Sugar Valley (Hollywood's Darkest Secret)

by Stephen Andrew Salamon

  The room was moist, filled with humidity, a soiled smell pampered to Damen’s nose in a negative way; but he didn’t care, he was too happy to give a damn. Darell shot up from the couch into the humid-filled air and shouted with fear, “Damen, you scared me.”

  Damen walked up to him, not noticing that Tom Fryer was exiting the bathroom, and spoke “Guess what, Darell?”

  “What?”

  Before Damen could speak, he noticed Tom in the distance, staring back at him, like a distant memory. Tom stuck out his hand toward Damen, saying, “Oh, hello, Damen, I didn’t hear you come in.”

  Damen looked at his hand and thought about how he raped Vivian, going back to that horrible night and realizing it was long ago. He figured since he broke up with Vivian, that he might as well forgive him, allowing bygones to be bygones, and throw away his stubbornness. That’s when he replied for the first time in a sincere tone while shaking his hand, “Yeah, I just got here. How are you doing?”

  Tom was dumbfounded, understanding through Damen’s voice that everything was okay between them finally. “I’m fine. I heard something about you saying ‘guess what?’”

  Tom and Darell sat down on the couch, hearing Damen question again, “Oh yeah, guess what?”

  Darell couldn’t think of anything, trying to guess through Damen’s smile, but instead speaking, “I give up.”

  “Guess who’s going to be a nominee at the Oscars this twenty-third of March?”

  “Let me guess, um, um, Jose. Damen, I already heard the news today about Jose. He’s going to be a nominee for the Best Actor category,” Darell stated, seeing Damen sitting down in a chair next to the couch and lighting up a cigarette.

  Damen put the lighter on the end of the chair’s right arm, and gawked at Darell in confusion, and with his positive thoughts being obstructed by this new news. Damen Schultz still looked at him, asking with a very serious tone, “Who did you hear the news from?”

  “Julienne told Tom and Tom told me.”

  “Is it true, Tom?”

  Mr. Fryer lit up a cigar and blew the smoke into the humid air, colliding with Damen’s menthol smoke, dancing in a flight of integration. Tom responded, “Yeah.”

  “Wait a second, why are you asking us this? Isn’t that the reason you came over here?” Darell then started to blow his stuffy nose into a white tissue, still gazing at Damen’s mouth and eyes, waiting for one of those features to reply.

  Mr. Schultz didn’t know how to answer him, knowing his own reason for coming over here, but finding out a new situation that collided with his reason, creating utter bewilderment in his mind’s eye. Damen was shock-filled, comprehending, in this most coincidental and unlikely situation, understanding that he was now up against his ex-best-friend, the one who, in his mind, broke up him and Vivian, the one who ditched him in New York, and the one who he despises now through Jose’s deceitful exercises toward him. Yet, Damen knew he had to speak on his own behalf, so he responded, “No, the reason why I came over here, is to tell you that I’m a nominee at the Oscars. I’m in the Best Actor category too.”

  Darell sat there in amazement, and so did Tom as well, but Darell was even more intrigued by this outrageous happening, this phenomenal situation. “Wow, two friends, that are now enemies, are up for an Oscar in the same category,” Darell announced before he began laughing.

  Damen got up from his seat and walked to the doorway, saying with quickness, “Listen, I got to go now, I have to tell Chuck this.”

  Darell still sat on the couch, questioning with suspicion to his voice, “Are you coming back, Damen?”

  “Um, no, probably not.”

  Damen ran down the hallway, down the stairs, and outside of the condominium complex, when suddenly, out of nowhere, he realized he had left his lighter behind. So, he ran back into the building, up the staircase, back down the hallway, and walked back into Darell’s condo through the opened door.

  “Sorry, but I forgot my lighter,” Damen spoke, grabbing onto his lighter, but then dropping it to a dreadful sight. He noticed Darell sniffing cocaine in front of Tom, slurping it up, but then abruptly stopping at the sight of Damen’s presence.

  Tom tried to cover up the cocaine by going in front of the coffee table, obstructing its view with his figure, and grabbing the lighter, handing it to Damen calmly. Tom then spoke in a very calm, unsuspicious way, “Oh, here.”

