“A kingdom like Oz”.
-Adela Rogers St. Johns
1
On this particular December evening, Los Angeles was
lit up in her holiday finery. Rain-slick streets reflected ripples of
multi-hued neon. Windows in stores and restaurants were
festooned with Christmas décor and fake snow. There were
acres of tinsel and miles of blinking colored lights interspersed
among the palm trees and tropical flowers. And on every other
street corner there was a sullen-faced Santa clanging away
with a brass bell at passersby.
The scene was Norman Rockwell on acid. An
airbrushed portrait of an aging prostitute, best viewed under
moonlight and from a proper distance.
*****
They were parked on a fire road off Mulholland Highway
in the hills overlooking the San Fernando Valley. It was just
past midnight when the rain began to morph into a fine steady
mist. On the audio player Travis Tritt was singing about Livin’
on Borrowed Time.
The girl looked about twenty, give or take. Pretty in a
hard sort of way, with close-cropped blonde hair framing a
heart shaped face. When the man had asked her name, she’d
told him it was April.
He knew she was lying. They all lied.
The air inside the cab was dank with the distinct tang of
sex mixed with spilled malt liquor. April’s skirt was hiked up
around her thighs and her panties lay in a tiny heap on the
floorboards. She straddled the man and moaned professionally
as he thrust himself in and out of her. When she felt him start to
climax, she reached down with one hand and adroitly
massaged his scrotum. That did the trick …as they say.
As he started to cum the muscles in the man’s jaw
constricted and a series of grunts escaped between clenched
teeth.
April pulled her blouse down without ceremony and bent
over to collect her panties. The man grinned, reached over and
goosed her ass. The girl sprang up violently, smacking her
head on the underside of the dashboard.
The man laughed.
“Goddamnsonofabitch!!” she swore. “That fucking hurt!”
“That the same mouth you talk to your momma with?”
April rubbed her head and sneered. “It’s the same
mouth that was sucking your dick a few minutes ago and you
didn’t seem to mind it much then.”
She glanced down and noticed his latex-covered prick
was rigid once again.
“Geez, mister, you been snorting Viagra or something?’
“Or somethin’,” the man replied, grabbing for the girl’s
breast.
With a practiced agility April managed to evade his
grasp.
“You want to play again, you got to pay again, Cowboy.
Those’re the rules.”
“Nah, I don’t think so,” he drawled.
He grabbed her, yanked her towards him, pressed his
mouth forcefully on hers, kissed her hard.
April pulled away, repulsed.
“I told you not to do that!”
“You gotta lot of rules for a nasty little street tramp,” he
taunted, tightening his grip. Then he kissed her violently again.
The girl’s adrenal glands kicked into maximum as she
struggled fiercely.
“Get off me you sick fuck!”
The man released his grip and backhanded her across
the face.
April exhaled a stunned gasp and pulled as far away as
the confined space allowed. She touched the back of her hand
to her crushed lip, glanced down and saw blood, began to
tremble.
“Nobody does that to me! Nobody!”
She lunged.
At first the man made no attempt to shield himself from
the girl’s rage. He accepted the punishment with an amused
grin. Then, in one fluid motion, he snatched her hands and
forced them to her side. His strange smile remained fixed as he
held her arms pinned. He glared malevolently into her eyes.
The man’s gaze penetrated, chilled the fire right out of her.
And then, in the space of a single heartbeat, April
suddenly understood…
Time became elastic, slowed like cold molasses, down
to the millisecond. The man felt his heart rate increase and his
erection strain. He inhaled deeply, feasting on the aroma of the
young woman’s fear. If he were ever required to narrow it down
to just one moment, this was it; that marvelous expression of
unbridled terror they all seemed to have in common… once
they came to realize the depth of their miscalculation. How he
savored this.
The rain began once again, this time in earnest. And the
sound drowned out the screams.
It was a considerable time before the truck’s motion
ceased. And then, just for the briefest of moments, the only
sound to be heard was that of the sheeting rain; a droning that
encompassed all, washing away dirt, smog and sin.
The passenger door opened and moments later April’s
lifeless form dropped onto the muddy roadway. She came to
rest face down, extremities all askew, a macabre rag doll.
The door squealed as it was yanked shut, and then a
few seconds later the big V-8 cranked over.
The man strapped on his seat belt and turned up the
volume. He paused to check his reflection in the rear view,
picked something from his teeth, then slipped the gearshift into
drive and crept the two-hundred yards to where the fire road
joined up with Mulholland Highway. He switched on the
headlights and pulled onto the deserted roadway, accelerated
to cruising speed, all the while singing along with Travis.
2
It was the kind of mid-December morning that took your
breath away. The sky was an incredible shade of cobalt and
the air was fresh and crisp. A rare day indeed for this so-called
city of angels. The storm in the flat lands had drifted east during
the night, flocking the local mountains with nearly a foot of
snow.
Maxine “Max” Calderas stood on the balcony of her
fifth-floor North Hollywood apartment, warming her hands on a
mug of coffee and watching the clouds drift by.
Aretha Franklin wafted from the living room and a clock
indicated the time as 6:30. A pile of newspapers littered one
corner of a dining table, and on the opposite end, a .40 caliber
Smith and Wesson semi-auto slept snugly in a ballistic nylon
holster. A collection of family photos hung on the wall by the
table, one of which, a portrait of a teenage girl, was framed with
black crepe paper.
