Part 3 (2/2)

We're shopping at the Bristol Farms on Doheny for another case of champagne in the last week of December when I lose her in one of the aisles and I become dazed when I realize that the market used to be Chasen's, the restaurant I came to with my parents on various Christmas Eves, when I was a teenager, and I try to reconfigure the restaurant's layout while standing in the produce section, ”Do They Know It's Christmas?” playing throughout the store, and when nothing comes it's a sad relief. And then I notice Rain's gone and I'm moving through the aisles and I'm thinking about pictures of her naked on a yacht, my hand between her legs, my tongue on her c.u.n.t while she comes and then I find her outside, leaning against my BMW talking to a handsome guy I don't recognize, his arm in a sling, and he walks away as I wheel my cart toward them and when I ask her who he was she smiles rea.s.suringly and says ”Graham” and then ”No one” and then ”He's a magician.” I kiss her on the mouth. She looks nervously around. I watch her reflection in the window of the BMW. ”What's wrong?” I ask. ”Not here,” she says, but as if ”not here” is a promise of somewhere better. The deserted parking lot is suddenly freezing, the icy air so cold it s.h.i.+mmers.

During that week we spend together things aren't completely tracking-there are lapses-but she acts like it doesn't matter, which helps cause the fear to fade away. Rain replaces it with something else that's easy to lose yourself in, despite, for example, the fact that a few of my friends still in town wanted to get together for dinner at Sona but the invitation caused a low-level anxiety in Rain that seemed alien to her nature and this became briefly revealing. (”I don't want to be with anyone else but you” is her excuse.) But the lapses and evasions aren't loud-Rain is still soothing enough for the texts from the blocked numbers to stop arriving and for the blue Jeep to disappear along with my desire to start work again on any number of projects I'm involved with and the long brooding silences are gone and the bottle of v.i.a.g.r.a in the nightstand drawer is left untouched and the ghosts rearranging things in the condo have taken flight and Rain makes me believe this is something with a future. Rain convinces me that this is really happening. Meghan Reynolds fades into a blur because Rain demands that the focus be on her, and because everything about her works for me I don't even realize it when it slips into something beyond simply working and for the first time since Meghan Reynolds I make the mistake of starting to care. But there's one dark fact humming loudly over everything that I keep trying to ignore but can't because it's the only thing that keeps the balance in place. It's the thing that doesn't let me fall completely away. It's the thing that saves me from collapsing: she's too old for the part she thinks she's going to get.

So when will you help me?” she asks while we're sitting in the cafe down the street from the Doheny Plaza, idling over a late breakfast, both of us floating away from hangovers with the dope we smoked and Xanax. ”I think you should make the calls as soon as possible,” she says, looking at herself in a mirror. ”Right when everybody comes back, okay?” I'm smiling at her serenely and nodding. I ignore the creases of suspicion on her face even after I remove my sungla.s.ses, and then I a.s.sure her with a ”Yes” followed by a warm kiss.

This a.s.sumed peace lasts only about a week. There's always the possibility of something frightening happening, and then it usually does. Two days before Kelly Montrose's body is found, Rain wakes up and mentions she had a dream that night. I'm already up, taking pictures of her while she sleeps, and now that she's awake she flinches when I take another one and she says that in her dream she saw a young man in my kitchen, a boy, really, but old enough to be desirable, and he was staring at her and there was dried blood crusted above his upper lip and there was a blurred tattoo of a dragon etched on his forearm and the boy told her he had wanted to live here in 1508, but the boy told her not to worry, that he was lucky, and then his face turned black and he bared his teeth and then he was dust, and I tell Rain about the party boy who had owned this apartment and I tell her that the building is haunted, that at night vampires hide in the palm trees surrounding the building waiting for the lights to go out, and then roam the hallways, and finally the camera gets her attention and she's animated and I keep flas.h.i.+ng the camera, my head propped on a pillow while she glances at the flat-screen TV-a shot of people running from a jungle, an episode of Lost Lost, and I reach for a Corona on the nightstand. ”The vampires don't roam the hallways,” she finally murmurs, recovered. ”The vampires own the units.” And then we run lines for the part of Martina in The Listeners The Listeners.

