Her hair looked like shit, but with any luck the focus would be on all the leg she was showing. She stepped back into her ugly work shoes, she’d change into her Jimmy Choo pumps in the car—no way she was going to leave those for Lyn to find—and then hit the only club in Marburg where anyone who was anyone would ever show up.
The vestiges of a velvet rope drooped in front of the Marquee, put there by the original owner who had grandiose dreams of long lines. A heftily built bouncer with a buzz cut sat on a stool, spinning a keychain around his finger. He was more useful than the velvet rope; the Marquee sat on the other side of the literal railroad tracks, fights and stabbings were common enough they didn’t make the news. Melanie gave the bouncer’s biceps a squeeze as she walked past him, no fucking way she was going to pay a cover, even if the club was stupid enough to charge a single woman to get in. The bouncer had long since stopped flexing his muscles in expectation of her touch. He knew she wasn’t going to put out, but he held the door for her anyway. Melanie practiced a new smile on him, the one that said elegant, challenging herself, because after nine hours of slipping in deep fryer fat she felt anything but.
The room was running as if a capacity crowd was present. The sheer size of the place a pipe dream of the founder, who after two club bankruptcies was reportedly making good money delivering essentials like bottled water in BPA free containers, kale salads, and high quality weed to in town actors. Some kind of techno pop fusion blared from an overburdened sound system, rattling Melanie’s teeth.
The place was actually pretty busy for midweek, no doubt the word getting around about the location shoot for the new television series. Wannabee actors and actresses would be at the club angling to get spotted by some casting director for a role as an extra in a walk by or crowd scene, or, hope against hope, a U-5, a union category of up to five lines of dialogue that could in some cases actually get you a screen credit.
Melanie was here for basically the same reason, but she had much loftier goals, wanting to slip past all the paying your dues bullshit, at least as far as it came to small roles. Although even she had no illusions that some dues of the more personal kind would have to be paid.
The club was brighter than usual. The new owner, an actor has- been himself, had turned on every bulb in the place, maybe discovering for the first time how few of them worked. Melanie was sure the irony of the club name and the dead bulbs was probably lost on him. The place looked more like an old movie theater in need of a face lift, gaudy, Marburg’s attempt to imitate the look and feel of some imaginary New York City club by someone whose only view into New York was watching Saturday Night Fever.
Melanie bypassed the main bar, only gawkers hung out there, and skillfully wove through the crowd toward the back room, not really a separate space, but an L-shaped extension of the club. Along the way she spotted half a dozen actors who actually had a few credits. One girl, who definitely had not been carded on the way in, but should have been, had already cut an album that was getting good airplay. Others were the countless men and women who were in some way associated with television and movies: actors, writers, stage hands, gaffers, dancers, costume designers, caterers—the cast of the cast of the industry. Some were no doubt at the club because they were part of tomorrow’s shoot, others were here because it’s where people from the industry hung out in Marburg.
A few of them nodded to Melanie as she passed, two even worked at the same restaurant as she did. No real smiles, especially from the women, seeing Melanie just as she saw them, as competition. She spotted a guy who dressed like an FBI agent but who was actually the local source for ecstasy, molly, and the drug of need for actors, amphetamines. He’d get you plain old coke, but that was a little passé these days, even here in the relative boondocks. In the corner of the back room, a guy who looked like a doctor, because he was a doctor, sat at a table, nothing but a small pad in front of him, a line beginning to form for this modern day version of a house call, where after a five minute consult he’d write a fully legal prescription for Ritalin, speed you could carry around with impunity because the bottle had your name on it.
The savvier part of the crowd gravitated to the back, most of them aware of another private room beyond this one. Melanie had only been in there once, and hadn’t stayed long when it was pretty clear that the young director who had invited her was only interested in getting some head, ammo that Melanie saved for producers, or at least directors who had a better track record.
