Part 3 (1/2)

”It's a plan,” Kit says. ”It's very, um, subtle.”

”It's a philosophy,” someone else says.

”It's just how I roll.”

Wayne looks up, taking note of my uninflected voice.

”I guess it kind of makes sense. You've been involved in some high-profile hits,” Wayne mutters, ”for what it's worth.”

Kit leans forward. ”It's just not a very good way to make friends.”

Banks closes his menu when the owner leans down and whispers something to him. Josh Hartnett, who was going to play one of the sons in The Listeners The Listeners and then bailed, walks over and crouches by the bamboo chair and we have a brief exchange about another script of mine that he's been circling, but his apologetic lack of commitment only makes me seem more remote than I'm actually feeling. Though I know that what he's saying isn't true I smile and agree anyway. Austere plates of raw fish start arriving, along with ice-cold bottles of premium sake, and then the guys make fun of a very successful shark movie I wrote, and the series about witches I created that ran for two seasons on Showtime, then Wayne starts telling a story about an actress who stalked him until he cast her in a movie about a monster that looked like a talking beanbag. Just as the owner sends the table a complimentary dessert-an elaborate plate of sugared doughnuts drizzled with caramel-the night begins sliding into its last act. I'm scanning the room when I see the cascade of blond hair, the wide-open pale blue eyes, the dumb smile that offsets her beauty while at the same time making it more p.r.o.nounced: she's on the phone at the hostess stand. And then I realize it's time to cross the line. and then bailed, walks over and crouches by the bamboo chair and we have a brief exchange about another script of mine that he's been circling, but his apologetic lack of commitment only makes me seem more remote than I'm actually feeling. Though I know that what he's saying isn't true I smile and agree anyway. Austere plates of raw fish start arriving, along with ice-cold bottles of premium sake, and then the guys make fun of a very successful shark movie I wrote, and the series about witches I created that ran for two seasons on Showtime, then Wayne starts telling a story about an actress who stalked him until he cast her in a movie about a monster that looked like a talking beanbag. Just as the owner sends the table a complimentary dessert-an elaborate plate of sugared doughnuts drizzled with caramel-the night begins sliding into its last act. I'm scanning the room when I see the cascade of blond hair, the wide-open pale blue eyes, the dumb smile that offsets her beauty while at the same time making it more p.r.o.nounced: she's on the phone at the hostess stand. And then I realize it's time to cross the line.

I knew you were here,” Rain says. knew you were here,” Rain says.

”Why didn't you say something?” I ask, sobering up immediately in her presence. ”You could have sent over a few c.o.c.ktails.”

”I a.s.sumed you guys were already wasted when you came in.”

”Why didn't you say h.e.l.lo?”

”I was seating a table,” she says. ”Plus the owner likes to impress Banks.”

”So, this is where you work?”

”Yes,” she purrs. ”Glamorous, isn't it?”

”You seem happy.”

”I am,” she says. ”I'm almost afraid of how happy I am.”

”Come on, don't be afraid.”

She mimics a little girl. ”Well, I could always be happier.”

”Well,” I say contemplatively. ”I got your pics.”

When I get back to the Doheny Plaza, waiting for Rain to come over after she finishes her s.h.i.+ft, I sit in my office checking Rain's IMDb page again, studying it for clues. There are no credits for the last two years, stopping abruptly after ”Christine” in a Michael Bay movie and ”Stacy's Friend” in an episode of CSI: Miami CSI: Miami and then I'm filling in the missing pieces, the things she doesn't want anyone to know. The credits begin when Rain must have been eighteen. I'm doing the math by guessing-the date of birth has been shaved by at least a couple years and I'm putting her age at probably twenty-two or twenty-three. She was at the University of Michigan (cheerleader for the Wolverines, ”studying medicine”) but no dates are given (if she attended at all) so it's hard to confirm exactly how old she is. Though Rain would say it doesn't matter. Rain would argue that just the idea of her in a cheerleader's uniform is enough. But the fact that there are no photos of her as a cheerleader causes more whispers in that darkly lit hallway, and the addition of ”studying medicine” makes the whispering even louder. and then I'm filling in the missing pieces, the things she doesn't want anyone to know. The credits begin when Rain must have been eighteen. I'm doing the math by guessing-the date of birth has been shaved by at least a couple years and I'm putting her age at probably twenty-two or twenty-three. She was at the University of Michigan (cheerleader for the Wolverines, ”studying medicine”) but no dates are given (if she attended at all) so it's hard to confirm exactly how old she is. Though Rain would say it doesn't matter. Rain would argue that just the idea of her in a cheerleader's uniform is enough. But the fact that there are no photos of her as a cheerleader causes more whispers in that darkly lit hallway, and the addition of ”studying medicine” makes the whispering even louder.

