Donut Does It

by David Hudnut

  At 11:30 p.m., Tyler Hastings, 22, clocked out from his job waiting tables at Il Susso. The restaurant was buzzing with conversation, laughter and Friday-night energy. The tables were still packed with people dining on delicious, edgy cuisine, but the drinking crowd was slowly replacing them.

  Tyler walked into the back of the restaurant toward the manager’s office to cash out with his boss Giorgio Ferrazzano. When they were finished, Tyler said goodnight to the cooks and kitchen staff. Several looked up and responded in kind. Tyler was a nice guy and well-liked by his co-workers.

  Tyler had made a hundred-sixty bucks in tips from the Friday dinner crowd. He put three twenties in his wallet. The other $100, which consisted of a thick deck of singles, fives and tens, he folded up and rubber-banded into a wad. The wad went into his front pocket with his car keys. If he put the hundred dollars in his wallet, he might end up spending it. The cash needed to go in his pauper’s checking account until he had enough money to hire a professional headshot photographer.

  Like many people his age in L.A., Tyler was trying to make it as an actor in the movie business. The first thing he’d learned after arriving in town was that you needed good photos. He’d tried taking his own with his Android, but quickly discovered there was more to it than a candid snapshot from a cell phone. All of his photos resembled what he’d seen on internet dating websites. They were nothing like the slick ones he saw on the reputable casting websites.

  Tyler walked out of Il Susso into the fresh night air smiling. Another successful night at work. He spotted Veronique, the late night hostess, who stood by her podium at the main entrance.

  Tyler had a thing for Veronique. To his dismay, he had discovered that all of the male waiters at Il Susso also had a thing for Veronique, as did one of the female waiters, his boss Giorgio, and all non-gay male customers.

  Falling for Veronique was easy. At work, she was Red-Carpet ready at all times. On any given night she would fit right in with the gorgeous Hollywood A-list actresses who got decked out in exclusive designer wear for the Academy Awards. Tonight Veronique wore blood red lipstick, her hair up in sultry curls, and a form-fitting black dress that caressed her curves elegantly. Peep-toe Jimmy Choo knock-offs completed her ensemble.

  Despite her stunning appearance, Veronique was yet another beautiful nobody looking for a break.

  One of the other waiters at Il Susso had told Tyler that Veronique’s real name was Julie, but she would kill you if you called her that. Tyler was learning very quickly that it was all about image in Hollywood. He was entranced by the idea that beneath the high-gloss exterior of ‘Veronique’ hid an everyday ‘Julie.’ Although ‘Veronique’ dazzled him, what he wanted most was to find out more about ‘Julie.’ As far as Tyler knew, she was single, but he worried she wouldn’t stay that way for long. He needed to move quickly, but not too quickly. He didn’t want to appear desperate and ruin his chances.

  Nobody at Il Susso knew that Veronique was not even close to being single. She was secretly dating several different men. One was older, and had plenty of money. The second was young, and had a killer body. The third was crazy and dangerous and rode a Harley. All three men believed they were the only man in Veronique’s life. A girl had needs, after all, and in her experience, one man couldn’t fulfill all of them. That was nobody’s business except Veronique’s. She kept her dating life lock-down private at work because she was hoping to be ‘discovered’ by any of the many agents, producers and directors who came into the restaurant regularly. Passing herself off as available was critical to building her career in Hollywood. Veronique had learned that powerful men always made time for attractive single women, even if such men weren’t single themselves.

  Tyler didn’t know the truth about Veronique. If he had, he wouldn’t have been pining for her so intensely. He only knew her based on her behavior at work, which was flawlessly charming and pleasant at all times.

  The only person who didn’t like Veronique was Julie, the real person buried deeply beneath the veneer of ‘Veronique.’ Julie didn’t want to date three different guys or obsess over how to manipulate men into making her famous. All Julie wanted was to enjoy life like a normal person instead of trying to be ‘on’ all the time so she could ‘make it.’ Veronique—Julie—needed an honest, sincere man like Tyler, only she didn’t know it yet.