Kelly Montrose was rumored to be with the Hispanic actress who had been found in the ma.s.s grave right before Christmas. The last sighting of him was on a tennis court in Palm Springs one afternoon in mid-December. Kelly's naked body was smeared across a highway in Juarez and then propped against a tree. Two other men were found nearby entombed in blocks of cement. Kelly's face was peeled off, and his hands were missing. There was a note pinned to his body revealing nothing: cabron? cabron? cabron? cabron? cabron? cabron? Things I didn't know about Kelly: the crystal meth thing, the stepmother who died during plastic surgery, the supposed connections with the drug cartel. This discovery feels only tangential since I never really knew Kelly Montrose-he produced movies, I'd met him several times about various projects-and he was never close enough to anyone I knew to define any of my relations.h.i.+ps. Rain spends the day before Kelly Montrose is found at a distance: pacing the balcony, texting, taking calls, returning calls, increasingly agitated, leaning against the railing, gazing past the plunge of the balcony at a couple of guys jogging s.h.i.+rtless on the street below. When I ask her what's wrong she keeps blaming her family. I keep dragging her back to the bedroom and she's always resisting, promising ”In a minute, in a minute...” After downing two shots of tequila she lazes on the balcony in just a thong, ignoring the helicopter swooping above her, and that night in the dark bedroom in the Doheny Plaza, drunk on margaritas, candles glowing around her while I complain about another movie playing on the giant flat screen, Rain can't help it and for the first time something causes her to tune out and when I finally notice, my voice starts to waver and as I fade into silence she simply asks, without looking over at me, in a neutral voice, her eyes gazing at the TV, ”What's the worst thing you've ever done?” Things I didn't know about Kelly: the crystal meth thing, the stepmother who died during plastic surgery, the supposed connections with the drug cartel. This discovery feels only tangential since I never really knew Kelly Montrose-he produced movies, I'd met him several times about various projects-and he was never close enough to anyone I knew to define any of my relations.h.i.+ps. Rain spends the day before Kelly Montrose is found at a distance: pacing the balcony, texting, taking calls, returning calls, increasingly agitated, leaning against the railing, gazing past the plunge of the balcony at a couple of guys jogging s.h.i.+rtless on the street below. When I ask her what's wrong she keeps blaming her family. I keep dragging her back to the bedroom and she's always resisting, promising ”In a minute, in a minute...” After downing two shots of tequila she lazes on the balcony in just a thong, ignoring the helicopter swooping above her, and that night in the dark bedroom in the Doheny Plaza, drunk on margaritas, candles glowing around her while I complain about another movie playing on the giant flat screen, Rain can't help it and for the first time something causes her to tune out and when I finally notice, my voice starts to waver and as I fade into silence she simply asks, without looking over at me, in a neutral voice, her eyes gazing at the TV, ”What's the worst thing you've ever done?”

I have to go to San Diego,” she says. have to go to San Diego,” she says.

I'm just waking up, squinting at the light pouring into the bedroom. The shades have been pulled up and she's walking around in the brightness of the room collecting things.

”What time is it?” I ask.

”Almost noon.”

”What are you doing?”

”I have to go to San Diego,” she says. ”Something's come up.”

I reach out for her, trying to pull her back onto the bed.

”Clay, stop. I have to go.”

”Why? Who are you seeing down there?”

”My mother,” she mutters. ”My crazy f.u.c.king mother.”

”What's wrong?” I ask. ”What happened?”

”Nothing. The usual. Whatever. I'll call you when I get there.”

”When am I going to see you again?”

”When I get back.”

”When are you getting back?”

”I don't know. Soon. A couple of days.”

”Are you okay?” I ask. ”You seemed kind of freaked out yesterday.”

”No, I'm better,” she says. ”I'm okay.”

To placate me she kisses me on the mouth. ”I had a nice time,” she says, stroking my face, and the sound of the air-conditioning competes with the big smile and then the smile and the cool air become in the drift of things suddenly amplified, almost frantic, and I pull her toward me onto the bed and I press my face against her thighs and inhale and then I try to flip her over but she gently pushes me away. I lower the sheet, revealing my hard-on, and she aims for levity and rolls her eyes. I can suddenly see my reflection in a mirror in the corner of the bedroom: an old-looking teenager. She gets up and scans the room to see if she's forgotten anything. I reach for the camera on the nightstand and start taking pictures of her. She's staring into a Versace bag that had once been filled with packets of cocaine, the other thing that had fueled so much of the s.e.x, the thing that helped make the fantasy seem much more discrete and innocent than it really was, the thing that made it seem as if the desire was reciprocated. ”Could you call the valet and have him bring my car up?” she asks, frowning as she checks a text.

