TEN PERCENT

A novel
by
D. L. Bruin

PART 1
THE COYOTE MURDERS

"A kingdom like Oz."
-Adela Rogers St.Johns

1
December, 2002
El Pueblo Nuestra Señora la Reina de "Los Angeles" de Porciúncula, also known as The City of Smoke and Mirrors, was all lit up in her Holiday finery. Rain-slick streets glistened like fine ebony mirrors reflecting ripples of multi-hued neon. Windows in stores and restaurants were festooned with artful Christmas decor; effigies of elves, vaguely reptilian candy canes, plastic evergreen wreaths and plenty of fake snow. There were acres of tinsel and miles of blinking colored lights interspersed amidst the Palm trees and tropical flowers. And on every other street corner there were sullen-faced, red-flannel Santas, clanging away with brass bells at passersby.
The scene was Norman Rockwell on bad acid. An airbrushed portrait of an aging prostitute, best viewed under moonlight and from a proper distance.

*************

They were parked on a fire road off Mulholland Highway in the hills overlooking the San Fernando Valley. It was just past midnight when the rain began to morph into a fine steady mist. It accumulated on the pickup's roof and slithered down the windshield in serpentine streaks. On the in-dash cassette Travis Tritt was singing about Livin' On Borrowed Time.
The girl looked about twenty, give or take. Pretty in a hard sort of way, with close-cropped blonde hair framing a heart shaped face. When The Man had asked the girl her name, she'd told him it was April.
He knew she was lying. They all lied.
The air inside the cab was dank with the distinct tang of sex mixed with spilled malt liquor. April's skirt was hiked up around her thighs and her crumpled silver panties lay in a tiny heap on the floorboards. She straddled The Man and moaned professionally as he thrust himself in and out of her. When she felt him start to climax she reached down with one hand and adroitly massaged his scrotum. That did the trick, as they say.
As he started to come the muscles in The Man's jaw constricted, and a series of stifled grunts escaped between his clenched teeth.
April pulled her blouse down without ceremony and bent over to collect her panties. The Man grinned playfully, reached over and goosed the pretty derriere. The girl sprang up violently, smacking her head on the underside of the dashboard. A half-empty pack of Wrigley's Double Mint levitated toward the defroster vents.
The Man laughed.
"Goddamnsonnofabitch!!" she howled, "That fucking hurt!"
"That the same mouth you talk to your momma with?"
April rubbed her head and sneered. "It's the same mouth that was suckin' your dick a few minutes ago, and you didn't seem to mind it much then."
She glanced down and noticed his latex-covered prick was rigid once again.
"Geez, mister, you some kinda Superman or somethin'?"
"Or somethin'," The Man replied, grabbing for the girl's breast.
With a practiced agility April managed to avoid his grasp. "You wanna play again, you gotta pay again Cowboy. Those're the rules."
"Nah, I don't think so," he drawled.
He grabbed her and yanked her towards him, pressed his mouth forcefully on hers, kissed her hard.
April pulled away, repulsed.
"I told you not to do that!"
"You got a lot of rules for a nasty little street tramp," he taunted, tightening his grip. Then he kissed her again, all tongue and saliva.
The girl's adrenal glands kicked into maximum overdrive and she struggled fiercely.
"Get off me you sick fuck!"
The Man released his grip and backhanded her across the face.
April exhaled a stunned gasp and pulled as far away as the confined space allowed. She touched the back of her hand to her crushed lip, glanced down and saw blood, began to tremble.
"Nobody does that to me! Nobody!"
She lunged with murderous intent.
At first The Man made no attempt to shield himself from the girl's rage. He accepted the punishment with an amused grin. Then, in one fluid motion, he snatched her hands and forced them to her side. His strange smile remained fixed as he held her arms pinned and glared malevolently into her eyes. The Man's gaze penetrated, chilled the fire right out of her.
And then in the space of a single heartbeat an epiphany occurred. April understood…
Time became elastic, slowed like cold molasses, down to the millisecond. The Man felt his heart rate increase and his erection strain. He inhaled deeply feasting on the indelicate aroma of the young woman's fear.
If he were ever required to narrow it down to just one moment, this was it; that marvelous expression of unbridled terror they all seemed to have in common… once they came to realize the depth of their miscalculation.
How he savored this!
The rain began once again, this time in earnest. And as the water pummeled the landscape, a cacophony arose, a sound which perfectly masked the screams that leaked from the swaying pickup.
It was a considerable time before the truck's motion ceased. And then for just the briefest of moments, the only sound to be heard was that of the sheeting rain; a droning that encompassed all, washing away dirt, smog and sin.
The passenger door pivoted on rusty hinges, creaking eerily. Moments later April's lifeless form dropped onto the muddy roadway. She came to rest face down in a substantial pothole, extremities all askew, a macabre rag doll.
The door squealed as it was yanked shut, and then a few seconds later the big V8 cranked over with a fine throaty chuckle.
The Man strapped his seatbelt on and turned up the volume on the old Pioneer deck. He paused to check his reflection in the rearview, pulled his lips back and picked at a piece of detritus on one of his bicuspids. When he felt presentable he slipped the gearshift into drive and crept the two-hundred yards to where the fire road joined up with Mulholland Highway. He switched on the headlights and pulled onto the deserted roadway, accelerated to cruising speed, all the while singing along with Travis.

2
It was the kind of mid-December morning that took your breath away. The sky was an incredible shade of light cobalt, and the air was fresh and crisp. A rare day indeed for this so-called City of Angels.
The storm in the flatlands had drifted East during the night, flocking the local mountains with nearly a foot of wet snow. Like errant sheep, fluffy cumulus clouds bumped up against the peaks.
Maxine "Max" Calderas stood on the balcony of her fifth-floor North Hollywood apartment, warming her hands on a mug of coffee and watching the clouds drift by.
Aretha Franklin wafted from the living room Panasonic, and a wall clock, a super-sized replica of a Black-Face Movado, indicated the time as 6:30. A pile of newspapers littered one corner of a distressed pine dining table, and on the opposite end, a .40 caliber Smith and Wesson semi-auto slept snugly in a ballistic nylon shoulder holster.
Max Calderas was one El Lay police detective who was especially easy on the eyes. With thick chestnut hair cut just above her shoulders, and expressive brown eyes that could scorch one second, and then freeze ass the next, Max was a real looker. Sometimes her appearance was an asset on the job, and other times it just got in the way.
Her shift started at eight, and this was her 'Quiet Time'. Her time to relax and contemplate the day ahead, peruse the newspapers on the dining room table, if she so chose.
Quiet Time was a survival skill Max's mother had taught her at an early age. One of a multitude of character traits they shared in common was the absolute requirement for space away from The World. And the fact the Calderas women were outnumbered by the Calderas men by a factor of five to three only served to reinforce the proclivity.
Max eyed the traffic on Lankershim and breathed in the fragrant steam rising from the mug. She took a leisurely sip of the sweet light brown liquid and returned to her warming thoughts.
Life was so simple once upon a time, back in Momma's kitchen, with all those fine spicy aromas and kettle juices sizzling on the old iron stove. Max and her sister Bernie, older by four years, helped out with the food preparation, chopping onions and carrots and celery.
Feeding a household of eight was a full-time job all by itself, but there was still laundry and grocery shopping, and guitar lessons for Alonzo on Tuesdays after school, and a whole litany of other chores and obligations, all of which Momma Calderas juggled with a perpetual smile.
In her mind's eye Max could visualize the dinner table, her entire family assembled for the evening meal. She could smell the mixed aromas of Black-eyed peas and greens, fresh salsa and arroz con pollo. Each meal was a culinary treasure trove of multi-ethnic delicacies.
Max had enjoyed school, excelled in English and anything even remotely related to sports. By age sixteen she had developed a marked preference for one-on-one competition. By way of the proverbial 'boy next door', she became infatuated with the sport and art of archery.
There was just something so elegant about the entire experience. The tension of the bow. The stillness and concentration. The release of the string and the transfer of energy to the aluminum shaft. The wickedly fast flight, a sunlit reflection of quicksilver and blurred feathers. The sound of the strike, the rounded metal point punching through paper, the shaft burying itself in the wired bale of hay.
And then there was Miguel Esparza, the initial reason for her sudden interest in target sports in the first place. Miguel was two years her senior, and the very first in a succession of 'true loves'.
She remembered watching him slip out of his t-shirt on the archery field, and wondered what it would feel like to touch him. The thought of his smooth caramel colored fingers stroking her made her feel flush and jelly-kneed. When Miguel looked up and caught her watching him, he flashed a devilish grin. And even though she felt immediately light-headed, she returned the smile just the same.
And the rest, as they say, was history.
Life went on.
Max swallowed the last of the coffee and stepped inside the apartment, locked the sliding glass door behind her. She crossed to the dining area, lifted the shoulder holster from the table and strapped it on. She camouflaged the rig with a rust colored blazer, checked her reflection in the mirror, made some last minute adjustments, and exited the apartment.

