by C. S. Lakin
“What are you two kids up to?”
“Mrs. Peabody, Mark’s hurt!” Stacy ran down the stairs toward her. “Momma’s not home and we tried to get in, but the door’s locked.”
Mrs. Peabody unlatched her door and ushered in the children. “How can your mother leave you like that—to catch your death of cold? Let’s wrap that arm. I’ll take you to the hospital and then try to find your mother. Come on children, hurry now.”
Della turned over in bed and hit her wrist against the night table. She abruptly sat up, disoriented in the dark room. Her head felt like straw. She strained to read the clock, realizing it was hours past the time her niece and nephew were supposed to be home from school. For a moment she listened to the ominous silence in the house, then, still groggy, stumbled out of bed and turned on the light. The room spun. She threw on her jeans and reached for the phone, then punched in the number for the elementary school.
“Come on, come on,” she said, listening to the interminable ringing. “Answer, damn you!” She slammed down the receiver, ran into the hall, then the kitchen, turning on lights.
“Mark, Stacy, are you here? Where are you? Don’t you play games with me or I’ll tan you.” She went out onto the front stoop and looked up and down the street. Snow drifted down from the dark sky, the flakes yellow in the street lamps’ glow. As she searched for footprints, something sticking out of the snow on the sidewalk caught her attention. Mark’s glove. She suppressed a cry. And then she looked back up to the apartment and saw the broken window, and blood streaking the glass.
Della’s breath caught in her throat. She raced inside and phoned the police. “Please, please help me.”
“One moment please,” the dispatcher said. The wait was unbearable.
“Damn you, my niece and nephew have been kidnapped. Something’s happened. Please help me!”
“Calm down, lady. I can’t help you if you’re gonna bite my head off. Let’s start with some names and addresses here, all right?”
After giving the dispatcher an earful, she hung up the phone and fell back onto the couch. The reality of the situation began to sink in. The fog in her head cleared, leaving her with pure terror. She had done this—this terrible thing. And whatever happened to her brother’s kids would be all her fault. The police assured her they would be right over, that she should stay put. She clutched the arms of the couch, feeling each second pass in agonizing slowness. Unbearable agony.
Della ran to the bathroom and rummaged through the medicine cabinet, this time emptying an entire bottle of pills into her hand. She didn’t even bother to look at the label. Whatever she was taking, it wasn’t going to be potent enough to help her face what lay ahead.
The sound of the door opening summoned Della from her euphoric haze. From her position on the living room couch, the odd shapes moving in the dark formed into her brother and sister-in-law. Her eyes then drifted over to Mark’s bandaged arm.
Della barely made out the words her brother and his wife screamed at her. “How dare you, you ungrateful, lazy tramp!” More curses, words accompanied with spittle. She saw and heard them in a fog. The accusations floated past her. Della found it amusing to see their polished manners crumble. They were giants looming over her, pelting her with anger. Their anger took grotesque shapes, gigantic fur-balls, which rolled off her and onto the floor.
A laugh erupted from her mouth.
Her sister-in-law stopped yelling and stared.
“Edward, she’s flipped. Look at her eyes. She’s on those drugs again. God help us!”
“Fur balls,” Della muttered, then laughed again.
Margaret’s voice came out in a screech. “Edward, why is she talking about her cat?”
Edward turned and looked at his children standing in the hall, watching and listening. He lowered his voice. “Go into the kitchen. I’ll be right there.” After the children left the room, he turned to Della, who was still sprawled on the couch. Della kept chuckling, tears running down her face.
Edward spoke through clenched teeth. “This is the last straw, Della. You hear me? I’ve put up with your . . . lifestyle for too long. I’ve tried to be patient—God knows I’ve tried. But this is it. Tomorrow, you’re out, you’re on your own.”
Margaret pulled at his sleeve. “Edward, look at her. Shouldn’t we get her to a doctor?”
“Hey, if she wants to kill herself, it’s fine with me. I’m through with this. I’m tired of being responsible for her. She’s thirty-six and I have a family to take care of here. I don’t need this.” He stormed out of the room and his wife followed.
