The Last Deep Breath (3 page)

6

Kendra’s agent was a short slick hustler named Monty Stobbs who had a classy office with glass walls.  A fast-talker who danced forward and back, pecked Kendra and clapped Grey on the shoulder, working the room the way a boxer rope-a-doped in the ring.  His suit and shoes were fine Italian but his toupee looked like horse tail.

She only wanted to grab a couple of residual checks she was owed but Monty made a big play, open arms held high, said he was happy to see her, he’d been thinking a lot about her lately, thought she would be perfect for a couple of roles.  Kendra’s eyes turned black and hard as shale but she sat, crossed her legs, showed a little knee.

Seated beside her, Grey played man about town, chauffeur, bodyguard, boyfriend, troubleshooter.  Monty offered coffee, spring water, virgin daiquiris, but didn’t wait for a response.  He pulled five scripts out of his bottom drawer and stacked them on the corner of his desk for her to take home and read.  She smiled pleasantly and ignored them.

“You’d be perfect for any one of these,” he said.

Grey took a look.  
Love Hotel 4: Nightly Delight, Love Hotel 5: Manager’s Heaven, Warrior Woman 3: Return to the Arena, Angela’s Eyes 5: Seeing You Again.

He’d caught a few episodes of the soft-core
Love Hotel
series on cable as part of the free adult entertainment package you got with the really low class motels.  The ones waiting at the edge of dead towns, the dead towns waiting at the edge of forgotten highways.

Monty Stobbs got as far as, “Kenny, love, tell me what—” before his office phone rang.  He answered, held up a finger in a wait-a-sec gesture, and huddled in the far corner taken up by a rubber tree plant.  He told his secretary to put a big name actor through.  He talked loudly and so rapid-fire that he sounded like the Portuguese stevedores loading cargo on the New York docks.

An argument over money.  Monty broke from the corner and marched across the room and out into the huge corridor where harried mailboys shoved huge overloaded carts.  He trotted past the glass wall and down to the waiting room where his secretary was eating a bagel.

Kendra turned to Grey, shot him the grin again, and said, “So what do you think?”

He thought it was odd that she didn’t correct Monty Stobbs for calling her Kenny, the way she did all the barflies in Reno.  “Is it a compliment that he thinks you’re hot enough to star in all these soft-core skin flicks?”

“At my age, I suppose it should be.  But those series are at the end of their strings.  He figures the same for me.”

“And what do you figure?”

“It was my own fault that I lost what traction I had, but a drug habit isn’t a death sentence anymore.  I’m clean now, I deserve better work than that.  I can still have a modestly successful career.  And maybe even a very successful one if I nab a couple of prime roles.”

He didn’t want to bring up the coke he’d found.  So far as he could see she was telling the truth, she wasn’t using again.  Maybe she clung to those last couple of ounces the way folks who quit smoking kept a last pack of cigarettes around.

“I’ve seen a couple of those
Love Hotels
,” he told her.  “There’s a few names in them shedding their clothes, actresses who used to be high-powered, a couple of Oscar nominees.  There can’t be any shame in it.”

“The things I’m ashamed of I’ll never talk about.  I might be doing flicks like those in ten or twelve years, but it’s not my turn yet.”

“Okay.”

Grey got up and started opening the drawers on Monty’s desk, looking for the ‘A’ or maybe only ‘B’ material.  He came across a couple of screenplays with lists of actresses’ names written in red pen on the covers and followed by question marks.  The first two lists were made up of serious star power.  He stuffed them back where they’d been and tried another drawer.  He found a bottle of bourbon and a loaded .32 automatic.  He pocketed the .32.  The next couple of lists looked more in keeping with Kendra’s career stature. Grey figured they weren’t too much better-known than she was.

He recognized the names of two of the screenwriters, guys who’d been nominated for Academy awards but had lost out.  One had been dead for three years.  The other had done six months for harboring a fugitive.  His brother had iced a meth lab cook who’d sold some bad crank to his kid.  The writer had just gotten out about two months ago.  The brother got a dime jolt and would probably be out in six.

Grey thought the only bad publicity was no publicity, and with some spin the writer’s story would help promote the hell out of the movie.  He started paging through the script.

