No Second Chances, page 5
“You have something else lined up?” Sly Boy sipped his Cognac and smiled.
“Maybe,” Kitty replied. Her eyes dimmed, then she pulled back her shoulders. “I’m meeting with a talent agent soon. That’ll be my new starting point. I’ll bartend, I guess, until the roles start coming in.”
“Respectfully,” Sly Boy said, “that doesn’t sound like a carefully considered plan. I think you’re being impetuous.”
“I’m done working with garbage.”
Warm applause as the band wrapped their improv. The singer applauded, too, then whispered into the mic that they had one more number. She nodded to the drummer, who counted them in. Kitty listened for a moment, then wet her lips on the Cognac and grabbed her board.
“I appreciate everything you’ve done for me,” she said. “But I’m done.”
“Work here,” Sly Boy said, spreading his hands. His cuff links flashed in the soft lighting. “Gracie says she wants fewer hours, so I’m going to need another emcee—you know, someone to introduce the talent, ad lib with the audience. I’d be prepared to give you a shot.”
“Hmm. And this won’t be that thing,” Kitty said, “where I start emceeing, then I do a couple of runs to help you out, then a couple more, and the next thing I know, I’m back to slinging glass for East Hollywood lowlifes?”
“This won’t be that thing. I might get you to bartend a couple of shifts a week, since you’ll be on the payroll, and a pretty face working the bar is never a bad thing.” A lighter expression touched Sly Boy’s face. “There’s only one catch.”
“Yeah?”
“You’ve got to like jazz.”
“I do like jazz.”
“All right, then.” Sly Boy raised his glass. Kitty raised hers. They touched, nodded, and sipped to seal the deal. “Start on Monday. It’s a slower night. You can learn the ropes.”
“Thank you,” Kitty said.
“You’ll be good for this place.”
The band hit a crescendo and came out of it swinging. Sly Boy finished his Cognac, said good night to Kitty, then retreated to his office. Kitty watched him go, idly spinning a wheel on her skateboard. He was unlawful, crooked, and cowardly, too. But he’d also offered his hand—shown generosity. Despite his shortcomings, Kitty thought he wasn’t such a bad guy.
Kitty was wrong.
5
Rock Steady
A heat haze blanketed L.A., shimmering from the hills to the ocean. Beyond this, the sky was a scuffed blue, punched through the center by a fat, angry sun. Phone in one hand, water bottle in the other, Kitty jogged around her neighborhood, a three-mile circuit, culminating in the hill that led to her apartment.
Luke was reversing out of his driveway, soul music floating from the Caliber’s speakers. Not Lisa Hayes, Kitty noted. This was old soul, the kind her nana listened to. Luke saw her and turned it down.
“Hey, Kitty.” He dropped the transmission into park—blocking half the street—and motioned her over. “Got your phone?”
“Yeah.” It was still in her hand. She held it up.
“Okay. Take this number down.”
Kitty nodded, catching her breath, then opened her contacts and punched in the number as Luke read it off his own phone. He did so slowly—had to start over twice. Kitty noticed the tremor in his voice, the wetness around his eyes. Dude had been crying.
“That’s Milly Morello.” He spelled her surname. “She’s with Sequoia, a new agency. They don’t have as much clout as WME or CAA, but Milly is building her list, and looking for actors of color.”
“Oh shit, Luke. That’s lit. That’s . . .” Kitty was tired after her run, but suddenly didn’t feel it. She beamed, jumped on the spot. “Thank you.”
“Think nothing of it,” Luke said, wiping a tear from his cheek. “Milly’s expecting your call.”
“She is? Oh Jesus.” Kitty inhaled and her chest filled, the motion lifting her to her toes. “You have any advice?”
“Yeah,” Luke said, and tapped the side of his nose. “Snort a line of canary before going in.”
“Right,” Kitty said, and raised one eyebrow. “I just need to rob a bank first.”
Canary was the chic new drug in Hollywood. Dubbed a “power nootropic,” it boosted confidence, concentration, and calmed the nerves, and was used primarily as a performance-enhancing drug by celebrities. It was highly sought after, highly illegal, and the price—$800 a gram—kept it exclusive to the Tinseltown elite.