Melanie didn’t spot Jason, so she headed for the smaller bar in the back. There were two empty stools, one next to three good looking but amateur college boys, and the other in the midst of a bunch of what looked like accountants. Melanie slipped between them, catching a few glances, and then she twisted on the stool, crossing her legs, letting her dress ride up a little, making subtle adjustments to her posture until she was sure that every man who could see her had checked her out. It was another challenge, like the smile; she was disappointed whenever she couldn’t get the entire room to at least look.
Tonight was easy, she didn’t even have to do the heel dangle. When she had hit her goal she turned to the barmaid. “Hey, Fiona.”
“Bosses suck,” said Fiona, putting a Southern Comfort down in front of Melanie without being asked.
“I feel for you,” said Melanie.
“The douchebag wants me to close every night this week. Which means I’m working three doubles in a row. Just so he can be with that slut.”
Melanie took a sip of her drink and nodded understandingly.
“I have a three year old kid,” Fiona continued. “Does he care what a pain in the ass it is to find somebody to watch her every night?”
One of the college boys called out, and Fiona rolled her eyes. “Speaking of a pain in the ass . . .” She headed off down the bar, in no particular rush.
Melanie listened in on the accountants. “ . . . if we can combine the Marburg production incentives with the state tax credits and the lodging tax rebate, we can save almost twenty percent on location shooting costs.”
“Still need to factor in the higher union scale for the crew.”
“Sure, but that’s a wash with the kickback, excuse me, the cash rebate.”
“The talent isn’t going to like it.”
“Fuck em. Only one big name to worry about, and he’s going to have his mind on other stuff.”
There was a general round of laughter, and the conversation drifted to more accounting talk. Melanie had actually followed quite a bit of what they had said. Just because she wanted to act—wanted to be what the accountant had called the talent—didn’t mean she was stupid. She’d taken a few classes on entertainment accounting at one of the larger universities in Boston—well, she hadn’t taken them, she’d snuck in, no one checked or seemed to care—and had learned quite a bit about how production companies made money, hid money, and, if they were fronts for not so legitimate businesses, lost money on purpose to create tax havens or launder cash.
Already the night had one good outcome. The accountant was likely talking about Shock and Awe, the series they were doing location shoots for, about a young rat pack group of hackers. It sounded like the show might be in town for a while, which meant more opportunities for her to hook up with Jason, who had been cast as one of the leads, his first big role after a few years of off Broadway, regional theatre, commercials, and the usual run of supporting cast roles.
Shock and Awe was being produced by the wildly successful movie producer Scott James, and Jason was also being seriously considered for the lead role in one of his new movies. That would be the leap to the big time that every actor salivated over, since even a flop Scott James movie could make your career from just the visibility and the contacts you’d make.
Not many people knew this, since Scott James kept his casting under wraps until the last possible moment. Melanie knew it for a fact, because she had been giving Jason some pretty good oral, or so she thought, but obviously not good enough s
ince he had taken a call from Scott James in the middle of one of her ministrations. Jason waited until Melanie had finished him off, and then he had matter of factly told her he wouldn’t have time to reciprocate, or probably ever set foot in her dump of an apartment again, because he’d be moving to LA.
And yet, here she was, hoping he’d walk in, Jason being even more a possible ticket for her now than when he had been cast in the television show. Any halfway decent looking girl could hook up with a new series lead, but a Scott James star, that was something else entirely. Jason moved to LA only to find out that the shooting for the series was going to take place on the East Coast, and in Marburg of all places, where he had spent years doing exactly what Melanie was doing, trying to connect with industry people in town for the film festival or summer theater.
Fiona drifted back, expertly replenishing the accountants’ drinks. Melanie was impressed by how she turned on a good smile for them, sucking up her anger over her boss, knowing the smile, some banter, and maybe a brief touch on the hand would get her a bigger tip. Melanie automatically filed Fiona’s smile away, it was a good one for her own repertoire, a big flash of teeth, the mouth a little open, inviting, followed quickly by a comment, so it looked natural. Now if Fiona could just sparkle the eyes . . .