  The point of no return was about to be had, breaking this innocent story of trust, into a hunt for clearing names, and grasping onto alibis. If Damen hadn’t left his lighter, everything would have been fine, but he did, and now all of their fate balances in each of their actions after this moment occurs. Damen gawked at Darell’s high self, questioning with aggravation, anger, hurt, and puzzlement, “What are you doing?”

  The drugs had already reached Darell’s brain, causing this reality to seem funny, amusing to his eyes and ears, grasping onto his funny-side, and showing it by him laughing toward Damen’s straight, sincere reaction. Seriousness turned to sarcasm, with Darell responding, “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  Damen couldn’t believe that was Darell, the same innocent person that he grew up with, the same innocent Darell that went with him to Sugar Valley every day. This was another human being, a creature of decay, stringing his own humor along by laughing at his own mistakes that he doesn’t know are mistakes. Finding humor and sarcasm in such a non-blissful, and serious matter, causing his own mind to laugh about it, instead of crying and getting help.

  Damen couldn’t believe it, he couldn’t believe, couldn’t accept that Darell was a drug addict, sniffing that cocaine before, and now was all wound up off of it. This belief, mask, this contradiction of Darell’s normal self, now being this misrepresentation, yet true vision of the way Darell was now, was too much for Damen’s eyes to handle, too unbearable and full of sadness. Mr. Schultz pushed Tom Fryer out of the way and saw the cocaine on the coffee table, placed on a mirror, questioning with anger, “Where did you get that from?”

  “Mr. Fryer gets it for me. Oops, I mean Tom. I always forget your name when I’m on this stuff,” laughed Darell. Tom became nervous at the thought of Damen turning against him again, feeling angered toward him for allowing Darell to do this stuff, matter, this new paraphernalia that belongs to him now, and then wanting him to pay for it, and not by currency either.

  Damen couldn’t also contemplate, and wouldn’t even consider that Tom, being his own agent, would allow his own client to do drugs; it wasn’t plausible, or even accepting to Damen’s mind. “No, seriously, where did you get this crap from?” Damen asked again, seeing Tom sitting back down on the couch. Damen turned to Tom and screamed, “And why are you allowing him to do this?”

  Darell cut into the conversation, answering for Tom, “Damen, chill out, dude, Tom gave me this because he knew the stress I was under while making my first movie.”

  “What? You’ve been doing this that long?” Damen’s voice was loud, stiff, stifling to the human ear, showing that he was powerfully angered, upset, that madness would be showing very soon. He then blew a puff of air onto the table that allowed the cocaine to blow into the carpet, with little sparkles of fiberglass floating through the air, and landing all over the condo.

  Darell laughed at Damen’s doings, speaking with pride, “You think that matters? Tom will get me more.”

  “I can’t believe that you allowed, and still allow, Darell to do this stuff,” yelled Damen.

  Tom was scared, but he knew he was caught, red-handed, so now he must come clean, and pray that Damen would like his honesty. Tom explained, “Listen, he was under a lot of stress, especially now.”

  Darell abruptly cut him off, shouting with madness, “Hey, don’t talk as if I’m not here, I’m not a child.”

  “No, you’re just stoned,” yelled Damen.

  Cramping down and up through this moist-filled air, a rapture of depressing melancholy and anger surfaced in Darell’s high mind, causing him to lift hi
s body, from the couch in a fast rhythm and punch Damen’s face. They began fighting around Tom, breaking everything in sight, having rage to their motives, and release of anger was their alibis. It was bound to happen, but Damen never thought Darell would be the one who he was going to fight tonight. This wasn’t a normal confrontation, brawl, like they used to have in the Valley, where they would wrestle, and play fight, but always hurting each other by accident. After they would cause pain, they would apologize, and then fight the next day in a wrestling, playing frenzy. But tonight was different, unconventional, peculiar, Lucifer or some malevolent spirit was present, causing these two best-friends to become ex-friends in a blink of an eye, a drop of a tear, and also caused them to break their bond, adherence, connection that they thought was strong enough to withstand the greatest of challenges. Each punch that Damen gave to him, meant tears would fall, plummet from his eyes, not wanting to induce pain or any afflictions on him but having to, only because of Darell’s abrupt, and undefined anger toward him.