Even at fifty-one, Maxine “Maximum” Calderas was one
Los Angeles Police Detective that was especially easy on the
eyes. Thick salt and pepper hair and expressive wide-set green
eyes complemented high cheekbones. Standing five-nine on an
athletic frame, Max was formidable as well as attractive. She’d
acquired the handle ‘Maximum” at the police academy, the
explanation for which varied wildly depending on to whom one
was speaking. In any event, the handle had remained. Even
her grandkids referred to her as Maximum: Granny Maximum.
Her shift started at eight and this was her ‘Quiet Time’.
Her time to relax and contemplate the day ahead. Quiet Time
was a survival skill Max’s mother had taught her at an early
age. One of a multitude of character traits they shared in
common was the absolute requirement for space away from
The World.
Max eyed the traffic on Lankershim Blvd. below and
breathed in the fragrant steam rising form the mug. She
returned to her thoughts.
Life was so simple once upon a time, back in momma’s
kitchen, with all those fine spicy aromas and kettle juices
sizzling on the old iron stove. Max and her sister, Bernie, older
by four years, helped out with food preparation, chopping
onions and carrots and celery.
Feeding a household of eight was a full-time job all by
itself, but there was still laundry and grocery shopping and
guitar lessons for Alonzo on Tuesdays after school, and a
whole litany of other chores and obligations, all of which
Momma Calderas juggled with a perpetual smile.
Max had enjoyed school, excelled in English and
anything even remotely related to sports. By age sixteen she
had developed a marked preference for one-on-one
competition, and became infatuated with the sport and art of
archery. There was just something so elegant about the entire
experience. The tension of the bow. The stillness and
concentration. The release of the string and the transfer of
energy to the aluminum shaft. The wickedly fast flight, a sunlit
reflection of quicksilver and blurred feathers, the sound of the
strike, the shaft burying itself in the wired bale of hay.
Max swallowed the last of the coffee and stepped inside
the apartment, locked the sliding glass door behind her. She
crossed to the dining area, lifted the shoulder holster from the
table and strapped it on. She camouflaged the rig with a rust
color blazer, checked her reflection in the mirror, made some
last-minute adjustments, and exited the apartment.
*****
Greg London didn’t hear the alarm go off at six. He was
lost in a tropical dreamscape, cavorting with buxom young
women aboard a sleek yacht.
At 6:30, the second alarm clock shrieked as it echoed
off the tiles in the master bath.
Greg mumbled profanities as he swung a leg over the
side of the bed. He padded barefoot in the direction of the
bathroom, smacked the alarm silent, and checked out his
reflection in the mirror.
Detective Greg London was thirty-nine, with a mostly
full head of nutmeg colored hair, and a baby face that belied his
true nature. He’d been married and divorced twice, and after
his last experience at the hands of the California Family Courts,
swore an oath to God and Universe that there would never be a
third Mrs. London. However, his current squeeze, Denise, a
twenty-four-year-old pre-school teacher, had different plans
entirely.
Greg glanced at the time.
“For fucks sake.”
He kicked in the afterburners, showered and dressed in
record time. Then, as was his custom, he headed for the
automatic drip coffee pot which had been set the previous night
to begin brewing at six AM sharp. Fuck strolling around on the
moon. As far as Greg was concerned this was the epitome of
mankind’s technology.
In his hurry, Greg overfilled the coffee mug, and then
compounded the gaff by attempting to slurp the overage.
Having sat in the pot those extra thirty minutes or so had turned
the liquid molten. Greg jumped back, knocked the mug across
the counter, and splashed hot coffee all over the silk tie Denise
had just given him for his birthday. Worse still, he didn’t have a
clean replacement or time to go digging through the laundry
hamper for a less soiled replacement. He hadn’t been up an
hour yet and already he was in a foul mood.
Less than five minutes later, on the way out of the
apartment building, he stepped off the stairs at an angle,
twisted his ankle and very nearly completed a full face-plant.
And of course, when he finally got to the station house,
Max was waiting for him by the cruiser. She glanced down at
her watch.
“Sorry, Max. Goddamn alarm didn’t go off.”
“Nice tie there, chief,” she smirked, always happy to add
insult to injury. “Let’s shake it. We have a call.”
London climbed into the passenger seat and clicked on
the seat belt.
“Another long night?” Max queried.
London pretended not to hear her.
Max continued the needling. “You really should marry
that girl before she wises up.”
“Like I really need to hear this shit first thing in the
morning,” Greg replied with a caustic tone.
Max chuckled.
Twenty minutes later, detective Calderas nosed the
cruiser off Mulholland Highway onto a dirt fire road that had
been marked off with crime scene tape. The prior night’s storm
had reduced the roadway to an impassable mud hole. There
were a couple of black and white prowlers on scene, as well as
a coroner’s wagon and a four-wheel-drive news van. The
muscles in London’s jaw tightened as he surveyed the scene.
“Ever have the feeling you should’ve just stayed in
bed?”
“Frequently,” Max responded.
Beverly Crescent, newscaster for local channel six,
along with her crew, were shooting a sequence for the evening
news. Just a few yards behind her the blanket-shrouded
remains lay in plain sight.
“Hello, I’m Beverly Crescent, and you’re watching
channel six news. This morning at around five, a local man out
for a jog made a grisly discovery; the body of a young woman,
apparently dumped here sometime during the night.”