After Fiona finished with the accountants, she turned to Melanie, flicking her head toward the other end of the bar. “The college boys offered to buy you another drink, and take care of your first one too. I took the liberty of telling them I thought you were waiting on someone. I figured you didn’t want to have to deal with pawing barely legals. I can go back and tell them otherwise if you want.”
Melanie hadn’t paid for a drink in years, but she was picky about who she drank off of. “Thanks, you did right. The blond one is cute though.”
Fiona flipped back her hair. “Letting a cute guy at a bar buy me a drink is what got me pregnant the second time.” She poured Melanie another Southern Comfort. “I’ll run a tab until you decide who is going to pick it up.”
“The night is young,” said Melanie.
“Tell me about it. I’m dead on my feet already.” Fiona glanced over Melanie’s shoulder. “Hey, isn’t that Michael Stevens?”
Melanie casually swiveled back to the crowd, it wouldn’t do to appear too excited, even over a big name star like Stevens. He was sitting in one of the corner tables, with another middle aged man in a suit and a younger guy. Stevens looked as good in person as he did on the screen, a little shorter maybe, but virile, a little gray giving him some gravitas. “Yes, that’s him.”
“I heard he’s a sleaze, I’m not sure where, TMZ maybe.”
Melanie sipped her drink. “He is.”
“You know him?”
Melanie shrugged. “Guys like him.”
“I read he sleeps with women and promises he’s going to help their careers but never does anything, just strings them along, then dumps them when he’s tired of them. I can’t believe women fall for that.”
Melanie turned back to Fiona. “They do it because it works.”
“Really?”
“How do you think a lot of the actresses in Hollywood got their first role? Or their bigger role? They sleep with someone. Have you been to LA? Half the women look like they could be in the next Maxim, and the other half have been in Maxim. The women have to find a way to stand out from the crowd.”
“Still,” said Fiona. “He sounds like an asshole.”
Melanie nodded her head toward the accountants. “Are you planning on sleeping with one of them?”
“What? Of course not.”
“But you gave them a big smile, flirted a little with them. Don’t get me wrong, I do the same thing at the restaurant. It’s a game. You’re promising something you aren’t going to deliver. Everyone understands, no one gets pissed off or hurt. But I’m sure you’ve slept with customers before. You gave them something. Even if the odds are low, guys will keep trying. So will women.”
“I guess you’re right. But I’m not powerful, I don’t have much to offer.”
Melanie’s smile was genuine. “Don’t sell yourself short. Never underestimate what you’re worth.”
Fiona was looking back at the men at the table. “Who’s the younger guy with him? He’s hot.”
“His name is Jason Ayers. He and Stevens are shooting a new series. Jason is basically a younger version of Stevens, he’s got just as much asshole potential.”
“You know him too?”
“Biblically.”
“Hmm,” said Fiona. “You think he’ll pick up your tab?”
Melanie downed the rest of her drink and stood up. “That’s a good question. Let’s find out.”
“ You’re not gonna cause a scene, are you?”
“Are you kidding? There aren’t enough people in here to make causing a scene worthwhile.”
Stevens was facing out toward the room, so he noticed Melanie first. She didn’t strut or wiggle or act suggestive, that always looked too forced. She didn’t know Stevens’s favorite type and really didn’t care. Fiona was right, he was a sleaze. If none of the other women he’d slept with could parlay him into a role, neither could she. Being a realist had saved her a lot of wasted sex.
Stevens did check her out, maybe because she was approaching with purpose, not some wide eyed star. Jason had noticed her too, a frown flashing across his face, Melanie getting a sudden urge to make a fuss, just to see his reaction, see how he’d handle it in front of the big shots.
Quickly dismissed the idea; it would be fun but she’d waste the chance with Jason, who could still be her ticket, especially if the series and the movie peaked at the same time.
