by Lonni Lees
The transformation to her magical world had begun.
There was a faint aroma of sour vomit in the theater—the tinkling sound of some rummy’s empty bottle as it rolled forward on the slanted floor. The all-night theater was a dark place that didn’t give up her secrets—a place where horny teenagers or unfaithful spouses could make out, unseen. It was a cheap night’s lodging for the homeless hordes when the flop-houses and shelters were full and the cushioned seats provided comfortable barstools for the crowd that drank their poison from brown paper bags. It was a place for dirty men to do nasty things alone, blanketed in the murky shadows.
For Meg Stinson it was a place to become….
Sylvester Stallone pushing his way to the top with sweat and muscle—
Chuck Norris winning out with wits and martial arts—
Charles Bronson righting the injustices of the world through the barrel of a gun—
Even Arnold Schwartz-its, with his goofy accent, outsmarting some villain or another, saving not only his own ass but that of the free world in one fell swoop.
This was Sabrina’s favorite place—no contest.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was dusk as Meg Stinson turned the old Volkswagen off of Laurel Canyon and headed up toward Mount Olympus. The development was one step down from the stately Mediterranean mansions of the old Hollywood or Beverly Hills, devoid of the latter’s faded glamour with its aged Spanish tile roofs and grand staircases and heart-shaped swimming pools. It was a newer place for even newer faces. Million dollar houses high atop the hills pretending at being classical Greek. Even the street names reflected Greek gods. It was Hollywood pretension at its pathetic norm, but an envious address nonetheless. Meg wanted to park farther down the hill to hide her German beater but could find no space to park so she swallowed her pride and pulled up in front of the estate. A parking attendant in a white jacket opened the car door for her and took the keys. He had a nice face and looked just like a thousand other unemployed actors who worked odd jobs waiting for the big break that never came. They parked cars, waited tables, drove taxis, turned tricks and eventually faded away. Or went back to Kansas or wherever they came from and settled for a life of selling insurance and breeding brats in the suburbs.
Dreams died in this town by the millions. But on rare occasion one would be realized. That was the carrot dangling before them, just beyond reach. It was the lottery everybody banked on, the ticket they scrambled to buy regardless of the price.
The first hour or so Meg tried her hand at working the room, as they like to say. Unsuccessfully. Assertiveness was not her strong suit, so her attempts at idle conversation fell flat. She just didn’t register with them and their blank stares and rude indifference let her know it. Meg wished she had never come. She didn’t know anyone and wondered why she had even been invited. She certainly didn’t feel as if she fit in—a total nobody surrounded by somebodies. It was awkward and uncomfortable. Her daughter Sabrina always said how proud she was of her—but even her biggest fan would surely be embarrassed by tonight’s flop.
The party was in full swing, a Who’s Who of producers, directors, an Academy Award winning composer, actresses and actors from both television and features. Today’s shining stars, tomorrow’s has-beens. A cluster of sound-alike singers chatted away as if unaware they were headed for the graveyard of no-longer-relevant—once a tv essential, they were headed for the dust bin thanks to Miami Vice. They could be The Pointer Sisters, John Fogerty, Sinatra—anyone you needed them to be, at a fraction of the cost. The original artists who would have been real budget busters. The illusion was all that mattered and this town banked on illusion. But Michael Mann had set the standard into the stratosphere with his Jan Hammer soundtrack and original recordings such as Phil Collins’s In the Air Tonight. The music was having as much impact as the stars and scripts. Audiences ate it up and budgets be damned. Thanks to Mann, a commodity Universal Studios was thrilled to have, ten thousand here and twenty grand there for sixty seconds of music was fast becoming the new television standard. And the sound-alikes? They were speeding down the fast track to obsolescence quicker than Sonny Crockett’s fake 1972 Ferrari Daytona Spider and sinking faster than his Endeavor 42 sailboat in a Miami hurricane. But even they were more “in” than Meg.
