Usuality Page 5

  Michelle Lyon’s lip twitched. “It’s never that simple. You don’t make it in Hollywood by being yourself. Bring me the gun and Silverman’s phone. Strike that, I don’t trust you. Char, go get Silverman’s phone.” When her partner had done so, she continued issuing instructions to Garrett. “Take Silverman out to the foyer and shut the door behind you. Drag him out if you have to. And for God’s sake get a real job. No self-respecting actor would be caught dead delivering a singing telegram.”

  X: GOODBYE, GOODBYE

  Bill Silverman woke up on his side. He opened his eyes and found he was staring at the closed inner door to Michelle Lyon’s penthouse. The elevator was at his back. He could feel the coldness of the metal door right through his jacket. For a moment he was disoriented. Then he remembered.

  It had been that supercilious dick, Garrett Whatever-His-Name-Was. He’d ruined everything, the same way arrogant assholes like him had been ruining everything for Bill all of his life. He knew that Jade was taken with Garrett despite the disgust she’d affected over their encounter at Jazz Hands. Jade was easily taken with pretty boys, the same way most men were with any woman who looked like she’d just fallen from the pages of a Victoria Secret catalogue. It didn’t matter how appalling the drivel was that came out of their mouths.

  All Bill had ever wanted was a chance. A chance for his and Jade’s writing to go the places he knew it deserved, and the chance for them to go along with it. He knew how Hollywood worked. It was who you knew and who you blew. The problem had always been that he didn’t know anybody. Except for Jade. Jade, with her perfect fingers and perfect hair and perfect lips that should never, ever, be defiled by the likes of somebody as unworthy as ThatFuckGarrett. He worshipped Jade, he had no problem admitting that to himself. She deserved to be worshipped. They were artistic equals, sympatico in so many ways. And ThatFuckGarrett had to go and interpose his ridiculously roided-up buttocks squarely between them.

  But Bill would show them. He’d gotten the photos of Michelle Lyon freestyling her girlfriend, exactly as they’d told him he would. The plan had worked. He had leverage now, and leverage was the one thing Hollywood respected even more than networking or blowjobs. He hadn’t trusted the empty words of praise at the pitch meeting, not for one second. Everyone was all smiles, right up to the point they dropped you for the Next Big Thing. But with the photos on his phone—

  Shit. He patted down his pockets, but his phone was nowhere to be found. Michelle Lyon must have taken it while he’d been passed out. Of course she’d taken it. ThatFuckGarrett had probably told them about it just to kiss ass, like the little backstabber that he was.

  Panic set in. Bill licked his lips and struggled into a sitting position. Without the photos, they were screwed. Everything he had worked for would soon be circling the bottom of the toilet like so many turds. His head was aching, but it barely registered next to the fact that their chances of ever getting another script read, much less greenlit, had just evaporated. His moment of triumph, of finally showing Jade what he was made of, was utterly ruined. And it was all because ThatFuckGarrett had woken up before he was supposed to. His very existence was a curse.

  Bill was going to kill Garrett. That was all there was too it. He was going to murder him in his sleep, with a gun, or a pillow, or with poison maybe. Then he’d plunge a fork into his steely rump to show the world ThatFuckGarrett was done. Bill’s own life was in shambles, what did he have to lose? Things couldn’t get any worse.

  He had made it to his hands and knees when he heard the elevator ding open behind him. Before he could lift his head his midsection exploded in pain. He couldn’t breathe. He realized that he’d been kicked in the stomach, but it did him little good. He felt hands patting him down but he was too stunned to do anything about it. The hands took his wallet, then kept checking, searching for something else.

  His attacker, not finding what he was looking for, grunted. He was a lanky man with glasses, and he was pressing and old-looking flip phone to his ear. Something about the man’s profile summoned up a special brand of fear, an unfamiliar fear, one that city life never awakened because city life for Bill Silverman was safe and free from dragons.

  Bill heard his attacker say, “The man with the beard doesn’t have it on him.” He grunted, then turned to Bill. “Where’s the phone?”

