con Scott James? You’re nothing but a small town hustler.”
Melanie, hardening. “And so were you, just a few months ago. I’m just doing what I need to do, what everyone does.”
“It’s all about you, Melanie, I’ve always known that. You think I bailed on you just because of the show? I knew you’d try to use me, and I was right. Using your body to get a screen test? I get that, okay. But you—you’d run over your own grandmother for a casting call. You’re not only selfish, you’ve got a mean streak.”
God, he was cliché. “Jason, just let it go. Anything you say to anyone, Scott James, the press, will just dig you in deeper. Just play dumb, you’re good at that. You won’t have to act at all.”
“Fuck you, Melanie. And I’m warning you, stay away. I’m going to talk to Scott when I get back to LA and tell him all about you. He’ll make sure you never get a decent role anywhere.”
The line went dead. Melanie stared at the phone. She knew Jason would have to be managed, but she hadn’t expected this. That was the most emotion she’d ever seen out of him, even when acting. She needed to get a handle on Jason, or he could screw things up big time.
Jason had spoiled her good vibe. She pulled on a pair of tights, no longer in the mood for pink, wanting to cover up, a little defense in order.
She finished the beer, toyed with the bottle, and was about to throw it in the trash. Remembered the recycle bin on the sidewalk when she had peeked outside. She rinsed the bottle out and set it on the counter. She’d recycle it, just as she would Jason.
Who the fuck was Jason Ayers to call her selfish? There was nothing selfish about recycling.
CHAPTER 8
Lenny poked at the keyboard with his left index finger, his right hand useless, wrapped in gauze and covered with a frozen bag of peas. Sweat beaded on his forehead, courtesy of the lack of air conditioning in his attic apartment. But he didn’t want to sit downstairs and deal with the questions his mother would no doubt have about his injured hand.
Lenny playing detective, trying to discover Melanie’s home address, which was turning out to be harder than he expected. Around Hollywood, you could buy celebrity address lists for fifty bucks. He’d yet to find such a list on the east coast, and Melanie was no celebrity, shit, she’d want to be found by agents, producers, anybody. She should be wearing a neon sign with her contact information. But so far, nothing.
All afternoon Lenny’s mind replayed the scene from the Hilton. Each time he rewrote the memory, changing his style, his attitude, his approach, what he said to Melanie, what she said. In some of his edits he jumps over the bar, pounding the snarky bartender, impressing Melanie. In others she just agrees that she owed him, taking him by the hand, telling him she’d get them a room.
If he could only get her in bed. Melanie wouldn’t have to do her posturing in front of an audience, she could drop her act, just be herself. Underneath all that bluster Lenny was certain she wanted to be tamed.
Sure, she’d be feisty, that was the whole vibe she gave off. She probably liked it a little rough, he could go for that.
And she owed him big time. He’d find a way to collect, either on the photo or from her. Preferably both.
He pulled up Melanie’s entry on the IMDB database again. Nothing about a role on Shock and Awe, although even if it were true, which Lenny doubted, it wouldn’t be listed yet. No direct contact information, but a number for an agent. Lenny smiled when he read the listing, a Hollywood telephone exchange, a number he recognized as a front for a service that struggling actresses used to look professional. He clumsily thumbed in the number.
“Hello. You have reached Starlight Representatives.” A recorded greeting. “All of our representatives are helping other clients at this time . . .” A list of options, except the one any caller would want, the chance to talk to a real person. A click, followed by music that must have been lifted from a porn movie, or maybe was a porn soundtrack, a private Starlight Representatives joke on any caller who didn’t have a direct number to a human being.
Lenny pictured some aspiring actress at the switchboard, leaning back in her chair, doing her nails, chatting with her BFF on another line. “Answer the phone, bitch,” he mumbled.
After an eternity of fifteen minutes a ringing cut into the music. “Thank you for calling Starlight Representatives. This is Max, how can I help you?”
A guy. Just his luck, Lenny hated talking to guys, he couldn’t use his smooth spiel on them. He pushed on, he’d bowl Max over. “This is Lenny Gruse”—saying it like the guy should obviously recognize his name—“and I have a photo shoot with Melanie Upton I need to reschedule. My assistant took my cell to get a new battery. I need Melanie’s number.”
“I’m very sorry, sir, but it’s against company policy to give out our clients’ phone numbers.”
“Dude, I know it’s against company policy, I’ve dealt with companies like yours for years. I’m doing a favor for your client even taking this shoot.”
“Sir, there is nothing I can do for you.” Like he was reading a script.
“Look, she knows me. Her number is on my cell phone. It wouldn’t be there if I wasn’t in the business, right? I need to reach her.” Lenny tried to keep a firm grip on the tone and volume of his voice.
There was a long moment of silence, Lenny thought the guy hung up on him.
“Hello,” Lenny said.
“Mr. Grouse—.”
“It’s Gruse!”
“Well, Mr. Gruse, I’ve explained, there is nothing I can do for you. I cannot give out any personal information on any client, for any reason. If I do, I get canned. You’ll have to find another way to solve your problem.”
