A Good-Looking Corpse

by Jeff Klima

  “I’ve got to believe some of these celebrities are pissed, not having their faces on display for this,” Ivy says, bemused. Our own limo abruptly halts and it is our turn to become the focus of the Hollywood machine. Ivy hands me my mask again and this time I don it, a basic gray mask to match my suit. The limo door is opened by a masked man in tuxedo with three small dotted tattoos in the light brown webbing of his hand between his thumb and index finger. It is the silent reminder that we are always surrounded by Mikey’s people.

  “Invitations?” he asks, his tone polite and formal through the demon’s face he wears. I fish the small cards out of my pocket to flash them at him. “Enjoy the party,” he says, gracious.

  A cursory few flashbulbs explode in our direction as we exit, and then more so as we arrive. The eyes from the sidelines flit back and forth between Ivy and me, and you can see the annoyance as the paparazzi struggle to guess who we might be. As we move up toward the cemetery, our fellow revelers nod at us, the masks grotesque with fixed grins and leers.

  “Want a bump?” a voice from beside us asks impishly and we turn to find the Devil, his grinning horned head above a velvety crimson tuxedo. Behind him, a forked tail extends down to curl near his ankle.

  “Ramen?” I ask and he covertly extends a small vial, which I wave off.

  “I’m glad you both made it. I had the driver call me when you were close. This place is a madhouse, right?” He turns his body to address Ivy. “And you! I am so excited to meet you! Ivy! You’re even more beautiful than Tom said.”

  “Now I know you’re the Devil.” She laughs, staying close to me. “You tell such lies. Tom would never say I was beautiful.”

  “Not true,” Ramen admonishes her. “He described you as a modern-day Helen of Troy. He said yours was the face that launched a thousand Internet searches. I see now it must have been billions.”

  “Well I’ve heard a lot about you too.” She smiles genuinely and I feel any anxiety she might have had drop away.

  “Well, I hope so. I hope Tom told you I was his best friend.” Ramen laughs softly from behind his mask.

  “More like his only friend,” she retorts.

  “That makes me all the more valuable,” Ramen says. “Shall we go in?” he continues, this time addressing me.

  “Yes, let’s,” I say, stepping forward.

  Ramen throws out his arm gallantly for Ivy, and she hooks into it. I suddenly feel foolish for having forgotten her, but now the time has passed and so I walk on, leading them up the plush carpet toward the graves.

  “Where’s Mikey?” I ask.

  “Inside. He’s already been up and down the carpet several times, so don’t worry about him. Also, please keep your masks on—we’re using them to fuck with the paps. They won’t be able to sell these pics for shit,” Ramen gloats. “And man, are they pissed about it.”

  As if on cue, one of them, a broad and bald white guy in a blue polo shirt is yelling at us. “Take off the masks. Gimme some face!”

  “That guy in particular.” Ramen shakes his head. “Steve Simon. That guy is the worst. If he’s not here, he’s trolling outside the clubs on Sunset all night, just waiting for some juicy scandal to pop. They’re the real evil around here, the paps. Necessary, but evil.”

  “Says the Devil.” Ivy laughs and Ramen forgets his troubles and laughs with her.

  As we walk, Ramen moves up to my side and speaks low so Ivy cannot hear. “You got your piece? We should end this tonight if we can.”

  I tap my jacket at my breast, where the gun is seated. That Ivy has not noticed is a good sign. Ramen’s right though, this has gone on too long.

  Chapter 17

  We reach the check-in station and a woman in a Harlequin mask greets us along with a beefy security guard toting a black light. No prison tattoos on her, I note. “Invitations?” she asks.

  “There’s a watermark on the invitations to make sure they’re legit,” Ramen explains to us before waving the woman off. “They’re with me,” he says officiously. She nods, realizing who she’s talking to and gestures for another masked figure, this one ambiguous, to give us old-fashioned stout steel flashlights and a folded map of the grounds.

  There is also a metal detector set up, but Ramen guides us around that as well.

