L.A. Success

by Lonnie Raines

  “I can’t thank you enough Gertie.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. The hardest is still to come,” she said as she backed away. I waved and she turned around and left. I stayed there for a while trying to imagine myself as a big shot down there, making deals and scooping up armloads of money.

  As I rode the tram back down the mountain, I thought of a way I could save the Helen situation. Now that I was working for Gertie, I had a real reason to be following her around, and I could even introduce Helen to Gertie if she didn’t believe me. Even the hair removal fit with the story—I couldn’t meet clients looking like a hedgehog after all.

  I whipped out the shit phone and called Helen. No one picked up, and when I tried to leave a message all I could hear was the crackling of bad reception. Anyway, she’d probably delete anything I left without listening to it. I thought about going over there directly, but that had the potential of ending in a restraining order—not that it would hurt my new career. But then I thought if she got an email from me, she’d at least have to look at the subject line before trashing it. That would give me about five words to work with.

  21

  I got in my car and drove up the four levels to the exit. Along with traffic-jammed highways, big underground parking lots are the main places I start to get panicky. All those cars coming in and out, and no air flowing through there. I usually try to hold my breath for a while, but when I start getting blue in the face, I end up gulping in a huge gasp of pollution. That’s the weird part about L.A.—you always feel stuck somewhere in pollution. You got this beautiful city surrounded by desert on one side, the ocean on the other, and covered with a lid of smog. And then you get stuck on the highways, in the parking lots, in the stores. But then, once or twice a year, we’ll have a big rain, and it washes the sky and the city clean, and we all stand around looking at mountains and landscapes that are normally covered up by the smog, and it’s as if the whole place has just had some perfect plastic surgery, and we know we’ll never move away.

  The highway looked jammed packed, so I felt like staying off it. I turned south on Sepulveda, drove down to Wilshire, and then headed east. I passed through Beverly Hills and by all the swanky streets, shops and car dealerships; and even though I think it’s overrated, I took a long look at the Beverly Wilshire hotel. I only liked looking at this place because of that romantic movie about the whore. Here was this expensive hotel with the dirtiest kind of doing going on. But to look at it was weird, because the ground-level part was really fancy with all sorts of architecture crap, but then the upper levels looked like a dirty brick building from St. Louis. You go to the lobby and you’re thinking, wow, here I am in Beverly Hills, yea! Then you get to your room and it’s all East St. Louis and whores.

  22

  I headed toward the Beverly Center because I was on a mission from Gertie to buy a stupid pen. I got to La Cienega and turned north. The enormous gazillion-floor shopping center came into view, and I pulled into the parking lot—this time an above-ground one. I parked on the first level and then walked over to a series of escalators that ran up the side of the building. There was a glass wall along the escalators facing outside, so as I rose higher and higher I could look out over the neighborhood, and toward the top there was an unbelievable view of the Hollywood Hills.

  After the fourth or fifth escalator—I lost count—I reached the top and turned left into the mall. It was like a normal mall, except all the stores, decorations, people, food, and pets had been replaced with perfect versions of those things. If the world ever got nuked and we needed to preserve a sort of Noah’s Ark of excess, the Beverly Center would be a good candidate.

  I walked over to a map of the place and found the store on level seven. The floors were laid out in a semi-circle and flanked by enormous department stores. I wandered through the mall, surrounded by these rich people, these black holes of wealth, my eyes drawn to their cleavage, their watches, their handbags. It reminded me of something on my frog CD: when certain toads get angry or afraid, they make this nasty bark and pop up on their back feet, flashing a brightly colored stomach to make their enemies afraid. Here I was, surrounded by all these rich-people flash signs, and if I hadn’t been wearing Dennis’ clothes and been all groomed up, all that would have been directed at me, telling me I was in the wrong territory.

  I got to the Montblanc store. Two tough-looking guys in suits were standing right inside the doorway. One of them opened the door for me. I would’ve been impressed before, but now I was thinking maybe these guys were here just to make sure I wouldn’t question the quality of the goods inside. I mean, who’s going to hire security like that to sell Bics, right? You see all these suits and muscles, and you just assume this store is the best, so you don’t mind shelling out the cash. I was starting to think that everything in L.A. worked like Gertie.

