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Derian raised his eyebrows as he considered the possibilities. Certainly, he reasoned, aloud, the destruction of reputation would not benefit the men in question, would not benefit Ivanhoe Studios, ultimately would not benefit the great state of California—as far as tax receipts might be concerned.

  Captain Dempsey was of similar mind. For the most part, boys would be boys. As for the unfortunate creature, at some point, weren’t animals in that condition called meat?

  Derian removed a fat, unsealed envelope from his inside pocket, placed it on the table, its contents visible to the captain.

  The captain assumed a thoughtful posture, rubbed his chin. Unique cases made bad law. And this, indeed, was a unique case. To impede the flow of commerce would be fruitful to no one. Why belabor the stumbling legal system with the straw that might break the camel’s back? Creating meat. Of course, rightly, one would have to take incidental expenses into consideration . . .

  Huntington Derian beamed. There was nothing wrong with peace, love, and understanding. He pushed the envelope across the desk, studied the stained ceiling of Dempsey’s office. When he looked back down, the envelope had disappeared. The captain stood up. Derian stood up. Hands were extended and shaken.

  That was that.

  It was still raining when Derian reached his car. Apologetically, he raised his finely manicured hand. “I’m sorry to disappoint everyone. What we have here is a case of mistaken identity. Both Eli Nazarian and Melvin Shea are comfortably resting in their own homes. This is just a big hoo-doo on a slow news day. Thank you very much.”

  The reporters clustered. What about the dead dog?

  Is it true the men had no pants on?

  Was the dog wearing pants?

  Derian rolled off with a wave.

  The reporters turned to themselves. Y’ever hear the one about the pig with three legs?

  Yeah. You don’t eat a pig like that all at once.

  Fuck you.

  What a town, baby, what a town.

  FOURTEEN

  With a Pan

  Heather Hill woke with a start. It was a new day, but the events of yesterday rushed immediately to mind, filling it.

  On the set. Firmly in the land of opportunity. Gumshoe, an Eli Nazarian film. Eli Nazarian! Her future before her like the yellow brick road. Centerstage with Vanity Fair’s hot actor of the year, Smokin’ Jack Wilton. In a speaking part. And there, in the middle of her golden moment, she had applied the advice of Mary Mortensen.

  Mary Mortensen, actress. Mary Mortensen, afternoon waitress at Denny’s in East Hollywood.

  Mary Mortensen had told her yes, Heather was in a movie, but Heather’s real thrust was to get herself noticed. To parlay her moment in the sun into lasting exposure. How do I do that, Mary? Simple, said the waitress. In the middle of the first take, when everyone’s expecting things to go wrong one way or another, that’s when you turn to the director and ask him about your motivation. It shows them you’re really serious about your character.

  So, summoning all her courage, she had risen from her knees, from the unseen foam pad, waved her arms largely and inquired about her motivation.

  She realized instantly she had miscalculated. Eli Nazarian’s outraged face was now burned into her mind. Like a brand.

  The director had thrown his script to the floor, the veins in his forehead creeping and crawling. “Heather! You fucking moron. What are you talking about, motivation? You’re giving Johnny a blow job. That’s your motivation. Blow job.”

  Blow job. Motivation: blow job. Heather remembered the amazed and delighted looks on the faces of the crew. True entertainment on the set. A rare bird. From forty directions she saw pantomimed blow jobs. This is how you do it!

  There was no retake. The assistant director came over, said we’re breaking for lunch. And one other thing.

  What’s that?

  Eli’s decided to go with someone else.

  She’d gone numb. Various conversations swirled around her. But didn’t include her. She was now a leper. A red-faced leper. One of the laughing lepers of Lewiston, Pennsylvania. Where she’d be returning shortly. The brilliant camaraderie that she had enjoyed was no more. She’d been expelled and the merry company had closed ranks.

  Then her phone rang. Bob Herbert. Her agent. She explained they were breaking for lunch but he didn’t go for it. Someone had already gotten to him. Did she know how much the production was costing per day?

  “No. A lot.”

  “That’s right, a lot. Half a million dollars a day.”

  “That is a lot.”