Della lay for what felt like an eternity, floating in the dark. She became aware of the quiet in the house, then realized she had dozed off again. By now everyone had gone to bed. Groping for furniture, she edged her way back to her room and found her phone. This time her therapist answered.
“Daniel. It’s me, Della. I need to see you.”
“Della,” he said, his voice tired. “I thought I told you not to call my home number unless it was life or death.”
“I know. It is. I screwed up today. I really blew it . . .”
“Can’t this wait until tomorrow? Don’t we have a session at ten?”
“Yes, but can’t I meet you tonight? I need you.”
“Della. I thought we discussed this. I thought we decided to keep to the schedule.”
“Oh, Daniel, don’t do this to me. I’m a mess. I’ve taken pills. Too many pills. Please.” She knew she was begging but couldn’t help herself.
“You always take pills. Until you get a handle on the drugs, Della, I can’t see you outside the office. Have you been listening to the tapes? They should help you relax.”
“I don’t need the damn tapes, I need you. I need to feel you touch me and kiss me. Hold me . . .”
“Della. Enough. Go to sleep, it’s two o’clock. Just sleep and you’ll feel better in the morning. Trust me.”
“But—”
“Good night, Della.”
Della held her phone for a moment, the silence penetrating the stillness of the late night. She then slammed it down and wobbled into the bathroom, turning on the water to fill the tub. As she undressed, she watched herself in the mirror with detachment, then eased into the steaming, hot water.
She was surprised at how soothing such a simple thing like a bath could be. Submerging herself deeper, she felt the warmth penetrate her weary bones as she ran the edge of the razor blade across the crease line of first one wrist and then the other. As the bath water turned from pink to red, the last thing she saw was the white and gold envelope she had taped to the medicine cabinet become unglued from the curls of steam and flutter down like a dove from heaven into her placid, wet hands.
Chapter 3
Hollywood, California
“Bend over a little more—that’s it, baby, more, more.”
Jonathan Levin clapped his hands impatiently. He heard snickering and hushed whispers in the darkness behind him. “Quiet, please, let’s have it quiet so we can wrap up. Everybody! Let’s shoot this piece of trash.”
The A. D. held the slate inches from the actress’s chest. The scantily dressed nurse leaned over the patient in the hospital bed, her short skirt hiked up, her long legs spread.
“My favorite position,” someone whispered.
“Quiet!” Levin said.
“Bedside Manners. Scene twelve, take six. Marker.” The horn sounded, the red light flashed. Jonathan waited for absolute silence.
“. . . Rolling . . .”
“. . . Speed. And action . . .”
The actress spoke in a soft southern accent. “Now, Mr. Barnes, you’re going to have to cooperate a little with me here. Take your medicine like a good boy. Doctor’s orders, now.” She leaned over and bumped the patient’s food cart, sending it rolling across the set.
Jonathan waved his arms in the air. “Cut, cut!” Exasperated sighs rippled through the room. Jonathan tugged at the heavy gold chain around his nec
k. Sweat dripped down his chest where his silk Italian shirt was halfway unbuttoned, soaking into his waistband.
“You’re off your mark, Priscilla—again!” The young actress showed distress. She rechecked her feet and moved over two inches. She sweltered under the hot lights. Makeup strolled over and patted her face. Props lethargically replaced the cart. The whole crew had given up making an effort to hurry things along.
“Let’s go again, right away. We’re already into gold. Move, move!” He purposely ignored the crew’s grumbling. They had been on the set for fourteen hours—the second time that week.
Jonathan seethed. Mindless crew, stuck-up actors who thought they were God’s gift to the public. And that Priscilla. Great body but absolutely no talent. Some hotshot’s broad. When was he ever going to get to work with real actors?
“Have to reload again, Jonny,” the cameraman called out, not even bothering to hide his apathy.
Jonathan exploded with a string of curses.
First the network boys told him they wanted all the angles, lots of cleavage and close-ups from behind, when everyone knew the scenes would end up on the cutting room floor. Who were they kidding—they were getting their thrills from the dailies.