**************

Greg London didn't hear the alarm go off at six. He was lost in a tropical dreamscape, cavorting with buxom young women aboard a sleek silver yacht. The name of the ship was tattooed on the hull in a bold script the color of champagne grapes: Wet Dreams.
At 6:30, Greg failed to notice the blaring of the second, emergency alarm clock, as it echoed off the pumpkin tiles in the master bath.
Fortunately for Greg, the early morning disruption of the peace didn't go unnoticed, or unanswered. Mr. Plotkin, next door, began hammering one hairy fist against the wall that separated their bedrooms.
"Turn that fukeeng theeng off!!" he yelled in his commissar-clipped English. "Or I call poleece!"
Greg mumbled profanities as he swung a leg over the side of the bed. He padded barefoot in the direction of the bathroom, smacked the alarm silent, and checked out his reflection in the mirror.
Detective Greg London was thirty nine, with a mostly full head of nutmeg colored hair, and a baby face that belied his true nature. He'd been married and divorced twice, and after the last raping he took at the hands of the California Family Courts, swore an oath to God and Universe there would never be a third Mrs. London. However, his current squeeze, Denise, a twenty-four year old pre-school teacher, had different plans entirely.
Greg glanced at the time.
"Sonofabitch!"
He kicked in the afterburners, showered and dressed in record time. Then, as was his custom, he headed for the automatic drip coffee pot which had been set the previous evening to begin brewing at six a.m. sharp. Fuck strolling around on the Moon. As far as Greg was concerned this was the epitome of Mankind's Technology.
In his exuberance Greg overfilled the coffee mug, and then compounded the gaff by attempting to slurp the overage. Big mistake! Having sat in the pot those extra thirty minutes or so had turned the liquid molten. Greg jumped back, knocked the mug across the counter, and splashed hot coffee all over the silk tie Denise just gave him for his birthday. Worse still, he didn't have a clean replacement or time to go digging through the laundry hamper. He hadn't been up an hour yet and already he was in a homicidal mood.
Less than five minutes later, on the way out of the apartment building, he stepped off the stairs at an inappropriate angle, twisted his ankle and very nearly completed a full face-plant.
And of course, when he finally got to the station house, Max was waiting for him by the cruiser wearing that patented smirk of hers.
"Nice tie, chief," she teased, always eager to add insult to injury.
He shot a glance heavenward.
"C'mon, we got a call. Looks like number four."
London climbed into the passenger seat and clicked on the seatbelt.
"Long night?" Calderas teased.
London pretended not to hear her.
Max continued the needling. "You know, you really oughta marry that girl before she wises up."
"And you really oughta mind your own business," Greg replied caustically.
Max chuckled.
Twenty minutes later, detective Calderas nosed the cruiser off Mulholland Highway, onto a dirt fire road that was marked with yellow crime scene tape. The prior night's storm had reduced the roadway to an impassable mud hole. There were a couple of black and white prowlers on scene, as well as a coroner's wagon and a four-wheel drive News Van. The muscles in London's jaw tightened as he surveyed the scene.
"Ever have the feeling you should've stayed in bed?"
"Frequently," Max responded honestly.
Beverly Crescent, the vapid blonde newscaster for local channel six, along with her crew, were shooting a sequence for the evening news. Just a few yards behind her the blanket-shrouded remains lay plainly in sight.
"Hello, I'm Beverly Crescent, and you're watching channel six news… This morning at around five, a local man out for a jog made a grisly discovery; the body of a young woman, apparently dumped here sometime during the night."
The cameraman adjusted the depth of field on the lens and tilted the camera in such a way as to take in as much of the body's exposed extremities as possible. Death was always good for ratings. Death by Homicide, even better. Throw a dash of kinky sex into the mix and we could be talking Pulitzer here!
The newscaster continued her monologue.
"Police are refusing to speculate if this is the latest victim of the serial killer who's been terrorizing Los Angeles since October; the elusive stalker known only as 'The Coyote'."
She paused dramatically.
"For those of you out there keeping count, in just the past two months the bodies of four young women have turned up in semi-rural locations throughout the county."
At that instant detectives London and Calderas came into Beverly's field of view. The newscaster was quick to capitalize on the opportunity, shoving a microphone under London's nose while simultaneously blocking Calderas' gorgeous mug from the camera. An old thespian's trick, flawlessly executed.
"Excuse me. Excuse me, detective London. Is there anything you'd like to say to our viewing audience?"
"As a matter of fact there is," Greg replied casually. Then he looked directly into the camera and beamed his most debonair of smiles.
"Change the channel folks. These people are fuckin' ghouls."
Beverly's lips stretched back over artificially whitened teeth into what could only be described as a snarl. But always the consummate professional, she managed to regain her composure in just under a nanosecond.
"Thanks a lot, London. Now we're gonna have to re-shoot the entire sequence."
"Uh, no Bev. I don't think so," the detective replied, unconsciously rubbing a growing bald spot at the top of his head. "I think what you're gonna do is pack up all this crap and vamanos the hell outta here. You're standing right in the middle of a crime scene for Chrissake. I can't have you and your gypsies trompin' all over everything, destroying evidence."
"What about the people's right to know?"
"Inform the people. Be my guest. Just do it from the other side of that yellow tape."
Beverly opened her mouth as if to say something pithy in reply, but her brain engaged before her tongue did. She turned on her cameraman instead.
"Alright Les, you heard the detective." Her voice was cold, taking on a strident tone not associated with her on-air persona.
London shook his head.
"Is there something else, Greg?"
"Yeah Bev, as a matter of fact there is. You know, ever since I got handed this assignment there's been this one thing eatin' at me."
"And what might that be? How you've managed to rise to the lofty rank of detective despite your obvious lack of competence?"
"Uh, actually Bev, you ain't even close. What I was wonderin' was where you come up with those moronic names? I mean 'The Coyote', what the fuck is that about anyway?"
"The last girl had bite marks…"
"So the media alleges," London snapped back.
"People saw the body Greg…"
A sardonic smile spread across London's handsome face. "That's right, Bev, people did see the body. But as you know, people frequently don't know what the fuck they're looking at. There are a lot of ways for a stiff to get marked up."
Looking for a way to end the conversation, Beverly opted for candor. "It was either gonna be 'The Coyote' or 'The Grim Raper'. I made an executive decision."
"You mean you make up that shit on the spur of the moment?" London asked, utter amazement in his voice.
"That's what they pay me for, Greg," Beverly replied cattily, really getting annoyed with the banter.
London turned to Calderas.
"Damn Max, I was wrong."
Calderas raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow and remarked to the newscaster: "Hang on a minute Beverly. This is a real piece of late breaking news. London's just admitted to being wrong. I've never heard him use those three words together in a single sentence before."
London shrugged. "There's gotta be a first time for everything. What can I say?"
"What are you talking about?" Beverly demanded.
"Well yah see Bev, I was sure that a select group of you media jackals got together at the beginning of the year around some waterhole, and picked names out of a hat. You know, like the weather guys do with hurricanes."
Calderas snickered at the insult.
"If that's your idea of comedy Greg, I hope you plan to keep your day job," Beverly retorted icily.
"Nice talkin' with you Bev."
Detectives London and Calderas picked their way across the muddy access road and approached two uniforms.
"You guys first on the scene?" detective Calderas queried the older of the two.
"Actually the snow queen over there beat us in," he replied, referring to Beverly Crescent and her news team.
"Find anything interesting?" Calderas continued.
"We found a purse. Got the vic's ID."
The officer handed detective Calderas a plastic baggie that contained an Oklahoma drivers license. Max scanned it.
"Susan Ellen Pomeroy, D.O.B. March 21, 1983. Jesus Greg, another baby."
"What can I say, Max? This prick likes 'em young."
"All men, regardless of age, race, creed, religion, or infirmity seem to like 'em young, Greg," Calderas responded with obvious disdain.
"Aw shit Max. Don't go getting' all gynocentric on me."

"When I was growing up I always wanted to be Someone. Now I realize I should have been more specific."
-Lily Tomlin

