Murder-a-Go-Go's, page 19
As soon as I’m defeated, I slink out to my locker for my ski mask and my slugger. I’m at least ten minutes early, but I can scope Church Hill for the nuns. The penguin squad always watches for kids smoking behind the chestnut trees.
Officer Scoot is on his motorcycle talking to a woman outside Green Jade Kitchen, distracted. I jog across the avenue with my gym bag and duck behind the hedges. The nuns are easy to spot. Habits are like reverse camouflage. No black and white in the trees behind the church, so I stroll toward the concrete statue of Mary, stained green like a Virgin She-Hulk.
My fam goes to the Baptist church across town by the Burger King, but I think about praying to Our Lady of the Blessed Beatdown to make me swing my slugger true.
But you can’t ask Jesus’s mama for that. You have to ask a war goddess, like Artemis or Athena.
I’m thinking of what to pray when they grab me.
Brock rips my bag away, and Caesar bear hugs me from behind. He’s the tallest, so when I throw my head back it thuds into his swole chest. I thrash and kick as Marco and Brock laugh. More boys come out of the trees.
Girls, too. Ree Dagney, the yearbook coordinator. Kelli Turnblad, from the mean girls’ cafeteria table, who calls me Rhino Girl.
How are you all skipping class?
We called in a bomb threat, everyone’s supposed to be on the field. Brock sneers. You think you’re the only ones who’re smart?
They pull a heavy gym bag over my head, so I can’t warn the others. I hear them get grabbed one by one. We’re outnumbered.
When they take the bags off, Allegra is laughing with Kelli and Ree, squeezing Marco’s arm.
Rox shrieks, Allegra, what the actual fuck? We just saved you from these creeps!
Uh, no you didn’t? The cabbie yeah, but all that happened at the party was we talked about how Alyx Freman is like a total slut, and how you tricked me into defending her skanky ass.
So that was it. Allegra had a crush on Marco. He’s the one who pushed Alyx into the closet. She didn’t beat him with us for being rapey, she did it because she was jealous.
Some girls do all their thinking with the Vee.
The boys take off their belts and fold them in half and make two lines.
You run the gauntlet, and you can go.
What, you ain’t gonna stick your fingers up our butts and sniff it, you sick freaks? That’s Zorra, she can’t help it. She hate hate hates bullies.
You’d like it, slut. Now run the gauntlet. You better cover that horse face! Allegra is such a bitch. She knows what hurts us most.
I volunteer as tribute! I jerk away from Caesar. I’m the biggest. I want them to know how strong we are. Plow through a couple of their skinny asses on the way out. Die with glory.
They start cracking their belts. Allegra and her basic bitch friends laugh and record us on their phones while they chant RHINO GIRL! RHINO GIRL! at me.
I hunker down like I do before I swing and throw the shot. Marco prods me with his foot.
Do that again and I’ll break your foot off!
That’s when Senga, our pacifist princess, howls like some mad warrior queen from Outlander, swinging one of her knee-high fox socks with a combo lock in it, and flails Marco in the junk.
She’s almost as big as me with her highland genes, but the boys are bigger. I don’t have my slugger, just my fists and feet, so I go for the biggest boy there. The freckled Frankenstein, Brock Calvin.
I skip back and spin like I’m throwing the sixteen-pound shot and slam my palm up into his chin. He can take a tackle, but he can’t take me. He falls like timber.
Then it’s on.
Zorra and Rox are small but fast. They zip and dodge like little foxes and go for their gear. The quarterback takes a majorette baton to the shin that rings off the bone.
Bone tones!
Our battle cry.
Locks bounce off backs. Belts whip butts. Drumsticks jab ribs. Batons crack elbows.
Rox shrieks in Hebrew. She must’ve taken those Krav Maga classes. Boys flee from the blur of her baton. Caesar tackles me, and we hit the grass. I have older brothers bigger than him. I get two fingers into his eye, and he yelps and pushes my face away.
I swear his pointer finger smells like freshman butthole.
