by Lou Harper
Indeed, the envelope only had two words—Sandy Baker—scrawled on in thick, black lines. “The motherfucker dropped it off in person. Have you seen anyone lurking around when you arrived?”
“No, but I wasn’t looking for anyone lurking. If only we knew what was in the other envelope…”
Rich was already marching back into the house. He headed straight to his sister’s bedroom but found no manila envelope there. Next he checked every nook and cranny of the house—it took him five minutes tops, considering the lack of furniture. Naturally, he looked both under the lone couch and its cushions. Nothing. Standing in the middle of the living room, he racked his brain to recall if he’d seen the damn thing the day before and where. But instead, he remembered something else. “There was a trash bag here yesterday. Big, black.” He pointed at the floor.
“It’s trash day today—I saw the bin at the curb. Sandy must’ve taken it out.”
Rich sprinted out, hoping he wasn’t late. The blue plastic bin on wheels stood at the edge of the road, as Olly had said, and when Rich lifted the lid, he found the Hefty bag still inside. He didn’t have to dig far to find the manila envelope. From it he pulled a DVD in a cheap plastic case and a printed sheet. The latter contained threats of making the contents of the DVD public, unless Sandy deposited five thousand dollars into a specific public trashcan next to a playground at a place called Griffith Park. Garbage seemed to be the theme of the day.
After marching back to the house, Rich dug his laptop from the bottom of his suitcase. The battery was dead, so he found the charger and plugged the laptop in.
Olly hovered at the threshold of the room. “You think you should be doing this?”
“Some asshole is blackmailing my little sister. You bet your sweet ass I should be doing this.” Rich had a moment of fretfulness over his use of that particular expression, but he swatted it away. “Stop looming. Either come inside or go away.”
Olly swayed, then came in and seated himself on the carpet next to Rich. The MacBook sat on the only piece of furniture in the room, the mattress. The sheet and blanket lay in a messy heap to one side.
Once the laptop had enough power, Rich slipped in the DVD. It contained a single movie file. Rich double-clicked, and the clip began to play. Two girls were kissing and pawing at each other. Naked in a hot tub. One of them was Sandy, came the sickening realization. There was moaning and breasts, and it took all of Rich’s willpower not to look away. The clip was mercifully short. At the sound of a loud crash, the camera whipped around, showing the crew. One guy lay on the ground gulping like a fish out of water, and another stood by, staring. The picture went blank.
“Shit.” Rich dug his tense fingers into his hair.
“It’s not so bad,” Olly started to say, but clamped his mouth shut seeing Rich’s expression.
Rich was thinking hard. So his sister was in a porn movie. Such a cliché, but lots of struggling actresses must’ve gone down this road. She’d dug herself out of it and gotten a role in a popular TV show. So, it was not the end of the world, right? But wait, with the movie role she was after, would this thing ruin her chances? Rich wouldn’t let it. He cast around for the photos. Found them. “You know where Griffith Park is?” he asked Olly.
“I do, but—”
“Can you find this place?” He held up the picture of the supposed drop-off spot.
“Sure, but—”
“We need to take your car.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t have one.”
Rich hadn’t known Olly drove one of those tiny toy things—a smart car—but he should’ve guessed. He felt like a Ken doll in the passenger seat. At least it was a sensible dark blue color. They had a remote chance of remaining unnoticed during their stakeout. Sandy drove a red Fiat—another toy car—with ridiculous racing stripes. She’d be easy to see coming.
“I still think you should first talk to Sandy about this blackmail stuff,” Olly said, pulling into the parking lot across form the playground.
Rich shook his head, steadfast in his conviction. “If she wanted to talk about it, she would’ve. She must be ashamed. Sometimes a person digs himself…or herself into a hole, and the more times go by, the harder it is to ask for help. After a while, it becomes impossible to tell anyone.” Rich was more or less certain he wasn’t talking about himself. “The best we can do for her is to clean up the mess without her knowing anything about it.”
“Uh-huh. Do you have an actual plan?” Olly asked as he turned the ignition off.