The most recent information: Rain posted a month ago that she was listed as one of L.A. Confidential L.A. Confidential's most eligible singles in the December issue, and so is-I notice unsurprisingly enough when I pull up the magazine online-Amanda Flew, the actress I hit on at JFK and who texted me during Rain's audition. The photo of Rain in L.A. Confidential L.A. Confidential is the same headshot that obviously is Rain's preferred image of herself: staring blankly at the camera so that her perfect features can speak for themselves, but there's the beginning of a slight grin she almost manages to make suggestive of an intelligence that the cleavage and her career choice otherwise argue against. And it doesn't matter if any intelligence actually exists because it's really about the look, the idea of a girl like this, the promise of s.e.x. It's all about the lure. The Mys.p.a.ce page reveals nothing to me at first except that her favorite band is the Fray. ”How to Save a Life” plays when you open the page. I'm about to scan it when I get a text from a blocked number. is the same headshot that obviously is Rain's preferred image of herself: staring blankly at the camera so that her perfect features can speak for themselves, but there's the beginning of a slight grin she almost manages to make suggestive of an intelligence that the cleavage and her career choice otherwise argue against. And it doesn't matter if any intelligence actually exists because it's really about the look, the idea of a girl like this, the promise of s.e.x. It's all about the lure. The Mys.p.a.ce page reveals nothing to me at first except that her favorite band is the Fray. ”How to Save a Life” plays when you open the page. I'm about to scan it when I get a text from a blocked number.

I look down at the phone on my desk. look down at the phone on my desk.

The screen says: I'm watching you I'm watching you.

Instead of ignoring it and turning away, I text back: Where am I? Where am I?

Within the time it takes another text to arrive I've already walked to the kitchen and poured myself a gla.s.s of vodka. When I reach for the phone back in my office I freeze.

You're at home.

I hold the phone away from my face and glance out the window.

And then I text back: No I'm not No I'm not.

It takes a minute before the phone flashes a glow that tells me I have a response.

I can see you, the text reads. U r standing in your office U r standing in your office.

I glance out the window again and am surprised when I find myself backing into a wall. The condo suddenly seems so empty but it isn't-there are voices in it, and they linger like they always do-and I turn off the lights and slowly move to the balcony, and beneath the wavering fronds of a palm tree, the blue Jeep is parked on the corner of Elevado, and then I turn the lights back on and move to the front door and open it and stare down the empty Art Deco hallway, and then I'm walking toward the elevators.

I pa.s.s the night doorman and push the lobby doors open and then I'm walking quickly past the security guard and then I stumble into a jog toward Elevado and just as I turn the corner the Jeep's headlights flash their high beams, immediately blinding me. The Jeep peels away from the curb and it causes a van coming up Doheny to swerve as the Jeep makes a right and lurches toward Sunset and when I look up I'm standing exactly where the Jeep was parked and can see the lights of my condo through the branches of the trees, and except for the occasional car cruising by, it's dark and soundless on Elevado. I keep my eyes on the windows of my empty office as I walk back to the Doheny Plaza fifteen stories up, a place I was standing in just moments ago, being watched by whoever was in the blue Jeep, and I realize I'm panting as I walk past the security guard, and I slow down, trying to catch my breath, and smile at him, but as I'm about to head inside a green BMW pulls up. pa.s.s the night doorman and push the lobby doors open and then I'm walking quickly past the security guard and then I stumble into a jog toward Elevado and just as I turn the corner the Jeep's headlights flash their high beams, immediately blinding me. The Jeep peels away from the curb and it causes a van coming up Doheny to swerve as the Jeep makes a right and lurches toward Sunset and when I look up I'm standing exactly where the Jeep was parked and can see the lights of my condo through the branches of the trees, and except for the occasional car cruising by, it's dark and soundless on Elevado. I keep my eyes on the windows of my empty office as I walk back to the Doheny Plaza fifteen stories up, a place I was standing in just moments ago, being watched by whoever was in the blue Jeep, and I realize I'm panting as I walk past the security guard, and I slow down, trying to catch my breath, and smile at him, but as I'm about to head inside a green BMW pulls up.

I love the view,” Rain says, holding a tumbler of tequila, standing on the balcony overlooking the city. I'm staring past her down at the empty s.p.a.ce on Elevado where the Jeep was parked and it's three in the morning and I come up behind her and down below the wind gently drapes palm fronds over the rippling water of the Doheny Plaza's lit pool and the only light in the condo comes from the Christmas tree in the corner and Counting Crows' ”A Long December” plays softly in the background. love the view,” Rain says, holding a tumbler of tequila, standing on the balcony overlooking the city. I'm staring past her down at the empty s.p.a.ce on Elevado where the Jeep was parked and it's three in the morning and I come up behind her and down below the wind gently drapes palm fronds over the rippling water of the Doheny Plaza's lit pool and the only light in the condo comes from the Christmas tree in the corner and Counting Crows' ”A Long December” plays softly in the background.

”Don't you have a boyfriend?” I ask. ”Someone...more age-appropriate than me?”

”Guys my age are idiots,” she says, turning around. ”Guys my age are awful.”

”I have news for you,” I say, leaning into her. ”So are guys my age.”