  The red carpet abruptly ends and we are suddenly on asphalt, the driveway for the cemetery, which splits off in two directions. To the right, an impressive theater setup has been trucked in, cushy seats attached in thirty rows, as if from an actual movie theater, but tucked neatly around the rows of tombstones, so as to only lightly disrespect the dead. A scaffolding has been set up with a projector, aimed squarely at the wall of an enormous mausoleum and speakers on poles are everywhere.

  Have you been here before?” he asks. Both Ivy and I shake our heads. “They show movies here in summer,” Ramen continues. “It’s pretty amazing, but nowhere near this extravagant. It’s all blankets and shit. We decided to do it up right.

  An outdoor tent stands enormous before us, the legs coming down between the graves. More graves fall beneath the canopy, somber headstones that partiers trod around with impunity, some holding cocktails and mingling, others eagerly reading the epitaph for the grave they’re currently standing on. Brilliant beams of light on tall poles stand everywhere, giving the cemetery a look of daylight.

  “I don’t think you need the flashlights for the main party,” Ramen says. “But if you want to go out and hunt down celebrity graves on the outer reaches, I recommend them.”

  “Who is here?” Ivy asks, delighted that she might get to see a tombstone with a famous name written on it.

  “Alan Van is the latest addition,” he says. “But as far as I am concerned, the only grave here that is an absolute must visit is section 8, plot 257. Virginia Rappe.”

  “Who’s that?” Ivy asks, slightly deflated at not recognizing the name.

  “Oh, Tom knows all about her.” Ramen chuckles. “In fact, I insisted we serve glass-bottle Cokes at the bar tonight—in honor of her.” He goes sotto voce again to keep Ivy out of it. “Just between you, me, and Mikey, she doesn’t have her head anymore.”

  Ivy, oblivious, turns to me for further explanation.

  “She’s just a girl who died a dirty death.” I shrug.

  “You sell her short, Tom,” Ramen admonishes me. “I’ve gotta go check on some things, but I recommend you pay her a visit, you two. Section 8, plot 257. Just mosey back when the movie starts. And watch out for peacock poop.” He gives a quick wave in our direction and then is off toward the main tent.

  “What kind of cemetery would let them host a movie premiere here?” Ivy asks.

  “A Hollywood cemetery,” I remind her and consult the map for any names I might know.

  With the other guests all fanned out, cruising the cemetery, their flashlights bobbing along in the evening, a warm breeze pushes through the dying leaves still clinging to their branches. A few shake loose and go pinwheeling along, caught in the orb of my flashlight’s beam. Ivy moves closer to me and our flashlight beams merge into one.

  We walk along like that for a bit, moving around the man-made lake and then she stops me short, almost atop the grave of Cecil B. DeMille, according to the map. She pushes her mask up, so it rests in front of the piled bouffant of her hair. “I love you,” she says plainly, staring up at me, her eyes searching mine for the unspoken reaction more than the words that will follow.

  “Here?” I try to joke it off, pushing my mask up as well. But she isn’t joking.

  “I love you,” she says again.

  My mask off, what she sees dismays her, I think. I am not surprised, nor overjoyed nor disappointed. I simply accept the words, hearing them for the first time, maybe from anyone . . . certainly never my parents. At some point, pre-Ivy, I’d just assumed that no one would ever say such a thing to me, and then, once she came into my life, I’d never thought in terms of love. We were just two damaged people coexisting. It was more than convenience th
at had us together obviously—well, that was the idea. But now, she wanted things from me—time, attention, sometimes an emotion . . . someone to appreciate her cooking. And this new thing? Love? It had all been simple enough, and now it was suddenly complex. I flash back to when I thought I’d lost her months ago, when I was helplessly scrubbing blood from my work truck, powerless to do anything. I’d certainly felt something then . . . it wasn’t love, it was more of a wish to see her again, to see her alive. And when she’d called and I did hear her voice, that she was safe . . . what was that? It was relief, sure, but not love. And then we’d moved in together, bought furniture and dishes. We went on dates, mostly me watching her eat while I stared at her and listened to every thought that popped into her pretty head. And we’d been together a while now, past the point where other couples had exchanged the sentiment. But do I love her? I try to imagine a world without her now . . . my life of strip clubs, heroin, and guilt seems so tragic, so empty now, pathetic maybe. I couldn’t go back. Did she change that in me? Was it her interaction that helped me evolve? Have I evolved? Or merely gone in a new direction? What would my life without her be now? I weigh my options quickly, knowing she needs an answer, will demand one from me, even if only cruel sarcasm.

