Devin laughed. “I’ll move somewhere you like better.”
“That’d be thoughtful. Thank you.”
“I better drive.”
Devin looked at the clock on her dash – suddenly this evening that meant so little to her actually meant a lot. And damn if she wasn’t going to get home in time to look like a million bucks.
7
“Sis!”
Sis Warren was met in the hallway by a stressed looking Marty Sherman, the show’s director.
“What now?”
“I’ve got fifteen minutes before a scheduled crew break and Ray Kitson is nowhere to be found. We need to run through the Speilberg film tribute.”
“I’ll handle it.”
And with that, Sis Warren was in full producer mode - running the ship, putting out fires, making things happen.
Sis marched through the various narrow overlit cinderblock hallways backstage until she got to a door with the name Ray Kitson on it. She knocked.
“Ray...”
No answer. She tried again. “Ray it’s Sis... We need you.”
She glanced at her watch. If they went into crew break it would cost them a few grand in penalties. She sighed. Finally she tried one more time. “Ray... Come out here right now or I’ll tell your wife when I see her tonight all about what’s happening in your room right now.”
With that the door opened. And a smiling Ray Kitson stood in front of her, bare-chested wearing only a towel and smoking a cigar. He was a handsome fucker, with the craggy sturdy good looks of a slightly worn action star, and the piercing blue eyes that made the ladies love him.
“You, my darling Sis, are hilarious.”
“Ray, we need you onstage in three minutes.”
“Done.”
“Get dressed.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“And ditch the bimbo, the extra, the hooker, the seat filler, the P.A., whoever she is.”
The door opened a crack wider and a 20-year-old blond girl who could have been any of those things crept out in front of Sis, as if that would make her seem invisible.
Ray grinned and chomped on his cigar. “How ‘bout I drop this towel and give you a good look, Sis.”
“Sorry, love, but I don’t have my magnifying glasses on me. Get dressed.”
Ray laughed and smacked her on the bottom. “You Brits are a saucy lot.”
Sis Warren shook her head as she walked back down the corridor. Ray Kitson was such an asshole. How she had gotten stuck with that arrogant prick hosting the show this year was beyond her. And why she begrudgingly liked him so much was mystifying. They had met when she produced an action film twenty or so years ago after her highbrow films started flopping. Their first few days of shooting she thought he was the world’s biggest jackass, but later on she noticed things - like how this same jackass gave all his backend points, worth millions of dollars, to the crew to split. And he paid for a children’s playground to be built in a run down part of Louisville they’d been shooting in. …That said, the man was still an arrogant prick.
Sis glanced around the hallway and ducked into the ladies room. She locked the door behind her. A quiet place at long last. Taking a deep breath, she walked over to the sink and had a look at herself in the mirror. She had gotten a call this morning at 7:25 telling her the teleprompter had cacked out and two of the cameraman had called in sick. The usual last minute nightmares.
So despite what she was in the middle of, she had no choice but to get to the theater and fast. Which left her with one little problem, she still had blood all over her blouse.
Sis checked under the two stalls for feet then locked the bathroom door.
She looked at herself in the mirror and pulled off her navy Talbot’s sweater. She gazed at the pale blue Jones New York blouse she had on underneath for a moment - the streak of blood across the chest and the deep crimson stain on the sleeve. She felt oddly unmoved by the sight. But that really had been the point. She had to know she could do it.
She unbuttoned the shirt and slid it off. Then, catching herself in the mirror in her bra, she quickly put her sweater back on. Not that any one else could see… but she could.
How her Andy had ever loved that body of hers was beyond her. But he had.
Together 30 years, Andrew Warren, famous Hollywood director 15 years her senior, had loved her, from the moment he met her. And she felt the same.
When Sis had arrived home that night 8 years ago and found the note he’d left, she’d searched frantically for him – in the pool house, in his office, the garage where he liked to tinker on his 1967 MG.
She knew what he’d done. But didn’t know where he’d done it. She was desperate. She called the police but what could they do? And what could Sis do? All she had was a suicide note and a silent house.
She’d seen the change in him a few years before. As he got older he found less and less work. His work devalued and dismissed. His beautiful soul reflected back to him as useless and not necessary. It killed her to see his spirit crushed slowly. And she was helpless to stop it.
So that night when she opened the door to find a policewoman standing there and heard the words, “Andrew Warren, car parked on Mulholland, carbon monoxide poisoning, probable suicide…” She already knew. And it tore at her to think that Andy went out of this world looking over the twinkling lights of Hollywood, the place that killed him.
When her Andy died, Sis Warren died too. Who she became was a person who looked and acted and sounded like Sis Warren, but lacked the interior required to really be. Who was she anymore without his love? She didn’t exist.