3
(A Couple of days later)
The morning sun illuminated the traffic that was backed up outside the office building at the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and Ashleigh Way.
In its heyday, the building was occupied by the likes of Herman Cardell, the world renowned attorney-for-the-stars, and Jake Epstein, Hollywood agent turned Hollywood Producer; the very first of the breed. But that was a long time ago, way back in the mid-fifties, in a bygone era before crack babies and drive-by shootings. It was a time when the neighborhood was considered upscale and its proximity to the major studios, desirable.
That was then. Today nothing's the way it was; not the Town, not The Industry.
Currently the building's occupancy rate hovered in the neighborhood of twenty percent, which gave the Korean owners little in the way of motivation regarding upkeep. The few tenants that remained were a reflection of the times.
The entire bottom floor was home to KT Systems, an answering service bureau utilized by the Entertainment Industry since '79. Roberta Katy, a wide shouldered woman with short gray hair and a gravelly voice, ran the show.
On the second floor there was a company called Keyhole Investigations. Keyhole was directly across the hall from an outcall massage service. The sign on That door read PRIVATE in oversized blood-red lettering. At the end of the hallway, a large five-room suite was currently being utilized as a dental clinic, the primary clientele being illegal immigrants; people used to paying cash for services rendered and ignorant of their rights under personal injury law.
On the third floor there was an accountant, three attorneys, and one low rent talent agency. The sign on That door was in an elegant script more befitting Rodeo Drive. It read: MONROE TALENT GROUP, LTD.
On the wall right beside the door, some artist wannabe with too much time on his or her hands had spray-painted a primitive rendition of an erect penis, in Day-Glo neon pink no less, along with the catchy phrase: PORNO MEAT RENTAL CO.
The Monroe Talent Group's offices consisted of three rooms. First, there was a tiny reception area dominated by a battered green Naugahyde couch. In front of the couch, at the perfect shin-crunching distance, there was a decrepit metal coffee table with months-old copies of the Hollywood Reporter and ActorsLog strewn about.
Thumb-tacked to the dingy walls in a hodge-podge patchwork were glossy eight by tens of clients, present and past. The collection included: Your ubiquitous, surgically enhanced Pleasure Model types, as well as your vacant-eyed leading man types, all hair gel and custom porcelain caps. There were headshots of ancient men and even older women, many smiling eerily, massive dentures overpowering fleshless skulls. There were bald guys aplenty, both tall and short, with tats and without. There were modern-day warrior skateboarders, people with dreds, and people with kilos of facial jewelry. There were cowboys, Indians, cop types and bad-guy types (basically identical and interchangeable). And there were lots of photos of Hollywood kids as well; all colors, shapes and sizes, not a one even remotely recognizable.
Referring to the second area as a "room" was an out and out fabrication concocted by a rental agent of questionable repute. In reality it was the size of a large walk-in closet and served only to store the Files. The Files were large vertical cabinets containing mostly pictures and résumés of the current clientele, along with various contracts and the like.
The room where all the work got done was about three times the size of the reception area but felt cramped nonetheless. Two large desks faced each other at one end of the room. And at the opposite end there was another beat up couch, this one of a nappy, tri-color orange material. The walls were a nicotine-tinted shade of filthy eggshell, and the earth tone carpeting was pitted and water-stained.
Such are the stuff Hollywood dreams are made of.
Shelly Ilene Monroe sat at her desk gazing out the window at the alley below, a Camel filter-tip dangling precariously from her over-glossed lips, and a phone cradled between shoulder and doughy cheek.
"…Of course he can scuba dive. It's right there on his résumé for Chrissake… It's not?…"
Shelly improvised as she adjusted the bra that was cutting into the ample flesh of her bosom.
"Our idiot intern musta stapled the old rez on the new headshot… Whadda yah think Bruce, I'm gonna risk my reputation sending you someone who can't deliver?… Of course not, sweetheart. No problem. I'll have him there tomorrow at five-fifteen. Ciao for now."
Shelly glanced across her desk at her lone employee, Irv, who was calmly losing a hand of solitaire.
"Irv, darling, get me that lox Jimmy Bodine on the horn."
Irv looked up from his cards, blinking in disbelief. "Tell me that wasn't Jimmy you were hyping to Bruce Kanter just now?"
"Sure as hell was. What about it?"
Irv removed his gold wire-rim glasses and nervously polished the lenses. "Are you aware Jimmy Bodine doesn't know how to swim?"
Shelly's eyes narrowed to lizard slits as she bored a hole through Irv's forehead, exposing the quivering frontal lobes.
"Yeah, so? What's aqua ability gotta do with the price of tea in China? Jimmy Bodine doesn't have a fuckin' prayer. You read the breakdowns. He's all wrong for the part."
"Then why're you wasting Bruce's time sending him Jimmy?"
Shelly shook her head in disgust.
"Let me explain it to you, schmuck. You see, the rumor going around Town is, Bruce and his most recent fuck-buddy are on the outs. So I figure, what the hell. I know for a fact Bruce's taste in men leans toward big, dumb country humps like Jimmy. So I…"
"You thought you'd set the two of them up."
Shelly fluttered her eyelashes. "There could be romance in the air."
Irv felt his sphincter tighten.
"Then I guess it's news to you that Jimmy Bodine happens to be a raving heterosexual! What are you thinking Shelly?"
"Give me a break! Jimmy-Fuckin'-Bodine grew up in the hill country of Tennessee for Chrissakes. Didn't you ever see Deliverance?"
"As I recall, that film took place in Georgia."
"Tennessee, Georgia, whatever!" Shelly fumed. "If I tell him it'll be good for his career, trust me, Jimmy'll show up at the interview wearing a wetsuit and kneepads."
While Irv blinked a silent response Shelly dialed out on another line.
"God, if only we had a couple more clients like Cody Clifton…" Shelly added dreamily. "That boy's got winner written all over him."
"Let's not forget who brought him over," Irv reminded.
"You're right Irv. Gotta give credit where credit's due. Jimmy-Fuckin'-Bodine may be a lox, as well as a colossal pain in the ass, but he did bring us Cody. God bless him for that."
Shelly turned her attention to the telephone. On the other end of the line a machine picked up after the fourth ring. A generic male android's voice announced that no one was available at the moment to take the call, and yadda, yadda, yadda. A couple of seconds later an obnoxious beep tone sounded.
"Cody darling, this is Shelly. Give me a call as soon as you get this message. I have an interview for you. Another callback for Chuck Dallas, Private Investigator. I'll give you the details when I hear back from you. Ciao, honey."
Irv Birnbaum was thirty-six years old, and had started working with Shelly back in '86, when they were both schleppers for The Spielman Agency. Over the course of three decades in the Entertainment Industry, Milt Spielman had cultivated a reputation as a tyrant, as well as a tightwad. Under his tutelage, Shelly and Irv learned the ropes of the talent agency business. And for the privilege, they were ruthlessly overworked and severely underpaid. It was Shelly who dreamed of bigger things, and always kept her eye on the ball.
Then in '92, Shelly's mother, Diane Monroe née Himmelstein, did the only unselfish thing she ever did in her entire life; she died suddenly, leaving all her worldly possessions to her only child, Shelly Ilene. The inheritance wasn't much, but it was enough for Shelly to tell Spielman where he could stick his shitty job. She emptied her desk and opened her own shop, asked Irv if he cared to tag along. He agreed, and spent the following decade eking out an existence pimping, what is referred to in the Industry as, day players.
Irv's great ambition in life was to become a full partner in the agency. An equal. A peer. But Shelly liked things the way they were, with her name on the top line of the franchise.
"Geez Shell, how many callbacks does this make?" Irv asked, his buggy eyes gleaming behind round lenses.
Shelly held out her hand with all five plump fingers fully extended.
"The casting director told me the writer loves Cody's delivery."
Irv's face took on an expression like he was sniffing week-old herring.
"Who cares what the writer thinks? You always told me writers were the bottom of the food chain."
"Well, yeah, that does sound like something that might've come out of my mouth… But in this particular case the writer also happens to be one of the producers."
"Oh, my!"
Shelly continued, "The bad news is he's only one of four."
"There's always bad news, isn't there?" Irv responded, once again removing his wire-rims for a quick polishing.
"Just the same, I'm starting to get excited. The Network's so completely apeshit over this show, the producers actually cut themselves a deal for a guaranteed thirteen episode run!"
Irv adjusted the nose piece on the spectacles and his eyes grew wide, magnified four-fold by the lenses. "Are you serious?"
Shelly beamed a smile; her plentiful gold crowns sparkled under the flickering fluorescent lights.
"Serious as a heart attack, honey! Brings back good memories, doesn't it?"
The corners of Irv's mouth curved upward in a ferret's smile.
"The good old days, eh Shell?"
"That's right Irving, my dear. The good old days, back before a show got bought for six and cancelled after two."
Shelly sat back in the chair and propped her feet up on the desk, gazed out the window into the distance.
"And you know what it'll mean if Cody Clifton hits, don't you?"
Irv chuckled nervously. "No more wrestling with junkies to get out of the parking lot?"
Shelly didn't even hear the response. Her mind was off planning the future.
"It'll mean The Monroe Talent Group's name will be on the lips of every power broker in town! That's what it'll mean! After all these years of scratchin', I think I finally have a 'Contenda'."
Shelly turned her eyes toward Irv. "And Irving, doll, do you know what the best part's gonna be?"
Irv's lower lip quivered. "Tell me about the rabbits again, Shelly."
Her grin broadened. "The best part's gonna be when I negotiate a five year deal for our young Mister Clifton, so no matter what big agency the ingrate prick eventually leaves us for, we'll continue getting paid each and every episode."
Irv sat back in his chair and put his feet up on his desk, emulating Boss Lady.
"And let's not forget about the residuals!" Irv interjected.
Shelly laughed.
"No, Irv, we most certainly won't forget about the residuals. Shit, if it were up to me we'd be getting our ten percent off the top of the asshole's unemployment benefits as well!… God, how I love this Business!"

4
Cody Clifton stood in the bathroom of his quaint, old Hollywood duplex, brushing his teeth. A stream of water pulsated from the faucet and splashed into a porcelain sink the color of bleached turquoise. A clock radio, a relic from the seventies, sat atop a matching turquoise john. The time was eight-fifteen a.m., and a sibilant announcer was hawking the latest and greatest in "athletic systems for the feet".
Cody chortled and spat a mouthful of Crest and saliva into the sink.
"Athletic Systems for the feet my Southern-fried ass. Why can't you just call 'em what they are?… They're sneakers, you lyin' prick!" Cody ranted at the radio.
Cody's companion "Blue", a five year-old, floppy-eared hound of dubious ancestry, woofed a response.
Being an actor by trade and extremely secure with himself, Cody took this to mean that his companion concurred wholeheartedly with the boss' assessment.
The truth of the matter was, of course, a different story entirely. Fact was, Blue had no interest whatsoever in athletic systems for the feet, or ranting human beings either, for that matter. Blue was concerned about one thing, and one thing only: Was his master going to let him go outside to do his business in time, or was he going to be forced to utilize that cowboy boot laying by the bed.
Cody continued his ritual, blissfully unaware of his pal's thought process. He vigorously rubbed his perfect pink gum tissue in an up and down motion. When he finished, he replaced the toothbrush in its cup and patted his face on a towel. He reached for a hairbrush on the edge of the john and began brushing the damp hair off his forehead.
Cody stood six-one on a lean and athletic, one hundred, seventy-five pound frame. Genetically blessed, one might say. His corneas were of an unusual brown hue, almost golden in the right light, with tiny flecks of green encircling the perimeter. His nose was sharp with a narrow bridge and delicate nostrils. His smile was pure riverboat gambler.
Fifteen minutes later (a lifetime for poor old Blue), clad in gray sweats and generic sneakers, Cody stepped into the morning. He squinted at the overcast and slid on a pair of Ray Bans, brushed a palm over his wavy blonde hair.
Blue dashed from between his feet in an utter panic. He galloped across the porch and into the yard next door, where he proceeded to pull his hind legs up to his front legs in that second most familiar of canine poses.
Cody scanned the neighborhood for witnesses, thankfully saw none. It was way too early in the morning to be scooping up a steaming heap of dog patties. …Actually, come to think about it, was there ever a good time?
Cody strode the short distance to a dented green Toyota sedan. He fished in a pocket and produced a key ring with about a dozen keys on it. He rooted around some more and came up with another key, this one attached to a white plastic insignia. He stuck it into the door lock on the Toyota and twisted clockwise.
"Alright Blue dog. Time's a-wastin'."
Blue jumped over the short brick fence that separated the properties and trotted across the yard, a relieved expression on his handsome hound face. He leaped into the car and took up a position on the front passenger seat, tail wagging savagely. Cody slid behind the wheel and closed the door. He reached over and scratched the pooch behind the ears.
"You a good ole dog, Blue. Yes you are. You a good boy."
Blue woofed an agreement and sat down, tongue lolling to starboard.
They arrived at the park fifteen minutes later and proceeded to cross toward a well utilized running track. Blue paused every now and then to sniff at messages on the moist grass.
Cody began his stretching ritual concentrating primarily on his calves and quads. After a few minutes warm-up he called to Blue, who seemed to have found something of profound interest in the bushes by the baseball diamond.
Cody put two fingers into his mouth and whistled. Blue very casually glanced up from what he was doing and then immediately returned to the task at hand, or rather, the task at nose.
"Blue!" Cody called. "Get your hairy ass over here!"
The hound paused and lifted his head once more, his eyes smiling playfully. Then he took off at full gallop in the direction of Cody's voice.
"What're you up to, you sneaky beast?" Cody demanded, bending down and scratching the white blaze of fur on Blue's chest. "C'mon dog. Time to burn some calories."
Cody loped off in a counter clockwise direction with Blue right on his heels.