“Just be yourself,” Luke said, wiping another tear away. “Do not kiss ass. Act like you have every right to be there, but don’t be arrogant.”
“I won’t.”
“You have a demo reel?”
“No.”
“We’ll work on that. In the meantime, get new headshots, if you haven’t already. Spend some money on them. It’ll be worth it. There’s a great guy—Antonio Senza—in Toluca Lake. Make him your first call.”
“Got it,” Kitty said.
A car approached, having to steer around Luke’s Caliber. The driver punched the horn and glared.
“Fuck you, buddy,” Luke said under his breath, and then, to Kitty, “I should get out of the road.”
“Wait a second.” Kitty stepped closer, leaned down, hands on her knees. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, I—”
“You look . . . upset.”
Luke stared blankly through the windshield. The creases across his brow deepened. “A good friend of mine passed away this morning.”
“Oh, Luke. I’m so sorry.”
“I was expecting it. He was old. Cancer. Still . . . it’s tough, you know?”
Kitty nodded.
“We started out as drinking acquaintances, meeting up every few weeks to share a pitcher and shoot the breeze. But these last few years, he became the most important person in my life.” Luke blinked his wet eyes and exhaled from some lonely place deep inside. “Funeral will be sometime next week. I’m heading to Inglewood now to check in with the family, see if there’s anything I can do to help.”
“I’m sorry,” Kitty repeated. She didn’t know what else to say. Everything seemed empty, even more so when she was clearly on a high. She stammered for a moment, and was spared further awkwardness when two vehicles approached, one from each direction. They slowed, then made an impatient drama out of navigating around Luke’s car. No horns this time, but one of the drivers—a barrel-sized woman—shot Kitty the bird.
“I think that’s my cue,” Luke said. “Fucking L.A.”
Kitty retreated to the opposite sidewalk. She waved with the empty water bottle, and was about to take the steps leading up to her apartment building when she thought of something to say. Something meaningful.
“Luke?”
“Yeah?” He had the car facing east, looking at her over his shoulder.
“If you want some company at the funeral . . . if you need . . . you know, a friend.” Kitty offered a small but sincere smile. “I’ll be there for you.”
His expression illuminated from within, as if all the lights inside his skull had been flicked on at once. “Really?”
“Really.”
She’d seen him smile before, but never like this. It was a thing of near-beauty. He turned the music back up—a song Kitty recognized: “Rock Steady,” by Aretha Franklin. She used to dance to this at her nana’s house in Phoenix Hill, and Nana danced, too, twirling beautifully, endlessly, across the cluttered living room. This memory, and Luke’s genuine smile, lifted laughter from Kitty’s soul.
“Good luck with Milly,” Luke said. “And for God’s sake, don’t tell her you know me.”
He pulled away, soon gone. Kitty ran up to her apartment, still laughing. Once inside, she found “Rock Steady” on Spotify and turned it up loud.
Kitty called Antonio Senza and her luck continued; Antonio had a six-week waiting list, but there’d been a cancelation and she scored an appointment for Wednesday morning. She then took several deep breaths and called Milly Morello—or rather, Milly Morello’s assistant, who was succinct and clinical, and who booked Kitty “a slot” (a term Kitty didn’t care for—it certainly wasn’t a “lunch meeting”) at 2:25 p.m. “sharp,” on Friday.
The call with Milly’s assistant had taken some of the wind out of Kitty’s sails, but certainly not all. She video-called her mama next, and squealed all the way to Kentucky.
Friday, 2:24 p.m.
Kitty sat in the Sequoia waiting room, her eyebrows threaded, her fingernails painted, a dash of makeup accentuating her lips and cheekbones. She wore a jean jacket over a vintage Rolling Stones tee, black jeggings, slip-on Nikes. Cool, comfortable, totally Kitty. She’d left the skateboard at home, though.
Her appearance was only a small part of it. How she conducted herself during the meeting would be make-or-break. Kitty wasn’t going in cold; she’d done her homework on Milly Morello (all hail Google), looking to see who she represented (nobody big . . . yet) or if there were any red flags to be aware of. She found none. Milly had been in the industry less than a year, barely time to form a reputation, good or otherwise.
