Complete Corruption (Corruption #1-3)

by C. D. Reiss

  “Okay, we can work this out.”

  “There’s nothing to work out. I’m screwed. I tapped everyone I know to do production. Now there’s no point in even finishing.” Her face collapsed. It took seconds for the muscles to go slack and the tears to gather. She sniffed, hard and wet. “Fuck, what am I going to tell Michael? He was depending on this. He’s a star, you know? In his gut. And I told him... I told him we’d get this done.”

  “You will get this done,” I said, taking her shoulders.

  “Ernie shot it free because he believed in me.”

  “Katrina—”

  “It’s my job to get the money, and I let everyone down.” She was full-on blubbering and trying to talk through hitching gasps.

  I put my arms around her. “Directrix?”

  I was answered with sobs.

  “You have another week of production. Do you have the money to finish it?”

  She nodded into my shoulder. “But—”

  “No buts. Get it together.”

  “I don’t have enough. I missed a wide on the dinner scene.”

  “You won’t be the first. Now we have twenty minutes to get out of here and get to set. People are waiting.”

  She pulled away and wiped her eyes. “I have to tell them.”

  “No.” I put up my hands. “What is wrong with you? That’ll kill the momentum.”

  She put her head in her hands. “I don’t know what I’m thinking.”

  “Go take a shower, and let’s go. Come on. I took a week off work to finish this with you. We have to get this thing in the can by Friday. Reschedule your ADR. It’s a phone call, right?”

  “If they have space. They book months in advance.”

  “Fast, cheap, or good,” I said, quoting the old filmmaking motto that no one can get more than two of the three. “Fast isn’t happening.”

  “I have to eat. I can’t mooch off you forever.”

  “Whatever. Let’s deal with today. Okay? We’re shooting at the café again?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you start freaking out, you come to me, right?”

  “I love you, Tee Dray. You’re so together.”

  twenty-three.

  checked my phone after the thirty-fifth take. It was a long shot of Michael watching the woman in question over the food counter, and with so many moving parts, it was difficult to get. But the shot was meant to show infinite hours of longing for a woman who didn’t want him, and on the thirty-sixth try, it was stunning.

  I didn’t expect Antonio to try to reach me, but I was surprised by my burning hope. Did I want him? Or did I want him to want me? He was toxic, and I shouldn’t touch him even if I was operating on all emotional cylinders, which I wasn’t. I had to keep in the front of my mind the fact that I couldn’t trust any man with my body or heart. No matter how intense. No matter how strong. No matter how much the sex was unlike anything I’d ever experienced.

  Even thinking about Antonio, I felt a familiar throb between my legs. Even as I noted the placement of every extra’s arms and legs, I ached for that treacherous man, his pine scent, his rock of a dick.

  “Cut!”

  Katrina was barely finished with her encouragements to the actors before I had my phone out. Nothing from Antonio. Three from Gerry, Daniel’s strategist. I got back to business making my notes. I needed to arrange my finances so I could get Katrina half a million dollars in such a way that she would accept it.

  I didn’t know how I’d get it done in time. I had a week before she lost her mind. I was incorporated, but not as an investor. I couldn’t decide if I wanted her to know it was me who was fronting the money. It was two in the morning, and I was tired. Hardly ready for Gerry to show up in a three-piece suit looking as though he’d just woken up, showered, shaved, and taken his vitamins.

  “Almost the first lady of the city,” he said with a jovial tone, “packing binders in a parking lot.”

  “What are you doing here?” I stuffed the last of the day’s work into a duffel.

  “Los Angeles never sleeps.”

  “Daniel Brower does. A good five hours between midnight and dawn.”

  “That’s when I get to work. Can we talk?”

  I slung the bag over my shoulder. Katrina would get home on her own. “Sure. You’re driving though. My car’s busted.”

  ***

  The front seat of Gerry’s Caddy SUV was bigger than the couch in my first apartment. The bag was in the back like a dead body.

