by Diane Capri
“I’m not gay!” I shouted.
She flicked a hurt glance my way, “Hell, you don’t have to bite my head off. What, do you have a problem with gay people?”
“No! I just—” Big sigh. “Can you tell me what you meant about your cat?”
“Fine, but pick a dude first. I’m going Clooney cause I think Angelina could kick my ass and who needs that. Then, like all twenty-five bazillion of their fucking kids would jump me, and, well, you get my drift…” She tossed up her hands.
This was getting surreal. “Right. I actually think Matt Damon is good-looking.”
She stopped staring at the screen to narrow her eyes at me. “You’re a strange chick.”
“Um, can you please explain the situation with your cat, because I’m not sure I heard you correctly.”
Simone rolled her eyes. “It’s not complicated. No wonder you’re a makeup chick.” She shook her head.
At that moment, I had a very clear vision of my fist punching into her cosmetically enhanced nose. I even briefly thought of quitting, but then the reality of what I now had and where I’d come from hit, and I shut my mouth.
“The cat. His name is McConaughey. Get it, after Matthew, who I had a little fun with one night, but then he had to shack up in his trailer and have babies with that Brazilian chick … Anyway, I’m totally allergic to McConaughey, and he has to get the fuck out of here.” She wiggled her fingers.
“And you want me to take him?”
She pointed at me and winked. “Bingo. You’re catching on.”
“What do you want me to do with him?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Take him to a shelter or something.”
I sighed and shook my head. “Okay, where is he? I really do need to get home. If I have to be back here by seven, I should get some rest and so should you.”
“Look at you, Mommy. Stay the night here. I have more than enough room. Obviously.”
“No. I can’t. I can’t leave Cass in the van and I, uh, I always water the lawn at night to be, you know, environmentally conservative.” I so did not want to be stuck overnight at Simone’s place.
She gave me an odd look. “Whatever. Just hope I don’t fucking kick the bucket tonight.”
I shook my head. “I think you’re okay. Drink lots of water and go to bed,” I said, and then muttered under my breath, “and maybe you should wash your mouth out while you’re at it.”
“Oh sure, then I’ll be pissing all night long. Wouldn’t that be great? Hmmm. The cat. He’s around here somewhere. He’s an orange tabby with a weight problem.”
“Would you, by chance, have a cat carrier?” I asked.
“Where the fuck do you think you are? Petsmart?”
“I’ll figure it out,” I said.
“See you in the a.m.” She turned back to her movie and left me to make my escape.
I found McConaughey on the kitchen counter eating what looked to be the remnants of that evening’s dinner—some kind of fish. Lucky cat. And Simone had not been kidding about the weight problem. He must have weighed at least twenty-five pounds. His name should have been Garfield. I eyed the plate of leftovers McConaughey was currently chowing down on … it was pretty clear how he got so fat. Simone’s cleaning service went home daily and she had drop-off delivery for her meals, which meant the leftovers sat out for the following morning’s cleaning service to clean. If there were any left.
I sighed. “Okay, kitty. Looks like it’s you and me and my dog.” The cat eyed me suspiciously as he continued to lick the plate clean. “And I’m sorry, buddy, but as of this moment, you are on a diet.” I already knew there was no way I could take the cat to a shelter. I was banking on Cass being cool with her new feline friend, considering my mother had two cats back home.
What I didn’t expect was that Mac (I had to shorten the name. There was no way I could visualize Matthew McConaughey when I called the fat cat) might have an issue with Cass.
The car drive home was interesting. Mac hissed and howled at Cass, who sat in the front seat, her chastising eyes boring into the side of my head.
I decided it best to drop Mac at the house and lock him in the laundry room while Cass and I went to the store to pick up necessary cat items—a litter box, for starters, and some diet food.
Finally, past our bedtimes, Cass and I walked through the front door of the mansion. She froze. Her ears pricked forward and the scruff of her neck stood on end.