Allegra and her girls try to slink away. I give them a taste of Rhino Girl and flatten them with a stampede. Find my slugger and smash their phones while they cry and catch their breath.
We surround Allegra, faces red and snotty with rage.
Put those hands on the ground. Zorra is a fury.
I’m pissed, but she isn’t worth it. She can have her new friends. Until they decide she’s the slut.
Then the nuns flutter down like a flock of angels dressed in black, and everyone scatters.
Boys run with their pants dragging, shouting threats. Allegra and her pretty friends scamper, heaving, faces wrenched up all ugly. We salute the nuns with our weapons and stagger to the street, hugging and leaning on each other, clutching our bruises, wiping away tears.
I drag my slugger on the concrete behind me, grinding out a warning.
We are Amazon princesses. Artemis. Senga. Rox. Zorra.
See the Beat Girls, walking down the street.
We
Got
The
Beat.
You bet your ass we got it.
Back to TOC
Forget That Day
Wendall Thomas
Fuck hardwood floors.
Only in L.A. would self-respecting slumlords put stained pine and an asbestos echo chamber over a cracked, stucco ceiling and call it a “feature.” I had moved from apartment to apartment—Spanish to Deco to Tudor—in search of quiet, but found nothing but clacking heels, pounding Doc Martens, and tinny MTV. I thought I’d left shag carpeting behind when I fled New Jersey, but now it called to me like a comforting heroin habit.
I couldn’t blame my entire searing headache on the hammering of stack-heeled boots or the screeching monologue from Barefoot in the Park assaulting me from upstairs. That fourth tequila shot, and the two martinis hadn’t helped. Tomorrow, I swore for the eight hundredth time, I would find a concrete building with industrial carpeting which banned actresses, drummers and three-year-olds. Until then, martinis were mandatory.
In the meantime, I was due at work. I ate three generic aspirin, dry, and emerged from the shower feeling the same, just wet. I let my hair air dry, as that seemed to soothe my headache a little, as did the microwaved coffee from yesterday. Or was it the day before? Finally dressed, I went to grab my purse.
There was a gun in it.
I lowered myself onto my “Ikea lies” couch. The Ikea catalogue made you feel a four-hundred-dollar sectional could change your life. It couldn’t. But by the time you’d announced your intentions, driven to Burbank, and seen the depressing Nordic reality, you felt so stupid you bought it anyway.
Mine was Stockholm Blue, scratchy, uneven at one end, and had a perpetual creak; a few of the screws had rolled away and disappeared while I was putting it together.
I shifted to the stable end, trying to form a picture of the night before. I remembered spearing an errant olive in my drink. Somewhere. Had I had “aspiring actor” sex? Doubtful, as actors usually bored me into leaving before they could proposition me. I did have that post “which headshot should I use?” headache, though.
I was too hung over to remember if I’d actually touched the gun when I opened my purse. I’d read enough crime fiction to know I didn’t want my prints on it. I grabbed it with the bottom of my Esprit sweater, wiped it, then shoved it under the sagging end of the sofa.
I heard the diesel whine of the street sweeper outside. I was late.
I hated Wednesdays.
I headed out and stopped at the bottom of the stairs. All the cars were parked on the wrong side. The Thursday side. It was Thursday.
I hadn’t lost a night, I’d lost a whole day.
That meant I’d probably lost my job. I unlocked my car and got in. I may as well get the yelling/terminating over, so I could come back home and go to bed. What would be faster? Highland or Laurel Canyon? I opted for Highland. Any Angeleno knew the idea of hurrying over the hill was an oxymoron.
As usual, there were BMWs passing on the right, then jutting in before they hit the inevitable parked car. I finally made some progress, only to slam on my brakes to avoid a Jaguar idling across three lanes. There should be a special place in hell for drivers who’ll hold up dozens of cars, rather than go one block up to a light. I wished I’d brought the gun. I switched over to the Cahuenga Pass.
I debated passing on the right myself (some jerk was going left on Mulholland and blocking the only available lane) rather than think about what I’d forgotten. I usually didn’t drink past the “salient details” point.