He shot another take. Passable enough for this mindless Movie-of-the-Week.
“Okay, it’s a wrap. Get the hell home and be here on time tomorrow.” He turned to the actress who was hurrying to her dressing room. “We don’t pay you to keep everyone waiting.”
The script supervisor picked up her papers and stuffed them into her bag. Jonathan noticed the disgusted look on her face.
“You can always find another job if you’re not happy, Louise. A lot of people would give their firstborn to be here.”
She started to say something and then changed her mind.
“Right, Jonny,” she said, walking away.
“A bunch of ungrateful jerks,” he said under his breath. The lights went off one by one, leaving him standing in the dark. The sound stage grew quiet. Jonathan realized his fists were still clenched. How much more of this could he take?
Someone approached; he squinted in the dim light and recognized his agent.
“Billy.” Jonathan gulped. “What brings you here? No problems with the deal . . .?”
The thin, wiry man took him by the arm. “We need to talk, Jonny-boy.” He whisked him over to a small set in the corner of the stage.
Jonathan studied the older man as he sat in a chair and patted his neck with a large handkerchief, clearly stalling for time.
“How come the visit? Don’t the phones work in West L.A. anymore?”
Jonathan knew he was notorious for firing agents. He’d been through just about everyone in Hollywood by now. He started with the big guys—William Morris, ICM, and on down the list. Then he decided the big agencies didn’t give clients enough of their time, so he went to the small, boutique guys. His complaint was always the same. They had their pets and the rest fell into the black hole. Bill Evans was a one-man operation. He’d been around forever. He had few clients and he gave them his all, but he was small-time.
“It’s like this, Jonny. Let me cut to the chase. There’s this guy. He’s Goldstein’s nephew or something. He’s been bugging his uncle for a chance to direct.”
Jonathan’s stomach churned. “Tell me this is a big joke. You’re pulling my leg? They’re trying to get my price down, is that the scam?” He managed a laugh.
“No joke, Jonny. They’re pulling you out.” He threw up his hands in defense. “Now, I’m doing everything I can . . .”
“Dammit, you know how much this feature means to me. This is a classy flick, Oscar material. It was made for me. I’ve waited years for this kind of deal to come my way. I’ve earned it. No stupid relative of some damn producer is going to take it away from me!” Jonathan’s face flushed hot; blood pounded his temples.
“Jonny, Jonny baby, calm down. Now, I’m meeting with Goldstein tomorrow.”
He pounded on the table beside him. “No way, Evans. I’ve had it with you and these deals that seem to slip through your fingers.” His agent recoiled, sinking lower in the chair. “There’s no way I’m going to let you keep screwing up my life. You’re fired. Get your ugly face out of here, old man.”
“Call me tomorrow, Jonny. When you calm down. We’ll talk.” His agent edged his way out of the sound stage, the heavy door slamming behind him.
Jonathan sank back into the chair, holding his head in his hands. This could not be happening. He heard a car horn sound outside. He got up and paced. The car honked again.
Jonathan walked outside. A woman climbed out of a Mercedes coupe.
“Here’s tomorrow’s shooting schedule, Jon. Can you give me a lift home?”
Jonathan looked at the young blonde, one of his many ambitious assistants, leaning seductively against the car in a tight miniskirt. Trying to appear casual. He snorted. All these Hollywood hopefuls, worming their way through the studios for a chance under the lights.
Jonathan got behind the wheel and drove out of the lot. Few cars were leaving the studio this late in the evening. Tiffany thumbed through the papers on her lap. “Okay,” she said, snapping chewing gum over her tongue, “here’s one from the DGA.”
Jonathan looked over at the envelope. “Dues. What else?”
“A couple office memos, one from Derringer, about casting the beach scene . . .”
“What’s that?” He pointed to the gold and white envelope that rested in her lap. Tiffany shrugged and ripped it open, then pulled out a card.
“You’re invited to a party, no, a college reunion. Get this—Lila Carmichael.”