The men stopped talking when Melanie reached the table, not especially annoyed, she was attractive enough to get her few seconds of opportunity. “Mr. Stevens, sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to say hello to my old friend Jason. Jason, it’s been a while.” She gave them all the business smile, the one that said: I’m being polite, now show me it’s worth my time to stay here and talk to you.
Jason glanced over at Stevens, who was unabashedly staring at Melanie. He was a star, he could afford to ogle. Melanie thought Jason looked good, the same killer blue green eyes, the square face that was not quite perfect, making him more approachable, more alive, no chiseled model. He even had the dense, dark eyebrows, not really Melanie’s thing, but very much in vogue. His haircut was better, and so were his shoes, he must already be on payroll.
Jason, perhaps taking his cue from Stevens, not shooing her off, finally acknowledged her. “Melanie.”
“You know this beautiful young lady?” asked Stevens.
Melanie marveled at the pitch of the question, just the right tone to get Jason to give up exactly how he knew Melanie, or more specifically, whether he had slept with her. Stevens might be a sleaze, but he sure could command his voice, something else Melanie was working on. Unless Jason had matured a lot in the last year, he’d have no chance in this contest against Stevens, so Melanie jumped in. “Jason and I go way back, Mr. Stevens.”
Stevens’ eyes narrowed just a bit. Anyone else might have missed it, but Melanie studied actors, she had surprised him with her own perfectly pitched volley, pregnant with implications, and by taking a bit of control of the conversation.
“Call me Michael. And it can’t be that far back. You’re too young.”
Just the way you like them, thought Melanie. Now she batted her eyelashes dramatically, play acting for them. “Oh, Michael, you say the sweetest things.”
Melanie had ignored the third man, as had Jason and Stevens once the verbal sparring had started, the age old competition of preening. The third man didn’t count in all this, he was just a suit.
Jason was still frowning, marring his striking features, he’d caught on to Melanie’s game. “We’re kind of busy here, Melanie.”
“Nonsense,” said Stevens. “Would you care to join us?”
A lot of women would have jumped at that, but Mel
anie wasn’t going to appear easy to get, and the last thing she wanted was to let Jason think she’d been claimed by Stevens, it would spoil her plan. “That’s so kind of you, but I’m sure you all have some business to discuss.” Hoping that Jason realized what was happening, she was turning Stevens down, surely even Jason would understand the implications. Not wanting to leave it to chance, she added, “I hope to see you around soon.” She directed the comment to the table, but she was looking directly at Jason, and now she was talking with her eyes, the magic sparkle, the same look of unspoken promise she had used the first time she had snared him.
But Jason had turned to the suit, he’d missed it. “You were saying something about finding some seedy places for location shoots? I might have a few ideas.” He turned to Melanie. “Or better yet, Melanie might. Still living in that same dump, Mel?”
Melanie thought she did pretty good holding it together, Jason trying to put her down, making it clear there was nothing she could do for him, he didn’t need her. And at the same time signaling to Stevens and maybe even the suit that she wasn’t worth their time.
So Jason would be a tough nut to crack. Not that she hadn’t expected that; he had something she wanted, and they both knew it. She actually relished the challenge. “You always were more comfortable in dangerous situations than I was,” she said, building him up in front of the other men. “I moved out of there.” Melanie thought fast, what would be a place that Jason would think of as nicer but also believable? Of course she hadn’t moved at all, still in the same hellhole.
Jason took the bait, or maybe he was testing her. “Oh? Where to?”
Melanie needed something upwardly mobile, neat, stylish. Like someplace her sister Gigi would live, a neighborhood with successful professionals, art studios, chic boutiques, trendy restaurants . . .
“Lakeview,” she said, which was perfect, because it was in fact where Gigi lived. “I’ve got a nice garden apartment. Quiet, a corner unit, away from the pool.”
Random Revenge (Detective Robert Winter Book 1) Page 3