  “Roughly twenty thousand dollars an hour.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, wow. You wasted ten thousand dollars in an instant. Motivation? You’re off Gumshoe, Heather. That’s final. And they’ll spend another ten replacing you. Which means I won’t be representing you any longer.” Herbert clicked off.

  She was not escorted off the set. No one said goodbye. She just realized she didn’t belong. She radiated bad luck. Like a wolverine in the pantry.

  She wandered around the back lot, fuddled, found herself at the cafeteria, sat down in the corner with a wilted salad, eyes full.

  Then she saw a man she thought she recognized. He was coming toward her table. He would escort her off the lot. Into Rite Aid, discount graveyard of broken actors. Before they crawled back to Lewiston.

  Yes, he did know her. “Excuse me, Heather,” he said softly. “I’m Melvin Shea. Could we talk a moment?”

  His unexpectedly kind manner set her tears loose. He handed her a paper napkin.

  “D-do I know you?” she asked after a while, breathing with that wretched hitch, wiping her eyes.

  “Rough day, I suppose.”

  “Yes.” The tears came back. “Worst day of my life.”

  The man nodded. “Well, you know what they say about the Lord, he shuts one door in order to open another.”

  Shut the door to Oz. Open the door to Rite Aid. “What’s your name again?”

  “My name is Melvin Shea.”

  “Hi, Melvin.”

  “Hi.”

  “They told me Howard Hogue was going to be there today. I hope he wasn’t.”

  “He was there. He saw you.”

  Her face sunk into her hands.

  “I work for Howard Hogue.”

  “Oh, God. You were there, too.”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, God.” In her mind’s eye, she rose from behind the desk, waved her arms widely and kicked her career into the toilet where it gurgled and drowned. She thought of how she would kill Mary Mortensen. Slowly. With a pan.

  “Mr. Nazarian didn’t seem pleased.”

  Didn’t seem pleased? Maybe this guy was a jerk, living on the secondhand grief of failed actresses. “What do you want, mister?”

  The man looked into her eyes. “I have news for you, Heather. Howard liked what he saw.”

  For a second, she didn’t understand. “He, he—”

  “He liked what he saw, Heather.” The man paused. “He liked you.”

  Liked me? Here, on the edge of nothingness and despair and stupidity and murder and suicide? “He liked me?”

  The man, Melvin, he smiled. “Yeah, he did. And he sent me to see about you.”

  See about me?

  “Howard wondered if you’d ever heard of the Ivanhoe Special Talent Program?”

  “Are you for real?”

  “We’re for real. Every now and then, Howard, or one of his top scouts, sees someone whose talent is felt to be unique and compelling. That man or woman is offered a place in the Ivanhoe Special Talent Program.”

  Heather could barely breathe. Had merciful angels rescued her, in air, falling, and returned her to bliss? “Are you offering me a place in the Special Talent Program?”

  The man smiled. He was pretty cute. Brutal acne when he was a kid. “Yes, I am. The program provides you with a suitable luxury apartment, a monthly stipend—”

  “What’s a stipend?”


  “A salary.”

  “A salary???”

  Nice Mr. Melvin counted his fingers. “An apartment, a salary, singing and dancing lessons, either or both, and the chance to advance your career at your own pace.” Melvin sat back. “What do you say?”

  Joy surged through every cell of her being. He shuts one door only that He may open another. What had been the worst day of her life had been transformed into the best day ever.

  She left the cafeteria on an endorphin cloud. Strolled to her car in the visitor’s lot. She called Vince to tell him the news but had only managed to explain the bad part when she was overcome by happy tears. She hung up. She’d tell him later. In person.

  FIFTEEN

  Ficus in Focus

  Vince Furnatato, one of the Edison second-shift crew in Mid-City, had received Heather’s incomprehensible message. As a fellow actor, day-jobbing at night, he understood her distress. But what could she have done to get tossed off Gumshoe? As Heather had described it, it was a plum. Walk into the detective’s office, shake your tits, hand Smokin’ Jack a pack of gum. What could go wrong?

  Meanwhile, a transformer had blown in the 5300 block of Wilshire and 2,500 customers were affected. Soon all their digitals would be flashing 12:00 12:00 12:00 12:00. It was when he was up the pole that he looked down and saw something. Wow. Big. Cool. And then it hit him: the perfect gift for Heather.