  “Can I help you sir?” asked a bald man wearing a black suit. I couldn’t see any hairs coming out of his nose or ears either, and his skin didn’t have a trace of oiliness. I even wondered if he was wearing make-up.

  “Yeah, you guys sell pens?”

  “Of course. Allow me to show you our writing instruments.”

  “Nah…I already got a computer. I just need a pen.”

  “Ah, yes. Right this way then,” he said and led me over to a display case. There was a sign in it that said “writing instruments,” so at first I felt kind of stupid, but come on, if everyone talked like that, now that would be stupid. If every time I picked up my shit phone I said “excuse me, I have to actionate my communication-disrupting apparatus,” how ridiculous would I sound? But then I realized that even this held to Gertie’s principals: hide the reality with a pretty layer of deception. So I set out to buy me a writing instrument.

  The bald man took out three velvet-lined boxes and set them on the counter.

  “This is our classic line, and here it is in platinum. This third pen is our newest and features a floating emblem at the tip and a jewel-studded clip.”

  For some reason, this also felt like a test. I had the definite feeling that it was possible to make a bad choice here. I thought over how I’d be using this writing instrument. It wasn’t the kind of thing I’d be leaving in my pocket, because I knew that purposefully showing people you had money actually meant you didn’t have it. Likewise, if I took the jeweled jobby, people would think I wanted it to catch their eye when I took it out, and I’d surely be discovered as a fraud. Now, the classic was nice. When I picked it up, it felt good, and the gold and black colors looked great in my hand. But that would be like telling people “I knew I had to get one of these to impress you, so I scraped up enough dough for the minimum.”

  “I’ll take the classic in platinum,” I said without even picking it up. The bald man smiled and nodded.

  “A very reasonable choice, sir. Between you and me, this one here,” he said, pointing discretely to the jeweled pen, “appeals more to our nouveau rich customers.”

  “Who?”

  “Well, for example, rappers tend to buy this one. They seem to enjoy sparkly things.”

  As he wrapped up my little box, I braced myself for the bill. None of these things had price tags on them, which is a sure sign that people like me are in for big trouble. I decided not to wait for the bad news because from now on I was going to be in control. I took out about a fourth of Tommy’s rent money and handed it over before the bald guy could even tell me how much it cost. He seemed relieved not to have to say any numbers out loud. He handed me back a couple of twenties, and I strolled out of the place past the respectfully nodding guards.

  23

  When I got back to Santa Monica, I stopped off at the Barnes & Noble, grabbed a coffee and searched the aisles for the writing section. With all the studying I had done at Gertie’s office, lots of movie stuff had flushed right out of my head. I picked up a copy of Syd’s screenwriting book and made sure it hadn’t been stained by some moocher. I wanted to buy this one so I could look at it whenever I forgo
t something.

  When I got up to the register to pay, I whipped out my credit card. The cashier, a lovely chick of the “I-wouldn’t-normally-talk-to-you” type, rang me up and handed me the receipt to sign. I normally didn’t use my card, and I even had enough cash on me to pay for the book, but I wanted to put the writing-instrument aura into effect. I took it out of my pocket, removed the cap, and signed. I had to admit that it wrote smoothly. I looked up, caught her looking away from my hand, and slid the receipt back over to her. For a brief instant, I saw on her face a look that seemed to sum up all her financial difficulties and annoyances at having to work in a book store. This was a lot different than the normal, “don’t-even-think-about-doing-me” look that I would have gotten had I paid in cash. I thanked her and bopped out of the store, feeling like I had a secret weapon in my pocket.

  24

  Back at Dennis’, I looked up Helen’s email address by searching her school’s website. I brought up my email account, hit the “new mail” button and typed out the whole story, telling her at the end how much I missed her. Then I put the cursor in the subject box. I thought for a long time about what would get her to want to read the email. Finally, I typed “Misunderstanding. I’m really hurting.” I knew that Helen couldn’t stand the idea of someone suffering, and if she thought there was the slightest chance that she was the cause, she’d look into it.