  “Hey Veronique.” Tyler casually loitered by the hostess podium, pretending to text someone on his phone.

  “Hey Tyler. You all done for tonight?” Veronique asked while jotting a note on her seating chart.

  “Yup, all cashed out and ready to party,” Tyler quipped.

  Veronique smiled and winked endearingly at Tyler. She and Tyler had silently negotiated a congenial platonic workplace dynamic weeks ago. Without having stated it directly, Veronique made it clear that she would not be dating Tyler. Because Tyler seemed comfortable with that boundary, she remained friendly with him and felt safe to joke around about her faux dating status without fear of Tyler pouncing on any opportunities to clumsily ask her out, or worse, fall in love with her. She did think Tyler was kind of cute, though…

  “Got any plans this weekend?” Tyler asked her.

  “Yeah,” Veronique replied grinning, “thousands of dates with rich and powerful men, all of them legitimate producers, directors and studio execs. I plan on being famous by Monday.”

  “Oh me too, I’ve got tons of dates lined up,” Tyler said.

  “Yeah, probably with the same guys I’m dating! Being bi is so Hollywood.”

  Tyler didn’t know how to respond to that. He didn’t know anything about being bi-sexual or bi-anything.

  “Well, don’t steal any of my dates,” she said sarcastically and smiled dryly. “If you do, I won’t seat your tables.”

  “As if,” Tyler grinned, hoping that the real ‘Julie’ inside of Veronique might be peeking through. Just for him. He didn’t know where Veronique ended and Julie began, so he couldn’t help himself from trying to dig a little deeper to find out. “So, ah—“

  A low, predatory rumble caught Tyler’s attention. A glistening black Maserati GranTurismo Sport pulled into the valet space in front of Il Susso. Two valets sprung into action, opening both doors simultaneously.

  A tall, coifed Mediterranean guy with broad shoulders climbed out of the passenger side of the Maserati smoothly, as if he knew that the paparazzi cameras were trained on him and rolling. He wore an open-necked dress shirt with the cuffs turned up. On the driver’s side, a striking young woman wearing an explosion of high fashion clothing and accessories slid elegantly out of the car. Even though it was midnight, she wore dark glasses. Watching the two of them was like watching a well orchestrated PR campaign for cologne or perfume. Yet it wasn’t staged. Posing was how people in the entertainment industry behaved at all times. This was business as usual in the heart of Tinsel Town on a Friday night.

  Tyler had no idea who either of them were. The guy could be a fashion magazine model who did ads for couture or Calvin Klein underwear. The woman could be a swimsuit model, an actress, or the wife of a rich sultan out with her boy toy. There were so many famous models, actors, and rock stars coming down this street every day, it was impossible to know who all of them were.

  Three men wearing loose fitting khaki clothing, carrying heavy camera bags, and holding long-lensed Nikons in front of them like assault rifles jogged across four lanes of honking traffic, firing off semi-automatic strobe flashes, snapping photo after photo of the glamorous couple. The photos would show up within one hour on internet gossip blogs like PerezHilton or TMZ.

  The couple from the gleaming black Maserati were obviously Somebodies. Tyler was enthralled by it all, and imagined that one day he might be driving a similar car, with a similar super-model on his arm. Or maybe it would be Veronique on his arm.

  Julie, Tyler thought.

  Veronique smiled wide at the mysterious power couple. “Good evening, table for two?” She winked at Tyler, a hint that he shou
ld move along and let her get back to work.

  Tyler winked back at Veronique, telling himself he would see her again tomorrow night anyway, at which time he could resume his slow burrowing past her chrome-plated exterior toward what lay beneath.

  To Julie.

  He dashed across La Cienega through an opening in traffic then walked onto a side street and headed toward the adjoining West Hollywood neighborhood where he’d parked before work. The neighborhood had an upscale suburban quality reminiscent of Tyler’s hometown of Bloomfield Hills, but also had a smattering of $800-a-month apartment buildings sandwiched between the million-dollar condos, and every block was crammed full of enough parked cars to fill a Walmart parking lot. The streets were surprisingly quiet at night but had a creepy quality that Tyler could never quite identify.