The cameraman adjusted the depth of field on the lens
and tilted the camera in such a way as to take in as much of
the body’s exposed extremities as possible. Death was always
good for ratings. Death by homicide, even better. Throw a dash
of kinky sex into the mix and we could be talking Pulitzer here!
The newscaster continued her monologue. “Police are
refusing to speculate if this is the latest victim of the serial killer
who’s been terrorizing Los Angeles; the elusive stalker known
only as “The Coyote”.
Beverly’s pause was dramatic. “For those of you
keeping count, in just the past two months the bodies of four
young women have turned up in semi-rural locations
throughout the county.”
At that instant detectives Calderas and London came
into Beverly’s field of view. The newscaster was quick to
capitalize on the opportunity, shoving a microphone under
London’s nose.
“Excuse me. Excuse me, detective London. Is there
anything you’d like to say to our viewing audience?”
“As a matter of fact, there is,” Greg replied. Then he
looked directly into the camera and smiled all warm and toothy.
“Change the channel, folks. These people are fuckin’ ghouls.”
Beverly’s lips stretched back over artificially whitened
teeth into what could only be described as a snarl. But always
the consummate professional, she managed to regain her
composure in just under a nanosecond.
“Thanks a lot, London. Now we’re going to have re-
shoot the entire sequence.”
“Uh, no Bev. I don’t think so,” the detective replied. I
think what you’re going to do is pack up all this crap and
vamanos the hell out of here. You’re standing right in the
middle of my crime scene. I can’t have you and your crew
contaminating the scene and destroying evidence.”
“What about the people’s right to know?”
“Inform the people,” London continued. “Be my guest.
Just do it from the other side of that tape.”
Beverly opened her mouth as if to say something pithy
in reply, but her brain engaged before her tongue did. She
turned on her cameraman instead.
“Alright Les, you heard the detective.” Her voice was
cold, taking on a tone not associated with her on-air persona.
London shook his head.
“Is there something else, Greg?”
“Yeah Bev, as a matter of fact, there is. You know, ever
since I got handed this assignment there’s been one thing
eating at me.”
“And what might that be? How you’ve managed to rise
to the lofty rank of lieutenant despite your obvious lack of
competence?”
“Actually Bev, you’re not even close. What I was
wondering was where you come up with those moronic names?
I mean ‘The Coyote’, what the fuck is that about anyway?”
“The last girl had bite marks…”
“So, the media alleges,” London snapped back.
“People saw the body Greg…”
“Ellen Pomeroy, D.O.B. March 21, 1993. Jesus Greg,
another baby.”
“What can I say, Max? This prick likes them young.”
“All men, regardless of age, race, creed, religion, or
infirmity seem to like them young, Greg,” Calderas responded
acidly.
“Aw shit Max. Don’t go getting all gynocentric on me.”
When I was growing up
I always wanted to be Someone.
Now I realize I should have
been more specific.”
-Lily Tomlin
3
A couple of days later:
The morning sun illuminated the traffic that was backed
up outside the office building at the corner of Hollywood
Boulevard and Ashleigh Way.
In its heyday the building was occupied by the likes of
Herman Cardell, the world-renowned attorney-for-the-stars,
and Jake Rosenburg, Hollywood agent turned Hollywood
producer; the very first of the breed. But that was a long time
ago, way back in the mid-fifties, before crack babies and drive-
by shootings. It was a time when the neighborhood was
considered upscale and its proximity to the major studios,
desirable.
That was then. Today nothing is the way it was: not the
town, not the industry.
Currently the building’s occupancy rate hovered in the
neighborhood of twenty percent, which gave the owners little in
the way of motivation regarding upkeep. The few tenants that
remained were a reflection of the times.
The entire bottom floor was home to ZT Systems, an
answering service bureau utilized by the entertainment industry
since ’89.
On the second floor there was a company called
Keyhole Investigations. Keyhole was directly across the hall
from an out-call massage service, The sign on that door read:
PRIVATE in over size, blood-red lettering. At the end of the
hallway, a large, five-room suite was currently being utilized as
a dental clinic, the primary clientele being illegal immigrants;
people used to paying in cash for services rendered and
ignorant of their rights under personal injury law.
On the third floor there was an accountant, three
attorneys, and one low-rent talent agency. The sign on that
door was in an elegant script more befitting Rodeo Drive. It
read: MONROE TALENT GROUP, LTD.
On the wall right beside the door some artist wannabe
with too much time on his or her hands had spray-painted a
primitive rendition of a penis, in day glo neon pink, along with
the catchy phrase: PORNO MEAT RENTAL CO.
The Monroe Talent Group’s offices consisted of three
rooms. First, there was a tiny reception area dominated by a
battered green naugahyde couch. In front of the couch, at the
perfect shin-crunching distance, there was a decrepit coffee
table with months-old copies of the Hollywood Reporter and
Actors Log strewn about.
Referring to the second area as a “room” was an out
and out fabrication concocted by a rental agent of questionable
repute. In reality it was the size of a large walk-in closet and
served only to store the “files”. The files were large vertical
cabinets containing mostly pictures and resumes of the current
clientele, along with various contracts and the like. This entire
system was a remnant of the prehistoric time before
submissions became mostly digital in nature.