  Bill felt a glimmer of hope. The guy was obviously after the photographs Bill had just taken, which meant he was probably working for Michelle Lyon. Bill didn’t know how long he’d been knocked out, but if she didn’t have his phone, ThatFuckGarrett must have taken it, and that meant there was a chance of pinning the whole thing on him!

  “I think somebody took it.”

  The stranger talked some more to whoever was on the other end of the line, but none of it made any sense. Finally his phone snapped closed.

  “You had a partner,” he said to Bill. It wasn’t a question. “Who?”

  Bill hurriedly told the stranger Garrett’s name. “Tall,” he added, “looks like what’s-his-face from that movie, the one where the guy’s kissing the redhead in the rain? But we’re not partners. All of this is his fault. He made me do it.”

  The man smiled. Bill felt needles dance down his spine. Nobody should be allowed to smile like that, he thought. Smiles like that were supposed to end you up in the loony bin.

  “If you hurry, maybe you can catch him,” said Bill.

  The man moved to stand over him. Bill’s stomach hurt like hell, but he rolled over back onto his hands and knees anyway, trying to get to his feet.

  “Did you hear me? ” said Bill. “I said you could still catch him.”

  “I heard you,” said the man. “Don’t look.”

  Bill couldn’t help it. He raised his head. The end of the silencer was so close that it made the hairs between his eyebrows tingle.

  XI: PROTAGONIST NON GRATA

  Garrett decided to walk the eleven blocks to Reagan’s small office. She would still be there; she always worked late. This time, however, he had a feeling she was going to be happy to see him. Maybe he would even stop for Chinese on the way and surprise her.

  Garrett reached into his pants pocket and took out Bill Silverman’s phone. Garrett felt a momentary pang at leaving his own behind, switched with Silverman’s at the same time he’d picked up the unconscious writer’s gun. If he could have done it over again he would have taken both and to hell with leaving a decoy. Although, maybe not. Doubtless the first thing Michelle Lyon and her girlfriend would do would be to try and delete the photographs. When they discovered that his phone was password protected, their next step would likely be to destroy it. They wouldn’t even suspect that the phone with the actual photographs was missing.

  He swiped the lock screen. No password required. There was a picture of Jade set as the wallpaper. What a douche, he thought. He checked the gallery to see if the photos Silverman claimed to have taken were in fact there. They were, and Michelle Lyon certainly didn’t look any worse without her clothes on.

  Reagan would be impressed. It wasn’t every day you got to hold something over the head executive of OriCAL Entertainment. Not that they would ever use it, but still. And he was even wearing a tux, just like she’d asked. He put the phone carefully back into his pocket.

  He made it exactly two blocks before a white van slid up to the curb alongside him. Its door opened and a tall, lanky man dressed smartly and wearing nerd glasses unfolded himself directly into Garrett’s path.

  The man’s clothes were tight and stylish yet stale and mechanical, as if they didn’t need anyone to be wearing them in order to go about their business. He (or the clothes) smelled like cologne and the top button of his shirt was buttoned, although he (the clothes) wore no tie.

  Garrett shoved his hands into the pockets of his tux jacket and drew it closer around himself.

  The man’s demeanor was nonchalant, but there was something threatening in the way he stood. Garrett suddenly wanted very much to be elsewhere. He could
n’t imagine that Michelle Lyon would have sent someone after him to retrieve Silverman’s phone this quickly, couldn’t imagine that she even suspected he might have it at all. But it made him realize he wasn’t nearly as certain it had been a good idea to take the phone as he had been only moments before. He had no idea what somebody like Michelle Lyon was capable of.

  It was safer to be a loser than somebody with something to lose. Notoriety was dangerous. With greater risk came greater reward, but it meant swimming in the big-boy shipping lanes, dodging mile high tankers as you went. Major Players would roll over whatever was in their path with the amassed wealth and power at their disposal. Leading men swam in those waters, displaced that kind of tonnage, made waves and held their ground. But a leading man had connections, had a bank account, a school of piranha-like lawyers at his disposal for when things got unmanageable, a bodyguard named Klaus who could fix anything the piranhas didn’t. What the hell did he, Garrett, have in the way of power? He had Marin, but he didn’t kid himself that he was anything more than an expensive prop in her life. His parents didn’t wield any influence to speak of. Nobody from Vacaville ever had, and nobody from Vacaville ever would. Garrett didn’t hold his parents’ small-town, small-time life against them. They, at least, had known how to keep their heads down and out of trouble. That left the only other person in his life, an agent with the ability to make waves the same way a pebble thrown from shore could affect the tide.