  For the rest of the weekend I thought about how I was going to write up Gertie’s activities so that they’d make it to Spieldburt’s eyes without arousing the suspicions of his goons. A lot of it I was planning to put down verbatim, thanks to recordings I’d make with Dennis’ spy equipment. But I needed to spice everything up so that Grant would think it was worth showing to his boss. I thought long and hard about the type of stories Spieldburt normally turns into movies until the perfect idea came to me.

  25

  That week I started work as Gertie’s right-hand man. It would have been stressful enough already, but since I was constantly worried about putting my spy-pen recorder where it would pick up her conversations when I wasn’t with her, and then retrieving it without her seeing me, I almost lost my mind from the stress. When she let me off early on Friday, I went to rejoin my writing buddies. With my copy of Syd’s screenwriting book hidden in my jacket pocket, I got to work on my disguised report for Spieldburt. Here’s what I came up with:

  SUPPLEMENTARY TERRIAN DWELLER

  Act 1

  By Lonnie Herisson

  EXT. SWANKY BEVERLY HILLS HOUSE ON COMSTOCK AVENUE - NOON

  A 1978 Yellow Eldorado Biarritz pulls into the driveway. The car doors swing open and out step GERTIE ELLIOT, a 60-something real-estate agent dressed conservatively in a gray skirt and white blouse, and LONNIE HERISSON, a short, round man with very thick dark hair and a nicely groomed unit. Any reasonable woman would want to do him.

  They step to the front of the car. GERTIE adjusts LONNIE’s tie.

  GERTIE ELLIOT

  Now remember: You’re my husband and we met at church. You’re an accountant.

  LONNIE HERISSON

  Why an accountant?

  GERTIE ELLIOT

  Because no one ever asks accountants questions about their jobs. It’s the perfect cover. Now look, I’ve put a lot of effort into this couple, so just follow my lead. I’ll be selling this house in no time.

  LONNIE HERISSON (VOICE OVER)

  And once I have the evidence that you’re cheating on your lover, I’ll stop pretending to be your real-estate assistant and return to being Dennis Bates, Private Investigator. Ha ha ha!

  They walk up to the door of the swanky house and ring the bell. BRANDI POWELL, a 25-year-old blond whose presence causes most men to enter into a pre-orgasmic state, answers the door. She is wearing tiny shorts and a black midriff top. Upon close inspection, one could see, if one were curious to know such things and one knelt down very quickly in front of her pretending to have dropped something, that there was no lint of any color in her belly button.

  BRANDI POWELL

  (Smiling, with a tone as artificial as her sweet, gravity-defying chest)

  Gertie! So nice to see you again! Glad you could make it for lunch. And finally, we get to meet the love of your life!

  That was LONNIE’s cue to direct his gaze north to her eyes. Now having the complete picture of her, LONNIE realized she was not a classic beauty, but rather a collection of pieced-together sexual stereotypes copied from whichever starlets happened to be making the latest waves in Hollywood. He still wanted to do her very badly.

  LONNIE HERISSON

  Thanks for inviting us over. I can’t believe you want to sell this place. It’s amazing.

  GERTIE shoots daggers from her eyes toward LONNIE.

  BRANDI POWELL

  Oh no! I’ve spent months having people decorate this house. We’re not going anywhere. Why don’t you come in? Jefferson is waiting for us in the living room.

  They follow BRANDI into the house. JEFFERSON POWELL, a sixty-something, white-haired grandpa who gravity has not spared, sits with his legs crossed, a drink in hand, and a smile on his face that only a man banging BRANDI could have. He rises to his feet to greet his guests.

  JEFFERSON POWELL

  Gertie! Looking as lovely as ever.

  GERTIE ELLIOT

  You old charmer, you!

  GERTIE and JEFFERSON hug for what seems to be an instant too long.

  GERTIE ELLIOT (cont’d)

  (Pointing with her thumb toward LONNIE)

  I brought the bigger half with me.