The room where the actual work got done was about
three times the size of the reception area but felt cramped
nonetheless. Two large desks faced each other at one end of
the room. And at the opposite end there was another beat up
couch. The walls were a nicotine-tinted shade of eggshell, and
the earth tone carpet was pitted and water-stained.
Such are the stuff Hollywood dreams are made of.
Shelly Ilene Monroe sat at her desk gazing out the
window at the alley below, a Camel filter-tip dangling from her
lips, and a phone cradled between shoulder and doughy cheek.
“Of course, he can scuba dive. It’s right there on his
resume for Chrissake… It’s not?”
Shelly improvised as she adjusted the bra that was
cutting into the ample flesh of her bosom. “Gotta be some sort
of computer glitch. What do you think, Bruce, I’m going to risk
my reputation sending you someone who can’t deliver? Of
course not, sweetheart. No problem. I’ll have him there
tomorrow at five-fifteen. Ciao for now.”
Shelly glanced across her desk at her lone employee,
Irv, who was calmly losing a hand of solitaire. “Irv, get me that
lox Jimmy Bodine on the phone.”
Irv looked up from his cards and blinked. “That wasn’t
Jimmy you were hyping to Bruce Kanter just now?”
“Sure as hell was. What about it?”
Irv removed his gold wire-frame glasses and nervously
polished the lenses. “But Shelly, Jimmy Bodine doesn’t know
how to swim.”
Shelly’s eyes narrowed to slits as she bored a hole
through Irv’s forehead. “Yeah, so? What’s aqua ability have to
do with the price of tea in China? Jimmy Bodine doesn’t have a
fucking prayer. You read the breakdowns. He’s all wrong for
the part.”
“Then why are you wasting Bruce’s time sending him
Jimmy?”
Shelly shook her, and as if addressing a slow child,
continued, “Let me explain it to you. The rumor going around
town is Bruce and his most recent fuck-buddy are on the outs.
So, I figure what the hell. I know for a fact Bruce’s taste in men
leans toward big, dumb country humps like Jimmy. So, I…”
“You thought you’d set the two of them up?” Irv
interrupted.
Shelly fluttered her eyelashes. “There could be romance
in the air.”
“But Jimmy is straight! What’re you thinking, Shelly?”
“Give me a break! Jimmy-Fucking-Bodine grew up in
the hill country of Tennessee! Didn’t you ever see
Deliverance?”
“As I recall, that film took place in Georgia.”
“Tennessee, Georgia, whatever!” Shelly fumed. “If I tell
him it’ll be good for his career, trust me, Jimmy will show up at
the interview wearing a wet suit and knee pads.”
While Irv blinked a silent response Shelly dialed out on
another line.
“God, if only we had a couple more clients like Cody
Clifton…” Shelly added dreamily. “That boy’s got winner written
all over him.”
“Let’s not forget who brought him over,” Irv reminded.
“You’re right, Irv. We should give credit where credit is
due. Jimmy-fucking-Bodine may be a lox, as well as a colossal
pain in the ass, but he did bring us Cody. God bless him for
that.”
Shelly turned her attention to the telephone. On the
other end of the line a machine picked up after the fourth ring.
“Cody, darling, this is Shelly. Give me a call as soon as
you get this message. I have an interview for you. Another
callback for Chuck Dallas, Private Investigator. I’ll give you the
details when I hear back from you. Ciao for now, honey.”
“God, I wish he’d remember to carry his cell phone,”
Shelly complained to Irv.
Irv Birnbaum was forty-eight years old. He’d started
working with Shelly back in 2016 when they were both
schleppers for the Spielman Agency. Over the course of three
decades in the entertainment industry, Milt Spielman had
cultivated a reputation as a tyrant as well as a tightwad. Under
his tutelage Shelly and Irv learned the ropes of the talent
agency business. And for that privilege they were ruthlessly
overworked and severely underpaid. It was Shelly who
dreamed of bigger things and always kept her eye on the ball.
Then in 2018, Shelly’s mother, Pauline Monroe nee
Himmelstein, did the only unselfish thing she’d ever done in her
entire life; she died suddenly, leaving all her worldly
possessions to her only child, Shelly Ilene. The inheritance
hadn’t been much, but it had been enough to tell Spielman
where he could stick his shitty job. She’d emptied her desk and
opened her own shop, and asked Irv if he’d care to tag along.
He’d agreed, and spent the following decade with Shelly, eking
out an existence pimping, what is referred to in the industry as,
day players.
Irv’s great ambition in life was to become a full partner
in the agency. An equal. A peer. But Shelly liked things the way
they were, with her name on the top line of the franchise.
“Shell, how many callbacks does this make?” Irv asked.
Shelly held out her hand with all five plump fingers fully
extended. “The casting director told me the writer loves Cody’s
delivery.”
Irv’s face took on a sour expression. “Who cares what
the writer thinks? Writers are the bottom of the food chain.”
“In this particular case the writer also happens to be one
of the producers.”
“Oh my!”
Shelly continued, “The bad news is he’s only one of
four.”
“There’s always bad news, isn’t there?” Irv responded,
once again removing his wire-rims for a quick polishing.
“Just the same, I’m starting to get excited. The
Network’s so completely ape shit over this show, they actually
gave the producers a deal for a guaranteed thirteen episode
run!”
Irv adjusted the nose piece on the spectacles and his
eyes grew wide, magnified four-fold by the lenses. “Are you
serious?”
Shelly beamed a smile. “Serious as a heart attack.