And last year when she stood on that stage at the Hollywood Screen Awards, the show she herself was producing, and accepted that lifetime achievement award for her husband and accepted the faux sycophantic admiration for her Andy from the same cold blooded killers whose indifference caused him to take his own now seemingly worthless life, when she spied among the looks, a few of pity, for her and for Andy – something turned in her. And the years of ache let forth a torrent of rage. It was them. Every one of them who killed him and she would make them pay. Everyone knew after all. They knew he didn’t have it anymore and killed himself. Or that’s how history rewrote it. He took on the mantle of failure they forced upon him and no matter what awards were given to him posthumously, that stain seemingly couldn’t be undone. So that night - a year ago tonight almost to the day - with the cold unbeating heart she now possessed due to the loss of the love of her life, she stood backstage, her hands gripping the award and her throat tight with grief and love and hate, she vowed they would pay for what they’d done to him. And they would never see it coming. People had no idea what it took to produce a blockbuster movie – the equivalent of raising a skyscraper, but under more duress. Taking down Hollywood – that was going to be easy for her.
All she needed was the right man for the job, and that afternoon a few weeks later, at the Beverly Hills Gun Club, when she met her new instructor, the former military man with the same dead eyes she had herself – Richard his name was – she knew she had found a kindred spirit to make this happen.
Sis turned the cold water on in the sink in front of her and let it run. She placed the blood soaked blouse under the running water.
Sis felt oddly calm. Strangely guilt free. As she had earlier this morning - she felt nothing when the gardener said good morning, felt nothing as she crashed the shovel down on his head and felt nothing as she did it again two more times.
Standing at the sink, she shook off the memory and told herself when she turned the tap off, she would never think of this again.
She wringed out the shirt, carried it over to the garbage can and shoved it in.
Then she washed her hands, dried them and looked in the mirror.
Yes, this was going to work out just fine. Tonight would be everything she’d planned. And what she planned was revenge.
8
A trying not to get stressed out Devin was about over
this traffic nightmare, as her car headed along Melrose towards La Cienega, but when she got there to turn north it was packed.
“Damnitty fuckfuck!”
She flicked the radio on, maybe that would calm the situation. But every song was annoying.
Baby, it’s you you you-
“No.”
She pressed another button.
Listen up Ho’s and Playas-
“Not really.”
Hit me baby one more-
“Please no.”
Tie a Yellow Ribbon
“Oh my God. What year is it??”
She clicked the radio off.
Finally, she got to Crescent Heights – the main street leading up to where she lived in Laurel Canyon. The most likely street to take, but Devin never took this street. She couldn’t. She’d always bypass it and go to Fairfax.
However, today the traffic in front of her on Melrose had all but stopped and she had no choice but to turn up Crescent Heights. Something she hated doing. A street she hated being on.
A few minutes later, when she got to Crescent Heights just above Willoughby, she remembered why - the light ahead turned red and there she was, looking at exactly what she didn’t want to see. The small Spanish style bungalow with the big picture window, 120551 Crescent Heights. She had walked out that night, taken all of her things and never went back. That night. Ten years ago next month. She knew Christy’s parents would call her on that day. Or she would call them. This is what they did every year since it happened.
Even though Devin hadn’t known Christy that well, they were bound together always. They had become friends after meeting at a modeling gig for the Gap and hit it off right away. Bonding over a shared love of Cholula hot sauce and dislike of the modelling biz. Turned out Christy needed a roommate and Devin needed a place to live, just having broken up with a boyfriend. Back when there were boyfriends.
The stoplight up ahead on Crescent Heights mercifully turned green and Devin watched the back of the beat up red Toyota Tacoma in front of her start to inch forward. Finally Devin looked over at the house. She made herself look. She had told Janet, the therapist with the picture of the pugs in sombreros on her desk, who treated her PTSD after it happened that she had been able to drive by there. But she hadn’t. In fact, she had been able to avoid this strip of street for the most part for the past ten years. Even when she was a patrol cop, thankfully she was based out of the Hollywood division. No need to come down to West Hollywood. But now she looked. The Spanish style duplex with the red shingles on the roof and the big picture window and oversized aloe plant in front.
It all came back. She saw and felt in her mind what she saw that day when she came home from an audition - Christy tied to a chair in the dining room. The horror she felt. Then everything went black, with the smash of the pistol on the side of her head. She saw the gun in her face when she regained consciousness, and felt the ache in her shoulders and the tug of rope on her wrists as she sat tied up next to Christy on a dining room chair, the Mahogany ones with the striped seat cushions from Pottery Barn Christy’s parents when they came to visit.
She saw the man in the ski mask walk over to Christy and hold the gun to her head. Devin whispered, “Please don’t!” He in turn walked over and pulled a kitchen knife from the set by the sideboard. He held it to Devin’s face, so close she could smell the metal. “Maybe I’ll kill you first then...” She felt the coolness of the blade and a sting of a cut on her upper cheek, then the warm blood start to ooze down her cheek. A warning.
He placed the knife on the table and picked the gun up again.
Devin looked at Christy who looked back terrified, her dark eyes wide and tears staining her cheeks, she was shaking her head no. Devin held Christy’s gaze, trying to be reassuring, but what could she do? How could she get them out of this? They just locked eyes and it was everything. The simple connection of humanity. The fear. A goodbye. All of it.
Devin heard Christy say, “Please.... please don’t.”
The blast was deafening. Devin felt it inside her head and her ears and her body. It made her shut her eyes reflexively which was probably a good thing. He had pulled the trigger and shot Christy in the face point blank. Devin’s eyes opened and she watched in horror as Christy fell backwards in her chair onto the floor with the power of the blast. Devin screamed “No!” as though that could make it unhappen.