***********

When Cody and Blue returned from their morning run they were greeted by the upstairs neighbor, Mrs. Valletti. A sweet little old Italian lady with a penchant for cannoli, Mrs. Valletti was recently widowed. Cody was reasonably certain it was Mrs. Valletti's high-cholesterol cooking that had killed Mr. Valletti.
"Good morning Cody," she chirped. "Did you and Blue get in a good workout today?"
"Yes ma'am, we certainly did," Cody replied, adjusting the towel around his neck. "And how are you feelin' on this lovely morning?"
Mrs. Valletti made a gesture with her hands, an affectation she was especially prone to.
"A little stiff in the joints, but I guess that's to be expected at my age… Listen Cody, I was wondering…"
Cody unconsciously raised an eyebrow. Over time it became plain that whenever Mrs. Valletti preceded a statement with 'Cody, I was wondering', it ended up costing money.
"Ma'am?"
"The senior center is having its annual raffle in two weeks. First prize is a weekend for two in Las Vegas, all expenses paid… And that includes transportation… by bus of course."
"Well ma'am, I'm not much of a gamblin' man…"
"Did I mention that proceeds are going to The Children's Hospital?" she added, turning up the charm. "C'mon Cody, tickets are only five bucks apiece. How many can I put you down for?"
Cody scratched his chin. "Well I guess if it's for charity and all, I'll take four of 'em off your hands."
Mrs. Valletti beamed. "You're such a wonderful boy, Cody. Your mother must be very proud."
Cody blushed.
"I'll get that money right up to you, Mrs. Valletti, just as soon as I get cleaned up." He crossed quickly to the front door.
"Take your time Cody. I'm not going anywhere," she called after him, chuckling.

*********

Cody kicked off his sneakers and padded across the oak floor in his socks. He switched on the stereo and caught the end of a Trisha Yearwood tune.
Blue trotted in the direction of the kitchen making his usual lunchtime vocalizations, something along the line of: "Ahroo-oooo."
"Give me a second you crazy old dog," Cody replied crossing to the kitchen.
When Blue saw Cody approach, he immediately launched into his dance, standing on his hind legs, and twisting in a circle. Damned acrobatic beast, that one.
Cody opened the pantry and took out a can of Beefy Chunks with Liver, and Blue just couldn't take anymore.
"Alright already! I still gotta open it up for you, you know?"
Blue lowered his haunches in kind of a squat, definitely not a 'full sit', as his rear end never actually touched the floor. He was poised like a lion about to spring.
Cody opened the can and emptied its contents into a heavy ceramic dish. Then he added a couple of scoops of the dry stuff for good measure, and mixed it all together. He learned long ago that whatever kibble wasn't covered with the canned stuff, Blue inevitably left in the bottom of the bowl. He set the chow down and got the hell out of the way.
As he was about to head off to the shower Cody noticed the flashing red light on the answering machine. He paused beside the kitchen counter and depressed a button on the machine. The gray box clicked and burped, rewound the message tape, and eventually began to play.
"Cody darling, this is Shelly. Give me a call as soon as you get this message. I have an interview for you. Another callback for Chuck Dallas, Private Investigator. I'll give you the details when I hear back from you. Ciao, honey."
Cody depressed another button and twenty seconds later the machine reset itself with a nauseating beep. He reached for the phone and punched a speed dial button.
"Hey Irv, it's Cody. Is Shelly around?"

"Acting is an empty and useless profession."
-Marlon Brando

5
Jimmy Bodine could easily have passed for Cody Clifton's brother. The resemblance was uncanny. He was just under six feet tall and a slightly stockier one hundred, eighty pounds. His hair was a few shades darker and a bit longer than Cody's, and his nose was broader at the bridge. Jimmy and Cody were born within sixty days of each other, in towns one county apart, separated by a state line. There was even the distant possibility they were related; fifth cousins, or some such nonsense.
Jimmy sat across the desk from Shelly, clad in worn Designer denim and expensive, gray Ostrich cowboy boots, a crumpled copy of ActorsLog poised in his lap.
"…And as far as I know, they haven't cast the part of the Hitman yet. So what do you think Shelly? Can you get me out on it?"
Irv interrupted. "Shell, you got Cody on line three."
Shelly held out a yeasty palm. "Hang on a second, Jimmy. I gotta give Cody an interview."
She picked up the phone and punched the button with the flashing light.
"Cody, darling. Got a pencil handy?… Good. They want you at bungalow 33 tomorrow at eleven. Use the south entrance to the lot. There'll be a drive-on pass waiting for you at the guard shack. Get there early, and don't forget to check in with me after. Knock 'em dead, kid."
Shelly hadn't even hung up the phone before Jimmy Bodine started in on her again.
"So what do you say, Shelly? Can you get me out on this gig in ActorsLog?"
Shelly repulsed a sudden urge to reach for the .38 snub-nose in her purse and permanently silence his incessant whining. Taking a deep breath, she forced a warm smile.
"You know Jimmy, we had that in breakdowns over a month ago, and if I would have thought you were right for the role I would have submitted you back then."
"What's wrong Shelly? Don't you think I can play the part?"
"It isn't a question of acting ability. It's a purely physical thing. I hate to be the one to have to tell you this Jimmy, but there's no way in Hell you could ever pass for Italian."
Jimmy thought about that for a moment, and then came up with what in his mind seemed like a plausible solution.
"What if I put a really dark rinse on my hair?"
Shelly chuckled and shook her head.
"Jimmy, listen to me! Even if you had your septum surgically removed, I still couldn't sell you as a Wop hit man. Get a grip already, will yah!"
Jimmy's expression wilted.
"Aw don't go getting' all puppy-eyed on me," Shelly snapped.
"Jimmy, what you gotta understand here is I'm the agent and you're the performer. My job is to get you interviews and negotiate the deal when you land a role. But in order for me to do my job, casting directors gotta trust me. And if I send them Clint Eastwood when they've requested Joe Pesci, they're gonna stop trusting me. And if that happens, all my clients, including you, will suffer… Are you beginning to get the picture?"
He sat there quietly digesting the information.
"Gee Shelly, I never looked at it like that before."
Shelly smiled inwardly. Actors were just like little children. Sometimes you just had to draw them a picture.
"Well what about this one?" Jimmy asked brightly, shoving the ActorsLog under Shelly's nose. "It says here Randolph Foods is lookin' for a spokesperson and they're interviewing southerners for the part."
"We had that one in breakdowns two weeks ago. And if you'd take the time to read a little further down the page, you'd learn that Randolph Foods is interviewing actors in their sixties!"
Jimmy didn't miss a beat. "No problem, Shelly. With a little makeup and a gray rinse I can play sixties, easy."

"There are two classes of people in this world: there are those who prey, and those who are preyed upon."
-Mr. Jacques

6
The room was windowless and cold, harshly lit, and possessed with the unmistakable aroma of death.
Susan Elizabeth Pomeroy, a.k.a. April Waters, lay on her back on the stainless steel table. Over the course of the past seven hours her body had been opened, and each of her internal organs removed and inspected. Samples of urine, bile, blood, CNS fluid, and stomach contents were collected. A diamond-bladed surgical saw had circumnavigated her cranium, and its contents were removed en masse. Slices were taken from various sections of her cortex and slides were prepared.
The dead don't complain.
Doctor Cecelia Chao stood over the corpse tying off sutures along the lengthy vertical incision. She worked meticulously while a tape recorder captured her aural notes.
"… And the cause of death is asphyxia, the proximal result of a crushed trachea… Death to be ruled a homicide."
A knock on the lab door distracted the good Doctor. She paused the tape recorder.
"Yes?"
Detectives London and Calderas stepped into the autopsy room.
"Ah, good morning detectives. So sorry you didn't get by earlier," Chao said, peeling off latex gloves.
"We've been busy," Calderas explained.
"I understand."
London asked: "So what's your professional opinion, Doc? Are we lookin' at girl number four?"
Chao crossed to a stainless steel basin and turned the faucet on hot. She proceeded to scrub her hands, paying meticulous attention to each individual digit.
"Similar method of strangulation. Obvious signs of intercourse without the presence of semen. The biting behavior. Yes detective, I would have to say that in all probability, this is the fourth victim."
Calderas crossed her arms.
"Imagine that. A serial killer who's into safe sex," Calderas mused.
"The guy thinks he's smart," London replied. "He wears a rubber figurin' he won't leave DNA evidence behind."
"Guess our perp missed the outcome of the O.J. trial," Calderas quipped.
Doctor Chao finished drying her hands.
"I'll be sending the case file to Doctor Ernquist at the forensic odontology lab for review."
London frowned. "This hump's raped and strangled four women that we know about, and all we got is his tooth prints… Now how often do you see that?"
Max glanced at the girl's corpse and grimaced. Her instincts told her that the psycho responsible for this had more going for him then mere luck. He was smart, and he was cagey. Cagey enough to blend in when he was on the prowl for hookers, and smart enough to know that water washes away all sins.
The Northern branch of the Jet stream had dipped seven hundred miles south of where it should typically have been, resulting in a freakishly wet November and December in Los Angeles. All four victims were found in hilly, areas, and all had been left out overnight in the rain. It hadn't taken long to wash away hair and fiber evidence, as well as DNA, foot prints and tire tracks. The only physical evidence currently linking killer to victims were dental impressions. And that wasn't good.

"My only regret in the theater is that I could never sit out front and watch me."
-John Barrymore

7
Trevor Stone's Acting Workshop in Hollywood was founded in 1985. That was precisely two years after Trevor's once hot star had dimmed, and right around the time the creditors started seizing assets.
Trevor's rock-bottom came the day the bank repo'ed his beloved Mercedes. Considered the ultimate pussy magnet of its era, the sleek, black, BMG-converted 600 series sedan was Trevor's pride and joy. The thought of life without 'Herr Heimlich' (named for all the doggy-style sex the backseat leather endured) was almost too much to contemplate. As he leaned against the doorjamb and watched the tail lights of the tow-truck descend the driveway of his Hollywood Hills home, Trevor Stone knew something had to be done, and right away.
The very next morning Big T hit the street, a man with a plan. By mid-afternoon he'd forked over six crisp Ben Franklins in exchange for three months advance rent on a bungalow, a block off Hollywood Boulevard. The price was steep for the area, but Trevor could hardly quibble, what with his sterling credit history and all.
A couple of days later Trevor utilized another of his rapidly diminishing stash of C-notes. This time the cash bought him a full back-page ad in ActorsLog, a pseudo Film Industry rag sheet read by every wannabe in town. The ad copy announced the Grand Opening of The Trevor Stone Acting Workshop. It hyped Trevor's recent TV show, 'Bear Mullen', as well as his extensive background in legitimate theater. Naturally, the ad contained a flattering, if not altogether realistic, photo of the aging has-been, as well as a contact number.
Hollywood was a major breeding ground of fantasy. Always had been. Always would be. And because of this, it should be no great surprise to anyone that the town attracted more than its share of the psychologically impaired, as well as the downright stupid. Folks who not only believe that Miracles Happen Every Day, but are willing to invest large sums of cash in pursuit of one.
That Miracle of Miracles: Stardom.
Everybody wanted to get into the act, and talent, or the lack thereof, was purely in the eye of the beholder. In Showbiz, nepotism was the rule of Law, and Ego was King.
In ActorsLog and rags like it, the neophyte thespian could find anything he or she needed, from cheap headshots to answering bureaus, from dialect coaches to lists of theatrical agents. It was a money-making juggernaut that fed on ignorance, greed, ego, and hope; four commodities of which there exists an apparent endless supply.
And Trevor Stone was just about to jump onboard.
When the ad hit the street the following week, the phone started ringing… and the rest, as they say, was history.
Seventeen years have come and gone and little has changed. Trevor's classes are still held in that same shabby bungalow he started teaching in back in '85. And that very same ad continued its weekly run in ActorsLog, complete with the very same headshot. The only difference is it's no longer on the back cover. Today the ad takes up about one square inch of page real estate, lost amid a plethora of ads for acting coaches and alleged photographers offering twenty-five dollar headshots.
Stardom's strictly a Seller's Market.
Caveat Emptor, baby.