Brings back sweet memories, doesn’t it?”
The corners of Irv’s mouth curled upward in a faint
smile. “The good old days, eh Shell?”
“That’s right Irving, The good old days. Back before a
show got bought for six and canceled after two.”
Shelly sat back in the chair and propped her feet up on
the desk, gazed out the window into the distance.
“And you know what it’ll mean if Cody hits, don’t you?”
Irv chuckled nervously, “No more wrestling with the
junkies to get out of the parking lot?”
Shelly didn’t even hear the response. Her mind was off
planning the future. “It’ll mean the Monroe Talent Group’s name
will be on the lips of every power broker in town! That’s what it’ll
mean! After all these years scratching, I think we finally have a
‘Contender’.”
Shelly turned her eyes toward Irv. “And Irving, doll, do
you know what the best part’s going to be?”
Irv’s lower lip quivered. “Tell me about the rabbits again,
Shelly.
Her grin broadened. “The best part’s going to be when I
negotiate a five-year deal for our young Mr. Clifton, so that no
matter what big agency the ingrate prick eventually leaves us
for, we’ll continue getting paid each and every episode.”
Irv sat back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk,
emulating Boss lady. “And let’s not forget about the residuals!”
Irv added.
Shelly laughed. “No, Irv, we most certainly won’t forget
the residuals. God, how I love this business!”
4
Cody Clifton stood in the bathroom of his quaint, old
Hollywood duplex, brushing his teeth. Cody’s companion, Blue,
a five-year-old floppy-eared hound of dubious ancestry, was
sprawled on the floor nearby, snoring.
Cody had come across Blue in Ozona, Texas, on his
way driving out to Hollywood. He’d pulled off the freeway and
coasted up to the pump at a Shell station. And then, while he
was checking the water level in the old truck’s radiator, this
scruffy little flop-eared dog approached and began sniffing at
Cody’s boots.
An attendant appeared and Cody handed the man a
couple of twenties.
The dog barked.
“Nice dog, buddy. What’s his name?” Cody inquired.
“I have no idea. Mutt’s been hanging around here for
about a week now. Couple of kids dumped him.”
Cody kneeled and scratched the dog’s neck. The dog
licked Cody’s hand.
“Looks like you just made a friend, mister.”
Cody smiled and opened the door to the pickup. “Dog,
you wanna come home with me?”
Without missing a beat, the little beast jumped into the
truck and curled into a ball on the passenger seat.
“I think I’ll call you Blue.”
…And the rest is history.
Cody continued his ritual, vigorously rubbing his perfect
pink gum tissue in an up and down motion. When he finished,
he replaced the toothbrush in its cup, and patted his face on a
towel. He reached for a hairbrush on the edge of the john and
began brushing the damp hair off his forehead as he
contemplated his thirty-one-year-old physique.
Cody loped off in a counter clockwise direction with
Blue right at his heels.
*****
When Cody and Blue returned from their morning run
they were greeted by the upstairs neighbor, Mrs. Valletti. A
sweet little old Italian lady with a penchant for cannoli, Mrs.
Valletti was recently widowed. Cody was reasonably certain it
was Mrs. Valletti’s high-cholesterol cooking that had killed Mr.
Valletti.
“Good morning, Cody. Did you and Blue get in a good
workout today?”
“Yes ma’am, we certainly did,” Cody replied, adjusting
the towel around his neck. “And how are you feelin’ on this
lovely mornin’?”
Mrs. Valletti made a gesture with her hands. “A little stiff
in the joints, but I guess that’s to be expected at my age…
Listen Cody, I was wondering…”
Cody’s left eye twitched. Over time it became plain that
whenever Mrs. Valletti preceded a statement with: “Cody, I was
wondering”, it ended up costing money.
“Ma’am?”
“The senior center is having its annual raffle in two
weeks. First prize is a weekend for two in Las Vegas, all
expenses paid… and that includes transportation! …by bus, of
course.”
“Well ma’am, I’m not much of a gamblin’ man…”
“Did I mention that proceeds are going to the Children’s
Hospital?” she added, turning up the charm. “C’mon Cody,
tickets are only five bucks apiece. How many can I put you
down for?”
Cody scratched his chin. “Well, I guess if it’s for charity
and all, I’ll take four of ‘em off your hands.”
Mrs. Valletti beamed. “You’re such a wonderful boy,
Cody. Your mother must be very proud.”
Cody blushed.
“I’ll get that money right up to you, Mrs. Valletti. Just as
soon as I get cleaned up.”
He crossed to the front door.
“Take your time, Cody. I’m not going anywhere,” she
called after him, chuckling.
*****
Cody kicked off his sneakers and padded across the
oak floor in his socks. As he was about to head off to the
shower Cody noticed the flashing red light on the answering
machine. He paused beside the kitchen counter and pressed
‘play’.
“Cody darling, this is Shelly. Give me a call as soon as
you get this message. I have an interview for you. Another
callback for Chuck Dallas, Private Investigator. I’ll give you the
details when I hear back from you. Ciao for now, honey.”
Cody reached for the phone and punched a speed-dial
button.
“Hey Irv, It’s Cody. Is Shelly around?”
“Acting is an empty and useless profession.”
-Marlon Brando
5
Jimmy Bodine could easily have passed for Cody
Clifton’s brother. The resemblance was uncanny. He was just
under six feet tall and a stockier one-hundred, ninety pounds.