  Every time Darell would punch him, he would feel a form of relief, only because he was confusing his rage with this situation, not realizing that the real person he should be hitting was the man who was still sitting on the couch and the woman who went by the name of Julienne Wells.

  Damen’s last punch caused Darell to fall on the couch, and feel languor, lassitude, fatigue, and exhaustion, permitting him not to throw punches anymore toward Damen. Finally, Damen got ahold of Darell’s shirt and dragged him into his bedroom, developing rug burns on Darell’s back that pierced at his skin like he was lying on hot coals, red-hot ones. He pushed Darell into the bedroom, closed the door and put a chair up to the doorknob, permitting Darell to be captured and trapped in his own room. Damen ran up to Tom, punched him in the stomach, and forced him to the ground by putting his arm in the back of him. This is the moment of truth, the moment where lives would be altered, and fate would be decided by human action. Damen watched Tom, and spoke in a low, but angry fashion, “You listen to me, Tom Fryer, Darell is one of my best friends, my only friend I have left. That means he is very important to me. But now, I’m pissed because I had to fight him, and all because of you. You better pray that I don’t win that Oscar, because if I do, I’m going to tell the whole world how and what you really are. I’m going to tell them about how you allowed Darell to inflict himself with drugs. Also, I’m gonna tell them about Vivian. You are a poor example of an agent, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to allow your payback to come by you later on in life. I’m gonna be the one, who is gonna be there when it comes around to you, threefold.”

  “Please, Damen, I was just trying to help him,” Tom said softly, pleading to Damen about how he doesn’t want him to tell. This is what Tom was trying to avoid, but it came out with Darell’s help, inevitably happening where there was nothing to avoid it. “Please, Damen, if you say anything, my career will be over and my freedom. They’ll put me in jail.” Tom was trying to push Damen’s soft spot, knowing if he did, then Damen would have a change of heart. “I’m an old guy, this was the first time that I actually found a client that made me the real top agent again, the top dog.... Please, don’t take that away from me.”

  Pound, Pound, Pound.

  Mr. Schultz let go of his arm, allowing him to fall on his stomach. He sat down on the couch, while listening to Darell pound on the door, and thought about what Tom said in his plea, how sincere and scared he really was. He was still a kind and gentle person, and Damen was also a person who forgave often, but when he heard Darell say in a loud scream, “Help me,” he got up from the couch and walked to the main door; his decision was final.

  Damen stopped by the entrance, the opened door, and stood in the doorway, saying with sadness, “Listen, this is for your own good, Tom. If I don’t win the Oscar, then you can be sure that I’ll announce your dark secrets after the awards. Also, when you let Darell out, please tell him I’m sorry for locking him up in his room.” He then turned around to face Tom’s frightened image, and saw the gold pen that Jose and he bought Darell for his first movie. He walked back in, grabbed the pen, and added, “Make sure you give this pen to Darell.”

  Damen ran out of the condo and out of the condominium building as fast as fame came to Darell. When he reached the café, he entered it with a sad look on his face. He went inside the café and went straight to his bed, with Chuck entering into his room immediately.

  Chuck knew something was wrong with him, walking closer to his bed, Chuck questioned, “What’s wrong? You look sad, Damen, is something bothering you?”

  “Yeah.” He explained everything to Chuck, the fight, the drugs, and the wrongdoing that Tom Fryer did.

  While Damen was explaining, Chuck began to feel the pain that Damen was going through. When he finished his story, his complicated but misery-filled problem, Chuck spoke, “Don’t worry, Damen, everything will be okay. If Darell gets any worse with drugs, then we’ll take him to rehab personally, by force.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it now, I just want to go to sleep.” Chuck grinned toward Damen’s closed, sad, and fatigued eyes, and got up from the bed. He shut off the lights and exited his room, closing Damen’s door very carefully, not wanting to disturb Damen’s sleep that he rightfully deserved.