  “He’s not performing,” Gerry said, turning onto the 110. “Every time he flubs or goes back to some old habit, it’s like a snowball. It hasn’t affected his polling yet, but soon, it’s gonna get obvious.”

  “After the election, he’ll get it together again.”

  “He started biting his nails.”

  “The ring finger?”

  “Yeah. In a meeting with Harold Genter. I think I bruised his calf.”

  I sighed. Years, I’d spent years in media skills sessions. We’d discussed that every movement, every breath, was ten times bigger on camera, and those moves flowed into real life. People wanted their leaders polished. Policy was secondary, and politics took third rung. If he was seen biting his nails, flipping his hair, or slouching, he’d be a laughingstock.

  “He needs you,” Gerry said.

  “He should have thought of that.”

  “Okay, lady, yes. You can be bitter and aggrieved. You earned it. You happy? Are you going to hold your bag of self-righteousness into your dotage? It gets heavy when you get old. Believe me.”

  “I can’t trust him ever again. How am I supposed to carry that around? And for how long? Into the presidency?”

  “As long as you want.” He drove on the surface streets—stop start stop start—obeying the lights even though no one was around.

  I knew I’d let it go eventually. I’d learn to trust another man. He wouldn’t be Daniel, of course. I would have to invest in someone else all over again. Get hurt, move on. Hurt someone, move on. Antonio had proven how easy that was. One day, I’d fall in love. Maybe. I was thirty-four. I’d never felt too late until Gerry asked about my dotage.

  “I hurt all over,” I said. “All the time. I don’t know what I feel any more. I don’t know what I want. I feel separate from my own thoughts. The fact that I’m telling this to a political strategist is enough of a red flag that I need to be medicated or institutionalized.”

  I didn’t say that I think about hurting but not killing myself. I couldn’t cry. I felt unanchored. I loved Daniel still. The last time I’d felt marginally alive was with Antonio. I’d always depended on men for my happiness.

  “Big Girls is opening Friday,” Gerry said as he pulled up in front of my building.

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s about domestic violence. We pitched that as your hot button during the campaign. I’ve seen the picture. It’s good.”

  “You’re making a movie recommendation?” I asked.

  “Daniel is making it a point to see it and release a statement after.”

  “You’re trying to set me up on a date? Are you serious?”

  “This is a high stakes date, Theresa. Please.”

  I opened the car door and stepped out, slamming it shut and opening the back for my bag. “You’re a crappy Cupid.”

  I should have taken a cab.

  ***

  Fucking Gerry. I walked in the door cursing him, flinging my bag into a corner.

  Fucking fucking Gerry. The man was made of the finest, most indestructible plastic in the universe. He didn’t have a feeling in him.

  Or maybe he did. Maybe he just didn’t have a feeling for me.

  Or maybe he did. Maybe I didn’t have a feeling for me.

  Or maybe it wasn’t about me. Maybe it was about Daniel and the city of Los Angeles. Maybe it was about a campaign I’d invested my heart and soul in, and when Daniel fell through, what I’d wanted for myself fell through.

  Or maybe it didn’t m
atter what Gerry thought was important. Maybe something was bothering me. Something that had excited me, given me something to look forward to, made me forget how much I despised my fucking life.

  Antonio had made me feel alive, as if I’d been asleep for months. He shook me, slapped me. I was finally ready, and I’d thrown it away. It had been a casual nothing, a little dirty talk, something to fill the hours while I waited to get over Daniel. I wasn’t allowed to get upset over such a little nothing, but I was desperately upset, and I couldn’t admit it to myself until I was asked to be Daniel’s beard yet again.

  I picked up a porcelain swan by the neck. I knew what I was going to do before I did, and once decided, the tension released.

  I smacked it against the edge of the table. It bounced. I smacked it harder. The body broke off, clacking to the ground, and I was left holding the tiny head. In seconds, the tension came back. It was only relieved when I looked at all of my swans and stopped caring whether they ever went back into the cabinet.