I always remembered who I went home with (if not why) and even though I’d had a lot to drink, I was no lightweight. So you’d think I’d remember a gun. It wasn’t even some tiny femme fatale pistol. It had taken up a third of my Benetton tote. Had someone given it to me for protection?
Nah. I’d never dated anyone that considerate. Someone who might frame me, yes. Waiters, yes. Actors who were waiters, yes. It was part of the job. Actors always flirted with casting assistants. Short term, it made them feel attractive before their auditions. Long term, I might be more than an assistant one day. If I weren’t in jail.
Once I hit Ventura, the dread started. My boss, Perry Prentiss, was a legend. And a legendary foul-mouthed screamer. She’d been the head of casting at Paramount for twenty years, where she abused the Head of Production and the agents at William Morris, ICM, and CAA with impunity. Now that she was on her way down, you could imagine how she treated her staff. Especially if they’d missed a day of work.
I had no chance at keeping my job if I didn’t get her coffee right, so I over-supervised the waitress at Du-par’s, making sure there was just the right amount of cream and two sugars and four Sweet-n-Low’s in the bag. People were so picky about their coffee these days.
I had lucked into the job with Perry after I’d crashed and burned with a TV movie producer who’d told me the days of the week should not be capitalized. I had pulled out my Webster’s Dictionary and things deteriorated from there—mostly when I brained him with it.
One of my cubicle mates knew Perry was looking for an assistant, so I’d shredded the producer’s pending expense report receipts and run.
Perry was an honest to God tough broad, but not without her charms. It was how she got away with all her bad behavior. She had a wicked sense of humor and gave great dinner parties. Actors adored her, the young male ones, especially. She gave them nicknames and treated them like her favorite nephews. Everyone knew she could make or break a career, including mine.
I sat for a few minutes, waiting to go left into our parking lot. Maybe I’d get there first. If I could stretch the job through tomorrow, I’d be okay for rent this month. I could put food on my credit card.
Perry’s two ton ’70s Mercedes sat there like an unexploded grenade. Damn. Just to be safe, I backed in for a quick getaway. I gripped her coffee so hard I spilled half of it. Maybe if she kept the lid on she wouldn’t notice.
I headed for the back of the boxy concrete building. As soon as I walked in, the chemical smell of the thin carpet made me reconsider the hardwood floor issue, but at least it gave me a silent entry.
The office was in its normal state—stacks of glossy headshots, covered in yellow Post-it notes, were scattered across the floor. Three whiteboards filled with actor lists were pushed up against the walls.
Perry’s office door was open. I put her coffee on her desk and called out. No answer. Her long-suffering assistant, Courtney, wasn’t in either. Great.
I set up the remaining appointments for Cowboys #3, #4, and #5 for Guns Ablazin’, five mid-range actresses for the teen horror, The Postman Always Goes Postal, and five preppy twenty-year-olds for the corpse in This is It, a teen gang movie. With heart.
A few people, including Dick from O’Brien’s House O’ Props, called for Perry. After a couple of hours, she had a stack of pink message slips on her desk. I finally called Courtney at home. I could hear a baby screaming in the background.
“What?”
“Court? Have you heard from Perry? She’s not answering. Her car’s here. But no sign of her.”
“No idea.”
“Are you coming in?”
“No. I’m dealing with a pandemic here. Just do the pre-reads yourself.”
There was a crash in the background, then a wail. “Gotta go.”
She hadn’t mentioned my absence yesterday. Had it been one of those holidays that everyone, but the USPS and the banks ignored, the kind you forgot about until you thought, Where the hell is my mail? Courtney could get away with a sick day, as she had children, a pension, and fifteen years of dirt on Perry. The burden of being expendable fell on me.
Where was Perry? After a quick check that she wasn’t dead in her car, I decided to use my fifteen-minute lunch break to check in with the friends who might have gotten obliterated with me. I eliminated people who only got blotto on their birthdays, New Year’s Eve, and Halloween. And those who went wild on the weekend but were good during the week. I needed ones who drank on a Tuesday or Wednesday night. That meant Josie.