“What is it, girl?” I whispered, noting a strange feeling in the room. I’d had that feeling before, but this time, it was front and center. The air felt dense, heavy. Really heavy. Almost like water. And again—that damn pot smell in the air! I took another step further inside and Cass let out a low growl. My fingers grew cold and a shiver went straight down my back. Suddenly, I felt a breeze pass through me, not over me, but through me. I shivered again. And then Cass dropped her guard and began sniffing me, the surrounding foyer, and family room beyond.
My sister’s face suddenly surfaced in my mind. And then an eerie howl echoed up from the basement, startling me into action.
“Mac!” I ran down the back stairs with Cass in tow, to find one freaked out feline wedged behind the washing machine.
Getting an overweight cat from behind a stackable washer and dryer is no easy feat. How he got behind there in the first place, I have no clue, but after shoving, pushing, and inching the machinery forward for several minutes—and nearly slipping a disc in the process—Mac shimmied out and shot off through the laundry room and up the stairs. Cass and I ran after him, but he’d hidden himself in the depths of the house, and at that point, I was too exhausted to send out a search party for my overweight friend. He couldn’t get out as far as I knew. I set out food, water, and a litter box and prayed he’d find them in case he had to do his thing. Then I headed to my room and to bed.
I thought sleep would come quickly. At least I’d hoped it would. But it didn’t. Between thoughts of my sister, Simone, Mac, and the constant faint scent of marijuana floating through the halls, it was hard to fall asleep. But eventually I drifted off … or at least I assumed I had, because ever so slowly, the marijuana smell grew stronger, combining itself with the soft, familiar melody of Bob Marley’s “Buffalo Soldier.” It was almost as if Bob was right there in the room with me, next to my bed. As far as dreams went, this one was pretty nice. I mean, I never much cared for the smell of pot, and getting high was definitely not my thing. But I did like Bob Marley, and it was all so … peaceful.
Then the dream changed—in a big way. How do I put this? I am not one for sex dreams. I don’t have much sex, so dreaming about it isn’t a regular occurrence in my life. But on those rare occasions when I do, I only have a vague sense that I’ve done it with someone. Usually it’s someone famous like, well, Matt Damon. Sometimes it’s someone ridiculous like the fellow in line at the DMV (scary). Then I wake up and think, Huh. That was interesting. But this … this was like insanely crazy, wild sex. It wasn’t just wild though. It was kinky and dark and I felt violated. In the dream, I could see the man with me. He was blonde, with gold-colored skin and an eerie, blue-black glow surrounding him. He had hazel eyes that seemed oddly dark and, in all honesty, demonic. And they looked right through me. I felt panicky and afraid as my heart raced, pounding hard in my chest. I repeatedly tried to wake myself but I couldn’t make it happen. Finally, Cass woke me with a loud, sharp bark. I flipped on the light to see her fur sticking straight up, her back hunched, and her eyes wild.
“Cass! What is it?!” I focused, trying to see if maybe Mac had come in the room and startled her. But there was no cat in sight. I calmly spoke to her until she settled down, and then I pulled the rumpled sheets and covers back up over me. I must have been really struggling in my sleep. I tucked the covers up around me. As I lay in the darkened room, waiting for sleep to arrive, I began to suspect Cass, Mac, and I were not the only beings at this house in the Hollywood Hills.
CHAPTER EIGHT
AT TEN PAST SEVEN the next morning, I could be found at Starbucks insisting to a barista she did indeed have everything needed to make a pumpkin spice latte in June. She, sadly, didn’t agree. I tried pulling the, “I’m Simone’s assistant, you know, the Simone” line. Her response?
“Right. Whoever you are, I can assure you we don’t serve pumpkin spice lattes in June. How about hazelnut? That should make anyone happy.”
“Oh, fine.” I glanced at my watch, knowing there was going to be hell to pay. I’d overslept, probably the result of that disturbing sex dream combined with Mac waking me when he eventually found his way to my room and crashed on my pillow. Suffice it to say, it hadn’t been the most restful of nights. I’d darted out of bed and then out of the house, leaving Cass and my new feline friend inside to sort things out.