His hair was a few shades darker and a bit longer than Cody’s,
and his nose was broader at the bridge. Jimmy and Cody were
born within sixty days of each other, in towns one county apart,
separated by a state line. There was even the distant possibility
the two were related; fifth cousins, or some such nonsense.
Jimmy sat across the desk from Shelly, clad in worn
designer denim and expensive gray ostrich cowboy boots, a
crumpled copy of Actors Log poised in his lap.
“…And as far as I know they haven’t cast the part of the
hit man yet. So, what do you think, Shelly? Can you get me out
on it?”
Irv interrupted, “Shell, Cody’s on line three.”
“Hang on a second, Jimmy. I have to give Cody an
interview.”
She picked up the phone and punched the button with
the flashing light.
“Cody, darling. Got a pencil handy? …Good. They want
you at bungalow 33 tomorrow at eleven. Use the south
entrance to the lot. There’ll be a drive-on pass waiting for you
at the guard shack. Get there early, and don’t forget to check in
with me after. Knock ‘em dead, kid.”
Shelly hadn’t even hung up the phone before Jimmy
Bodine started in again. “So, what do you say, Shelly? Can you
get me out on the gig in Actors Log?”
Shelly suppressed the sudden urge to reach for the .38
snub-nose in her purse and permanently silence his incessant
questions. Taking a deep breath, she forced a warm smile.
“You know Jimmy, we had that in the ‘breakdowns’ over
a month ago, and if I would have thought you were right for the
role, I would have submitted you back then.”
“What’s wrong, Shelly? Don’t you think I could play the
part?”
“This isn’t a question about acting ability. It’s a purely
physical thing. Jimmy, there’s just no way in Hell you could
ever pass for Italian.”
Jimmy thought about that for a moment, and then came
up with what, in his mind, seemed like a plausible solution.
“What if I put a really dark rinse on my hair?”
Shelly chuckled and shook her head. “Jimmy, even if
you had your septum surgically removed, I still couldn’t sell you
as a wop hit man. Get a grip already.”
Jimmy’s expression wilted.
“Now don’t go getting all puppy-eyed on me,” Shelly
snapped. “Jimmy, what you have to understand here is, I’m the
agent and you’re the performer. My job is to get you interviews
and negotiate the deal when you land a role. But in order for
me to do my job, casting directors have to trust me. And if I
send them Joe Pesci when they’ve requested Clint Eastwood,
they’re going to stop trusting me. And if that happens, all my
clients, including you, will suffer …Are you beginning to get the
picture?”
Jimmy Bodine sat there quietly digesting the
information. “Gee Shelly, I never looked at it like that before.”
Shelly smiled inwardly. Actors were just like little
children. Sometimes you just had to draw them a picture.
“Well, what about this one?” Jimmy asked, shoving the
Actors Log under Shelly’s nose. “It says here Randolph Foods
is lookin’ for a spokesperson, and they’re interviewing
southerners for the job.”
“We had that one in ‘breakdowns’ two weeks ago. And if
you’d take the time to read a little further down the page, you’d
learn that Randolph Foods is interviewing actors in their
sixties!”
Without missing a beat Jimmy shot back, “No problem,
Shelly. With a little makeup and a gray rinse, I can play sixties,
easy.”
“There are two classes of people in this world:
there are those who prey,
and those who are preyed upon.”
-Mr. Jacques
6
The room was windowless and cold, harshly lit, and
possessed with the sharp smell of disinfectant. Ellen Pomeroy
a.k.a. April Waters lay on her back on a stainless-steel table.
Over the course of the past several hours, her body had been
opened, and each of her internal organs removed and
inspected. Samples of urine, bile, blood, CNS fluid and
stomach contents had been collected. A diamond-bladed
surgical saw had circumnavigated her cranium, and its contents
removed. Slices were taken from various sections of her cortex
and slides were prepared.
The dead don’t complain.
Dr. Cecelia Chao stood over the corpse tying off sutures
along the lengthy vertical incision. She worked meticulously
while a digital recorder captured her verbal commentary.
“…And the cause of death is asphyxia, the proximal
result of a crushed trachea. Death to be ruled a homicide.”
A knock on the lab door distracted her. She paused the
recorder.
“Yes?”
Detectives Calderas and London stepped into the
autopsy room.
“Ah, good morning, detectives. So sorry you didn’t get
by earlier,” Dr. Chao said, peeling off latex gloves.
“We’ve been busy,” Calderas explained.
“I understand.”
London asked, “So what’s your professional opinion,
Doc? Are we looking at number four?”
Dr. Chao crossed to the stain-less steel basin and
turned the faucet on hot. She proceeded to scrub her hands,
paying scrupulous attention to each individual digit.
“Similar method of strangulation. Obvious signs of
intercourse without the presence of semen. The biting
behavior. Yes, detective, I would have to say that in all
probability, this is the fourth victim.”
Calderas folded her arms. “Imagine that. A serial killer
who’s into safe sex. Go figure.”
“This guy thinks he’s clever. He wears a rubber so he
won’t leave DNA evidence behind,” London commented.
“Guess our perp missed the outcome of the O.J. Trial…
the first one” Max quipped.
Doctor Chao finished drying her hands.
“I’ll be sending the case file to Doctor Ehrnquist at the
forensic odontology lab for review.”
London frowned. “This hump’s raped and strangled four
women…”
“That we know about,” Calderas interjected.