“I do. We stay here till Sandy comes and drops the money off. She’ll probably do it after her screen test. She’ll leave; we stay and wait for the asshole to collect.”
“Then what?”
Rich wasn’t exactly sure. “I wring his neck?”
Olly rolled his eyes—they were definitely gray. “I’m sorry, as much as I agree with the sentiment, accessory to homicide would look bad on my résumé.” The kid couldn’t stay serious to save his life. His good mood was like a stick to Rich’s hornet’s nest of gloom.
“You’re a smart-ass, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I have a smart ass, if that’s what you mean,” Olly said, lips curling.
“I didn’t. And stop the fruity stuff,” Rich grumbled.
Olly’s eyes flashed, and now they seemed more green. “Kiss my smart ass. This is my car. I’ll be as fruity as I wanna be.”
“How about doing it in quiet?” Rich suggested in a more or less conciliatory tone.
“Mmph.” Olly tilted his seat back and started to play with his necklace—some bone or animal tooth on a chain. Fruity. But at least he was quiet for now. Rich doubted the peace would last.
It was warm and sunny, but the open windows and a strong breeze kept them from sweltering outright inside the car. Rich leaned his seat back too and stared out the window. From their spot, they had a line of sight on the trashcan in question. Rich swept his gaze over the playground and its surroundings, trying to figure out who the pickup man was, but there were too many possibilities. It was Saturday, and the place was packed. Kids hung from the monkey bars like ripe fruit. Amorous couples and entire families picnicked at the benches and on blankets thrown on the grass. The blackmailer could’ve been anybody—the Latino man with two boys, blonde mom pushing a stroller, the guy sleeping on the grass with a baseball hat covering his face. And, of course, there were kids—swinging, climbing, running around and generally being noisy nuisances.
“What are you thinking?” Olly asked.
“Look at them running around with not a care in the world. Poor little fuckers, they have no idea what’s coming.”
“And what is coming, Rich?”
Rich rolled his head to face Olly. “Tell me, Olly, do you believe in some sort of divine power or fate? Do you think the shitty stuff that happens, twists your life around, has a purpose? Or is it all random and meaningless shit, and we’re simply helpless passengers in a cosmic pile-up?”
Olly bit his lip—seemed to do it when thinking hard; it was most disconcerting. “I haven’t really thought about it, to be honest, but back when I lived at home, we had a neighbor, Jez. A laid-back dude, and oh my God, so sexy—blond, easy smile and a surfer’s body.” His eyes seemed to mist up at the memory.
Rich didn’t really want to know. “You’re going somewhere with this?”
“Yup. Jez told me once, whether you catch the wave or the wave catches you, you have to ride it.”
“Ride the wave?”
Olly nodded. “Yeah, or be the asshole sitting on his board.”
“Did this Jez smoke a lot of weed?”
“Not as much as my parents.”
“You’re nuts, kid.”
“I’m not a kid. I’m twenty-two, I have a job, have my own place, have a car.” Olly didn’t say it was more than Rich could say about himself.
“Hm. Where do you work?” Rich asked, mostly to be polite.
“At FTP.”
“Is it s
ome Internet thing?”
“No. I forget you’re not from around here. It’s a local small grocery store chain. Gourmet meets organic, but not as snooty as it sounds. Most of our produce is local, and the atmosphere is totes relaxed. You can wear Hawaiian shirts to work. Not that I would, but my boss, Roger, he has a whole collection of them—a different one for every day of the month. He gets new ones from his family every birthday and Christmas. He loves the hideous things.”
“You like working there, then?”
Olly considered the question for a moment, then nodded. “I do. I don’t necessarily see myself spending my whole life there, but the pay and benefits are good. Plus, I get to meet a lot of interesting people, especially in the Hollywood store.”
“So you, what, work behind the deli counter or something?”
“It’s not like that. We do a bit of everything—stocking, counter, register, whatnot. It keeps your day from getting stale.”
“What would you do if you could be anything?”