  I didn’t feel rage when I smashed the swans. I must have looked angry and emotional, but I wasn’t. I was dead, empty, frozen, doing a job I’d contracted myself to do. I bashed them against the marble countertop, leaving millions of plaster, porcelain, and glass shards everywhere.

  It took about seven minutes to destroy years’ worth of swans and a few dishes. I stood over the puddle of sharp dust and said what I’d been too upset to consider.

  “I want you.”

  I pushed a china blue swan wing to the right. It had separated from the rest of the swan but hadn’t broken completely. Not nearly enough.

  “I want you, you criminal punk.”

  I picked up my foot and smashed the wing under my heel.

  “And I’m going to have you.”

  twenty-four.

  paid my cleaning lady extra to make sense of the mess, sweep up the porcelain swan guts, and put everything back. I dressed for work before I called Antonio. No answer.

  I texted.

  —Call me, please. I want to discuss something with you—

  I read it over. It seemed very businesslike. I was a well-mannered person, but that didn’t mean I had to evade everything, did it?

  —Specifically, your cock—

  I smiled. That should do it.

  ***

  I practically jumped out of bed the next morning. I layered slacks and a tight button-down shirt over a satin demi and lace panties. Rippable lace, because I was going to find that fucker and tell him what I thought, what I wanted, and how I wanted it. He would learn to trust me if I had to give him a signed affidavit and a blood sample.

  I heard Katrina downstairs just as I was deciding to leave my hair down. No, I didn’t hear Katrina—I heard a dish clatter along the concrete floor as if it had been kicked.

  “Sorry!” I called as I ran down.

  She blew on a dish and returned it to the pile. “What the fuck?” She pointed to my broken swans.

  “You don’t like the mess? I spent eight minutes making it.”

  She waved and pulled the coffee down then dropped it. “I don’t care about the mess. It’s you breaking things. You’re Tee Dray. You don’t break things.”

  As she scooped the coffee, I saw her hand shaking.

  “Directrix,” I said, “have some chamomile, please. You’re jacked up.”

  “We’re almost done. I’m excited. You coming to the wrap party?”

  “I’m springing for an open bar.”

  Katrina flicked on the TV. The talking heads talked, and the news ticker ticked.

  “You should bring the hot Italian,” she said, reminding me of my text.

  I checked my pocket. No response. “I might. The last time I saw him, it was weird.”

  “You didn’t tell me.”

  “You’re busy.”

  “So what happened?”

  My lips stayed closed. I focused on the way they touched, because I had to shut up. It was just that kind of casual sharing and speculation that worried Antonio, and with good reason. I wanted to earn his trust behind his back.

  “I think it’s over,” I said to deflect further questioning.

  “Probably for the best. You know southern Europeans. They have a Madonna- whore complex. They either debase you and kick you to the curb, or revere you and never fuck you.”

  Again, I pressed my lips together to keep from speaking. He’d fucked me, and fucked me dirty. I felt a familiar tingle between my legs just remembering it. But he didn’t want me to know about his life. It seemed as though he had disappeared long enough to get horny and then relentlessly pursue me when he wanted a whore. I hadn’t noticed the pattern because I’d been so close to it.

  I shook it off. I didn’t have time to worry about how I was seen or wonder what he thought. I had to do what I wanted, and I wanted to feel alive again. He was like my drug, and I would either get a hit or go into withdrawal, but I wouldn’t abdicate my right to chase him.

  I checked my phone again. Nothing. Just a traffic alert. The 10 was jammed up because of a car-to-car shootout that had resulted in a five-car pileup and police actions across a mile-long stretch. Venice Boulevard was in the red from the overflow.

  “Fuck,” Katrina said.

  “Yeah, the 10,” I replied, but Katrina was looking at the TV.

  “This has been going on for days already.”

  I looked over her shoulder. I recognized LaBrea Ave. The shot was daytime, and the tag said yesterday.

  Two days of gang violence across the west side. Two shootings, one death in a seemingly unmotivated spree.

