by Ava Barry
Still, I could see that Brian had incredible business acumen, and in brief, startling moments, I felt that he might actually be able to salvage the Lens from bankruptcy.
“What’s on your mind, my little asteroid?” Brian asked.
“I want to write about the dead girl,” I said. “I think that Theo might be back in Los Angeles, and if I can connect this new murder to Theo, it would make a great story.”
“Which dead girl are we talking about?” He took a sip of coffee.
“The art student who was found dead outside Windhall.” I patted my chest. “You know, the one who got stabbed?”
“Right, right. I’ve been reading about that.”
“The murder is a tribute to Theo Langley,” I said. “You know that, right?”
“Who?”
“The director who killed his leading lady in the middle of filming a movie,” I said. “Back in the forties. Trust me, you know who he is.”
Brian narrowed his eyes and took a sip of coffee. “Langley,” he mused aloud. “The name rings a bell.”
“That Nirvana song ‘Dead Roses’—it’s all about the murder.”
Brian’s eyes lit up. “Shit, yeah, I know that song! That was my ringtone for two years. ‘Down in the thorns, Macy… Macy…’ ”
“ ‘The girl with no shoes, hazy, dark skies…’ ” I tunelessly joined in, mildly resenting the fact that it might count as a bonding moment with Brian.
“Yeah, man, I know it! That’s about something that really happened? What were the words, something about climbing a tall tower to fill a basket with stars? The thorn king catches her in his claws?”
“Yes,” I said. “The thorn king is Theodore Langley.”
“Huh. So, what’s your story?”
“He’s been gone this whole time,” I said. “But if there’s even a slight chance that he’s back, and nobody else knows about it, we can run the story before anyone else does.”
Brian narrowed his eyes. “What makes you think he’s back?”
“All right, I don’t have any proof,” I said. “But I’m working on that.”
“I don’t want any wild speculation or conspiracy theories,” he said. “Come back to me when you have some proof.”
“Sure. Look, I have a list of people I can interview. This could be a huge story, Brian.”
I could sense that he was losing interest.
“There used to be a reward for information leading to Theo’s arrest,” I went on. “Something like fifty thousand dollars.”
His eyes widened. “You should have led with that. Is there still a reward?”
“No,” I admitted. “The guy offering it died a few years ago. Reuben Engel, he was the producer of Theo’s last movie.”
“Cool story. Hey, I have a little announcement. I’m going to tell everyone officially on Monday, but I figured I could tell you now, since you’re sort of senior here.”
He steepled his fingers and grinned at me. I was annoyed that he had interrupted my pitch, but I decided to play along. Placating Brian was a good step to getting story approval.
“What’s the announcement?”
“It’s gotta be secret, though. Can you keep a secret?”
“Sure.”
“We found a buyer,” he said. “That’s why we have a bunch of money. We paid off a stack of old bills and everything. Man, I’m killing it at this editing job.”
It took a moment for his words to register. “Brian, what do you mean, you found a buyer?”
“Time Inc.,” he said. “They bought the magazine. We’re now under the Time umbrella.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“It’s great, right? No more bankruptcy, my friend. Out with the old, in with the new. Now that we have some money, I’m thinking about renovating this whole place.”
“Brian, Time is going to fold us up into another one of their origami animals and put us on a shelf. We’ll be plastic. They’ll strip every ounce of character from the Lens, and we’ll be just like everybody else.”
“You don’t need to worry about that.”
“The only difference between the Lens and the Huffington Post is that we’ve got goddamned integrity,” I said. “Why didn’t you call a meeting and consult the rest of the editors?”
“I’m editor in chief,” he said, and his smile began to fade. “I’m the boss, Hailey. Sometimes the boss has to make tough calls. If you ever rise above the position of ground-level employee, you’ll probably come to understand that.”
“People are going to be pissed.”
“They’re going to get paychecks,” he said, tapping the side of his head. “Integrity isn’t worth more than a place to sleep. We done here? I’ve got real work to do.”
I rubbed my jaw. “I’m going to go ahead and start researching the Langley story,” I said. “It’s a good piece.”
“No, you’re not,” he said. “You have plans tonight?”
“No, why?”
“You’re going to see a band in Echo Park,” he said. “Kind of electro-soul. They’re called Rigor Mormon. I need a thousand words by Monday.”
“But—”
“Marty’s going along as your photographer.”
I tried not to sound exasperated. “Brian,” I said. “Ford used to let me choose my monthly feature. I want to get started on the Langley story before someone else gets the jump on it.”
“You’re not writing the Langley story.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not interested,” he said simply. “Sounds kind of dull. Here are the tickets for the show, by the way. Get there early. I want you to talk to the band before they go on.”
THREE
I was at my desk, packing up my things, when the phone rang.
“Max Hailey.”
“Yeah, this is Dexter,” came a man’s voice. “I’m at your house.”
I frowned. “I think you have the wrong number.”
“We had an appointment,” he said, annoyed. “I’m here to inspect your roof.”