Remainder of the bagel clenched between his teeth, Monty stepped back in with the phone clamped to his ear, nodding to whatever the other guy was saying, but now turning his eyes in wonderment at Grey.  He swallowed, said, “Let me call you back,” hung up, and cocked his head.

Grey leaned against the desk and said, “She’s not ready for the mature mom making a play for her stepson home on college flicks yet, Monty.  I’d like her to read this one instead.”

You had to give it to him, Monty rolled.  He swallowed his last bite and said, “Oh, I like him, Kenny. Very hands on.  Not like those other schleps you brought in who were just interested in furthering their own careers.  That last one...what was his name?  Terry...?”

“Barry,” Kendra said.

“Well, he’s doing very well, has a recurring role on an HBO show.”

“I know.  Him and his car.”

“So where’d you find this one?”

“Outside of Reno,” she said.

“He’s got a baby face but looks mean.”

“He’s not.”

“You certain of that?”

She shrugged.  “So far.”

“What’s he want?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

Grey scanned a few more pages.  He liked what he read.  He had no idea if it was actually any good, but it seemed like nobody in this town knew what made a movie a hit, so he was pretty much on even ground.

They kept talking about him like he wasn’t there.  “He the love of your life, Kenny?  Or just your muscle?”

“Ask him.”

Grey said, “Neither.”  He held out the script.  “This is the one.
Killing Time
.  Set her up for an audition.”

Monty Stobbs just looked at him like he couldn’t believe what he was watching, but he was smiling.

“Oh, and can you do me a favor?  You can get your hands on a directory with contact info for porn actors, right?  Do it.  And Monty, don’t forget the residual checks.”

7

With her feet up on the dash, Kendra directed him around Beverly Hills, pointing out which celebrities owned which mansions.  She’d partied in a few of them, told nasty stories about who liked the sex swing contraptions, who was owned by the mob, who had three kids but was really gay and kept a Filipino boyfriend in the cabana.  It was tough to be impressed.  Almost all you could see were twelve-foot-high fences and gates and security guards in little booths who gave you the skunk eye.

“You’re not in this for the money,” she said.

“What money?” he asked.

“That’s my point.”

“And for that matter, in what?”

“In this relationship.  And don’t say, is that what we’re having?  A relationship?  Call it whatever you want.  And for however long you want to call it that.”

Not for much longer, he knew.  He drove out of the ritzy area, got back to where life seemed more accessible, passed a car wash, flipped a U-turn, and drove in.

Full detailing would take two hours.  Kendra decided to take him shopping during the interim, get him some new clothes so he wouldn’t stand out so much the next time they were in a place with glass walls.  She dragged him to a shop that worried him at first.  Too much fur and feathers and leather on display, but in back was the more down-to-earth clothing.  She picked out some stuff he liked and some he figured he would never wear.  But once he tried it all on he decided he looked pretty good and felt much more in tune with the town.

“You like L.A., don’t you?” she asked.

“Better than the desert.”

“You could’ve come in at any time.”

No, he thought, I couldn’t have.  It took someone like you to take me by the hand and lead me here, to get me out of the dust and into the smog.  I was waiting for Pax the way he’d told me to.  I was wasting time and time was wasting me.

“What porn actor do you want to look up?”

“A guy who goes by the name of Harvey Wallbanger.”

She drew her chin back.  “You’ve got a score to settle with Harvey Wallbanger?”

Grey looked at her.  “You know him?”

“I’ve seen some of his movies.  My ex, Barry, the one who’s on HBO now, we liked watching X-rated DVD’s together.”

“Any idea what his real name is?”

“No.  It’s not like I ever met him or anything.  I just watched him in action.  Why are you after him?”

He had to do something here, get Kendra to stop thinking he was out to kill everybody he asked about.  “I don’t have a score to settle with him.  I just want to ask him a few questions.”

“Monty can get the list but he won’t hand it over.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You interest him.  He likes people like you.  The ones who ride roughshod, who don’t give a shit about playing kiss-ass or making a so-called good impression.  Who take what they want.”

“If he likes me then why won’t he help?”

“He’ll want to know why first.  He’ll want to see what he can get out of you, what you can do for him.”

“I can’t do anything for him.”

“Maybe not, but he’ll still get you to try.”