“I dunno, haven’t figured it out yet. Being a celebrity stylist would be fun, but I probably should study fashion or something first. I’ve been saving money for school eventually, but at this pace, I’ll be fifty before I have enough. I took a few acting classes, just for the heck of it. They were all right, but acting is not for me.”
“Why not?”
“My God, are you kidding me? It’s the toughest fucking job—the competition, the rejections. Shit, I couldn’t deal with it. I’m not half as tough as Sandy.”
“Yeah, she is tough, isn’t she?”
“As nails,” Olly agreed, and they sank into another stretch of comfortable silence. It ended with the ringing of Olly’s phone. “Hey, Hunter,” he warbled into the phone. “Uh-huh… He’s fine, slept it off. Thanks for asking. … Yeah, me too. Okay, see you in the store? Sure. Bye.”
“The guy from the other night?” Rich asked. He disliked this Hunter without even having met the guy.
Olly beamed. “Wanted to know if Dylan was all right. Nice of him, isn’t it?”
Rich kept his opinion to himself. “Sure. I’m gonna call Sandy, try to find out how much longer she’ll be. We’ve been here for well over an hour.”
“Hey, Chard, where did you run off to?” she asked before he could even say hello.
Rich evaded. “Nowhere. Sightseeing with Olly.”
“Oh. Sorry. Did I interrupt something?” she cooed.
“No!” Good God, what was she thinking? “He’s just showing me around. You told me I needed to make new friends.”
“I’m just surprised you listened to me. It’s a first.” Her words were playful but not without an edge.
Some other time, Rich would’ve argued, but it wasn’t in him now. “I listen all the time. I just don’t obey. How was the screen test?”
“Good! Very good. I think.” She sounded anxious.
“It’ll work out. You’ll see. Where are you?”
“At home. Where would I be?”
“I dunno, wherever you Hollywood big shots go.”
“Ha-ha. This big shot is spending the rest of the day waiting for the kitchen-cabinet delivery. Are you coming home any time soon, or should I leave the porch light on?”
“Nah, I’ll be back before dark.” Rich’s plan to catch the blackmailer had gone bust, but the whole day didn’t have to go to waste. Something Olly said had given him an idea.
“Good, because I think the porch light needs a new bulb, and I don’t know if I have one or where,” she replied.
Rich hung up and tucked his phone back into his pocket. “She’s not coming.”
The news seemed to please Olly. “So she won’t pay the guy? Good for her!”
“I hope it won’t fuck up her career. Maybe I should stake out the mailbox tomorrow at dawn, in case the asshole leaves another envelope.”
“Okay.” Olly started up the engine. “I need to go to work, but I can drop you off first.”
“Nah. Take me to Hollywood. I feel like sightseeing.” Rich wasn’t about to share his ulterior motive.
“Are you sure? Public transportation isn’t so great around here.”
“I’m a big boy.”
“That’s what he said!” Olly tittered and rolled out of the parking lot, paying no heed to Rich’s burning cheeks.
Before being dropped off on Hollywood Boulevard, Rich made Olly swear not to breathe a word about their adventure to anyone, including Sandy.
Chapter Five
Olly had a short shift that afternoon, but a full nine-to-six the next day. It was also Sunday, the busiest day of the week. Between restocking dairy, register, and collecting shopping carts in the parking lot, he had no time to think of anything not grocery related for hours. His first chance came at lunch break. He and Jem sat together at the Formica table in the break room, Olly eating a yummy salad and Jem one of those carb-loaded sandwiches.
“I thought you hated him,” Jem said, popping a cherry tomato into his mouth.
Olly stopped skewering bits of arugula with his fork. “Hate is such a strong word. My mother says if you hold on to hate, it’ll turn you hard and bitter—like a dried-out old lemon. And she should know, she’s plump and sweet and doesn’t hate anyone.”
“Well, I guess she has a point. So you and this Rich are all buddies now?”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” Olly lifted his fork, but instead of depositing its contents into his mouth, he paused. He struggled to shape his impressions of Rich into words. “It’s strange… He can be civil, but it’s taking him an effort, I can tell. As if his mind was elsewhere. I think he’s troubled.” He shoved the fork into his face.