Gideon Stark from the Hollywood Reporter was there talking to the owner of this week’s trendy Beverly Hills bistro. By next week the in-crowd would discover another place, an even trendier place, to show themselves off. Everything in this town was fickle, elusive and ever-changing. The players, with the attention spans of little children, dropped one toy and picked up another, newer one whenever it caught their eye. Appearances were everything. As was being seen in the right places. Restaurants flourished, then went belly-up with their every whim. They lined up in front of exclusive nightspots, being motioned inside because of who they were while others were rudely dismissed and denied entry. A glamorous clientele made a place. And destroyed it just as swiftly. The transition from in to so yesterday could be brutally swift, the watering holes changing faster than the latest fads and fashions.
Three studio lawyers sipped cocktails and scanned the room for starlets in hopes of getting a quick lay before heading back to Encino and their waiting wives. The days of a handshake as a contract were as gone as the Baby Jane’s with their ringlets, rouge and rosebud lips. Now the studios had entire legal departments packed with attorneys who spent their days dreaming up complex contracts filled with enough legalese and loopholes that none but the most jaded and savvy could figure out that the odds were always stacked in favor of the house. The business had become as clever as a Las Vegas casino and as crooked as Washington D.C. As a rule, there was far more creativity in the bookkeeping than there was on the screen.
Alcohol and drugs flowed freely but Meg Stinson didn’t help herself to the drugs, instead motioning to the bartender to refill her champagne glass for the fifth time. She was getting buzzed. She walked through the wall of people to a life-size porcelain Buddha, leaned against its big belly and observed her surroundings.
A smallish man worked the room on his way toward her. In his one hand he held a drink while his other hand was clenched into an awkward fist at his side. He walked as if his feet were on rollers, swaying slightly from side to side as he approached. He was young, his appearance Chaplinesque. Chocolate eyes reflected uneasiness and avoided direct contact.
He was wound tighter than an old maid’s underpants.
“I should know you,” he said. “I’m sorry. Jason Mittleman. I’m with The William Morris Agency. You are beyond beautiful—it just seems I should recognize you from something…what are you working on?”
“A hangover,” said Meg.
“Not to offend,” he stammered. “It’s just—it’s just that you have that wonderful, burned-out Monroe quality. That combo of brazen sexuality and helplessness.” He tilted his head to the side as he searched for the right words. “That vulnerability—it melts men’s hearts and makes the lesbos want to devour you. It makes people want to ravage you and protect you at the same time.”
“Just go away,” Meg said.
“But I just can’t take my eyes off you. God, I’m melting…I’m melting!” Jason smiled, wiped his brow with an exaggerated gesture.
“Get lost.”
“I….”
“Leave me alone.” With the taste of Sidney Newhouse fresh on her tongue, Meg was in no mood for fending off some simpering cocker spaniel with Dirk Bogard eyes and a lame come-on.
“There’s a goldmine in your face—and your body. Soft and white, like you would rather be screwing than doing aerobics. Jeez, men are tired of humping anorexic females with plastic tits.”
Meg bristled. “Looks can be deceiving. I don’t believe in anything that promotes perspiration—including sex—and certainly not with you.”
Meg averted his gaze, focusing on the room. The scene before her looked like a Hieronymus Bosch painting, the atmosphere grotesque.
Three bodies made love in a koi pond. People intertwined on couches while others snorted coke. The room full of laughter and small talk drowned out Etta James’s smoldering voice that emanated from the stereo speakers. AT LAST, she was singing, the perfect song. So wrong, Meg thought, a voice like that deserves silent worship. Tony Savage, with his deceptive boy-next-door good looks, was free-basing at the coffee table while a handful of people surrounded him in silent admiration and others stood around in polite conversation as if oblivious to their surroundings. For a split second Tony looked up and made eye contact with her, a slight smile on his sexy mouth, a nearly indistinguishable wink from his smoldering eyes. Meg didn’t miss much, but in her alcoholic blur she had not noticed Sidney Newhouse as he approached her. The producer ignored Jason as he spoke.