“Four women that we know about,” London continued,
“And all we have are a set of tooth prints… Now how often do
you see that?”
Max glanced at the girl’s corpse and grimaced. Her
instincts told her that the predator responsible for this had more
going for him then mere luck. He was smart. And he was
cagey. Cagey enough to blend in when he was on the prowl for
hookers, and smart enough to know that water washes away all
sins.
The northern branch of the jet stream had dipped seven
hundred miles south of where it should typically have been,
resulting in a freakishly wet November and December for Los
Angles. All four victims were found in hilly areas, and all had
been left out overnight in the rain. It hadn’t taken long to wash
away hair and fiber evidence, as well as DNA, footprints and
tire tracks. The only physical evidence linking killer to victims
was a set of dental impressions, and the detectives would hate
to base a multiple-murder case on that alone.
“My only regret in the theater
is that I could never sit out front and watch me.”
-John Barrymore
7
Trevor Stone’s Acting Workshop in Hollywood was
founded in 2012. That was precisely two years after Trevor’s
once white-hot star had dimmed, and right around the time the
creditors started seizing assets.
Trevor’s rock bottom came the day the bank
repossessed his beloved Mercedes. Considered the ultimate
pussy-magnet of its era, the sleek, black BMG converted 600
series sedan was Trevor’s pride and joy. The thought of life
without ‘Herr Heimlich’ was almost too much to contemplate.
As he leaned against the doorjamb and watched the tail lights
of the tow truck descend the driveway of his Hollywood Hills
home, Trevor knew something had to be done. And right away.
The very next morning Big T hit the street, a man with a
plan! By mid-afternoon he’d forked over eighteen crisp
Benjamins in exchange for three months advance rent on a
bungalow, a block off Hollywood Boulevard. The price was
steep for the area, but Trevor could hardly quibble, given his
current credit history.
A couple of days later, Trevor utilized several more
Benjamins from his rapidly diminishing stash. This time the
cash bought him a full back-page ad in Actors Log, a film
industry rag sheet read by every wannabe in town. The ad copy
announced the Grand Opening of The Trevor Stone Acting
Workshop. It hyped Trevor’s recent TV show, Bear Mullen, as
well as his extensive background in legitimate theater.
Hollywood is a major breeding ground of fantasy.
Always has been. Always will be. And because of this, it should
be no great surprise to anyone that the town attracts more than
its share of the psychologically impaired, as well as the gullible
and naïve; folks who not only believe “Miracles Happen Every
day”, but are willing to shell out large sums of cash in pursuit of
one.
…That miracle of miracles: stardom.
Everybody wants to get into the act, and talent, or lack
thereof, is purely in the eye of the beholder. And in Actors Log,
the neophyte thespian can find anything he or she needs: From
head shots to answering services, from dialect coaches to lists
of theatrical agents. It’s a money-making juggernaut that feeds
on ignorance, greed, ego, and hope; four commodities of which
there exists an apparent endless supply.
And Trevor Stone was about to jump onboard.
When the ad hit the street the following week a funny
thing happened; the phone started ringing.
And the rest, as they say, is history.
Twelve years had come and gone and little had
changed. Trevor’s classes were still held in that same shabby
bungalow he’d started teaching in back in 2012. And the very
same ad continued its weekly run in Actors Log. The only
difference was it was no longer on the back cover. Today the
ad takes up about one square inch of page real estate, lost
amid a plethora of ads for acting coaches and alleged
photographers, offering seventy-five-dollar head shots.
Stardom is strictly a seller’s market.
Caveat emptor, baby.
*****
Jimmy Bodine stood at the center of the stage sweating
beneath the lights. He could feel his heart rate climb as he
neared the end of his self-written monologue.
“…And when I looked up, I saw my mother, standing in
the doorway. She had an expression on her face like a deer
staring into the headlights of an oncoming car.”
Jimmy waited a beat for the laughter that never came.
“It was then that I realized things would never be the same
between us. Elizabeth pulled the blankets up, shielding her
bare breasts.”
He paused, closed his eyes and concentrated hard on
visualizing the image, but the gum-smacking and fidgeting
wafting from the audience rattled him.
“The only thought that entered my mind was …Why
couldn’t Mom have come home ten minutes later? Just ten
minutes later… Just ten-fucking-minutes!”
Jimmy lowered his head, signaling to one and all his
scene had finally concluded. The spotlight dimmed and the
house lights were brought up.
Returning to their senses and realizing their suffering
was over, the audience responded with applause. Not raucous,
happy clapping. Merely the minimal-effort, relieved, politically
correct variety.
Jimmy started to slink from the stage.
A rich baritone voice projected from the back row
freezing him where he stood. “Mister Bodine. Where, young sir,
do you think you’re going?”
“I just figured class was runnin’ late and …” Jimmy
began.
“And? And what, Mister Bodine? Did you honestly
believe that you could leave this theater without receiving
“critique”? Is that what you thought, Mister Bodine?”
Trevor Stone rose from his chair and stretched to his full
five foot, nine inches. Though forty pounds heavier than he was
in his prime, his hair was still thick and imitation honey blonde.
He turned his attention toward the class.
“So, does anyone have any constructive criticism for
Mister Bodine?”
He scanned the room for volunteers.
“No one has anything to say? …Megan, how about
you? What did you think of Mister Bodine’s performance?”