  Oh God, he realized, Reagan! He had been about to lead this whole thing right back to her doorstep. However hard she was on him, however screwed up his life and their relationship had become, she didn’t deserve that. Whatever he stood to risk or gain from Silverman’s photos, he couldn’t let Reagan be the one to pay the price if it went sideways.

  He kept his face neutral.

  Nerd Glasses hooked his thumbs into his belt. His cheeks and chin were boy-band smooth, his features young-looking although he was obviously getting on in years. His jaw line could have sliced an apple into thirds and he was about two meals away from cheekbones capable of doing the same. His arms were sinewy and looked like they could twist rabbits’ heads from their bodies as easily as opening a jar of preserves.

  “I just want to talk,” said the man in a way that wasn’t reassuring in the slightest.

  Garrett shrugged. “Nobody’s stopping you.”

  “You have the photos. Give them to me.”

  Garrett felt his stomach flip-flop.

  “Who are you?”

  “Give me the photos.”

  “What photos?”

  Nerd Glasses smiled. He reached into his jacket. Garrett saw the butt of a silenced handgun hanging there in a shoulder rig.

  The man never got to finish drawing the weapon. Garrett heard the rev of the approaching truck engine a second before its gleaming grill t-boned the van, smashing its white-paneled side inwards. The foot-high curb caught the van’s wheels and stopped its sideways momentum, but not before it shifted far enough to knock into Nerd Glasses and send him sprawling away across the sidewalk. His fancy gun, already partway out of its holster, skittered away.

  Three men climbed out of the truck’s oversize passenger cab. They were middle age. All three had a stubbling of five o’clock shadow on the lower half of their faces. They wore turtlenecks under leather jackets and had their hair combed and pomaded. Gold chains hung around their necks and one had a complete set of gaudy rings on one hand.

  “We are, how you say? Russians,” said Gaudy Rings. “Dasvidaniya...Rammstein,” echoed his companions.

  Gaudy Rings glared at the man to his right. Garrett heard him hiss, “That’s German, you moron.”

  “Oh. Right. Dasvidaniya!”

  “That one’s mine. You can’t use that one,” said the third man.

  “Shaddup.” Gaudy Rings turned back to Garrett. “We are, how you say? Russian mobsters. You will please to be coming with us.”

  Garrett looked at the men who were very obviously not Russian mobsters.

  “Your truck’s busted.”

  “Nyet, you are lying. No funny stuff. Is, how you say, not first rodeo.”

  Garrett pointed at the steam that was venting from the truck’s newly warped hood.

  Gaudy Rings cursed, and the curses sounded more Italian than Russian.

  “You said that wouldn’t happen!” complained the man to Gaudy Rings’ right. “What the hell, Paulie? You said that wouldn’t happen, you said the grill would protect it.”

  “Would you shut the hell up?”

  “Jesus, Paulie, that’s not even my truck. That’s my brother’s truck. I borrowed it.”

  “Want me to call a taxi?” said the third man.

  “No, I do not want you to call a fucking taxi. Think about that for a minute.”

  “We need to call for a tow. That’s my brother’s truck.”

  On the sidewalk, the man with the nerd glasses groaned.

  Gaudy Rings’ cohorts grumbled: “What gives...you said this was an easy job...Jesus, Paulie.”

  Nerd Glasses opened his eyes. They darted around, fixing his bearings. Then, leaning backward and pushing off the ground, he (or possibly the clothes) flipped smoothly onto his (their) feet with the ease of a gymnast. He swiveled his head and his neck popped and crackled in the way that Garrett always wished his own would do. It was impressive enough by itself, but then Nerd Glasses plucked something from his back pocket and, with a flick of his wrist, a nasty looking metal baton telescoped into being in his left hand. He waded into the trio of non-Russians, swinging.