**************

Jimmy Bodine stood at the center of the stage sweating beneath the lights. He could feel his heart rate climb as he neared the end of his self-written monologue.
"... And when I looked up I saw my mother standing in the doorway… She had an expression on her face like a deer staring into the headlights of an oncoming car."
Jimmy waited for the laughter that never came.
"It was then that I realized things would never be the same between us. Elizabeth pulled the blankets up, shielding her bare breasts."
He paused, closed his eyes and concentrated hard on visualizing the image, but the gum-smacking and fidgeting wafting from the 'audience' rattled him.
"The only thought that entered my mind was... Why couldn't Mom have come home just ten minutes later? Just ten minutes later... Just ten fucking minutes!"
Jimmy lowered his head, signaling to one and all his long-winded soliloquy had finally concluded. The spotlights dimmed and the 'house lights' were brought up.
Returning to their senses and realizing their suffering was over, the audience responded with applause. Not raucous, happy clapping. Merely the minimal-effort, relieved, politically correct variety.
Jimmy started to slink from the stage.
A rich baritone, a la James Earle, bellowed from the back row, freezing him where he stood.
"Whoa there, cowboy. Where yah think you're goin' so fast?"
"I just figured class was runnin' late and…" Jimmy began.
"And you'd be able to slide out of here without hearing critique? Is that what you thought?"
Trevor Stone rose from his chair and stretched to his full five foot, nine inches. Though forty pounds heavier than he was in his prime, his hair was still thick and honey blonde (courtesy of plugs and Miss Clairol).
"So, does anyone have any constructive criticism for Mister Bodine?"
He scanned the room for volunteers.
"No one has anything to say?… Megan, how about you, what did you think of Jimmy's performance?"
Megan McKinnon was an extremely pretty redhead in her late twenties who'd been attending the workshop for nearly a year. Her acting talent was nil, but the girl was an amazing performer nonetheless. So much so in fact, Trevor made special tuition arrangements with the young lady. The lesser part of their 'arrangement' included Megan helping out in class.
Megan rose from her seat and addressed Jimmy, one freckled hand constantly fiddling with her hair.
"I like what your scene is saying, Jimmy. I really respect your honesty. This subject matter has to be extremely difficult for you."
Megan flashed a most sincere smile and returned to her chair. She thought Jimmy was kinda cute.
Jimmy nodded his head.
Trevor cast a heavy browed glance in Cody's direction.
"And what about you Mister Clifton. Is there anything you would have done differently?"
Cody tilted his head and placed a hand to his chin, feigning intense concentration. After a brief dramatic pause he replied, "Well Trevor, if it were me, I'd've politely asked Mom to clear outta my room so I could finish what I'd started."
As usual Cody's delivery was perfection. The entire room erupted into paroxysms of laughter. Everyone except Jimmy Bodine, that is.
Cody continued, "Honestly, I think Jimmy did a good job with the material. The writing needs some polish is all."
Polish.
The visual that ran at twenty-four frames a second across Trevor's vivid imagination was that of three sweating Mexicans, Simonizing a giant turd. What came out of his mouth was:
"I agree with you, Cody."
Then he returned his attention to Jimmy who was doing his utmost to maintain a quiet dignity.
"I want you to try the last few lines of the monologue once again. But first, I want you to do a visualization exercise with me. Okay?"
Jimmy's preference was to vacate the stage post haste, but he realized that was completely out of the question. Trevor Stone was famous for his volcanic temper. On more than one occasion Jimmy had witnessed the verbal barbecuing of a student who'd managed to get on Trevor's bad side. As worn as he was, the Student had no desire to incur the Coach's wrath.
"Close your eyes Jimmy and visualize the color black."
Jimmy did as commanded and tried to make the room disappear.
"Okay," Trevor continued, "Now I want you to picture Elizabeth in your mind."
Jimmy smiled.
"That's good!" Trevor enthused. "Now Jimmy, I want you to see her there naked, laying on your bed… Her hair smells of cinnamon, and she's the most perfect thing you've ever seen."
Jimmy's smile grew broader as he manifested the image in his mind.
Trevor's tone was soothing, almost hypnotic.
"Now you're naked Jimmy, and you climb into bed with her. Her body's so warm. She kisses you. Your tongues touch."
Trevor exhales an "ahh", and pauses for effect.
"You taste the inside of her mouth and feel your heart race. She reaches down and strokes your cock. It's your first time and you're so excited you almost forget to breathe… She directs you, and just as you're finally inside of her, you hear a noise downstairs. Nobody's supposed to be home for hours! How do you feel, Jimmy?"
Jimmy's eyes remain clamped and beads of perspiration accumulate on his upper lip.
"I'm scared… I don't wanna get caught."
"Good Jimmy. At first you're scared. But you're enjoying this encounter with Elizabeth, aren't you?"
"Hell, yes."
Some of the girls sitting in the audience giggled, but Jimmy was oblivious. He'd suddenly made the transition that Great Actors achieve at will……

…He was fifteen years old and back at his family's ranch just outside of Memphis. He could see the gold-gray light of early afternoon as it filtered through the Dogwoods and spilled across his desk.
As he gazed out the bedroom window of his adolescence he became aware of the subtle scent of cinnamon. He felt her touch and turned to face her.
Elizabeth's eyes were the color of the autumn sky at twilight, and they glittered when she smiled. She took his hand and placed it on her pussy, moaned softly as he slid a slender finger inside.
"Oooo Jimmy, just like that," she cooed into his ear.
They explored one another with racing hearts, breathing together in pleasant gasps. So engulfed in their mutual pleasure, neither heard the front door open, downstairs. Or Jimmy's mother's footsteps crossing the living room, and then ascending the stairs.
Jimmy became peripherally aware something was wrong when he heard the loose floorboard outside his bedroom door. He didn't even have time to panic before his mother called out.
"Jimmy? Jimmy, are you in there?"
Elizabeth let out a gasp as the door swung open, and Jimmy's mother stepped into the room. It took several beats for Mom to fully comprehend what she was seeing.
"Oh my God!" she screamed in a panic. "You dirty, dirty boy! How could you do such a thing?!!?"
She glared at her son, envisioning everything she detested about the Male of the species. Then a random neuron fired, and an image blazed across her mind. It was an unspeakable memory of her own drunken, abusive father.
Jimmy looked into his mother's hateful eyes and heard Trevor's voice.
"…So what else are you feeling, Jimmy?"
"I feel ashamed," the fifteen year old Jimmy responded honestly.
Trevor's expression soured.
"For what? For doing what Nature intended? What's wrong with you, Jimmy? Where are your cajones? …Now think Goddamnit, what else are you feeling!?"
Jimmy looked into his mother's eyes and felt the rage begin to grow. Those awful eyes, always watching him, always judging him.
"I'm angry!!" Jimmy screamed.
"Goddamn right, Jimmy! You're enraged!! And you have a right to be!!! You're in your room; your private sanctuary. You're not doing anything wrong. You're not hurting anyone."
Jimmy looked at his mother's scowling face.
"I'm not doing anything wrong. Elizabeth wanted me to."
"That's right, Jimmy. It's the most natural thing in the world. And your mother's home early from her charity work, and she just walked in on you and your sister's babysitter. What are you feeling, Jimmy?"
Jimmy's face contorted and he wailed. "Get outta my room!!"
"There it is! Now use all that anger and do the last lines of the scene!"
Trevor took a seat in the front row beside a curvaceous blonde named Paula, placed his arm around her chair back.
"Begin," he demanded.
Jimmy Bodine opened his eyes and saw his fifteen year old reflection glaring back at him from a funhouse mirror. The words came out of him like poison churned from the depths of his bowels.
"Why couldn't Mom have come home just ten minutes later? Just ten minutes…"
He closed his eyes and tears began rolling down his cheeks, mingling with the sweat around his collar. Then a guttural noise began from a spot so deep, he'd never accessed it before. The sound grew in intensity until it became an eerily pitiful howl; something not quite human.
Jimmy Bodine spat the last line like it was burning hot bile.
"…Just ten minutes…"
The room was completely silent as Jimmy lowered his head and emerged from character.
Trevor stood up and began a slow rhythmic applause. In short order everyone was on their feet joining in. And this time it was real!
As he stood there on the stage, Jimmy's spine began to tingle. As the applause reached a crescendo he felt a flush of adrenaline course through him. It was the most amazing feeling he'd ever experienced in his thirty-one years on the planet. It was better than sex.
As the applause died down Trevor stepped up on the stage and put a paternal arm around Jimmy's shoulder. His tone was avuncular.
"You've made an important breakthrough tonight, Jimmy. Savor it, and remember it always. Acting is Being. Whatever words you speak better be heartfelt or the audience will know you're full of shit. Acting is Being, and it all begins with visualization… And that, ladies and gentlemen, is all the time we have for this evening. I'll see each and every one of you next week, same time, same station.
As Trevor walked Jimmy off the stage half the class dashed for the front door, collars up, hats on, cigarettes at the ready. Three hours was a helluva long time to go without a nicotine fix, but that was another of Trevor's rules. No smoking in class, and no interruptions. Trevor had kicked the habit in '87, and was absolutely rabid in his intolerance for the evil brown weed.
Cody stepped up to Jimmy and clapped him on the shoulder. "That was mighty impressive."
Jimmy smiled. "Thanks buddy. It sure felt good."
"Feel like splittin' a pitcher?"
"Why not?" Jimmy replied. "But first I gotta drain the lizard."
"I'll be outside."
Cody headed for the front door stopping briefly to schmooze with one of the students.
Megan was standing at the corner of the stage chatting with her pal, Lisa. When Cody crossed toward the exit the girls' attention was diverted. Lisa gave Megan a gentle push.
"Go on girl."
"I don't wanna look too aggressive," Megan argued limply.
"Trust me, honey. Men love it when a woman gets aggressive. Go on now. No guts, no glory."
Megan shrugged and walked off. She stepped into the damp and drizzly night and felt her nipples harden from the cold. She came up behind Cody and tapped him gently on the shoulder.
"Hey, stranger."
Cody swung around, faced the lovely redhead and
unconsciously wrinkled his nose. She was wearing her usual flowery scent; a fragrance he somehow found disagreeable.
"Well, hey Megan. What's cookin'?"
"I uh… I was wondering if we could get together tonight. Maybe grab a beer or something."
Cody scratched an ingrown hair on his neck. "Sorry, darlin'. I've gotta make it an early one
tonight. Maybe next week, okay?"
Megan did an abysmal job of camouflaging her disappointment.
"Sure Cody. Next week…"
Megan was a great looking young woman with a bod that could stop traffic, and reputedly a remarkable piece of ass as well. Only problem was, the girl had red hair, and Cody made it a point to steer clear of red-headed women. Bad Mojo.