There was common ground, though. Milly was thirty-two years old, of Puerto Rican and African American descent. She had moved to Los Angeles from Louisiana when she was twenty-four. Before becoming a talent agent, she’d studied contract law at UCLA and modeled for several well-known fashion companies.
Kitty’s strategy was to be cool, be herself, and use their common ground to build rapport. She planned to highlight her ambition—keeping it grounded—and her willingness to work hard. She had envisioned a professional but friendly twenty-minute meeting with a positive result (“Manifest,” her mama had screeched during their video call. “Manifest the shit out of that, baby girl.”). By 2:45, she would have a Hollywood talent agent.
It didn’t quite go to plan.
“Don’t sit down,” Milly said the very second that Kitty—smiling confidently, quaking inside—walked into her office. “I have a meeting in fifteen minutes, which gives you . . .” She clicked her Fitbit. “Forty-five seconds.”
“Oh. Okay.” Kitty’s confident smile cracked and started to slide off her face in small pieces. Her game plan dropped out of her skull, suddenly, and with a whooshing noise, like an elevator with a broken cable. “I’m . . . Kitty . . . Kitty Rae. Twenty-four years old. I’ll be twenty-five in two months.”
What Google didn’t reveal (fuck Google) was that Milly Morello had an aura like jagged ice and a habitual squint, which tinged every expression with impatience. She wore heavy bracelets on her left wrist that jangled distractingly whenever she moved. Her fingernails were filed to points.
“I’m originally from Louisville, Kentucky,” Kitty blathered, aware that every word out of her mouth was like rain on an umbrella. “I live in Los Angeles now, in Silver Lake. I’ve been here for—”
“Skip all that, Kitty,” Milly snapped. “What makes you special?”
“Special?” Kitty shook her head. “What—”
“You have no industry accolades, no notable acting credits, and a limited social media presence.” Milly shrugged. Jingle-jangle. “So what can you bring that no other actor can?”
“I, um . . . well, I—”
“And bear in mind that you’re stuttering already.”
“Little nervous,” Kitty gasped. She held the envelope with her new headshots inside close to her chest, feeling them flex and bend. An interior voice—calling to her from the other end of a long tunnel—urged her to calm down and take control.
“You’re nervous now?” Milly leaned across her tidy, organized desk and squinted. “How are you going to feel when you’re auditioning in front of David Fincher or Jordan Peele? Or when you’ve been on set for ten hours, and you’re tired, you feel like shit, and you know that every mistake you make—every second you waste—is costing the studio money?”
“I can do this,” Kitty said, and chided herself. She sounded so small, so desperate.
“I can do this. I’ve got what it takes. All I need is one chance.” Milly held up a finger with each banal assertion. “I’ve only been in this profession for ten months, Kitty, and believe me, I’ve heard it all before.”
Kitty took a deep breath, already resigned to the fact that this meeting—this forty-five-second “slot”—had gone terribly wrong, that she would have to put it down to a learning experience, and maybe get Luke to pull another favor. She felt frustrated, as if she’d let herself down, when really she hadn’t been given the opportunity to do much more than stutter.
But she didn’t spend an hour on a stinking city bus, and shell out four hundred dollars on headshots, only to stand shaking by this jangly bitch’s door. She stepped forward, showing some personality at last, and tossed the envelope onto Milly’s desk. They were good photographs. Antonio had spent two hours with her, and had found mannerisms, moments, lights, that even Kitty didn’t know she had.
“Someone is going to discover me,” she said. Her voice still trembled, but there was some fuel beneath it, at least. “If it isn’t you, it’ll be someone else.”
Milly nodded, and was that an approving look in her eye? She picked up the envelope, removed the photographs, shuffled through them—laid a couple out on her desk.
“You’re a beautiful woman. Jesus, it’d take makeup an hour to dull those cheekbones.” A smile—a distinct hint of warmth—at last. She sat back in her chair. Jingle-jangle. “You look like a star. But, sweetie, my roster is full of stars. It’s a veritable galaxy.”
“I’ve got more than looks,” Kitty said.
Milly’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it. “My Lyft is here.” She grabbed her MacBook, her phone, her purse, then gathered up Kitty’s headshots, juggling everything as she got to her feet. “Walk with me.”