  VIII

  The Inevitable Hunt Begins, and

  the Angel Closes Its Eyes,

  and Folds Its Annexed

  Wings For a Bit.

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Fear was shown to his eyes again, a desperate, imperative struggle that formed at his vein on his forehead, showing its blue, disgusting line, pumping blood through its body, and showing its pump by rising once a second from his forehead’s flesh. Tom Fryer was filled with trepidation, hysteria, and worry once more, not elapsing, but growing even greater than it was before, the anxiety that he tried desperately for so long to keep hidden; the fear of Damen telling the whole world what he was really like. Tom always assumed that Damen would tell on him about raping Vivian, but he never was sure about it, wasn’t certain. Well, once Damen Schultz told him that he was going to snitch, something went off in Tom’s mind, something that he couldn’t explain. It caused him to go a little bit berserk, deranged and crazy, creating and forming his thoughts into a mold of immoderate, outlandish, and drastic attempts, making him do things that a normal person wouldn’t do, or exercise.

  Once Damen left Darell’s condominium, Tom just lay there and thought in his mind, What am I going to do now?

  Following a few hours of him thinking, inspecting, contemplating, and analyzing while lying down on the ground, Tom noticed that Darell wasn’t pounding on the door anymore, that the loud annoying whacks weren’t present to his own ears. He got up, walked slowly to the door, took the chair away from the knob and opened it in a lingering fashion. Seeing Darell lying on the ground, Mr. Fryer just stared at his drugged-up, passed out body, speaking in a whisper, “The first time I find a real client that could become a star in Hollywood and stay that way, some kid comes along and threatens to take that away from me. I’m not going to allow Damen to do that.”

  He walked out of Darell’s condo, went down the hallways of the building, and exited the structure; he decided to walk home. Tom knew it was a long ways from where Darell lived, but he figured it would give him time to think about the situation that was brought on by Damen.

  Step, Step, Step, Step.

  He walked, step by step, thought by thought, trying to comprehend the situation, and trying to understand a way out of it, a way to make Damen not speak his mind to the world, and keep Tom Fryer’s name clean. He walked until morning came, seeing the sunrise in a new awesome way, suddenly making him come up with a conclusion to this anxiety-filled confusion, this anxiety-filled game of survival. He made a decision. It was a decision that he hadn’t made in a long, long time, not wanting to do it, yearning to be and think like average people, but having to do this one more time, for his own benefit.

  He got home and c
alled up an old-time friend of his, telling the friend to meet him at the place where he met him before when he made this decision, this judgment of pure sinister quality. After the call was made, he called up his chauffeur, questioning, “Where are you? I need you to come my place right now.”

  When the chauffeur arrived, Tom jumped in it as fast as the speed of water traveling down a hose, and muttered, “Take me to Fred’s Tavern immediately.” When the limo finally reached the destination, Tom told the chauffeur to wait for him, that he’d be right back.

  He walked in the tavern and noticed his friend already waiting by the bar, filled with the sleaziest, vulgar, and obscene people in leather, feeling that this place was a hangout for the dregs of society. He rushed up to his friend, and started explaining, in a confusing way, why he wanted him to come so urgently. After he was done explaining, his friend had a bemused look on his face. He looked at his friend’s long, black hair and then looked away to see if anyone was listening to them. Suddenly, Tom looked back at his friend and said while the bartender asked if he wanted another drink, “All I want you to do is kill him.” Then, Mr. Fryer turned to the bartender and spoke, “Yeah, another scotch on the rocks.”

  “Listen, Tommy, the last time I did a job like this for you was ages ago. If you want me to do it right, it’s gonna cost ya,” the long-haired man stated, rubbing a beer stain off of his leather pants.

  “How much, Mark?”

  Mark started rubbing his long, black hair, pushing it out of his face, and gawking at Tom’s nervous and frantic image, noticing that he was trying to keep his own voice down. Mark deciphered and explained, “Well, that depends on who I’m going to fumigate. First, explain it to where I could understand it, and then I’ll tell you the price.”