  The gentlemen shake hands firmly and exchange pleasantries. JEFFERSON maintains constant eye contact during the conversation, preventing LONNIE from sneaking peeks at BRANDI, but after almost a minute of this visual game of chicken, LONNIE cracks and whips his eyeballs toward the cleavage and back. JEFFERSON smiles coyly to acknowledge his victory.

  INT. THE POWELL’S DINING ROOM - LATER

  Lunch is almost over. The kitchen staff take away the emptied plates and serve the coffee. LONNIE is unhappy with the small size of the cups and downs one after another, causing the server to return frequently for refills. BRANDI is telling the story of how she and JEFFERSON first met.

  BRANDI POWELL

  I was about to give up on my modeling career and go to massage school when my agent called. El Pollo Loco needed a girl to advertise for its Santa Monica location. They wanted me to walk around on the beach in a bikini wearing a costume chicken head, wings and feet.

  JEFFERSON POWELL

  It was love at first sight. I was there at the beach—

  BRANDI POWELL

  (Interrupting)

  With that horrible woman!

  JEFFERSON POWELL

  (Giving a conciliatory nod)

  My fifth wife.

  BRANDI POWELL

  (Indignantly)

  Who later accused my Jefferson of being a cradle-robbing pervert! It was so ridiculous. I mean, with my chicken head on he couldn’t even see how old I was. For all he knew, I could have been older than that 30-year-old hag by his side!

  LONNIE has missed most of that exchange, as he is battling away the frightening yet seductive prospect of doing a humanoid, bikinied chicken. He realizes his brow is covered with sweat and wipes it dry.

  BRANDI POWELL (cont’d)

  He managed to slip a business card into the back of my bikini bottom while his wife was taking a picture of us together. And then he whispered something so cute!

  (Nudging JEFFERSON)

  Go on, tell them!

  JEFFERSON POWELL

  (Feigning embarrassment)

  No…I couldn’t. Well, okay. I said “cluck you later.”

  GERTIE ELLIOT

  Aw! That’s so sweet. What a beautiful story.

  LONNIE feels the effects of the eight cups of coffee he has just drunk.

  LONNIE HERISSON

  (Standing up)

  Could you point me to the restroom?

  INT. THE POWELL�
��S GUEST BATHROOM - MOMENTS LATER

  LONNIE splashes water on his face in the sink and then pats himself off with a hand towel. He steps over to the toilet and begins to drain the lizard. He lifts his head toward the ceiling and lets out a sigh of relief. Then, as he gives a quick check to make sure the aim is still good, he sees a rapid, darting shadow in the toilet bowl. Afraid, he stops his stream and jumps back from the bowl. He begins to lean forward to look inside when there is a soft knock at the door. He puts away his smooth unit and opens the door.

  BRANDI steps in quickly and shuts the door behind her. She looks worried.

  BRANDI POWELL

  (Whispering)

  I have to talk to you, but you have to promise not to say anything. Sometimes I think I’m just imagining things, and I don’t want to hurt anyone if it’s not true.

  LONNIE HERISSON

  Okay, I won’t say anything.

  BRANDI POWELL

  I think our spouses are having an affair. It’s just eating me up inside. These have been the happiest five months of my life, and I can’t stand the idea of all that commitment being for nothing. Have you noticed anything strange?

  LONNIE HERISSON

  No, I haven’t, but I’ve been working a lot lately.

  BRANDI POWELL

  We’ve got to start working together to keep tabs on them. If you notice anything, call me. I’ll do the same.

  LONNIE HERISSON

  Of course.

  (Trying to look as weepy as possible)

  How did this happen?

  LONNIE opens his arms wide. BRANDI enters them and hugs him. LONNIE rests his head on her love pillows and his hand on her fantastically firm posterior. After this touching moment, BRANDI, with a sympathetic look, exits. LONNIE walks with difficulty over to the sink and begins delicately unzipping his pants. Another knock is heard. A smile comes over LONNIE’s face. He rushes over to the door and opens it. His expression changes to one of disappointment when he sees that it is GERTIE. She pushes her way in.