8
Looziana Pete's was a popular neighborhood bar on the Westside. It was loud and dark, and reeked of a curious mixture of Old Spice, body odor and stale Budweiser. The pitted oak floor was littered with sawdust and peanut shells. Redneck chic. At one end of the room, completely out of place, there was a brand new jukebox, all chrome and glass, and purple and pink neon. A Dixie Chicks CD blasted a banjo and fiddle duet through two-thousand dollar, state-of-the-art speakers.
At the opposite end of the bar there were three well-used pool tables and a couple of pinball machines, circa 1987. A group of college kids monopolized the games, all the time laughing and knocking back Buds.
Cody and Jimmy Bodine occupied one of the booths across from the pool tables. They commiserated over a pitcher of Miller Genuine Draft. It was not their first.
"… And then she said…" Jimmy switched into the voice of a southern girl, "…Next time I'd like it better if you'd keep your cowboy boots on."
The alcohol was starting to make Jimmy's left eyeball wander in the direction of his right eye socket. That in conjunction with his ridiculous southern falsetto was too much for Cody to take. It was everything he could do to keep from blowing brew out his nose.
When he'd recovered enough to speak coherently he said, "I guess she liked her men ridin' high in the saddle."
Jimmy cocked his head and peered at Cody through glazed eyes.
"You know, I never thought about it like that before… I thought the bitch was sayin' she didn't like how my feet smelled."
Bodine's comedy timing was perfect, and he wasn't even aware of it. Cody damn near split a gut.
When he'd stopped laughing, Cody refilled their mugs and raised his glass.
"You one alright guy, Jimmy Bo. Here's to success. Yours and mine."
Jimmy lifted his glass with a lopsided smile plastered across his face. "Fuck that shit! Let's drink to the real thing! Let's drink to Fame!!"
They proceeded to clank mugs and swallow down the beer that didn't wind up splashing on the table.
Jimmy wiped his mouth with a shirt sleeve and set the mug down. His expression became comically serious.
"Talkin' 'bout success… Yah know, I had the weirdest dream the other night…"
Cody paused and tried to determine if Jimmy was bullshitting him or not. When his radar proved useless he tested the water.
"Weird how?"
Jimmy's expression showed discomfort. "Well, for one thing, you were in it."
Cody shifted in his seat.
"I wasn't naked was I? 'Cause if I was naked, I don't wanna hear any more about it, okay?"
Jimmy's expression soured. "You ain't that good lookin', and I never been that drunk before."
Cody laughed good-naturedly and switched effortlessly into a passable German accent.
"So vhy don't choo lay down on zeh sofa and taill me about your dreamz?"
"It just felt kinda weird is all. Like Halloween. We were working on a show together. I'm not sure what show, but there was a crew and camera truck, and each of us had a decked out RV. I'm talkin big screen, DVD, the whole nine yards."
"Doesn't sound weird to me," Cody interjected. "Sounds downright… successful."
"Well, things were goin' along real good until they were ready to shoot this scene, see? And then all I remember after that is being chased. And it wasn't a show anymore! People were really out to kill me!"
Cody paused and stroked an imaginary goatee.
"Ah, zis iz veddy interesting, but I'm afraid your time eez up. Pay ze zecretary on ze vay out."
"Seriously Cody. What do you think it means?"
Cody dropped the kraut accent.
"What do you think it means, Jimmy? That's what matters.."
"I don't know. Maybe it doesn't mean anything. Maybe I've just been watchin' too much late-night cable."
Cody thought about that for a moment. "Was it the first time?"
"First time?" Jimmy repeated.
"Ever had that dream before, or was it the first time?"
"First time I ever been chased," Jimmy replied honestly. "I'm on film sets and sound studios in a lot of my dreams."
"Yeah?"
Jimmy chuckled self-consciously. "Fuck yeah. Actually most nights I'm this major star with my own hit show. I've got all these hot babes hangin' on me, and everywhere I go I get treated like royalty."
"Sounds like a sweet dream, Jimmy Bo."
Jimmy tensed, unconsciously flexed the muscles in his jaw.
"If it's so sweet, then why do I wake up every morning feeling pissed off?…"
Cody looked confused.
"I'll tell you why, buddy," Jimmy slurred, starting to get agitated. "It's because that life is the only thing I ever wanted. It's the only thing that means anything to me. I wanna be a star, Cody. And nothing else is gonna do it for me."
"That's fuckin' nuts," Cody replied. "I mean, what if you won the lottery? Would you still wanna be fuckin' around in Hollywood?"
Jimmy laughed. "For me, it's not about money."
Cody rolled his eyes. "Bullshit it ain't about money. What the fuck do you think it's about?"
Jimmy stared unsteadily at his friend.
"Christ, buddy, look around you. This is America in the twenty-first century. Any moron can make or steal a fortune. You don't even have to be educated… But the one thing your money don't get you my friend, that's the Grand Prize."
"The Grand Prize?" Cody repeated quizzically.
"Fame. Celebrity. A-list parties. Hangin' out with Jack, and Bruce and Kim and Julia. Prime seats at the finest restaurants. Pussy up to your eyeballs, and I'm talkin' the thousand dollar a night stuff. Fast cars, boats, airplanes! All of it! I fucking want all of it!!"
Cody chuckled. "Everybody needs the proper motivation, Jimmy Bo. Sounds to me like you got yours in spades."
Cody lifted his arms over his head in an abbreviated cat stretch.
"Well I hate to be the one to break up the party, but I oughta be getting outta here 'bout now. Gotta get my beauty rest before that callback tomorrow."
Jimmy caught the cocktail servers eye and she waddled over.
"Can I get you gentlemen another pitcher?" the pudgy young woman inquired.
Cody shook his head. "Just the check."
She produced a handful of tabs from a rear pocket and picked through them. She slapped the appropriate one on the table and Jimmy reached for his wallet.
"Forget about it, pal. It's my turn tonight," Cody insisted.
Jimmy slapped his friend on the back.
"Tell yah what, good buddy. You can pay for the next ten bar tabs after you land that part tomorrow. What do you say?"
"Do I have a choice?" Cody asked good naturedly.
"No, not really."
Jimmy pulled a wad of bills from his wallet, peeled off a couple of crisp twenties and handed them to the server.
"Need change?" she asked hopefully.
"Nah. Keep it," Jimmy replied, rising from the table.
"Thanks a lot, mister," she said pocketing the bills. "Have a nice night."
The server smiled revealing a sizable gap between her two front teeth.
"You too," Jimmy replied, flashing a wink.
Then he turned towards Cody. "Good luck tomorrow, buddy. I'll be thinkin' positive thoughts for you."
"Thanks, Jimmy Bo. You be sure and drive safe."
Jimmy started to pick his way through the crowd toward the front door. Just as he was nearing the exit he felt a hand reach out and grab his crotch.
"What the…?"
"Hey Jimmy?" the slender blonde with the diamond stud in her nose said, pressing herself against him. "Long time, no see, Baby."
"Kathy, me love, how the hell are you?" Jimmy replied, reaching around and grabbing a handful of the young woman's muscular ass.
She pressed harder and whispered in his ear, "hot and wet, cowboy."
"Well we're gonna have to do something about that right away, aren't we?"
Jimmy slid an arm around Kathy's waist and the two of them sort of leaned against each other as they exited the bar. They walked a half a block to Jimmy's pickup and then groped each other on the front seat for a few minutes.
Just as the tail lights of the old Ford disappeared around a corner, Cody Clifton stepped from the bar onto the slick sidewalk.
He walked the sixty steps to where he'd abandoned the piece-of-shit, slime-green Toyota. Just as he was about to shoehorn himself into the cockpit an unfamiliar voice called out.
"Hey handsome, you in the mood for a little company?"
The girl was blonde with light cappuccino skin, and looked to be about twenty. She was dressed in a tight blue mini that accentuated her superb flanks, and a white halter with nothing underneath. A cold breeze made her nipples strain pleasantly against the material.
Cody looked the girl over and smiled.
"Darlin', who could possibly say no to you?"
The girl's smile was like a feral feline.
"It'll cost you a hundred."
Cody removed a folded bill from a rear pocket and presented it to the young woman.
"What's your name darlin'?"