  Garrett froze, the mens’ startled cries cementing his feet to the ground. In moments, two of the men lay on the concrete and one was on his knees.

  “For the love of God, we’re not really Russian!”

  The baton descended.

  A madly-honking horn brought Garrett out of his stupor.

  “Get in!”

  It took Garrett a second to register that the shout had hailed from what appeared to be the same Purple Mustache Mobile he’d been given a ride in earlier that afternoon. It was idling behind them, two car lengths up the street.

  Nerd Glasses stood with the baton held lightly in his hand, breathing measured breaths.

  “Fuck this, I’m outta here,” said the driver of the Escalade.

  “No, wait!”

  Scrambling, Garrett threw himself in front of the vehicle. Another car passed by, its driver staring at the scene on the sidewalk in alarm. Garrett yanked open the Escalade’s passenger side door and only barely managed to make it inside before the driver floored the gas again.

  Nerd Glasses stood on the sidewalk, watching them go.

  XII: FUCKING WHITE PEOPLE

  He didn’t have time to think whether he was jumping out of the frying pan, only that Nerd Glasses was bad news and the non-Russians, or whoever they were, probably weren’t after him for his autograph. He fumbled for the seat belt.

  “What have you done now?”

  Garrett winced. A sinking feeling started in his chest and dropped to his toes, settling there like gout. He turned to meet the angry eyes he knew would be glaring at him from the back seat. So much for keeping her safely uninvolved.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Reagan?” He fought the urge to stammer. He hated people who stammered. It was undignified, unmanly. A leading man didn’t stammer.

  “What was that back there?” demanded Reagan. “Who did you piss off now? The Mob? Those guys looked like Russians. Did you piss off the Russian Mob?” An abrupt turn threw her against the side of the door. “Jesus Christ,” she yelled at their driver. “Pregnant Lady here. Slow down. This isn’t the movies.”

  Their driver, he of the stinky dreads, eyed her in the rearview.

  “Thank you for rescuing my boyfriend, Ju’an,” he said. “Thank you, Ju’an, for jumping when the white woman say jump.”

  Stinky Dreads turned the wheel and sent the lumbering vehicle down an alleyway narrow enough to make Garrett’s h
at size shrink.

  “Garrett isn’t my boyfriend. Are they following us?” Reagan punched Garrett in the back of his shoulder. “Why are they following us?”

  “Ain’t nobody following us,” said Stinky Dreads. “But that shit back there? That was some shit. Motherfucker took out three, five—ten dudes all by himself.”

  Reagan struggled with the seat belt until she got it readjusted across her baby bump. “Garrett, what did you do?”

  “I don’t know what’s going on,” said Garrett. “I showed up, did what I was supposed to do. This isn’t my fault.”

  He looked in the mirror attached to the visor. His agent was pinching her nose between her small fingers, her other hand splayed against the dark leather seat for support. She really genuinely believed this was all just his cock-up, he realized. He was used to disappointing her, but that was different. Professionally, he just hadn’t had the stars line up for him yet, that was all. It was only a matter of time. Professionally, he could take Reagan’s criticism. But this wasn’t his fault.

  “I didn’t screw up.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I didn’t.”

  Reagan sighed. “Oh, Garrett. It’s okay. I was only blowing off steam. What I said earlier? I’m not going to drop you. Just tell us what happened.”

  Garrett looked out the window. “I was trying to protect you. And who the hell is he, anyway?” he asked.

  “He’s my driver,” said Reagan. “He used to work for Nick.”

  “Your driver?” yelled Stinky Dreads. “Your driver? Fucking white people!” He directed the car around a bakery truck that was double-parked, turned into the lot of the Whole Foods they were passing, and braked roughly to a halt. “I have a name.”

  “Ju’an, please—”

  “Yes’m, Miss Daisy. I just be driving, Miss Daisy.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Are we friends? Okay.” Ju’an shrugged. “I never knew it before tonight, but okay. Then you pull this ‘Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi’ bullshit. I got my own problems. I don’t need no white people cream-colored shit fucking up my own.”