Good as Dead(10)

I’d busted my ass to get to that meeting. It had been set for five weeks. I’d prepared like I was interviewing a source, memorizing details that even the devil himself didn’t know. And then to show up just to be dismissed because “something suddenly came up”? What the actual fuck?

I cursed myself for the pity party I was having. If I were more evolved, I would have seen the bright side. I had a foot in one of the most competitive industries in the world. I had a powerful agent who gave me access to all the big players and made me believe I would soon be a player myself.

But so far it hadn’t happened. I had been in Los Angeles for almost eight years, and I still felt like that kid at the aquarium—staring at all the brightly colored fish with his face smooshed against the glass. I tried to fall in love with the sprawling freeways (don’t call them highways!), the endless summers, the Dodgers, but they all felt like friends of friends, never wholly mine.

My career never felt wholly mine either. There was a lot of money in Hollywood, but access was guarded by a network of gatekeepers whose most practiced skill was stringing you along. The Hollywood elites took care of their friends. As a relative newcomer from an outside industry, I was treated more like someone’s tolerated plus-one than a cherished invited guest, allowed into the room but not permitted to feast.

But Hollywood needs wannabes like me, because without outsiders there can be no insiders. And so occasionally the gatekeepers throw us a bone, to keep us salivating at the door. And we hungrily snatch up their table scraps for an opportunity to play, and the bragging rights that come with getting a deal. There were thousands like me, pawing at a door that would let in only a few. In the end, only a tiny handful of movies ever get made. As a (barely) “working writer,” I was part of this big machine that never stopped churning but produced almost nothing.

So why didn’t I just quit? The game of schmoozing and pitching was addictive. Every time I wanted to give up (e.g., now), a carrot (e.g., interest from this mega-multihyphenate) was dangled so close I could (almost!) reach out and touch it. The Eagles nailed it: Hollywood is the Hotel California. You can try to check out, but once the business gets its claws into you, it’s impossible to leave.

Lying in bed that night, I thought about my future. The New York Times would probably have a job for me, but going back to writing for a newspaper felt like a step backward. Print journalism was a dying industry. The money, the glory, the ability to reach people in far corners of the globe—that was in the movie business. I wanted my stories told in surround sound, with sweeping music and stunning images and performances that would blow your heart wide open. Besides, I couldn’t just call my old boss and ask for my job back. I’d need a reason—a story that had to be told.

I had no intention to go looking for one, of course.

But sometimes stories had a way of finding me.





CHAPTER 6


“You want to know something strange?” Libby asked as I joined her at the breakfast table. She was dressed for Pilates, in smooth Lululemon leggings and a high ponytail. I was still in my sleep attire, boxers and a white Beefy tee.

“Sure,” I said, indulging her. Libby had a different standard for strange than most people. She thought tea with milk was strange, despite the fact an entire nation of people who probably shared a fair amount of DNA with her drank it every day.

“The Kendricks aren’t listed as the owners of their house. I checked the public record.” What is strange, I thought, is that you checked the public record. But I played along.

“Huh,” I said noncommittally. “Who owns it?”

“Some company called Happy Accident Enterprises, LLC,” she informed me.

“Maybe you should go over and ask them about that?” I deadpanned.

“You’re the investigative journalist,” she quipped. Yeah, but I don’t care, I thought, but kept it to myself.

“Have a good class,” I said dismissively.

She flipped her ponytail and trotted out to her car. I had to admire how she stuck to her rituals, even in hard times. She never missed her exercise class, did her makeup just to go to the grocery store, made inventive meals that even our finicky girls would eat every single day. She got irritated during my periods of unemployment, but she never let it get her down. She was resilient where I was porous, confident to my self-loathing. We were living proof that opposites attract. One might argue she got all the desirable qualities. At this point, my biggest achievement was probably lassoing her.

I pulled on some sweats and headed out to the garage. Margaux needed a new desk, so I’d decided to build her a custom one that would fit under her loft, which I had also built. As I opened the garage door to let in some sunlight, I spotted Holly Kendrick in her front yard, wrestling with the wooden bench on her stoop. I jogged over to her.

“Hey there, need a hand?” I offered.

“Oh, hey, Andy,” she said. Her cheeks were flushed. She was wearing a tank with a scooped-out neckline, and I couldn’t help but notice she had an incredible body—full breasts and a tiny waist. I tried not to stare. “This stupid bench is a hazard. Every time someone sits on it, it nearly falls over. I was going to tighten the screws, but I don’t have any tools.”

I inspected the base and immediately diagnosed the problem. “The screws are fine. You’re missing a support brace. That’s why it wobbles.” I pointed, and she bent over to look. Her cleavage was so close to me it was like the beginning of a bad porno movie. I forced myself to take a step back. “I can fix it if you like. I have all the materials. It’s kind of a hobby.”