  “No matter how nice it seems, it’s still Los Angeles,” his father John would remind him several times a week on the phone. “It’s the big city, Tyler, not Bloomfield Hills. Be careful.”

  Tyler tried to keep his dad’s warnings in mind. So far he hadn’t had any problems since moving to L.A. He wondered if his dad was being over-protective. Every city had problems. Even Bloomfield Hills. Look what happened in upper-middle-class Columbine. As long as Tyler was careful, like his dad said, he would be fine.

  Two blocks from his car, walking briskly, Tyler tripped on something on the sidewalk. He turned to investigate. No crack or root-lifted pads of concrete. What had he tripped on?

  He noticed a telephone pole surrounded by tall ivy bushes. Something shuffled in the darkness of the ivy and agitated the branches. A twig snapped. Probably a cat. He turned and kept walking.

  Something heavy punched Tyler in the kidneys. Then it twisted. Sharp, intense fire bloomed in the small of his back. A rough hand wrapped around his neck from behind and pushed him to the ground face-first.

  Tyler’s nose pounded into the cement and white fireworks exploded in his eyes. One of his front teeth cracked off, but he didn’t realize it. Someone fell on top of him and a heavy knee slammed into his punctured kidney.

  Tyler shrieked.

  Before Tyler could recover from the shock, cold metal pressed against his throat and sliced. His flesh fell open easily under the sharp edge. Blood poured out of Tyler. It pooled around his head and shoulders on the sidewalk and soaked through the back of his shirt.

  A hand reached into his back pocket and yanked out his wallet violently, ripping the seams.

  Tyler heard the seams popping: tiny firecracker snaps. Absently, he thought: You ruined my pants. Tyler couldn’t see who, or what, had attacked him. He heard the voice of his dad in his head: “It’s still L.A., son, be careful.”

  The pressure on Tyler’s back was suddenly released as the attacker stood up.

  Tyler’s head was turned toward the street, and he could see the man’s back as he trotted off into the shadows. Tyler noticed that the man wore sagging jeans and a white tank top. Tyler never saw the man’s face.

  Faintly, from the darkness, Tyler heard the following words: “Shit dawg, you fucked dat boy up REAL good, yo.”

  Tyler’s attacker chuckled and replied “Next muhfuckah be yours, yo.”

  The two unknown men faded into the darkness.

  Tyler tried to push himself up on all fours but collapsed when white lightning ricocheted in his bowels. He hadn’t felt any pain in his throat, but he felt very light headed and suddenly tired. Usually he was wired for several hours after working the dinner shift. He lay where he was and his mind drifted off as a blood-chill set into his bones. The eighty-two degree midnight weather would not warm him.

  In his remaining moments of consciousness, Tyler thought about his mother and father. What were they going to think? This was the last thing they would ever have imagined would happen to him when he moved to Los Angeles to become an actor.

  Tyler remembered how last night he had parked right on this same street. There had been no attacker then. Instead there had been a young couple leaning against the side of a parked Audi attempting to swallow each other’s tongues.

  He thought about the hundred bucks still in his front pocket. That guy didn’t even bother to check my other pockets. Tyler tried to spit out the word “dummy.” All that came out was a gurgley whisper. He thought about his stolen wallet. His dad had given it to him as a Christmas present two years ago and it was worth five times the sixty in cash it contained. Tyler could not know that later, after going through the wallet, his attacker would take the cash, Tyler’s Visa card—which was almost maxed out—and throw the wallet in a dumpster, unaware of its value.

  Dummy.

  The white stars in Tyler’s vision were fading, as was the faint orange streetlight glow covering him like a corrosive shroud.

  He thought about his roommates Josh and Todd. Who is going to help them pay rent next month?

  Then, a faint image of Veronique shimmered in Tyler’s mind’s eye, blotting out all his other thoughts.

  Julie…

  He could see her smiling confidently at him. He slowly realized, with a pang of regret, that he would not get to talk with her at work tomorrow. He would never get to know the real Julie.

  Julie…

  Blackness painted his eyes. He swam toward nothingness.