Like a major Hollywood agent didn’t already have everything anyway, the guy would have to try to squeeze whatever he could out of a guy like Grey.

They decided on lunch in a seafood restaurant, sat by the window and ordered real drinks to go with the food.  She got something that looked and sounded frou-frou but had five shots of different liquors in it.  He just went with a double whiskey and beer back.  She took a sip of hers and said, “Why’d you steal Monty’s .32?”

“I’m going to ask Harvey some questions, and I need straight answers.”

“So that means you expect Harvey to lie to you otherwise.”

“Maybe.”

“Does this have to do with drugs, money, or a woman?”

“A woman.”

“Ah.  Was Harvey banging someone he shouldn’t have been?”

“Probably.”

She sighed and gave him a frown, finally showing some signs that she was getting a little fed up with him.  “You don’t like talking about this but you’re not bothered that I keep asking you so many questions.  You want to get it out but you feel that you can’t because you need it internalized and want to keep your emotions, your story, to yourself.  It’s kind of like the way that actors discover the characters they’re about to play.  You read the script and know what’s supposed to be there in the movie, but you have to ask yourself questions about this person and find answers that aren’t on the page.  What kind of a childhood did she have?  What would she do in this or that situation?  Did someone break her heart when she was sixteen?  Did she have an abortion?  Is she jealous of her sister?  All these other bits and pieces of history go into helping define the character you eventually play.”  She got in close, kissed him lightly, then with more passion.  He went with it, looked deep in her eyes.  He liked the taste of her drink on her tongue.  Her expression had a mean edge to it.  “So, why don’t we jump ahead a bit.  Let me ask you.  When you do find your character, when you know who you are, then what exactly are you going to do?”

“Some damage,” Grey said.

8

On West 4
^th
, Ellie in his doorway with the blade in her side, Grey rushed to her and clamped his hands to the wound and was surprised at how little it was bleeding.  She said, “Jesus, don’t pull it out.”

“I won’t.”

“How bad is it?”

“Bad enough.”

“You know anyone who can help?”

“No hospital, huh?”

“No.”

“Let’s get you inside.”

All of this after not seeing each other for more than a decade.  It was a little surreal, but somehow still expected, perfectly natural.

She put an arm around his neck and he half-carried her into the vestibule.  His apartment was on the third floor.  They got a rhythm going as they moved up the staircase, where she’d sort of take a tiny jump and he’d lift her up three steps at a time.  On the second floor landing the manager was cleaning up old Chinese restaurant menus on the floor.  The guy glanced at the knife handle in terror.

Grey said, “Look away.  You didn’t see anything, right?”

He got the key into his lock and opened the door.  It clunked against the surround-sound speaker.

Ellie asked, “You know anyone who—”

“A medic I was in the Army with.  Let me call him.  If your liver hasn’t been nicked he can probably help.  If it has, we need to take you to the emergency room.”

“Goddamn it.”

Grey got her down onto his couch, propped pillows behind her head, threw a blanket over her to help with shock.  She hadn’t been stabbed long ago, which meant it had happened fairly nearby.  She’d been in the neighborhood and he hadn’t known.

He grabbed his cell and called Tough-Shit Sherman.  T.S. answered on the first half-ring, barked, “The fuck?”

”It’s Grey.  I’ve got my sister here at my place.  Knife wound, not much bleeding.  Looks like a two, maybe three-inch puncture.  The knife’s still in.  Think it missed the stomach but not sure about the liver.”

“First thing, don’t pull the blade out.”

“I’m not going to pull the fucking blade out.”

“Any black discharge?”

“Not that I see.”

“Good.  If he was seeping liver bile you could cross her off your Christmas card list.”

“Just get here,” Grey said and hung up.

He looked down and Ellie was grinning at him, a welled drop of blood on her lower lip.  He wasn’t sure if she was hemorrhaging internally or if she’d taken a smack in the mouth.  She was radiant and lovely and looked exactly like the little girl he’d known and nothing like her at all.  They’d only been in foster care together for about twelve months, but it was an important time, a year that would never merge with the rest of the years, never fade, never soften.  He considered her to be his sister and always would.  He’d looked for her several times over the last decade, but she’d hit the streets at fourteen and he’d never so much as caught a hint of her after that.