Jonathan grabbed the invitation out of her hand and read it while waiting at the light at Westwood Boulevard. His heart pounded; he could barely keep his foot on the brake.
Tiffany snapped her gum again. “Hey, I didn’t know you knew Lila Carmichael.”
While his assistant blabbed on about Lila’s show, hope flooded Jonathan’s heart. He wanted to kiss the ground for the break in his luck. If anyone could save his neck, the rich and influential Lila Carmichael could do it. Damn, why hadn’t he thought of her before? This was Hollywood—rub my back, I’ll rub yours. Well, he had to admit, he had thought of her before. But he didn’t have the guts to approach her now that she was so successful.
He turned and glanced at Tiffany. Every hair in place, her makeup perfectly applied. She must spend hours in front of a mirror. “I directed Lila in her very first play in college.”
Tiffany’s eyes widened. “Really?”
Jonathan thought about Lila’s reputation of grinding men to pieces. He frowned. She probably didn’t feel she owed him any favors. But now. Out of the blue, a personal invitation to her island home. This was a great sign.
Jonathan’s hands jerked the steering wheel. Tiffany stopped her rambling and studied his face. Sweat trickled along his temples.
“Jonny, are you all right?” She ran her manicured nails through his curly black hair. “You seem nervous.”
Jonathan fidgeted in his seat. The traffic on Sunset was moving at a crawl. “It’s been a rough day, Tiff. A rough week.” He deliberately rolled his eyes. “A rough life.”
Tiffany gave a little pout. "Aw, poor Jonny.” She reached her hand across the seat and rubbed his chest. A wave of adrenaline swept through him.
Jonathan drove erratically along the palm tree-lined avenue. Tiffany leaned her head into his shoulder and started nibbling his neck. Her hand started to roam. Jonathan gripped the wheel, his knuckles turning white.
Tiffany stopped her amorous play and frowned.
“So which play was it?” she said.
“What? What play?”
“You know. The one with Lila.”
Jonathan looked at Tiffany. Her face was easy to read. Another Lila fanatic.
He fumed, but the corners of his mouth rose. If Lila came through for him, then he’d convert. He’d become Lila’s greatest fan. She just had to h
elp him. Why wouldn’t she? He started her on her road to stardom.
She owed him.
Chapter 4
Olympia, Washington
Dick Ferrol tried to figure a way out of the mess he’d gotten into, but always came up with the same conclusion. You are dead, pal. He knew he had taken chances, involved too many people—any one of them could have talked. Hey, they couldn’t pay him enough for the kind of aggravation he had to contend with. His roof needed repairing. His youngest girl was going to need braces soon. Millie’s salary fell short. Life was just too damned expensive.
As he drove past the State Legislature building lit up against the winter sky, he felt a heavy ache in his heart. Not even a year ago the sight used to fill him with a sense of pride. Now it loomed ominously in judgment of him. Why were people always trying to dig up dirt? Tonight’s rambling city council meeting had left Dick with his stomach roiling in acid. He popped a Rolaids in his mouth and cringed as he relived the encounter in the parking lot. He thought he had made a sneaky getaway with that excuse about needing the restroom. But, no, just as he slipped into his car a hand had gripped his arm, and the oh-so-cheerful clerk shoved the subpoena into his face.
“Sorry to do this to you, pal.” Sure he was sorry.
Dick had hoped against all odds it wouldn’t come to this, and now his worst fears materialized. He clutched the handle of his car and felt his knees give way.
The man had given him a brusque pat on the back. “Weather it out, pal. Like you always say—you can get away with anything because people have short memories.”
Couldn’t they tell he was on their side, trying to make this town a better place? He was the good guy; why couldn’t they see that?
The last eight months he had barely kept his head above water, but now he was drowning. As much as he hated to admit it, Millie had been right. She knew how stubbornly he grabbed onto his ideas, like a mean dog with a bone. She told him to let others take over part of the project. And that’s damn well what he should have done from the get-go. But, how could he have? The Community Center was his baby and if it failed, then he failed. Why didn’t she understand that? Dick crunched his Rolaids and bit his tongue.