"I used to wonder if there wasn't a sub-human species of womankind that bred children for the sole purpose of dragging them to Hollywood."
-Hedda Hopper

9
When Shelly Monroe moved into the shabby, cramped North Hollywood house nine years back, the paint on the bedroom walls was an acrid pink. In the near decade that followed, her three pack-a-day tobacco habit managed to dim the vile shade down to a sickly opaque flesh tone.
The master bedroom was located at the back of the house. It was a combination of disarray and clutter, dominated in one corner by an enormous Queen Anne high back chair. Next to the chair there was a macaw-blue Lifecycle, a relic from some gymnasium that closed its doors back in the early eighties. A dusty electronic treadmill sat beside the stationary trainer. Upholstering the neglected gym equipment was layer upon layer of Shelly's oversized articles of clothing, the hygienic condition of which being highly suspect.
Perched atop Laundry Hill, curled into a huge silver ball of fur and attitude, napped Boris, Shelly's seven year-old Blue Point Himalayan. One rear paw twitched as the corpulent feline dreamed of chasing field mice under a swollen July moon.
When Shelly's key snicked in the front door deadbolt two pointy cat ears snapped to attention, sensing dinner time close at hand. When he heard the door open and the alarm's beep tone sound three times, his suspicions were confirmed.
"Boris?" Shelley cooed, crossing towards the bedroom. "Boris, sweetie. Mommy's home."
Boris lifted his massive head an inch and opened his eyes to green slits. He coughed half a meow.
Shelly stepped into the master bedroom.
"There you are my little doll face. Are you ready for your supper?"
Of course I'm ready for supper, you silly cow. If you wanna know the truth I was ready hours ago. Where the fuck yah been?
Shelly glanced at the mountain of clothes and wondered how they managed to accumulate so damn fast. She thought briefly about sorting through the mess, and then thought again.
"I'll do it this weekend," she told herself, knowing full well she wouldn't get around to it until she was down to her last clean caftan. There just never were enough hours in any given week.
She scooped Boris up, hugged him to her breast and scratched him behind the ears.
"Mommy loves her baby Boris. Yes she does."
Boris went boneless and began making a sound like a motorboat on methamphetamine.
When they reached the kitchen Shelly set Boris on the tile counter and removed a can of Supercat tuna flavor from the pantry. She opened the can and spooned the fragrant meat into Boris' bowl. The cat strutted gracefully along the counter flicking his tail. He jumped to the floor and landed on all four pads with a quiet thud, and proceeded to do figure-eights between Mom's ankles. Shelly set the bowl down and Boris happily began to chow down.
"That's a fine cat, that is," Shelly oozed.
Shelly crossed to the avocado green Amana, removed a Tupperware container and a corked half-bottle of cheap Cabernet.
As she scooped the prior night's pasta Alfredo from the wax colored bowl into a heavy gray ceramic dish, congealed crème sauce the consistency of flan slopped to the gold linoleum.
Moving remarkably fast for a creature of his dimensions and physical conditioning, Boris lunged for the clot of gravy.
Shelly stepped gracefully over the furry beast and slid the bowl of pasta con cholesterol into a dilapidated microwave. She punched a couple of buttons on the timer and returned to the waiting bottle of vino.
Shelly yanked the cork and proceeded to fill a water-stained wine glass to within a millimeter of the brim. She lowered her head judiciously and slurped the purple liquid down to a manageable level before raising the glass from the counter.
An hour later she was stretched out on the couch in front of the old RCA with Boris curled up beside her. A videotape of this afternoon's episode of All My Children flickered on the screen, and Boris purred contentedly while Shelly stroked his neck.
The rim of the wine glass was greasy with red-orange lipstick and just a couple sips of wine remained at the bottom of the glass. It rested beside the empty bottle of cabernet on the mint green, kidney shaped Formica coffee table. A Camel filter-tip smoldered in a ten pound crystal ashtray that was overflowing with butts. On the opposite end of the table there was a stack of scripts spread out, each of which was tattooed with different colored Sticky Notes.
Shelly pressed a button on the remote and fast-forwarded through another series of commercials. God how she loved her VCR.
By the time the show was over Shelly's eyelids were at half mast.
Boris hacked a hoarse meow, plopped from the couch and strutted toward the bedroom.
Shelly yawned, switched off the TV and levered herself from the couch.
Time for the nightly Rituals.
It took fifteen minutes to wash off all the makeup and brush out her hair-fifty strokes. Then she flossed her teeth, swished generic blue mouthwash from cheek to cheek, bent over the sink and spat. She switched off the faucet and dried her hands on a cloth. As she stepped from the bathroom a trumpet of flatulence propelled her through the door.
"Oh my!"
Shelly crossed into the master bedroom fanning the air by her backside. She folded back the covers, sat down on the bed and leaned against the upholstered headboard. She closed her eyes and smiled. Another day done.
After a few moments she opened her eyes and reached across the cherry wood night stand. One more ritual to go. Her fingers brushed across a flesh-colored, Super-Nub dildo on the way to the Smith and Wesson .38. Both were gifts from ardent admirers, but only the .38 had custom Mother-of-Pearl grips.
She lifted the weapon from the night stand and held it up to the light, popped the cylinder and checked to see that it was properly fanged. Satisfied that all was well, she snapped the cylinder shut and dialed it in. She returned it to its spot on the nightstand. Fifteen minutes later she was comatose.

*********

Shelly was asleep on her back with her mouth agape and her head propped up on two pillows. Every so often a soft snorfel would escape her jowly throat. Boris was stretched out on a pillow beside Shelly, snoring like an Asthmatic with terminal Sleep Apnea.
As she slept she time-traveled back to 1972. She could hear Emerson, Lake and Palmer singing about a Lucky Man, and she was nine years old once again…

…The waiting area was unusually quiet. Only two other Movie Mom/PHB ('Precocious' Hollywood Brat) combos were present. But then again, this was the seventh callback for the role.
Diane Monroe had read the script cover to cover at least twenty times. She'd run lines with her daughter so often she could see the words when she closed her eyes. And according to the script's description of the character, Sarah, Shelly was dead on the money.
Diane always knew her daughter had talent. Talent was never the issue. To hear it from Diane, all of the Monroe's were gifted. The problem was there weren't a lot of roles for short, squatly built girls with frizzy brown hair and unfortunate noses.
But the second lead in "Thunder Duck" was described as a short, pudgy, offbeat nine year-old with frizzy hair. Diane remembered re-reading the character description several times looking for something she'd missed.
Sitting across the room from Diane and Shelly were the other two contenders, although Diane was certain the one little girl simply had to be there reading for another show. After all, Diane had never noticed her on any of the past interviews, and she was completely wrong physically for the role. The little girl was a nine year-old blonde Lolita, and the little girl's mother resembled something Walt Disney might have built in his lab.
The third Mother/Daughter team sat on a couch adjacent the receptionist station. From Diane's estimation that had to be the competition. The little girl was taller than Shelly and maybe twenty-five pounds chunkier. Her hair wasn't frizzy like the script called for, but was of a particularly curly variety. And as for the little girl's features, let's just say that in the homely department she was at least Shelly's equal.
The suits had already seen the kids perform. All that was left was the waiting.
Little Shelly gazed dreamily out the window to the streets of Hollywood below and fantasized her future.
She saw herself at twenty-four, and in her imagination she looked just like Sondra Bullock. She saw herself with these incredible tits and this perfectly aerobicised ass, all gift-wrapped in black satin and lace, sitting in the front row at the Academy Awards. Her boyfriend was Brad Pitt's evil twin.
Looking up, she notices that the man in the tuxedo at the podium greatly resembles George Hamilton, all mahogany leather skin and shiny big teeth.
Toothsome George tears open the envelope and removes the slip of paper from within.
"And the winner for best actress is… Shelly Monroe!"
Brad gives Shelly a big wet one for the cameras and the applause begin in waves. Shelly moves gracefully towards the stage, touching outstretched hands as she ascends the stairs to accept her award.
She steps in front of the podium and beams a smile
to the house. She clasps the Oscar in her left hand and raises it above her head.
"Thank you. Thank you one and all…"
"Shelly…"
"Huh? What the…"

"Shelly," Diane whispered harshly into her daughter's ear, yanking her back to the there and then.
"What Ma," Shelly whined, fending off Diane's fussing.
"Did you remember all your lines?"
"I already told you."
"Tell me again," Diane insisted, wiping some schmutz from Shelly's nose with a saliva-moistened finger.
Shelly pulled away.
"Maaa! Stop it. You're driving me crazy."
"Then tell me again," Diane demanded.
"Grown men were crying, Mother. I was perfect."
The door to the casting office opened a crack and all eyes shifted in that direction. Laughter and overlapping voices emanated from within.
The casting director, an effeminate man in his early thirties with a pencil-thin mustache and brown tasseled loafers, floated into the waiting area. He smiled wanly at Barbie's Mom, and proceeded to glide across the burgundy carpet toward the 'competition'.
Shelly held her breath and prayed harder than she ever prayed before.
"God, if you just let me have this part I promise you, you won't be sorry. I'll be good. I'll be sooooo good you won't even recognize me… What I really mean is…"
And right beside her, Diane prayed to her own version of a Savior.
"God, I know you haven't heard from me in awhile, but I think it's time that we talked. You know, I've never asked for much. Always figured you had more important things on your mind. But today I'm askin'. Lord, today I'm beggin'. Please give this part to my daughter! If you do this one thing for me I promise I'll never ask another favor. And I'll start going to Temple every Saturday… well, not next Saturday. I have tickets for the Lakers next Saturday, so if it's all the same to you Lord, I'll start the Saturday after that…"
Brown-tassels came to a halt in front of 'The Competition' and offered his soft white hand to the mother.
"Thanks for bringing your daughter in, Mrs. Frumkis…"
Shelly and Diane exchanged a knowing look.
Yes! Shelly thought to herself. I am the best! I knew they'd all come around some day.
'The Competition' and her mother lumbered from the building as Brown-Tassels directed a glance in Shelly's direction.
"Thank you for bringing your daughter in again, Mrs. Monroe. Can't tell you how much we appreciate that."
"Oh, no problem at all," Diane replied, positively radiating.
"Shelly's a marvelous little actress. Simply marvelous. She has so much potential," Tassels continued.
"What do you have to say to the man, Shell?"
Shelly looked up and smiled.
"Thank you."
Tassels bent neatly at the waist and patted the little girl on her frizzy locks.
"No. Thank you, Shelly."
Then he straightened and faced Diane.
"Yes, your Shelly's one terrific little actress alright… But the director's decided to take the role of Sarah in a different direction."
It took Diane several seconds for the words to register.
"A different direction?"
Diane thrust the script beneath Tassels' cheesy mustache and fanned the pages.
"Different how? You mean different from the writer's description in the script?" Diane demanded, her voice strident.
"The script's merely a suggestion," Tassels tried explaining.
Diane opened the script to one of many dog-eared pages, and began to read aloud:
"Sarah is a plump and precocious nine year-old with dark wavy hair."
Diane slammed the script shut and glared at Tassels.
"The writer is describing my Shelly, is he not?"
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Monroe," he soothed. "But it is the director's decision after all."
Shelly looked up at Tassels hard-eyed.
"Yeah? Well the director's a schmuck!…… C'mon mom, let's get outta here."
Shelly reached out and took Diane's hand, and Mother and Daughter exited the office, heads held high. "All great successes are the result of cool consideration, long silence and waiting, strict self-control, and above all renunciation of intoxication and exhibitionism".
-Oswald Spengler