This time, the guy hung up.
“Fuck!” Lenny shouted. He fumbled for the redial button, getting the recording again.
Why did everything have to be so fucking hard for him?
Lenny didn’t start the car until Melanie was well down the street. He’d been waiting for an hour, his hand throbbing. In his rush to get here he’d forgotten to bring anything to eat or drink, and he had to piss.
Earlier he’d walked by the restaurant three times trying to spot Melanie through the window, finally catching a glimpse of her from behind. But he’d know that backside anywhere.
He rolled along slowly, feeling a little better now that he had Melanie in his sights. Lenny had a lot of experience stalking, it’s how he got most of his celebrity photos. He could even shoot one handed out the window, a skill he was particularly proud of. He snapped a few shots of Melanie as she walked.
Melanie popped into a Starbucks, Lenny letting the Caddy idle at the curb. The Starbucks made him think of coffee and cakes and a bathroom. Melanie was out sooner than he expected, sipping a grande, heading back toward the restaurant. If she was going back to work he’d have time to take a leak.
Melanie turned into the parking lot, looking
fine, her ass swaying seductively. Maybe she knew he was watching? Women like Melanie could turn that walk on and off like a switch.
Her blue Toyota pulled out into the street. Lenny let two cars go by before pulling out to follow.
Lenny was at it again the very next night, this time across the street from the Lakeview Apartments. This was the second night in a row he’d been here after following Melanie from the restaurant. Hers was a garden apartment with yellow daisies in a box under the front windows, filled with cheery suncatchers. Not what Lenny had thought would be Melanie’s style, but women never ceased to amaze him.
The neighborhood was unfamiliar to Lenny, so during the day he had driven around, getting his bearings. The apartment building looked new, a lot of young professionals, a bustle of activity in the morning, the place particularly deserted during the day, no kids around anywhere. The building, odd shaped, a curved U ending in a hard L, like a question mark, an architect who wasn’t sure about his own horseshoe fetish. The curve opened into a pool, not much privacy, but the rear of the L side faced a quiet alley lined with bushes and trees. After Melanie had left for work Lenny had taken a stroll, like he lived there, out for a walk. The garden apartments had back doors that opened onto the alley. Each unit with a small fenced in garden, the fence a joke, more for show. Melanie’s was the corner unit, easy to find even from the back.
He’d planned better today, plenty of snacks, a few Monsters, even a piss bottle. But at midnight he was getting antsy, Melanie not coming home right after her shift, maybe at the club. The street was quiet; not a late neighborhood, lights off in most of the front windows, everyone in bed. Melanie in bed, now there was a thought to keep him occupied.
At half past, Lenny couldn’t take it any longer, he got out of the car and headed toward the back alley. From his earlier scouting he knew the bedrooms faced this way. A few lights in the windows, squares of life behind the shades. Farther down the building, about five units away, one window was open, a casement that swung outward, drapes hanging over the sill.
Melanie’s apartment was totally dark. Lenny hadn’t seen her come home, she was probably off working on her publicity idea. His publicity idea. The one she’d stolen from him.
Lenny glanced around, saw no one, and slipped through the gate. Manicured boxwoods lined the back wall. He stood quietly in the small garden, breathing, making himself part of the apartment, his nostrils flaring to catch a hint of Melanie’s essence.
Too floral, the garden full of flowers, a girly scent. Lenny having trouble getting a feel for Melanie, this was so unlike what he expected. Need to get a little closer . . .
Once amidst the boxwoods he was virtually invisible from the other apartments to the right or from the street to the left that led into the complex. Someone walking along the back alley might see him, but Lenny was sure he’d hear anyone approaching, it was that quiet.
A double window to the left of the door, no drapes, a small glow of what was probably a nightlight, more suncatchers. The kitchen, the raised windows over the sink. Beyond that, the living room. Two windows on the right side of the door, dark.
He stepped onto a stone path that led into the garden, reaching out. He stood there silently, his palm against the wall, feeling for vibrations, of movement, of Melanie. Warm. Lenny smiled in the dark, that was more like it.
He moved on to the bedroom window, took one more look at the street, and peered in through a small crack in the drapes.
The bedroom door was partially open, a dim light in the hall, maybe another nightlight. A bureau, overwhelmed by a huge flat screen television sitting on top, Lenny thinking that’s where Melanie watched porn with her boyfriends. Across the room, the bed, with what looked to be a wrought iron headboard. Hard to see anything else.
Lenny couldn’t take his eyes off the bed, especially the headboard. Melanie, hard as nails on the outside, probably all an act, he bet she had another side, he’d heard that tough women had a hidden desire to be dominated. Maybe she’d bought that headboard so she could be tied down, made to do a strong man’s bidding.