And here I was, running behind schedule and without the requested pumpkin spice latte to sweeten the deal. I grabbed the hazelnut mocha or latte or whatever it was, and kicked the van into high gear—which means not high at all—making it to Simone’s about twenty minutes late.
She greeted me at the door with a bright red nose, red- rimmed eyes, hair in a rat’s nest, and hands on her hips. She wore a short, hot pink-colored silk robe with some kind of lace teddy underneath. Simone stared at me like I’d slapped her. She grabbed the hazelnut drink and took a sip. She spit it out. “What the fuck is this?!”
“I’m sorry, Simone. Look, the girl at the counter insisted she did not have pumpkin spice. I pleaded with her. I told her I was your assistant. I don’t think she believed me.”
She grabbed my arm. “Come on.”
“What?”
“Did I stutter? Come on.”
I followed her outside.
“Are your keys in this piece of shit?” She smacked her hand on the van.
“Yes.”
“Get in.”
Oh no. This was it. I had lost the only real paying job I’d ever had. She was sending me on my way. I had been fired. “I am really sorry. I am.”
“Get. In. The. Van.” She pointed at the driver’s side, her slipper-clad foot tapping impatiently.
“Hey, you can fire me, but that means you don’t get to order me around like this anymore.”
“I’m not firing you, loser. We’re going to Starbucks.”
“I told you, she said—”
“I don’t care what that idiot said,” Simone said. “Now drive me to Starbucks.”
We turned right off of Mullholland. “God, Edie, I can’t believe you drive this tin can.” She wiped her hands down her face tiredly.
“It’s all I can really afford, and it gets me where I need to go. I’m saving my money.”
“Saving your money? Why?”
“Uh, well, that’s what most people do. They budget and save so one day they have nice things and can travel or afford to send their kids to college.”
Simone shook her head. “Whatever. You don’t even have kids.”
We drove the rest of the way in silence until I pulled into the Starbucks parking lot. Simone grabbed the handle and threw the door open.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I am going to get my fucking pumpkin spice latte. You stay here.” With that, she was out the door and marching into Starbucks wearing nothing but her pajamas.
I groaned, certain it wouldn’t be long before the paparazzi showed up or someone whipped out a camera phone. All I knew was somehow this was going to end up my fault.
Less than five minutes later, she strolled out with two coffees in hand. She got into the van just as a crowd started gathering, handed me one of the cups, and said, “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
I turned off of Sunset and floored it, as ordered. Once we’d reached cruising speed, I glanced over at Simone and asked, “What did you say in there?”
“Oh nothing much. Just let them know the next time my assistant comes in and asks for a pumpkin spice latte, they better fucking well give it to you. They gave me two. What do you think?” She motioned to the coffee.
“I think you should stop using the ‘F’ word.”
“No, what do you think about the latte?” She rolled her eyes.
I took a sip. I wasn’t really partial to super sweet coffee, and I really don’t like pumpkin, but I figured now was not the time for honesty. “It’s great.”
She laughed. “You’re a fucking liar!”
“No, I’m not.” Then I started laughing, too. As obnoxious as Simone can be, there are times when she cracks me up.
“So you think I should stop using ‘the F word,’ huh?”
“Yes. It’s just, well, it’s not, um…” How to put this without ticking her off? “It just doesn’t fit your image. You know, you’re a songbird. You’re glamorous. And I don’t think vulgarity is really your style.”
She nodded, pondering. “Hmmm. Okay.”
“Really?”
She took a sip of her latte and swallowed, then looked over at me. “Fuck, no, Edie. The ‘F’ word is the only word I know that suits me to a T. Now take me home and put my makeup on.”
I sighed. An hour and a half later, she looked gorgeous as usual, and she managed to increase the number of F-bombs, if that were even possible. My ears were numb, but the photographer and his crew didn’t seem to notice. They told her how beautiful she was, what a great voice she had, and on and on. It made me nauseous.