She worked for a Hollywood wife, which was about as grim as it got.
When Josie inquired about her boss’s pregnant housekeeper, the woman said “Thank God, she had a miscarriage. What a relief!” Out loud. So Josie’s job didn’t require brains, just desperation, patience, and a strong stomach. Martinis were mandatory for her, too.
“Hey,” I said, “Can you talk?”
Josie lowered her voice. “For a minute. She’s almost done with her bikini wax.”
“She gets a bikini wax at home? That’s just lazy. Look, I know this is a weird question, but did you see me last night?”
“No. I saw you Tuesday.”
“Where were we?”
“Musso’s. Yeah. We were having martinis with your boss. Remember?”
“Tuesday night? Not last night? And you didn’t see me then? I didn’t call you?”
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. I lost a day.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
I heard a scream in the background.
“She’s done. Gotta go.”
Josie and I had drinks with Perry? Why? Had she given me a roofie? As punishment for accidentally double-booking Dylan McDermott and Dermot Mulroney? Unlikely, but honestly, not as unlikely as her buying us drinks. She was a legendary cheapskate. She must have wanted something.
I was so confused. Most of the time, I was grateful my car couldn’t talk, but today it would have been a “feature.” I went back to confirming appointments and hoped my memory was just waiting for my headache to go away.
I heard a car squeal away, then the building door slam. The carpet muted the tread. Was it an overeager actor?
It was Perry.
At six feet tall (with her “French Twist,” more like six-four), she was intimidating even when she was happy. Her taste in clothes was early seventies, including muumuus. On her they became intimidating. What was under there? A knife collection?
At least she was alive. She leaned into the doorway.
“Well, did you do it?”
Do what? Book her appointments? “Yep, we’re reading ‘Preppy Steves’ between three and five.”
She sighed. “No, you fucking idiot.”
I honestly had no idea what she was talking about, but it was safer to fake it and figure it out later.
“It. Yes. Of course.”
“Good. Where’s the gun?”
I barely stopped myself from saying, “That’s your gun?” Instead, I mumbled “Um, it’s at home.”
“Are you kidding me? Jesus. You are worthless.”
She stomped out. WTF? Did she hire me for a hit? Did I do it? At least she hadn’t fired me. What should I do now?
“Go get it,” she yelled. “And hurry!” Just as I hit the door, she added, “And bring some hot coffee for a change!”
There was nothing like going back and forth over the hill three times before lunch. When I got to Mansfield, there was still an hour of street cleaning left, and I had to go four blocks to find parking. Great. I looked forward to doing a concealed carry back down La Brea.
Once I hit the apartment, I got on my knees and used my sweater to pull the gun out from under the couch, then dropped it in my tote. I was starving, so I headed to the kitchen for some peanut butter.
That’s when I saw the other cup in the sink. Had it been there this morning? The dregs of the coffee were a milky brown. I took mine black. Had I brought someone home after all? Last night, or the night before? The gun mystery was at least half solved, but I was still getting nothing on the missing day. Except creamer.
After I chewed down three more aspirin and re-checked the apartment, the only clue I found was an unopened pack of American Spirits. I didn’t smoke.
Then I remembered I hadn’t checked my answering machine. There were three messages. Beep. “Where are you?” That was Courtney from the office at 9 a.m. yesterday. I guess it hadn’t been a holiday. Beep. “Save money on carpet cleaning today! Call Carnival Cleaners, 213-555-2345!” Beep. There was nothing like “tele-irony.”
Just as a low voice came on the machine, I heard the click, click, click, thud, crash above that meant my aspiring actress neighbor, Stokely Lamar (a stretch even for a stage name) was home, drowning out the machine and tightening the metal band around my brain.
She turned on a Phil Collins song, heavy on the bass and drums, almost loud enough to drown out another of her over the top, mismanaged monologues. Even through the ceiling, her acting stank. This had been going on, day and night, ever since she’d moved in, despite requests for consideration from everyone in the building.