Then the guy turned to her.
But Devin heard a voice from upstairs.
“Girls! Are you okay? I’m coming down!”
It was the upstairs neighbor, their landlady Yvonne. Usually a huge busybody, Devin thanked god for that quality right now.
“Girls!!?? DEVIN! CHRISTY! Are you alright?”
Devin watched the guy in the mask. He glanced at her a second, and seemed to know there was no time to kill her too. He shoved the gun in the waistband of his jeans and leaned in towards Devin.
“You saw nothing here, bitch. I’ll come back and kill you too. Nod if you understand.”
Devin slowly nodded, but what she was really doing was making a note of every little detail she could notice.
6’2”, caucasion, medium build, muscular, wearing dark jeans and a black hoodie, spoke with a soft r like he had a speech or hearing impediment, when he got close I could smell axle grease, could be a mechanic or worked on a car or motorcycle.
He grabbed the knife off the table he had used to cut Devin below her eye and took off through the kitchen and out the back door.
Devin went into shock. She looked around desperately. She could hear her heart pounding but all else was silence.
“Christy?”
Christy had fallen sideways and was lying in a pool of blood on the floor. Devin spent an eternal moment in this eerie silence.
All she could hear was the sound of her own breathing, the ringing in her ears from the gun and the sound of blood pooling on the hardwood floor.
A minute later, she heard a pounding on the door, it was Yvonne. Devin yelled for help and Yvonne let herself in with her key, holding her cell phone to her ear, already on the line to the police. Devin saw the look on the blond 1950’s bit player turned landlady’s face with what she was witnessing, and the reflected horror of it shocked Devin back into her body.
“Oh, Devin, sweetie…” Yvonne was saying, “Oh my God…Oh my God…””
Within five minutes, it seemed, the room was filled with LAPD officers with their guns drawn. One asked Devin if the assailant was still there. Devin said no, he’d gone out the back door. The patrolman untied her while another officer administered first aid to Christy.
She heard the mid twenties Latino officer with the baby face leaning over Christy say to his sargeant, “She’s dead.”
That night Devin moved out and into the house her friend Brad shared with his wealthy boyfriend Armand in Los Feliz. She took her clothes and her books and she went. The cops sent in special crime scene cleaners, Christy’s parents came and got her stuff and they had movers come and get everything else and throw it away or give it away. And Devin never went back.
The months after that were surreal. It occurred to her to go home to San Francisco, that’s what her mother wanted her to do. But Devin had a modeling and sometimes acting career, she had built friends and she wanted to stay.
After that night, she resumed her life, the best she could. Modeling was out for the time being, what with the one inch raised red scar just below her eye.
Although, she had gone to a couple of go-sees. He agent Danny had told her “don’t worry about it…” that the small scar could be airbrushed out. People would understand, he’d said. It might even work for her – Cindy Crawford’s mole, Lauren Hutton’s gap, Devin Jones’s scar. But when Devin went into those rooms, the people who did the hiring sure didn’t look like they understood.
Even in auditions for acting jobs, people would stare at it or mutter between themselves, “Well you know what happened to her…”. Even with makeup you could
see it. She didn’t care, scars and signs of a life lived were things she found beautiful in people. That’s the opposite of how casting directors thought.
It made Devin see the business she was in for what it was. And she wasn’t impressed. To have come through what she did and be in this very surface oriented, inane world made her very much over it, intolerant to the superficial stupidity she was suddenly surrounded by.
Then two major life changing things happened – after a disastrous go-see, she ran into an old friend, a fellow model named Kryia - a household name if your household had a teenaged boy in it at the time, as she was a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model. She was also a lot of fun and Devin loved working with her. Kryia was about to leave for a year in London and some time traveling around the world, surfing, yoga, meditation all of it, so the two of them went out for a coffee to the Starbuck’s on Santa Monica in West Hollywood.
They talked for hours. Devin told Kriya all about what happened that night with Christy and how she hadn’t been the same since. She told her she couldn’t sleep and was afraid to be alone and had to see a therapist for PTSD. All the things Devin hadn’t told anyone. But Kryia was one of those people you want to tell everything to, open and understanding. So beautiful on the inside you almost forgot how beautiful she was on the outside.
As Devin told her about her experience with the casting directors and photographers who had completely dismissed her now, she started to well up. Not because they kept her from a career she wanted, but because for her, it was over. And she told Kriya, “I don’t know even know what I want anymore...”
Kriya leaned across the table, took Devin’s hand and with her other hand, she gently ran her finger along the scar on Devin’s cheek.
“I don’t know about those people,” Kriya said in her almost-gone Polish accent, “But I think this is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” She let her hand rest there, holding the side of Devin’s face. “And it could make me fall in love with you.”
Then in front of God and the entire, thankfully very gay, Starbucks in West Holllywood, Kriya leaned across the table and kissed Devin. Who after a moment of being surprised, kissed her back. It was soft and sweet and filled with such love and compassion.
This is Devin Jones Page 3