”I don't want you to go.”

”I said I'll be back,” she murmurs absently.

”Don't make me beg,” I say. ”I'm warning you.”

”Even if you did it wouldn't work.” She doesn't look up when she says this.

”Can I come with you?”

”Stop it.”

”I'm imagining things.”

”Don't.”

”I'm imagining there are many versions of this event.”

”Event? I'm going to f.u.c.king San Diego to see my f.u.c.king mother.”

”Neither one of us wants to admit that something's wrong,” I murmur, snapping another pic.

”You just did.” She briefly poses. Another flash.

”Rain, I'm serious-”

”Stop turning this into a drama, Crazy.” Again: the sly smile.

”Drama?” I ask innocently. ”Who? Me?”

The last thing she says before she leaves: ”Will you make sure I get that callback?”

The digital billboards glowing in the gray haze all seem to say no no and the poinsettias lining the median at Sunset Plaza are dying and fog keeps enveloping the towers in Century City and the world becomes a science-fiction movie-because none of it really has anything to do with me. It's a world where getting stoned is the only option. Everything becomes more vague and abstract since every desire and every whim that had been catered to constantly in that last week of December is now gone and I don't want to replace it with anyone else because there's no subst.i.tute-the teen p.o.r.n sites seem different, repainted somehow, nothing kicks in, it doesn't work anymore-and so I re-create almost hourly in my mind the s.e.x that happened in the bedroom over those eight days she was here and when I try to outline a script that I've been lazy about it comes out half sincere and half ironic because Rain's failure to return calls or text back becomes a distraction and then, only three days after she leaves, it officially becomes an obstacle. The bruises on my chest and arms, the imprints from Rain's fingers and the scratches on my shoulders and thighs, begin to fade and I stop returning various e-mails from people back in town because I have no desire to gossip about Kelly Montrose or dis the awards buzz or hear about people's plans for Sundance and I have no reason to go back to the casting sessions in Culver City (because what I want has already happened) and without Rain here it all dissipates entirely and the calm becomes impossible, something I can't control. And so I find myself in Dr. Woolf's office on Sawtelle and the pattern that keeps repeating itself is again pointed out and its reasons are located and we practice techniques to lessen the pain. And just when I think I'm going to be able to deal with everything a blue Jeep with tinted windows pa.s.ses me on Santa Monica while I'm crossing the intersection at Wils.h.i.+re. An hour later I get a text from a blocked number, the first in almost eleven days: and the poinsettias lining the median at Sunset Plaza are dying and fog keeps enveloping the towers in Century City and the world becomes a science-fiction movie-because none of it really has anything to do with me. It's a world where getting stoned is the only option. Everything becomes more vague and abstract since every desire and every whim that had been catered to constantly in that last week of December is now gone and I don't want to replace it with anyone else because there's no subst.i.tute-the teen p.o.r.n sites seem different, repainted somehow, nothing kicks in, it doesn't work anymore-and so I re-create almost hourly in my mind the s.e.x that happened in the bedroom over those eight days she was here and when I try to outline a script that I've been lazy about it comes out half sincere and half ironic because Rain's failure to return calls or text back becomes a distraction and then, only three days after she leaves, it officially becomes an obstacle. The bruises on my chest and arms, the imprints from Rain's fingers and the scratches on my shoulders and thighs, begin to fade and I stop returning various e-mails from people back in town because I have no desire to gossip about Kelly Montrose or dis the awards buzz or hear about people's plans for Sundance and I have no reason to go back to the casting sessions in Culver City (because what I want has already happened) and without Rain here it all dissipates entirely and the calm becomes impossible, something I can't control. And so I find myself in Dr. Woolf's office on Sawtelle and the pattern that keeps repeating itself is again pointed out and its reasons are located and we practice techniques to lessen the pain. And just when I think I'm going to be able to deal with everything a blue Jeep with tinted windows pa.s.ses me on Santa Monica while I'm crossing the intersection at Wils.h.i.+re. An hour later I get a text from a blocked number, the first in almost eleven days: Where did she go? Where did she go?