“Or he’s a dick,” Jem countered and took a bite of his sandwich.
Olly mulled this over while he chewed. “He’s different when he’s alone. Like when he was carving—he was so into it. No tension. His face was…” He grasped for the right word, but the best he could come up with was “…different.”
With his mouth full, Jem said nothing, but his eyes conveyed skepticism. So Olly went on. “And when he was talking about furniture making, he tried to make it like no big deal, but the passion was all there in his eyes. I bet he’s like a pineapple: all gruff and hard exterior but sweet and juicy on the inside.”
Jem swallowed. “Why pineapple? Why not clam?”
“I don’t like clams.”
“Ha! So you like him.”
Olly carefully considered the idea. “I don’t know. He’s like an itch you can’t scratch. One minute he pisses me off so much I want to slap him, the next I want to rip his clothes off and check if the carpet matches the curtains.”
Jem snorted into the orange-carrot juice he was drinking. He coughed and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “You’re just horny.”
“Who wouldn’t be? He’s so ginger. Not reddish-blond or reddish-brown, but flaming ginger. Have you ever been with a redhead?”
“Nope.”
“Me neither. It’s so tantalizing.”
Jem rolled his eyes. “Have you even figured out yet he’s gay?”
“I’m not sure he’s figured it out yet, but there’s something there.”
After the break, it was Olly’s turn at the demo table—grilled chicken and organic jasmine rice. It was popular with the customers, and he had to keep the samples cranking. He was close to the end of his stint when Hunter appeared by his station.
Hunter didn’t have sunglasses this time, but the brim of an LA Dodgers baseball cap shaded his eyes. “Hi,” he said.
“Chicken and rice?” Olly asked.
“Can’t eat anything salty.”
“Not at all?” Olly asked, surprised. Hunter slowly shook his head. He seemed to burst with vitality. It was hard to imagine him having health issues. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” Hunter hefted his basket—it was loaded with fresh produce and more dark chocolate.
Olly smiled. “We have all sorts of nuts next to the cereals. Some of them are unsalt
ed. You might like those. Dried fruit too.” Between scooping dollops of rice into tiny paper cups, he took a good look at Hunter. The guy was still strikingly good looking, yet Olly didn’t experience anything beyond aesthetic admiration toward Hunter. No spark, no zing. None, zero, zilch. Whatever possessed him at Ombre a couple of nights ago was plainly missing.
Hunter must’ve come to the same conclusion, because with a good-bye nod, he wandered off in the direction of the cereal aisle.
Well, sometimes these things just didn’t work out, Olly told himself. However, something about Hunter kept bugging him for the rest of the day. He didn’t figure out what till the end of his shift. It had to do with the baseball hat and the video clip of Sandy. Olly thought he should tell Rich, but he didn’t have Rich’s number, and he couldn’t call Sandy with this. He decided to drive over there. He could tell Sandy he was just checking in and pull Rich aside. Silver Lake wasn’t too far out of his way.
Olly smelled the weed from the door—he’d learned to recognize Eau De Skunk at a tender age. He knocked. “It’s open!” He heard the shout from inside and pushed the door open.
The living room was much the same as he’d last seen it—the walls cheerful yellow with fresh paint, but the shabby carpet still in place and an old couch covered in drop cloth in the middle of the room. A red-and-white plastic cooler next to it was a new addition.
Rich rested his feet on the cooler, his ass on the couch, and watched Olly with the fixed expression of a man holding his breath. His eyes were red. He exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Look who it is—young Oliver the Twisty,” he said, squinting through the smoke.
Olly walked in. “I’ve told you, not Oliver. Just Olly.”
“Yeah, but how just are you?”
“Oh man, you’re baked.” Olly had a good idea what Rich had been doing the day before, after being dropped off in Hollywood.
“Baked like Grandma’s apple pie. Wanna toke?” Rich held the roach out to Olly.
“No, thanks, I don’t do drugs.”
“Pretty square for a fruit.” Despite the words, Rich’s voice had no malice. If anything, he seemed amused.