”But you look good for your age,” she says, stroking my face. ”You look ten years younger,” she says. ”You've had work done, right?” Her fingers keep combing the hair that had been dyed the week before. Her other hand runs along the sleeve of the T-s.h.i.+rt with the skateboard logo on it. In the bedroom she lets me go down on her and after I make her come she lets me slide in.

During the last week of December if we aren't in bed we're at the movies or watching screeners and Rain simply nods when I tell her everything that's wrong with the movie we've just seen and she doesn't argue back. ”I liked it,” she will say, putting a light touch on everything, her upper lip always provocatively lifted, her eyes always drained of intent, programmed not to be challenging or negative. This is someone trying to stay young because she knows that what matters most to you is the youthful surface. This is supposed to be part of the appeal: keep everything young and soft, keep everything on the surface, even with the knowledge that the surface fades and can't be held together forever-take advantage before the expiration date appears in the nearing distance. The surface Rain presents is really all she's about, and since so many girls look like Rain another part of the appeal is watching her try to figure out why I've become so interested in her and not someone else.

”Am I the only one you're interested in?” she asks. ”I mean right now, for the part?”

My eyes scan the bedroom we're lying in until they land on hers. ”Yes.”

”Why?” And then a teasing smile. ”Why me?”

This question and my subsequent nonanswer leave her wanting to impart information that, in the bedroom on the fifteenth floor of the Doheny Plaza, has no reason to even exist. You ignore why she left Lansing at seventeen and the casual hints of an abusive uncle (a made-for-sympathy move that threatens to erase the carnality) and why she dropped out of the University of Michigan (I don't ask whether she'd ever enrolled) and what led to the side trips to New York and Miami before she landed in L.A. and you don't ask what she must have done with the photographer who discovered her when she was waitressing at the cafe on Melrose or about the career modeling lingerie that probably seemed promising at nineteen and that led to the commercials that led to a couple of tiny roles in films and definitely not putting all her hopes into the third part of a horror franchise that panned into nothing and then it was the quick slide into the bit parts on TV shows you've never heard of, the pilot shot but never aired, and covering everything else is the distant humiliation of bartending gigs and the favors that got her the hostess job at Reveal. Decoding everything, you piece together the agent who ignores her. You begin to understand through her muted complaints that the management company no longer cares. Her need is so immense that you become surrounded by it; this need is so enormous that you realize you can actually control it, and I know this because I've done it before.

We sit in my office naked, buzzed on champagne, while she shows me pics from a Calvin Klein show, audition tapes a friend shot, a modeling portfolio, paparazzi photos of her at B-list events-the opening of a shoe store on Canon, a charity benefit at someone's home in Brentwood, standing with a group of girls at the Playboy Mansion at the Midsummer Night's Dream Party-and then always it seems we're back in the bedroom.

”What do you want for Christmas?” she asks.

”This. You.” I smile. ”What do you want?”

”I want a part in your movie,” she says. ”You know that.”

”Yeah?” I ask, my hand tracing her thigh. ”My movie? Which part?”

”I want the part of Martina.” She kisses me, her hand moving down to my c.o.c.k, gripping it, releasing it, gripping it again.

”And I'm going to try and get it for you.”

The pause is involuntary but she recovers in a second. ”Try?” ”Try?”

If we aren't in bed or watching movies we're at the Bristol Farms down the street buying champagne or at the Apple store in the Westfield Mall in Century City because she needs a new computer and also wants an iPhone (”It's Christmas,” she purrs as if it matters) and I'll hand the BMW over to the valet at the mall and notice the looks from the guys taking the car, and the stares from so many other men roaming the mall, and she notices them too and walks quickly, pulling me along, while talking mindlessly to no one on her cell phone, a self-protective gesture, a way to combat the stares by not acknowledging them. These stares are always the grim reminders of a pretty girl's life in this town, and though I've been with other beautiful women, the neurosis about their looks had already hardened into a kind of bitter acceptance that Rain doesn't seem to share. One of the last afternoons together that December, we're heading to the Apple store drunk on champagne, Rain nestling into me, wearing Yves Saint Laurent sungla.s.ses as we walk beneath the overcast sky looming above the towers of Century City, the chiming bells of Christmas carols everywhere, and she's happy because we'd just watched her reel, which includes the two scenes she was in from a Jim Carrey movie, a drama that tanked. (After squinting hard at the screen, I enthusiastically complimented her and then asked why she hadn't listed the movie on her resume, and she admitted the scenes were cut.) She's still asking me if I'm telling the truth about her scenes as we move toward the Apple store and I a.s.sure her that I am instead of admitting how dismaying the performance actually was. There was no way those scenes should have been kept in the movie-the decision to remove them was the correct one. (I have to stop myself from wondering how she got the part, because that would be entering a maze with no escape.) What keeps me interested-and it always does-is how can she be a bad actress on film but a good one in reality? This is where the suspense of it all usually lies. And later, for the first time since Meghan Reynolds, I think hopefully-lying in bed, lifting a gla.s.s filled with champagne to my lips, her face hovering above mine-that maybe she isn't acting with me.