10
(The very next day)

The apartment building was located on the fashionable West side, with the average two bedroom unit renting for thirty-five hundred a month. Jimmy Bodine's unit was on the ninth floor with a balcony and a view of the Pacific. He paid six grand a month for the privilege, or rather, the Family Trust did.
Frances James Bodine, Jr., forever "Jimmy" to friends and enemies alike, was born in Memphis on August Seventh, 1971.
His father, Frances Sr., was a respected dentist with a practice that catered to the well-heeled. Doctor Bodine was three months shy of his forty-second birthday when he married Jimmy's mother. Her name was Janet Poe, and she was sixteen at the time. She gave birth to Jimmy six-and-a-half months later, and his sister Katie came three years after that.
Of what he could remember of it, Jimmy's childhood was rather idyllic. At least the first twelve years were. The family lived in a spacious two-story house on a five acre parcel of lush green land. The backyard had an in-ground swimming pool, a deluxe swing set, and a custom-built tree house.
Jimmy was extremely territorial when it came to that tree house. He remembered tacking hand-scrawled signs all over it that read: No Girls Allowed!! The message was meant specifically for Katie, who was an insufferable snoop, but applied to all her friends as well.
Childhood came to an abrupt end the day Jimmy's dad keeled over, a victim of heart disease compounded by hypertension. He was only fifty-four. Unfortunately for all concerned, Frances Senior picked a rather inauspicious time to give up the Ghost. Doctor Bodine was in the middle of installing a porcelain crown at the time, and on one of his more phobic patient's, no less.
Poor bastard would never be the same. Something the psychiatrists refer to as Permanent Trauma.
And Jimmy's family would never be the same either. They suffered Permanent Trauma of their own.
Janet Bodine's descent into depression was rapid and complete. It had simmered just beneath the surface for some time, and stemmed from deep-seated feelings of guilt. Well founded guilt.
Because the truth of the matter was Janet didn't love Jimmy's father. She'd only married him because she knew he'd be a good Provider, and because that was what 'good girls' were supposed to do.
But as months dragged into years, and the stresses of motherhood took their cumulative toll, Janet came to loathe her wifely obligations. Over time, her husband's lovemaking felt more and more like rape, a beastly act she merely permitted, but never actively participated in. And because Janet felt no physical attraction to the man whatsoever, the act itself became poisonous.
Each time that he'd mounted her and pummeled her insides with his grotesque organ, every time she was forced to endure his grunting and his gamy scent, there had been a time that she'd wished him dead. Prayed for him to die! And it was from these prayers that the seeds of Janet's guilt were sown.
Her husband was in the ground, and she couldn't find the strength to forgive herself. She was twenty-eight, reasonably attractive, wealthy, and extremely available. And she couldn't remember a time when she felt more miserable. So Janet decided she'd do what so many others did before her: She surrendered her life to Jesus. Amen and Hallelujah, Praise the Lord! …Rational thought be Damned. Maybe if she stopped thinking, her head would stop throbbing.
Overnight Janet became a regular at the Four Square Church of Jesus Christ Our Savior. She attended Bible study classes four evenings a week and insisted Jimmy and Katie accompany her to Sunday Services.
Jimmy's little sister went along with the program never uttering a word of discontent. She was anxious to please her mother, needed to feel she was pleasing someone.
But Jimmy was another story.
When his father died, Jimmy felt the full brunt of the familial shift roll underfoot like a nine-point-nine on the Richter scale. While his mother was in the throes of her religious transformation syndrome, Jimmy was seeking out his own internal Salvation. He'd started sprouting hair in places he'd never even thought about, and he developed a keen interest in the opposite sex. An interest that didn't go unnoticed by Mommy Dearest.
With the family fragmented the tensions between mother and son intensified. And for the next six years, as Jimmy grew from a gangly adolescent into a handsome young man, the schism widened and deepened.
Then, one night in early May of 1989, Janet Bodine was behind the wheel of her Jaguar enroute to a bible study class. Sister Katie, as usual, was seated in the passenger seat. They were three blocks from their destination when a drunk in a three-quarter ton Dodge pickup rocketed through a red light. The authorities estimated the truck's speed at better than sixty when it broadsided the Jaguar, reducing it to a crumpled pile of steel, glass and plastic.
The woman who was driving the pickup suffered minor abrasions and was able to walk away from the collision. But it took fire-fighters with hydraulic shears the better part of an hour to extricate the mangled bodies from the twisted wreckage of the Jag.
Three days later Mom and Sis were in the ground.
The day after the funeral, Jimmy's non-stop party commenced, and thirteen years later was still going strong.

*********

The apartment floors were covered with cobalt blue, deep plush carpeting, and the walls were extra thick, supposedly stuffed with eight inches of sound-proofing material. But the reason Jimmy chose this building over the others was the cathedral ceiling in the living room which extended to nearly eighteen feet. It was the perfect spot for Elvis.
Elvis was Jimmy's mascot, an eleven foot tall stuffed grizzly bear he'd purchased during one of his more whimsical moments. He was drawn by the intelligent expression on the bruin's face and then laughed himself hoarse at his idiocy.
How bright could this bear have been to wind up a trophy in some redneck's hardware store?
But he purchased Elvis nonetheless and took him along on his move to the West Coast.
The bear was Jimmy's good luck charm. They'd been in El Lay almost four years together and the apartment hadn't been broken into once. And besides keeping the bad guys away, Elvis served as the quintessential conversation piece. Especially since one of Jimmy's old girlfriends, a wardrobe tech with a particularly warped sense of humor, concocted some rather unique mix-and-match ensembles for the mangy bruin. Currently the Grizz was attired in hot pink crotchless panties and a push-up bra. The panties had been cleverly constructed with Velcro stitched into a side seam. They simply wrapped around Elvis' fuzzy ass and fastened together. Dee-Dee made a couple of Hawaiian print muumuus and a strapless black evening dress in the same manner. To further accessorize Elvis, Jimmy recently added a pair of mirrored Revos and an authentic, fake DEA baseball cap he'd pilfered from a movie set. In honor of the holiday, tinsel hung from his ears and paws, and tiny colored lights twinkled in his pelt. The overall effect was a true traffic stopper.
Off to the right of Elvis, there were two overstuffed couches upholstered in a light gray nappy material, as well as a blue-veined marble coffee table.
As usual, the table was littered with marijuana droppings; stems, seeds and resin powder, as well as a collection of empty beer bottles with colorful labels.
On the floor beside the coffee table there were stacks of pornographic videotapes. The container on top of the first stack displayed glossy images that depicted a teenage girl getting gang-banged by a bunch of tattooed biker-types. The box beside it showed photographs of three teenage girls in school uniforms giving head to various members of the faculty. Along the side of each and every box there was a disclaimer stating that all models were indeed over the age of eighteen.
Across from the 'conversation area' was the Entertainment Center, the components of which Jimmy had meticulously selected. The centerpiece was a sixty-four inch Sony High-Definition big screen, surrounded on both sides with racks of high-end, black-face audio gear. The output was piped into five Klipsch speakers, one at each corner of the room, with the fifth perched atop the Sony.
To the right of the entertainment center, a sixty-gallon fish tank burbled quietly, a profusion of color and life in perpetual motion.
Beside the tank, a framed sixteen by twenty photograph hung on the wall. It was Jimmy standing next to his pride and joy, a primer gray '71 Ford pickup. The truck was one of those projects that became a raging obsession, consuming thousands of dollars in the process. Jimmy'd named the beast Delilah, and planned to have it stenciled on the door as soon as he got around to having the old girl painted. Jimmy wasn't in any hurry, though. He'd owned her for almost seven years now.
The Bodine Master Bedroom suite was directly off the living room and nearly as spacious. Three-quarters of an entire wall was taken up by French Doors that opened onto the balcony. The wall opposite was floor to ceiling mirror with a king-size four-poster bed at its center. The blankets lay in a purple heap on the floor.
Jimmy was still sacked out, naked and face down on the mattress. It was almost eleven and he was just beginning to come to, roused to consciousness by an overfull bladder.
Oh, an Actor's life for me!
He raised himself from the bed and swung his legs to the floor. He winced and touched a finger to the fresh gashes that striped his back, remembered how they got there and grinned at the memory. He padded across the carpet to the Master Bath where he examined his wounds in the mirror.
Bitch tore his ass up real good.
But then again, he'd certainly reciprocated.

***********

Jimmy stepped from the bathroom with his hair dripping, clad only in a black towel. He crossed to the closet.
It was a walk-in affair with maybe a quarter of its usable space employed. The wood hangers on one side held a wide assortment of jeans, some dating back to Jimmy's senior year in high school. Shirts and vests were hanging on the opposite side, all beautifully tailored, and in every color imaginable. Above the shirts on a shelf, Jimmy's collection of Stetson's was lined up like dusty soldiers. There were a dozen or more.
At the back of the closet there was a cleverly constructed cabinet designed exclusively to store shoes. It consisted of one by eight pine boards assembled in a checkerboard fashion, with enough open squares to hold sixty pairs.
The cabinet was more than half filled, split pretty much evenly between high-end athletic systems for the feet and cowboy boots of every ilk.
Jimmy Bodine was the Imelda Marcos of shitkickers.
It was quite a collection. From the most basic leathers to the most exotic, and in every color a man could ever need. And then some. Skins from rattlesnakes and lizards, ostriches and caimans. But Jimmy's favorite was a pair made from elephant hide.
Not wanting to blow an eight hundred dollar sale, the salesman swore to Jimmy the beast lived a very happy life and had merely succumbed to old age. Jimmy remembered smiling and asking the salesman to wrap 'em up. Told him he would've bought the pair even if they were made out of someone's pet.
Jimmy stepped from the closet holding a pair of jeans and a chocolate colored tee-shirt. He returned to the master bath, discarded the towel on the counter, and stepped into the jeans.
He slipped on the shirt as he padded across the carpet to a night stand beside the bed. He picked up the rolled hundred-dollar note from the mirror and re-tightened it between thumb and forefinger. He inserted one end into his right nostril, bent his head down to the mirror, and inhaled deeply. The two-inch line of sparkling white powder disappeared up his snout leaving an oily residue on the mirror. He switched the bill to the secondary nostril and tooted up another line. Then he wiped an index finger across the mirror and rubbed the cocaine residue on his gums.
As the cocaine rush began to clear the fog from his brain, a smile spread across Jimmy's face.
"Mmmm, mmmm, mmmm," he hummed. "Yeah baby! Breakfast of champions."

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