Megan McKinnon was an extremely pretty redhead in
her late-twenties who’d been attending the workshop for nearly
a year. Her acting talent was nil but the girl was an amazing
performer, nonetheless. So much so, in fact, Trevor had made
“special” tuition arrangements with the young lady. The lesser
part of their arrangement had to do with Megan helping out in
class.
Megan rose from her seat and addressed Jimmy, one
freckled hand constantly fiddling with her hair.
“I like what your scene is saying, Jimmy. I really respect
your honesty. The subject matter had to be extremely difficult
for you.”
Megan flashed a most sincere smile and returned to her
chair. She thought Jimmy was kinda cute.
Jimmy nodded his head.
Trevor cast a heavy browed glance in Cody’s direction.
“And what about you, Mister Clifton? Is there anything
you might have done differently?”
Cody tilted his head and placed a hand to his chin,
feigning intense concentration. After his brief dramatic pause
Cody replied: “Well, Trevor, If it were me, I’d have politely
asked mom to clear outta my room so I could finish what I’d
started.”
As usual, Cody’s delivery was perfection. The entire
room erupted into paroxysms of laughter. Everyone except
Jimmy Bodine, that is.
Cody continued, “Honestly, I think Jimmy did a good job
with the material. The writing needs some polish is all.”
Polish.
The visual that ran at twenty-four frames a second
across Trevor’s vivid imagination was that of three sweating
Mexicans Simonizing a giant frozen turd. What came out of his
mouth was: “Thank you Mister Clifton. I concur.”
Then he turned his attention to Jimmy who was doing
his utmost to maintain a quiet dignity.
“I would like you to run the last few lines of your
monologue once again. But first, I want you to do a
visualization exercise with me.”
Jimmy’s preference was to vacate the stage post haste,
but he realized that was completely out of the question. Trevor
Stone was famous for his volcanic temper. On more than one
occasion Jimmy had witnessed the verbal barbecuing of a
student who’d managed to get on Trevor’s bad side. As worn
as he was, this student had no desire to incur the Coach’s
wrath.
“Close your eyes Mister Bodine and visualize the color
black.”
Jimmy did as commanded and tried to make the room
disappear.
“Very good,” Trevor continued. “Now, I would like you to
picture Elizabeth in your mind.”
Jimmy smiled.
“Ah, excellent,” Trevor enthused. “You are both naked,
beside each other on your bed… Her hair smells of cinnamon
and she is the most perfect thing you have ever seen.”
Jimmy’s smile grew broader as he manifested the
image in his mind.
Trevor’s tone was soothing, almost hypnotic.
“Her body is so warm. She kisses you. Your tongues
touch.”
Trevor exhaled an “ahh,” and paused for effect.
“You taste the inside of her mouth and feel your heart
race. She reaches down and strokes your cock. It’s your first
time and you’re so excited you almost forget to breathe… She
directs you. And just as you’re finally inside of her, you hear a
noise downstairs. Nobody is supposed to be home for hours!
How do you feel, Mister Bodine?”
Jimmy’s eyes remain clamped and beads of
perspiration accumulate on his upper lip.
“I’m scared. I don’t wanna get caught.”
“That’s good. At first, you’re scared. But you are
enjoying this encounter with Elizabeth, are you not, Mister
Bodine?”
“Hell yes.”
Some of the girls sitting in the audience giggled, but
Jimmy was oblivious. He’d suddenly made the transition that
Great Actors achieve at will……
…He was fifteen years old, and back at his family’s
ranch, just outside of Memphis. He could see the gold-gray
light of early afternoon as it filtered through the dogwoods and
spilled across the desk.
As he gazed out the bedroom window of his
adolescence, he became aware of the subtle fragrance of
cinnamon. He felt her touch and turned to face her.
Elizabeth’s eyes were the color of the autumn sky at
twilight, and they glittered when she smiled. She took his hand
and placed it on her pussy, moaned softly as he slid a slender
finger inside.
“Ooh Jimmy, just like that,” she cooed into his ear.
They explored one another with racing hearts, breathing
together in pleasant gasps. So engulfed in their mutual
pleasure, neither heard the front door open downstairs. Or
Jimmy’s mother’s footsteps crossing the living room and then
ascending the stairs.
Jimmy became peripherally aware something was
wrong when he heard the squeal of the loose floorboard
outside his bedroom door. He didn’t even have time to panic
before his mother called out.
“Jimmy? Jimmy, are you in there?”
Elizabeth let out a gasp as the door swung open and
Jimmy’s mother stepped into the room. It took several beats for
his mother to fully comprehend what she was seeing.
“Oh. My. God!? She screamed in horror. “You dirty, dirty
boy! How could you do such a thing!?”
She glared at her son, envisioning everything she
detested about the Male of the species. Then a random neuron
fired and an image blazed across her mind. It was an
unspeakable memory of her own drunken, abusive father.
Jimmy looked into his mother’s hateful eyes …and
heard Trevor’s voice.
“So, what are you feeling, Mister Bodine?”
“I feel ashamed,” the fifteen-year-old Jimmy responded.
Trevor’s expression soured.
“For what? For doing what Nature intended? What’s
wrong with you Mister Bodine? Where are your cojones? Now
think, God damn it! What else are you feeling?”
Jimmy looked into his mother’s eyes and felt the rage
begin to grow. Those awful eyes, always watching him. Always
judging him.