They left Milly’s office, swept through the waiting room, then down a single flight of stairs to street level. Milly talked throughout, while rearranging her armload of items and texting her Lyft driver.
“Passion. Determination. Talent. All essential qualities, but in Hollywood, all very common qualities. Jesus, my mailman has a demo reel. Do you hear what I’m telling you, Kitty?”
“I do.”
“You need something that sets you apart. You absolutely have to be able to take it to the next level.”
“I can. I will.”
“That’s your role in this.” They stepped outside. The street was too bright, too loud. Traffic clamored. Music thumped from a bar on the corner, where the weekend was already under way. “My role is to find you work, assist you with career decisions, and negotiate contracts. I get paid on commission and my rate is ten percent.”
Kitty stopped walking—almost took a step backward. She looked at Milly carefully. Was that . . . an offer?
“I assume”—Milly thrust the headshots into Kitty’s hands—“you have digital copies of these?”
“Yes,” Kitty squeaked.
“Upload them to the Sequoia portal.” Milly acknowledged her Lyft driver, then gave Kitty a squinty smile and strutted away. “It’s not 1995 anymore.”
She took a cramped bus back to Silver Lake, churning through her emotions with every slow mile. There were flashes of optimism, nubs of possibility, but she kept returning to Milly’s jagged aura, her forty-five-second method of reducing dreams to ashes. It had not been the chilled, sociable get-together she had been hoping for, but had it been successful?
Her mama texted but Kitty wasn’t ready to respond. She curled over her phone and opened Facebook, but didn’t linger on her own page. Instead, she went to her second-most-visited profile, that of Courtney Caruso, a near-perfect American. She and her husband, architect Logan Caruso, owned a $600,000 home in Shively, Kentucky. They could afford more, but committed a portion of their income to community efforts. They were outspoken liberals, gun-control lobbyists, advocates for equality and civil rights. Courtney was presently spearheading a statewide campaign to increase the education budget in low-income areas.
Logan had beaten leukemia in 2011, but could no longer have children of his own. (He’d subsequently raised $474,000 for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.) Courtney’s profile picture was a professional shot of her and Logan (wearing matching sweaters), their fourteen-year-old biological daughter, Madison, and their adopted son.
His name was Levi, and he was six years old.
Kitty touched the boy in the photograph. She closed her eyes, drifted tearfully, but kept her fingers on the screen.
Passion Hour. The setting sun dressed the street in burnt orange, a touch of pink. The palms chattered busily. Kitty hovered at her window, lost in the moment, given to her thoughts. Before long, she stood in a dark, silent room, only realizing this when her phone buzzed to life and cast its blue light.
It was a text. No name, just a number she half recognized. Kitty read it, wondering if it might be from Milly. It wasn’t.
I sent a car 2 pick u up it’ll b there in 15
Kitty frowned, read the message twice, then matched the confident—arrogant—tone to the number and came up with a face. He flowed through her mind, flaunting his disarming smile, twirling the prongs of his beard.
She texted back: sorry busy
It didn’t take Johan long to respond: car is a limo. And a moment later: we’re going somewhere special but u don’t have 2 dress up. just b kitty
This prompted a smile, as surprising as it was welcome. Kitty’s fingers dithered above the keypad. She started to write something, then deleted it. Her thoughts and feelings were at odds. She threw the phone onto the sofa, looked at it for a full minute, then picked it up and, perhaps against her better judgment, texted back:
where r u taking me
The reply came within seconds:
higher ground
6
Higher Ground
Johan had a new tattoo on the back of his left hand, written in the Younger Futhark. He took great pride in his heritage, and felt a savage connection to his Norse ancestors. Other tattoos across his body included Ouroboros, the Horn Triskelion, and the Helm of Awe. Odin’s twin ravens—Huginn and Muninn—flew across his chest, and Yggdrasil, the tree of life, spanned his broad back. Women had journeyed his naked body and asked what each one meant. Others had asked about the weapon mounted over his bed, and he told them: it was a replica of Krókr, a bearded ax wielded by his forefathers, and rumored to have opened the skulls of a thousand men.