  • • •

  There was a knock at the door. It would be Vince. It was. For some reason there was dirt all over his chest. She brushed it off. “Are you a lineman or a gardener?”

  He looked down. Christ, he was dirty. He hated being dirty. Years ago he’d promised himself that when his star finally rose, cleanliness next to godliness would be his byword. He’d be manicured and pedicured daily. He’d purchase underwear by the boxcar, wear them only once, when they were truly white and hadn’t yet passed pizza gas, then throw them away. A true luxury. That’s what Sylvester Stallone did. According to the Hollywood TattleTale.

  Heather, surprisingly, appeared happy. They sat in the breakfast nook.

  “So, what happened with Gumshoe, hon?” Had that happened to him he’d be broke-dick broke up.

  “You know what I learned, Vince?”

  “What?”

  “That He closes one door but that He may open another.” Joseph, her large mixed-breed dog, wandered under her hand. She scratched his head. His big black eyes stared coldly at Vince.

  Vince didn’t like Joseph. Those eyes. Mutts were unpredictable. Jump across the table and rip your face off. “You didn’t say hello to Joseph, Vince,” said Heather brightly.

  “Hello, Joseph,” said Vince, feigning open-minded enthusiasm. With two tentative fingers he leaned over and rubbed the groove between Joseph’s eyes. Joseph made no indication he’d been pleased. Why was he trying to please a dog? Fuck you, Joseph.

  “So what happened on the set?” continued Vince, withdrawing his hand slowly.

  “Creative differences,” said Heather, suddenly certain that had been what happened. “But it’s what happened later that’s really important.”

  “For the fifth time, what happened?”

  “Someone noticed me.”

  “Someone noticed you?” A flame of suspicion rose up, complicating his breakfast burrito. Heather was five-ten, blond, with Cadillac breasts. The most beautiful woman he’d ever been with. “W-who noticed you?”

  Heather smiled at him sweetly, enjoyed his jealousy, patted her legs. “I’ve been invited to join the Ivanhoe Special Talent Program.”

  Wow. “Wow. What’s that about?”

  “It’s for people the scouts at Ivanhoe think have compelling talent. If I enroll, they’ll provide me, listen to this—they’ll provide me with a luxury apartment, career opportunities, singing or dancing lessons, or both, and a salary.” Reciting these benefits aloud thrilled her again.

  Vince mounted a smile. They’d rip her away from him in a second. “That sounds great.” She’d be off in the arms of some Hollywood smoothie, high-lifin’. He’d be up the pole. Soldering. Crying into his toolbag.

  Sweet Vince. He was upset, trying to hide it. “The program isn’t just for girls, Vince. There’re guys, too. I bet your talent is compelling, too.” Maybe it was.

  Maybe it was. Though Backdoor Bust-In, produced by the late Artie Benjamin, hadn’t utilized his higher talents. “So, you are going to enroll, right?”

  “I think so. I was waiting to talk to you.” Not that a lineman’s appraisal of her career would really matter. Not now. Like Mary Mortensen’s ideas. Never trust amateurs.

  “I say go ahead. You should do it.”

  “I knew you’d say that, honey.” He’d better.

  Suddenly he remembered the consolation gift in the back of his F-150. Now it represented something different. Not to console, but to celebrate. How selfless was that? He smiled. “I have something for you.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure do. Let me go get it. It’s in my truck.”

  “Uh, okay.” It sounded big. You didn’t leave jewelry in your truck. You put it in your pocket.

  Five minutes later he was back. Dirt all over his shirt again.

  “Close your eyes,” was his request, “until I tell you to open them.”

  She heard something big coming in. She heard it grind across the threshold, bang against her hollow front door. Then something was set down with a grunt and a thud.

  Her eyes were still closed, good. He brushed himself off again, straightened his back, let his gold chain refall into the manly fur. He took a deep breath, looked around, then shut the front door, got her up from the kitchen table, led her to the middle of the living room. “Okay, baby, open your eyes.”