“Tony wants to see you—now,” he said.
Meg gasped.
“Just what are you saying, Sidney?”
“I’m saying he wants a sample. You oughtta be flattered.”
She stiffened.
“He’s waiting!” Sidney shouted.
Heads turned in their direction.
Well, no one noticed me before, Meg thought, but they sure as hell can see me now!
She recoiled as everyone’s gaze focused on the two of them. She wanted to crawl inside herself and silently die there. What she did behind closed doors was between Sidney and herself and the rest of the world was none the wiser. Now she felt as if he had stripped her naked in front the entire room.
It had become evident why she was invited.
Jason Mittleman just stood there silently watching the script unfold before him.
Working up her courage, she said: “Are you pimping now Sidney? Tell Tony to take a flying fuck. Take one yourself while you’re at it. I’m not interested.” She turned and walked toward the front door, determined to save herself from further humiliation. The bastard had just as much as called her a whore. Her only consolation was that nobody there even knew who the hell she was. And until this minute could have cared less.
She heard Sidney’s voice bellowing from across the room. “You’re going to regret this, you stupid cunt.”
A hush fell over the entire house. Nobody wanted to miss this scene.
“Do you think you were asked here for bloody damn window dressing? Or because you’re important? You’re nothing but a nameless bit player best left on the cutting room floor.” He was getting visibly flustered as he continued his rant. “You belong in some Soho knocking shop,” he said, unaware that his audience was likely unfamiliar with his oh so British insult. “You are nobody,” he said. “You should be grateful that a somebody even wants to touch that overworked quim of yours.”
The crowd watched in silence as Meg turned to face the fat man.
“Fuck you and the big white horse you rode in on, you Limey pig,” she said, then turned and exited.
What had started as an exciting night full of promise had swiftly crumbled to ruin.
The chill night air caused her to shiver as she waited for the attendant to bring her car. The sound of footfalls caused her to turn, primed for another altercation. It was Jason Mittleman.
“God, I don’t know if you’re the biggest fool in town….”
“I know. I’m dead here.”
“…or the smartest or what but you should have heard the buzz when you walked out! Who the hell was that, they said—and they were laughing at him. What an exit! Christ, I wish I had it on tape. I would use it for your screen test.”
“I know I blew it, but….”
“Every other woman in the room would have fucked Tony Savage at the drop of a hat. Every one but you! That was pretty damn impressive. Hey, I passed out five business cards on my way out—told them I represent you.”
“How could you do that? He has the power to destroy me in this shit town.”
“Are you kidding? You’ve got balls lady and now half the town knows it—people just as important as Newhouse. Hell, we’ll just keep your interviews away from Trans-Galactica for awhile. It’s not the only studio in town,” he said, handing her his card. “So, how about it?”
Meg’s head buzzed from all the confusion and too much champagne. She got in her car. It sputtered and choked as she revved up the engine.
“A Ferrari!” she heard Jason yell as she drove away. “You’ll be driving a fucking Ferrari!”
CHAPTER NINE
Charlie Blackhawk’s Nova sped along Highway 247. It was his favorite indirect route to the mountains. Charlie liked traveling the back roads. He stomped on the gas pedal. The car lurched, immediately picking up more speed.
It knew how to mind Charlie.
He felt as if he could see forever along this flat expanse of scrub country. No fucking cops as far as the eye could see. No trouble here.
Just open space, empty and free.
Static belched from the speakers as a country station drifted in and out. But he didn’t notice. He was singing his own song as the speedometer needle rose.
“Momma’s don’t let you’re….”
Mommas. Mommas were bad! His mind raced back in time, eyes twitching to the beat of the speakers. Mommas. Mommas. The Nova had slowed to forty as Charlie Blackhawk wandered in and out of his mind’s darkest places. His squeezed his eyes tightly shut, then opened them wide as he regained his bearings. His muscles were taut, skin drawn white against his knuckles as his hands choked the steering wheel and his foot pressed hard on the accelerator. He stared ahead and felt as if he were flying as the car picked up speed. The Nova ate up the ribbon of deserted highway faster than an anteater sucking up insects.