“Shit! Sorry, I forgot. Any way we can reschedule?”
“Can’t come back for at least ten days,” he said. “You know there’s a storm coming on Thursday, right? The whole city will be underwater.”
I cursed under my breath, then glanced at my watch. Four-fifteen. Getting to my house in Laurel Canyon would take twenty minutes without traffic, but I didn’t know how long the roof inspection would take. If it went past six, I would be late getting to the show in Echo Park.
“Stay there,” I said. “I’m leaving my office right now.”
I made good time, and when I pulled up in front of my house, I saw a beat-up blue pickup truck blocking the drive. I parked behind it, then climbed out of my car and walked up the drive.
“Sorry I’m late,” I called.
The man standing on my footpath turned and shrugged. “Look, we charge by the hour,” he said. “I’ve already been here for an hour, and I could technically charge you for that, but I’m not going to.”
“Thanks,” I said, slightly suspicious. “Why not?”
“I can tell you’re going to be a valuable customer,” he said, then reached up and tugged on a clump of morning glory. “Your roof has completely gone to shit.”
I ran a hand through my hair. “Look, I don’t need a new roof,” I said. “I really just called about the hole in the kitchen ceiling.”
“You ever go to the dentist for a cleaning and leave with a root canal?”
“Come inside,” I said. “Let’s talk in there.”
The house had belonged to my grandmother. It was designed as a sloping Alsatian cottage, the type you might see in a forest after losing the path. A witch might live inside, or a band of elves. Every single Halloween, I got the most trick-or-treaters out of anyone in my neighborhood, because the nearby dwellings were, on one side, a boring house of glass and concrete and on the other, a squat row of ’70s flats made out of cheap stained wood.
If I w
eren’t nostalgic, I would sell my property and cash in early. My gran had bought the place with cash in the 1940s; back then, land was affordable and houses had a way of getting vacated without notice. Theater troupes would blow in from out of town, stay for a week or a few months, then depart, usually leaving half their things behind. Stars had more money than sense, and when film studios made the transition from silent movies to talking pictures, a whole rash of silent gods went bankrupt. Gran bought the place from one of these silent divas who went broke on opium and alcohol; the actress had purchased it from the man who built it, who was a set designer at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer.
It had never been a completely solid house, even when I lived there with Gran. With every rain, a spate of leaks would open up throughout the house. We had a special collection of thrift store pots and pans stashed away in a box for storms, and at the first sign of cloudy skies, we’d break out the box and position our cache in all the usual spots.
I’d been working so much lately that I hadn’t had a chance to fix the roof, but the week before, a great big hole had opened up in the kitchen ceiling. I hadn’t realized that there were holes in the main roof until sunshine came streaming through, and tendrils of morning glory started to poke down among the cabinets. I could almost hear a mental cash register chinging away in Dexter’s mind as I led him through the house.
“All right,” Dexter said, as we moved into the kitchen. He looked up through the hole in the ceiling, which had grown at least three inches in the last few days. “We’ve got a problem.”
“Just one problem?”
“You’re going to have to replace the entire roof,” he said.
His words didn’t register right away.
“It’s just a little hole. Can’t we throw some duct tape and shingles on it?”
“I’d say the problem’s at least a decade old,” he said. “You’ve got dry rot and a whole dynasty of termites living in your roof.”
“Shit. How much does a roof cost these days?”
“We can talk about that,” he said. “The roof is separate from the ceiling, of course, and you’ll have to replace that, too. How do you reach the attic?”
“I used to use the stairs, but now we just need a ladder,” I said, gesturing to the hole in the ceiling. “I’ll give you a leg up, you can hoist yourself the rest of the way.”
“You think this is funny?”
“No, of course not.” My smile evaporated. “This way.”
It was hard not to feel a certain amount of pride in the house, even as Dexter went looking for problems. First-time visitors usually got a kick out of the uneven gingerbread portholes, the sloping walls and the hardwood floors inlaid with little mother-of-pearl diamonds. Bookcases were built into at least one wall in every room, and the stairs leading up to the attic were a particular point of pride. The original owner had stashed the staircase behind a small rounded door in the library, the type Snow White’s dwarves might have departed through each day.
Dexter didn’t find it cute. “You expect me to fit through there?”
“It’s the only way up.”
“For the love of God,” he muttered, getting on his knees. “If I find out this is some kind of practical joke, I swear to you—”
After ten minutes of awkward maneuvering, Dexter and I emerged in the attic. A blotchy constellation of light shone through pinprick holes in the roof, and I sighed, looking down at the floor. I could see termite damage left and right, and tried to remember the last time I had come up here.
“You’d better not step anywhere,” I said.
“I realize that. You’re going to have to find some way to get all this stuff down, and soon, or it’s going to fall through.” He narrowed his eyes at a set of trunks in the corner. “Those boxes heavy?”
“Probably.”
“Let’s go back down,” he said. “I’ll give you a quote.”
Once we were standing back in the kitchen, Dexter took out a notepad. I discreetly glanced at my phone and saw that it was almost six o’clock.