  Jeez. It was big. It was a tree. A ficus tree. In a gigantic yellow pot. It dwarfed everything in the apartment. The pot itself was almost as big as a washing machine.

  Vince spread his hands. “I searched all over town, baby. For something special. Something that says I love you. For something that says I’m sorry ’bout you getting fired from Gumshoe, but congratulations for getting into the special talent program.” How could she resist? “So, whaddaya say, Heat?”

  Heat was Vince’s diminutive of Heather, recognizing her hotness.

  “Wow, Vince. It’s big.” A slightly acrid odor had become apparent. At her side, Joseph looked up at her, moaned. She gazed at her big, boyish Italian stallion. “Thank you, Vince.”

  He turned to her, opened his arms. “Gimme a kiss, doll.”

  Her kiss was deep and long and sweet. He felt those Cadillac boobs against his chest. Maybe things would work out. Maybe he would get into the Ivanhoe talent program, too. Then, slowly, a sound that didn’t fit disassembled his reverie.

  It was the sound of a stream of liquid. On dry leaves. He opened one eye. What the hell?

  Joseph, eyes black, cold, and expressionless, stood atop the coffee table, left leg cocked high in delivery.

  SIXTEEN

  What Pussy Said

  She woke up to the rain and for a second wondered where she was. Then she remembered. She’d woken up in worse places. Much worse. But she’d forgiven herself.

  Lots of books. She rose, pulled the blanket around her, perused the shelves. A long series of books by Patrick O’Brian.

  She pulled out one in the middle. Well thumbed. Another toward the end. It also bore the signs of readership. Must be good books.

  She moved on to some paintings. A de Chirico print, Girl with a Hoop. It had an odd, creepy feel. She liked it. Then some Robert Barrere paintings. Whoever he was. But he was good. The figures in the bright, vibrant pictures had no facial features, yet their moods were clearly apparent from body language. Neat.

  Lots of CDs. Stones, Beatles, Little Feat, Muddy Waters, Johnny Winter, Aaron Neville, Pearly King. Never heard of Pearly King. Pearly King and the Temple Thieves. Some jazz. Art Pepper, Thelonius Monk, Miles Davis. Arcade Fire. He listened to new stuff, too.

  Some
family pictures. There was Dick. And a wife, must be. Big girl. Like Howard Hogue’s girls. Ha! Probably gave him more than he could handle.

  She’d heard somewhere that whatever attribute drew you into a relationship, the same attribute drove you out. The concept seemed human and possible. You were attracted by her freedom and spontaneity. You left because of her disorganization. You were attracted by his sense of silence. You left when you realized he was a moron.

  Dick had some kids. The little girl looked belligerent and lovable. The boy looked like he played third base. Freckles. She glanced around. No kids lived in this house. No woman, either. But the house was clean. Well, pretty clean. For a guy.

  The kitchen was relatively clean, too. She got herself a drink of water from the tap. Rain drizzled into the bushes behind the house. She thought she detected a plan in the green abundance. But long since grown over.

  She remembered last night at Canter’s. Before everything went upside-down. Her housemother gig had some distasteful aspects, true, but it had never been a cesspool. Now it was dark and dangerous. Everybody’s interests conflicted. She had a little money put away. Thank God.

  A strange man’s house.

  But she felt comfortable and unthreatened. Dick had made no demands or suggestions. She hadn’t laughed like they’d laughed in a long time. She finished off the water, set the glass down.

  A hallway led out of the kitchen. Must be Dick’s bedroom down there. She proceeded on tiptoe. That would be the bathroom, yes, it was. Dick’s room was open.

  She stood in the doorway. Nice-sized room. More books. Clothes on the floor. His clothes from last night. His nightstand. A little thrill went through her. A lamp, a clock-radio. And a gun. It wasn’t as big as Nazarian’s, it certainly wasn’t gold. A workingman’s weapon. Scuffed and unshiny in morning’s half-light.

  Then, the answer to the question she’d been asking herself entered her mind. As soon as Myron Ealing had mentioned his name, she knew she’d heard about him from somewhere. A smile broke out across her face.

  • • •

  Before I opened an eye I knew someone was looking at me. Someone was in the doorway. It was the girl. “Everything alright?” I asked.