He’d been fantasizing about what he’d do if he got her alone, what he’d say, how he could convince her he was the man she needed to be with. Take a more direct approach, just like he used when following her to find out where she lived. He was done talking. When he did get to her, he’d just push her against the wall and kiss her, take the initiative, like she had done with Jason Ayers at the press conference. She’d see the appeal in that, feel his power.
The headboard pulled at him, tantalizing, spurring his fantasy. If he got her in the bedroom, he could even skip the kissing, just throw her on the bed. Do it in the dark, or wear a mask, let her get worked up, she’d love it. Then he would reveal himself, and she’d be shocked, it would turn her around, she’d look at him in an entirely new light. A man of power, a man she needed, not only for her career, but for her heart.
He ran back to the car, not caring who might be watching. Time to make a plan. Time to act.
Two days later, Lenny was ready.
As he drove he fingered the shopping bag on the seat. He’d discovered that the local discount store was a goldmine for hiding his identity; a ski mask—on the shelves in the middle of summer!—dark glasses, a flashlight with a red lens, a small pocketknife. In the camping section he’d found a camera that took photos at night. He hoped he could find a way to set it up outside Melanie’s bedroom window, or even get it inside.
Best of all was the flat plastic package, women’s pantyhose. He’d been a little self conscious picking them out at the store, at the register mentioning to the bored cashier they were for his girlfriend. His fingers fondled into the package, the slick material sensuous. He’d seen guys in movies robbing banks with stockings over their heads. He was looking forward to trying that out, hoping he’d be able to see well enough to watch Melanie’s reaction.
One cruise past the restaurant, that was all he’d risk. Lenny slipped on the new sunglasses and his baseball cap. The street was busy with late day traffic, so he had to concentrate on his driving and couldn’t get a good look in the window of The Café.
Too soon to go back to Melanie’s apartment even if she wasn’t working. Lenny headed the other way, across the literal and proverbial railroad tracks, looking for a place to hang. The neighborhood changed character quickly, the streets narrower, shabby, mostly industrial buildings. A few more blocks, shifting again, old style houses, different colors and angles but all the same feel, kids in the streets, teenagers on stoops, laundry hanging over window ledges.
Bars, lots of bars, men on the corners, smoking, throwing dice. Mostly white, some Hispanics, separated by just a few steps of sidewalk but enough to demark a different world. Curses, yelling, even some singing.
Some eyes on the Caddy, dull interest, the car old enough it wasn’t tempting.
A bar would be a good place to wait, but not these bars. Lenny didn’t fit in here. He didn’t fit in on Main Street either, but even less so here.
Back he drove, leaving town in the other direction, fewer but nicer bars, mostly Irish themed. He picked one out at random and pulled into the small lot.
Lenny’s fingers slid over the stockings one last time, a caress of Melanie’s legs, before hiding the bag under the seat.
On the way in he counted his money, thirty two bucks, twenty of which he had bummed from his mother for gas. The rest was what was left of his monthly hundred dollar allotment he got from his mother’s disability check, a flow that would dry up if she couldn’t find a local doctor who would continue to support her contention that she had carpel tunnel from a prior job as an Entertainment Promotion Specialist, a gloried title for pushing time share scams by phone. Lenny didn’t want to think of how she had convinced the doctor she was still injured four years after she had quit the job.
A sign said “Tables for dinner patrons only,” and though Lenny was hungry he couldn’t splurge on a sit down meal, even in a place like this. The pla
ce was surprisingly busy, the after work crowd. He forced himself into a spot at the far end of the bar, drawing curious looks from the regulars.
A freckled barmaid, more girl than woman, finally ambled over, chatting with some guy she passed, barely looking at Lenny as he ordered a Bud on tap. She wasn’t his type, too skinny, pasty skin, but she could have at least smiled. If she didn’t do better on the next round he’d stiff her on the tip.
Lots of laugher around the room, people without a care. The tables filled with couples, married, on dates. Lenny a wistful voyeur; why couldn’t he be that lucky, eating a nice meal with a girlfriend like Melanie, or even his wife Melanie. He’d recount his day to her, a big photo scoop, she’d listen attentively, nodding knowingly, still so thankful that Lenny had given her her first break.
Instead, here he sat, nursing a too foamy draft, his life going nowhere, Melanie’s on the upswing, even without him. What did a guy have to do to get a little credit, get his due?
If Melanie could use him, it was only fair if he got to use her a little. She owed him. It would be reasonable for him to latch on as her stock rose. She’d see that—she’d offer it—as soon as she got to know him better. They would be a team.
Melanie had formed the wrong opinion of him, she’d have to be shocked, shaken up, have a new world of Lenny opened up to her. What would shake a woman up? Fear, passion. That’s why he had bought the ski mast and nylons, he’d scare her a little, then play to her needs for a strong man.
All well and good, but in the light of day, or even in the light of fake Tiffany lamps, the thought of getting into Melanie’s apartment with his disguise didn’t sound so plausible. The front of the apartment was too well lit, even at night, and the front room had a window, she’d see him standing on the stoop. Who’d let in a guy with a mask?
Random Revenge Page 9