  I focus my eyes on her, taking her all in—this lovely young thing, tattooed and anxious—too good to be with me, too tragic to be with anyone else. This person that I stay late at the office to avoid, she who poops with the door open, who forgets to flush more often than not, who leaves a mess wherever she goes. This rag doll who dresses like a hooker and wears her heart on her tattoo sleeve. She has many flaws, but she looks past the many I have as well. I know that the words “I love you too” are what she wants most. She wants to know there is purpose to all this. There never had to be once upon a time, but somewhere in the fucking and time spent together, that changed. I exhale slowly. It almost seems unfair for her to say such a thing to me now. Her eyes are big now, expecting something, there is a threat of tears. I can’t even call her my girlfriend in public, how can she expect this of me? Is this love, this codependence?

  “Would you still love me if I cheated on you?” I ask finally, needing more, unable to contain my thoughts any longer.

  She doesn’t seem surprised, overjoyed, or disappointed either. She also doesn’t look away. “Yes,” she says even more urgently.

  “Would you still love me if I killed someone? Not to save my own life, but out of pure cold malice?”

  “Yes,” she says again. “There isn’t anything you could do—to me or anyone else that would make me stop loving you.”

  “Wow,” I gasp, genuine. “No one has ever said anything like that to me . . . I don’t deserve it.”

  “Yes, you do,” she promises and moves in to kiss my cheek, softly, a move of reaffirmation, not romance. Running her fingers through my hair, she murmurs, “I forget how damaged you are.”

  And that’s enough for the moment. She understands me.

  “I love you too,” I try, fumbling, not wanting my inability to say the words seem like a weakness, but the moment has passed and she shakes her head, smiling, a little sad at my mechanical words.

  “No,” Ivy says, calm. “I love you enough for the both of us. Let’s leave it at that for now.” I move in step with her, back on our quest to find section 8, plot 257, shaken at what has just transpired. When did she become so . . . so goddamn understanding?

  A loudspeaker booms out with the voice of Ramen, announcing that the movie will begin soon, interrupting our moment.

  We abandon our hunt for Virginia to move back and take in the show. As we walk back on the road, I train my flashlight along the perimeter of the graveyard, and my beam finds a row of wire cages, each of them containing several peacocks, moving along the interior. I point them out to Ivy.

  “I guess your friend wasn’t lying about the poop.” She shrugs and then checks the bottoms of her heels. Suddenly curious, I check the bottoms of my shoes too.

  There doesn’t seem to be assigned seating in the makeshift theater, but we take a couple of seats toward the back. Everyone around us is no longer wearing their masks so we slide ours off as well. A few rows up and to the left of us, a large elaborate-looking projector is beaming a blue screen on the wall of the enormous mausoleum. A figure, shrouded in red, a ceremonial gown apparently, and a long goat mask with twisting gnarled horns steps from the shadows of the mausoleum in the abrupt silence that has fallen over the revelers. Stepping onto a dais to the left of the projected screen so that he is engulfed by it, he stands ominous for all to behold. “How do you kill a god?” the voice booms out loud with the aid of a hidden microphone, Mikey’s voice. His hands raise as if questioning the sky above. Flame effects burst from tubes beside him, great torrential streams of fire leaping skyward and a sulfurous scent is simultaneously fanned unseen into the crowd, creating a titter of surprised repulsion and excitement. Below us, a low-hanging fog bank has crept among the seats to completely obscure our feet.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, The War for Heaven,” Mikey announces from behind his leering goat mask. The flames cease as if they’d never existed at all and the sulfur is replaced with something heavier smelling . . . a smoky, ashen breeze. Whether it is residue from the flame cannons or another piped-in effect, I am not sure.

  Mikey then takes a seat in the front row with Ramen to frenzied applause. The scene has been set, the Hollywood theatrics have been displayed and now all that is left is for us to be dazzled with the movie itself.