Up ahead, he spotted a hitchhiker. What was he doing in the middle of nowhere, standing there with his thumb out and a smile on his face? Nobody was ever on this road. That was why he liked it. Charlie debated speeding up even more and hitting the guy head on, propelling him airborne and into the ditch. That would be a kick. Just to see the expression on his face as he flew bug-eyed over the windshield. Thud! Splat! But curiosity—and opportunity—got the best of Charlie, so he slowed down and pulled over. He rolled down the passenger side window and gave his best howdy-do smile as the skinny-ass kid trotted up to his car wearing a grin as big as Texas.
“Hey, thanks mister.”
“Where you headed, son?” Charlie asked.
“All the way up to Oregon.”
“I’m not going that far, but I can take you a ways in the right direction if you like. Hop in.”
The kid, no more than twenty at best, slid into the seat next to Charlie. His luggage consisted of a brown grocery bag and he smelled as if his last shower was weeks behind him. His naive grin exposed a rotten front tooth. He fished in the paper bag, retrieved a cigarette and lit it.
A Camel.
“Best damn smoke on the planet,” said Charlie, lighting his own. “How come you’re not traveling the main route? It’s gonna take a long time this way.”
“People are pretty cautious about picking up hitchhikers, so whenever I get an offer I just take it. Been doing a lot of zigzagging along the way, but I keep heading north for the most part. It’s been one cool adventure, dude,” he said. “Hey, I really appreciate your picking me up. I just hope that when I get there the job is still waiting.”
Charlie small-talked, all nice and warm and friendly, as he sized up the kid. This was going to be easy as apple pie and twice as tasty.
“What’s the job?” Charlie asked, not really giving a dead rats ass.
The kid hesitated, then shrugged. He felt he was street wise enough to read people and the driver seemed harmless—even friendly. He didn’t look like the kind who would judge him, much less turn him in or kick him back to the side of the road.
“Uh, a guy back in L.A. turned me on to it, man. There’s these dudes with a going business up there—in the national forest. Deep in the forest, if you get what I mean. They’re just looking for a few guys to guard the crops and keep people away, y’know? Sounds like easy money to me
.”
“What kind of crops?” Charlie asked.
“The kind that keep you happy and chilled out, man.”
“You mean marijuana? Isn’t that illegal?” Charlie asked, then laughed at his attempt at moral indignation.
“Hey, if it weren’t for lumber and pot, Oregon’d have no economy at all. So’s they pretty much look the other way up there. It ain’t nuthin’ like down here, man. Pretty cool, huh? Down here you’re always looking over your shoulder and the man is always on your ass waiting to bust you. Seems a waste of pig power when there’s real crooks to pick on. Shit, it oughta be legal, man—a little pot never hurt anybody.”
Except for numbing his fucking dumb brain, Charlie thought as he reached in the back for a warm beer and handed it to the kid. The kid popped it open and guzzled like a parched Bedouin who had finally reached an oasis in some endless desert. It was warm, sure, but it was damn good. They drank and talked and smoked their way along another five miles of road, and with each passing mile the kid liked this stranger more. Too bad this guy wasn’t going the whole distance. He was kinda fun.
And the free beer was a welcome bonus that eased the hunger pains.
Best ride he’d had all day. Hell, best ride he’d had the whole damn trip.
“You’re a cool guy, man, thanks. Beer is a damn good breakfast.”
“Breakfast of champions,” Charlie said. “You look kinda hungry,” he said, reaching in the back again and pulling out a bag of pork rinds. “Have some of these. It’s not much, but they are pretty filling. All that air helps fill the gullet.”
The kid downed them faster than Charlie could recite a dirty limerick, then upended the bag and shook the crumbs into his mouth, crumpled the bag and tossed it to the floor. “Thanks man, that was my first meal in two days,” he belched. “You were so cool to pick me up. Most people just drive on by.”