As the photographer clicked away, my cell phone rang. It was Nick’s cell number. Oh God. He had to be pretty irritated with me. Here I’d run out on him last night and hadn’t even had the courtesy to call. What if that producer had stopped by? I was such a jerk. I picked up on the second ring.
“Hello? Hello? Nick? I am so sorry about last night.” No response. Boy, he must be more upset than I thought. “Hello? Nick? Look, I am really sorry.”
I paused, and that’s when I heard a faint gurgling sound. What the heck? The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. Something was not right. “Nick? Is that you?”
“Help me.” It was barely a whisper but I heard it loud and clear. I was certain it was Nick. And then the line disconnected.
I didn’t tell Simone I was leaving. I just left. All I kept thinking was Nick was having a heart attack or a stroke. On my way to the bar, I decided to call 9-1-1 just in case. I relayed what had happened and the operator asked me if it was some kind of joke.
“Of course not! Why would I joke with you?”
“You wouldn’t believe the pranks we get, lady. I will send a unit to that address, but if this is a prank, you will find yourself in jail.”
“Look, I know what I heard. Just send help.”
I screeched to a stop in front of the bar. There were no police cars, no ambulances. Nothing. Not yet anyway. The bar wouldn’t open for another hour, but the back door was unlocked … not a good sign. I ran inside, through the kitchen, calling Nick’s name. No response. I scanned the booths. Nothing. I was just beginning to wonder if maybe he had called from home, when I stepped behind the bar. That’s where I finally found him.
Dead, in a pool of blood.
I backed away, nearly stumbling as a scream caught in my throat. I hit something behind me. The scream let loose when I realized it wasn’t something, but someone.
CHAPTER NINE
“HEY, EASY, EASY,” a man’s voice said. He turned me around, touching the bare skin of my arm, and I could just make out his LAPD uniform in the dim light.
I said something to him, but I don’t know what, exactly. I was hysterical and frantic. I caught a quick flash of the officer as a kid with his mother who was passed out on a couch—a bottle of booze next to her. I shut the vision out quickly. My friend was dead and it seemed pretty clear from all the blood on the floor he’d been murdered. Shattered glass was everywhere behind the bar. It looked like a fight had taken place.
“I’m Officer Harris. Wait here.” He sat me down in one of the booths.
My hands would not stop shaking. I
wished I had Cass with me so I could bury my face in her fur.
I watched the officer walk around the bar and then disappear from sight as he knelt down behind it. Then I heard him on his radio, “I have a signal five at Fairfax and La Cienega. 527 La Cienega. Nick’s Bar. Repeat, I have a signal five.”
After Officer Harris called in the incident, he came back and sat with me. “Can you answer some questions, miss?”
“Is he … ?” I couldn’t make myself say the word.
“Yes, ma’am, he is.”
“Oh, my God! I can’t … I don’t understand. How?” I dropped my face into my hands as a fresh wave of tears threatened to overtake me.
Officer Harris nodded sympathetically. “I’m sorry. It appears to be a bullet wound to his chest. I take it he was a friend?”
I nodded. “Yes. My boss, too. I sang here in the evenings.”
“Can you tell me his name?”
“Nick Gordin. He owns … owned … the bar. He, he…” I swallowed thickly, trying hard to keep from sobbing or throwing up. “He was a really good guy. He believed in me.”
“I am sorry. Uh, did you say Nick Gordin?”
I nodded.
“As in the actor?”
I nodded again.
He looked slightly pained. Another fan, I guessed. “Can you tell me what happened?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” My eyes shot up to his face. “I found him like this … I must have arrived only seconds before you.” My hands still hadn’t stopped shaking and I could hear the quiver in my voice.
“I understand. But can you tell me how you found him? You said you play music here in the evenings, but it’s not quite ten o’clock in the morning. What were you doing here?”
I told him about the phone call from Nick.
“You were at work when you got the call?”