“I have to go soon,” I said. “Any idea what it might cost to fix this?”
“We’re looking at about fourteen grand,” he said. “Of course, that only covers the damage to the infrastructure. You want someone to come and fix this little gingerbread cottage roof, it’s probably going to be another five.”
“Jesus.”
“Can you afford that?”
“Not even close,” I said.
“Might be cheaper to tear the place down and sell it,” he said.
“I grew up here,” I said quickly.
“Well, you could consider taking out a second mortgage,” he said.
“It’s already got a second mortgage.”
Dexter sighed and tore off the sheet of paper, then handed it to me. “You don’t have many options,” he said. “If you wait for a miracle, you’re going to lose the entire house. Give me a call when you’ve had a chance to think about it.”
* * *
Echo Park wasn’t too far away, but traffic in Los Angeles was unpredictable, and there was no telling how long it might take me to find a parking space. The venue would undoubtedly have an overpriced valet service, but it was a point of pride for me that I almost never paid for parking.
I made it in twenty minutes, then found the venue and started the parking search. Since it was Friday, the neighborhood was hopping, and most of the streets were packed. People walked in pairs and threesomes down the sidewalk, laughing and leaning against each other, gearing up for a night out.
A parking spot appeared on the block ahead of me, and I headed toward it and hit my turn signal. I was starting to reverse into it when a motorcycle swooped in.
“Hey! Asshole!” I jammed on the horn, but the motorcyclist pretended to ignore me, then climbed off his bike and started to remove his helmet. Hitting my emergency blinkers, I put my car in park and climbed out. Cars honked as they passed me, because I was blocking the street, but I was too indignant to care.
“Hey!”
I walked toward the motorcyclist, but the man dug in his pocket for something, pretending not to see me.
“I’m talking to you,” I said. “That was my spot!”
“Oh, was it? Did you put your little beach chair next to the curb to indicate that it was yours?”
“I see how it is,” I said. “You’re one of those entitled biker assholes who splits lanes and sticks his dick into every non-permitted bit of curb. Congratulations on being superior to everyone else in the city.”
He gave me a pitying smile. “Well done, guy. You’ve figured me out.”
All through high school, I’d managed to stay under the radar and avoid fights by being smarter than the other boys. I didn’t have too much trouble, since my high school was filled with stoners and the children of hippies, but on the few occasions when someone did try to start shit with me, I’d cut him down to size with a few acidic remarks. It had never failed, but now I was out of practice, and I couldn’t help feeling lame sparring with the motorcyclist.
“Move your bike,” I said.
“Enjoy your night,” he replied. Plenty of paid parking around here.”
He started to walk away.
“How do you know I won’t do something to your bike once you’re gone?” I called after him, and I was pleased to see that this stopped him. He turned around and started walking back toward me, taking his phone out of his pocket. He moved past me and bent in front of my car, then took a picture of my license plate.
“Thanks for the warning,” he said, patting me on the shoulder as he walked past.
Traffic had started to pile up behind me, and the air was filled with the sound of honking. I was so pissed off when I climbed back in my car that I almost reversed over the man’s bike, but since he had a picture of my license plate, it was no longer an option. I gave myself a moment to breathe, then started my car up again and continued looking for parking.
The man’s remarks stayed with me as
I scanned the streets, too distracted to even think about heading to the show and working that night. I was starting to feel like I was out of touch with the rest of Los Angeles, the bearded hipsters with leather jackets and worn-in denim shirts; the artisanal coffee drinkers and people who could afford overpriced yoga and stand-up comedy classes. What made it worse was that I wasn’t yet thirty and already committed to a house that was falling apart. I couldn’t afford to fix it, couldn’t bear to part with it, and now I was virtually stuck in a career track that was starting to feel a lot like dancing for an idiotic royal regime while wearing bells on my ankles.
I was so distracted that I turned a corner and nearly slammed into the back of an SUV. I stomped on the brakes and sat there for a moment, gathering my wits. Before I could change my mind, I hit my turn signal and flipped my car around. I wasn’t going to make it to the show that night, Brian’s wrath be damned.
I crested a hill and headed toward the freeway leading away from Echo Park. I felt a thrill down my spine as I saw the city glittering in the distance, freeways streaming in and out like arteries of some black heart. There were glowing lights and ribbons of road, buildings and towers like dark cathedrals. It was intoxicating and beautiful, the cars slipping in and out of lanes beside me like darting fish. It was my city. I still felt the same thrill of possibility that I had felt when I was a kid, driving out of the valley in the nighttime.
Beneath the freeway, all the houses winked and bowed their heads and disappeared into nothing, a swirl of gray and black. Traffic was light heading north, since it was well past rush hour. I took the Vermont Street exit, then turned onto Beverly Boulevard. Seven fifty-two. I was definitely going to miss the Rigor Mormon show. I could only hope that the band had enough decently filmed YouTube videos for me to half-ass an article to go along with Marty’s photographs. Rigor Fucking Mormon, I thought to myself. Only in Los Angeles.