  Tyler Hastings had never previously met the man who had killed him on this night. His murderer did not know him either. They were complete strangers, and would remain unknown to each other for eternity.

  Tyler’s murderer will never be caught despite every effort from his father John. Over the coming year, John Hastings will spend a substantial portion of his savings hiring three separate private detectives to look into the case. All of this effort will yield nothing. No evidence, no clues, no leads, no suspects, no motives. Nothing.

  The killer will get away with it. Justice will never be served.

  Two years hence, Tyler’s mother Barbara will gently encourage John that it is time they let their son’s memory rest in peace. John will cry for two hours while sitting on Tyler’s bed in the boy’s enshrined bedroom. Barbara will sit next to him, her arm draped around him lovingly. John will hold Tyler’s 1st place Lahser High School Varsity Tennis trophy in his quivering fingers the entire time. The trophy will be damp with his tears when Barbara gently takes it from him and puts it into a box with Tyler’s other things.

  No one, not even the murderer, will ever know why Tyler Hastings was killed at the age of 22, for sixty dollars in cash and a nearly maxed-out Visa card. It was purely a random act of violence.

  It’s still L.A., son. Be careful.

  Despite John Hastings’ cautious warning, his Angel Tyler is dead.

  Another Angel will die in Los Angeles tomorrow.

  Randomly.

  The mysterious man in the white tank top and his companion will make sure of it.

  . . .

  PART 1

  THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM

  1

  LAS SOMBRAS, CALIFORNIA

  Sunrise.

  A suburb twenty miles east of West Hollywood. Twenty miles from where Tyler Hastings was murdered six hours ago.

  Although Las Sombras is not as dense as the core of Los Angeles, it is still connected directly to the heart of the city by the arteries, vessels and capillaries of Los Angeles’ highways, thruways and surface streets. You can drive from the ocean eastward 75 miles to San Bernardino or southward 75 miles to Orange County without ever getting on the colossally knotted freeway system. Buildings and businesses are crammed shoulder to shoulder the entire way. Sprawling civilization never stops. Concrete and asphalt connect it all.

  Las Sombras lies within this sprawl.

  Despite Las Sombras’ proximity to the urban density, it is still truly suburban, an oasis hidden behind the borders of the 210 freeway and Mount Wilson. It is quaint, sleepy, family oriented. Unlike much of Los Angeles, single-family homes are more prevalent here than apartment buildings, bungalows and duplexes.

  There are no mammoth
billboards with digitally air-brushed faces leering down at you with talcum-white teeth.

  The trees are taller than the business signage and outnumber cars 2 to 1.

  The streets, instead of conforming to a rigid city grid, wind and amble in lazy curves.

  Once you set foot in Las Sombras, you leave all things urban behind.

  If not for the constant rumble of wind stirred up by the river of cars and trucks on the 210 freeway, you would never know that writhing, screaming Los Angeles is minutes away.

  The township is filled with family businesses, owned and operated by a cast of eccentric locals.

  Many of the octogenarian children of the founding families are still in residence. The oral history of the town survives with them. A point of pride is the fact that many cult B-movie horror hits from the 1950s and 60s were filmed in town and the surrounding hills. Rumor has it that every one of those movies was beset with difficulty, intrigue and scandal during production. Myth has it that some of the more macabre B-movies filmed in Las Sombras were inspired by true events dug up from the city’s nefarious history. But that is only myth.

  Each summer the historic Fantasía Theater runs a festival that screens many of the old cult B-movies shot in Las Sombras. Residents who witnessed or worked on the film productions speak to packed houses after the screenings, spinning tales that captivate attending audiences. If you miss the festival, any of Las Sombras’ senior set will happily weave more tall-tales for you when you stop in Sesselman’s for an ice cream cone.

  Las Sombras is truly a world unto its own, separate but adjacent to the wilds of Los Angeles.

  If you want to raise your children in a place where your kids can walk to school safely, Las Sombras is the place to do it. In Las Sombras, you don’t have to worry about your kids rubbing elbows with the drug dealers who work the sidewalk right in front of your doorstep around the clock.