  Daniel’s face filled the screen. The signage in the background told me the news crew had caught him at a campaign rally. “We’re working closely with the police to make sure justice is served.”

  They cut him off there. God help him if that was the meat of the interview.

  Could this be Antonio? Somehow? If he was what Daniel said he was, then he certainly could be involved, but there were hundreds of gangs in the city. The victims didn’t seem related, and the violence wasn’t all deadly. There was speculation about Compton gangs, the SGV Angels, and an Armenian outfit in East Hollywood.

  “Good thing we’re downtown,” Katrina said, turning away from the TV. “But everyone on the west side’s going to miss call time.”

  Daniel appeared again, mouthing the same promises. His hand appeared on the screen. The right ring fingernail was bitten down.

  twenty-five.

  'd learned when a script supervisor was needed and when she’d spend hours waiting around, so I knew when I could split for an hour or two. My first stop was the garage in Mount Washington.

  I got in my car, which had been quickly repaired once the ignition coil had been reconnected. My mechanic had shrugged. Old car. Things bend and tighten. It happens, apparently. I asked if someone could have done it on purpose, and he said something noncommittal, like “Anyone can do anything on purpose.”

  Especially when they wonder if you’re snooping around.

  I got to Antonio’s repair shop in record time. A chest-constricting worry nearly kept me from driving in. The hum of activity I’d noticed last time was gone. The lot held half as many cars, and I didn’t see as many guys in jumpsuits. When I got past the gate, no one greeted me. I parked and went into the office.

  “Hi,” I said to the woman behind the desk. “I’m looking for Antonio.”

  “He’s out. You can just pull into the garage.” She was new, her black hair down and gum cracking against her molars. She had an accent. Italian, again. She was older, but I couldn’t help wonder if he’d fucked her.

  “I was hoping to see him.”

  “Not in.” She shuffled some papers.

  “Any idea where he is?”

  She regarded me seriously for the first time. “No. You can leave a message.”

  I thought about it for a second then declined. I texted him again.

  —I still want to talk to you—

  I did
n’t expect to hear back, and I didn’t. I shot back downtown to finish the day’s work.

  ***

  Every time my phone dinged and buzzed, I hoped it was Antonio. But it was always Pam with some new meeting or appointment. I started seeing the world through the hopeful window of my device.

  “Hey.”

  I spun around to find the source of the voice.

  Michael stood behind me in costume: Dirty jeans. Grey T-shirt. A filthy apron and hair net. “We got a place from ReVal for the wrap party on Saturday. Some corporate loft they haven’t staged yet.”

  “Wow. Nice work. Are we starting filming?”

  “Nah, they’re still getting the lights up.”

  I stepped deeper into the parking lot. “That getup really works for you.”

  Anything would work for him. He was a celebrity waiting to happen.

  “Like it?” He pointed to a particularly egregious brown smear. “I had this chocolate streak put on just so people would think it was shit.”

  “Bold.”

  “That’s my middle name. Speaking of—well, no, not speaking of. This is actually a major non sequitur.”

  We walked through the lot, ignored in the busy hustle of the camera crew testing every corner for the right light, adjusting scrims and lamps.

  “I like a good non sequitur as much as the next person.”

  He stopped and turned toward me. “I heard we lost our post funding.”

  “You know Hollywood gossip is cheap.”

  “My agent told me.”

  “And agent gossip is the cheapest. Seriously, Michael, consider the source. Pilot season’s happening when you’ll be doing scene pickups for Katrina. He can’t like that.”

  “You’re not denying it.”

  “You assume I know in the first place.”

  “Still not denying it. You’re an artist at that, you know.” His smile seemed genuine, but it could have been acting. “Now, Ms. Ip? Not such an artist.”

  He took out a pack of cigarettes and poked one out. I was reminded of Antonio Spinelli’s fluid motions, his clacking lighter, the smoke framing his face. Michael was less intense. My observations could have been colored by my sexual indifference. Sometimes, between two people who shared so little heat, a cigarette was just a cigarette.