Rumors of a video of Kelly Montrose's ”execution”-that it had been circulating on the Web and seen by ”reliable sources”-spreads within the community early one morning in the first week of January. There was supposedly a link somewhere that led to another link but the first link had been pulled and there's nothing to find except people on various blogs debating the video's ”authenticity.” Supposedly there was a headless body in a black windbreaker hung from a bridge, a bleak desert lined with scrub brush beneath it, police tape whipping in the dry wind, and someone else wrote that the murder was set in a ”laboratory” outside of Juarez and someone else countered with certainty that the murder was committed in a soccer field by men wearing hoods and someone else wrote No, Kelly Montrose was killed in an abandoned cemetery No, Kelly Montrose was killed in an abandoned cemetery. But there's nothing to substantiate any of it. Someone posted a picture of a severed head grinning broadly from the pa.s.senger seat of a bullet-ridden SUV but it isn't Kelly. In fact there are no shots of him being pulled along a highway bound with rope, no close-ups of skin being peeled off a face, no shots of a pair of hands being amputated while mariachi music is scored over the images, and after the excitement peaks and the justification for the gossip surrenders to reality the rumors about the Kelly Montrose clips fade into a twilight stage.

But I don't care. After searching for the links I simply fall back into the habit of looking at all the pics Rain sent me and remember the promises I made that didn't involve The Listeners The Listeners but were about agents and about movies with t.i.tles like but were about agents and about movies with t.i.tles like Boogeyman 2 Boogeyman 2 and and Bait Bait and I remind her of them in texts I send- and I remind her of them in texts I send-Hey I talked to Don and Braxton and and Nate wants to rep you Nate wants to rep you and and Come back and we'll go over your part Come back and we'll go over your part and and I'm talking you up to EVERYONE I'm talking you up to EVERYONE-that are only answered in the middle of the night: Hey Crazy that all sounds super! Hey Crazy that all sounds super! and and I'll be back soon!! I'll be back soon!! dotted with emoticons. Unlike everyone else it's not Kelly Montrose that causes my fear to return. It's officially back and because of Rain's absence no longer a faint distraction. And then it's the blue Jeep that pa.s.sed me on Santa Monica materializing nightly on the corner of Elevado and one night while I watch it dully from my office window it finally pulls away from the curb. And that's when I notice for the first time another car, a black Mercedes, slowly pulling away from a spot farther down the street and following the Jeep onto Doheny and then up to Sunset. From the apartment below Union Square, Laurie has stopped contacting me completely. dotted with emoticons. Unlike everyone else it's not Kelly Montrose that causes my fear to return. It's officially back and because of Rain's absence no longer a faint distraction. And then it's the blue Jeep that pa.s.sed me on Santa Monica materializing nightly on the corner of Elevado and one night while I watch it dully from my office window it finally pulls away from the curb. And that's when I notice for the first time another car, a black Mercedes, slowly pulling away from a spot farther down the street and following the Jeep onto Doheny and then up to Sunset. From the apartment below Union Square, Laurie has stopped contacting me completely.

What did you do over the holidays?” Rip Millar asks me when a number I don't recognize shows up on my phone and I answer it impulsively, thinking it might be Rain. After I mention a few family appearances and that basically I just hung around and worked, Rip offers, ”My wife wanted to go to Cabo. She's still there.” A long silence plays itself out. I'm forced to fill the silence with, ”What have you been doing?” Rip describes a couple of parties he seemed to have fun at and then the minor ha.s.sles of opening a club in Hollywood and a futile meeting with a city councilman. Rip tells me he's lying in bed watching CNN on his laptop, images of a mosque in flames, ravens flying against the scarlet sky.

”I want to see you,” he says. ”Have a drink, grab some lunch.”

”Can't we just talk over the phone?”

”No,” he says. ”We need to see each other in person.”

”Need?” I ask. ”There's something you need need to see me about?” to see me about?”

”Yeah,” he says. ”There's something we need to talk about.”

<script>