  On his other side, hidden behind an ornate unsmiling Grecian mask sits Crozier in a tuxedo. I recognize the back of his bald head and the thick rolls of skin that have built up upon it like a pack of hot dogs. Ramen, his mask also on, suddenly looks around the audience and then, recognizing Ivy’s cleavage no doubt, waves at us to take the unoccupied seats beside him. As we stand to move, the lights dim black and for a moment the graveyard is enshrouded in an eerie pitch-black calm. The eyes from the billboard appear large, projected up on the marble wall, seeming to stare down on us with malevolence. A booming laugh emits from the masses of speakers surrounding us high and low, giving the effect that this demon owns us, that we are his souls. Ivy grips my hand briefly, unsettled. We are in a nether realm now, according to the camerawork as it tracks through flames and brimstone stalactites dangling in sharp formations from what I guess is the top of Hell. Anguished cries of human suffering play, working with the score. I move quickly through the gravestones, Ivy clutched to my wrist like a handcuff. Offering the open seats, Ramen leans in to whisper, “Fucking scary, right?”

  Two hours later, I find myself rising with the others to applaud as the closing credits burst onto the screen. It’s the first full movie I’ve watched since prison and I have to admit that I am stunned. Ramen looks to me, seemingly for an opinion and I nod my head vigorously. “Holy crap,” Ivy yells, also smashing her hands together in approval.

  The people in the front row, presumably the main actors and director, are hugging each other, elated, their masks clanking together. “That’s the power of a Mikey Echo film,” Ramen hisses through his own mask, excited. He steps out to extend a high five to someone who has come up to seek him out and I am face-to-face with the goat, Mikey, staring at me. Crozier stands at his side, also watching me.

  “Time for my last offer,” Mikey says solemnly. “Alone.”

  “She comes with me,” I say, pointing back at Ivy, but Ramen has his arm around her, almost holding her in place. “It’s okay, Tom,” Ramen says, his evil mask back in place, but his voice soothing. “I’ll keep her close with me. She’ll be fine.”

  I hesitate, deciding.

  “Really, buddy, I’ll look out for her,” the Devil promises me.

  “Will you be okay?” I ask her and she nods, but she seems to tremble all the same. I need to comfort her.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say to Ivy, calm. Ramen rubs at her arm, soothing. She watches me, rigid, as I fall in behind Mikey. Crozi
er waits for me to pass and then follows, staying close. Under the main tent, red lights have come on and an orchestral band begins to play the eerie opening score. The artificial fog, which has been maintained throughout the movie, floats along with us at ankle height, displaced by Mikey’s robe. Ahead of us, at the road toward the west side of the cemetery, a flat black limo awaits. I’m not sure if it’s the same one we rode in with.

  As I walk behind him, Mikey reaches up to remove the goat’s-head mask by a horn and discards it uncaring on the ground beside him; the fog pushes away briefly at the interference, but has swarmed back in to swallow the haunting hollow ornament as it stares up at me. Crozier keeps his mask firmly in place.

  Opening the door to the low car, Mikey climbs in and beckons for me to enter as well. Crozier stands guard outside, and as I step into the car I see that he has pushed back his black tuxedo jacket to reveal a holstered handgun. He shuts the door on us and we are alone.

  “So here we are,” he says plainly, but confident. “My final offer to acquire your life’s rights. Can you guess what it might be?”

  “I’m guessing you’re going to stick a gun in my face and demand that I sign some contract. Maybe you’ve just taken Ivy and are going to threaten me with her death. Something like that?”

  “Hahaha, would you like it to be something like that? I feel you have an answer for that already. The role of a successful producer is all about reading faces and understanding people. Some people love money. Some people love sex. Some love fame above all else. Some love power. And some people think they love nothing at all. I think that last one defines you, Tom.”

  I want to tell him that he doesn’t know how right he is, but I stay silent, listening.

  “So if I threatened Ivy, you would probably say, ‘Kill her.’ You don’t negotiate like that, right? If I stuck a gun in your face, you would say, ‘Kill me.’ Am I right?”

  “You’re not wrong,” I admit.

  “Good, we understand each other. But as I said, some people think they love nothing. The reality is that everyone loves something—even if they do not realize it yet. The trick to negotiating with men who think this way is to give them something to love. And then you barter with that.”