This story originally appeared in a slightly different variation, and I owe much thanks to the following authors who offered support and encouragement; Carnage Jackson, TRL, Tim Bisley, VoodooJoe, KMB and Victor Field - a guy couldn’t wish to ride with a finer posse of ruffians.
22nd May, 2002
I stood in the ever expanding line that snaked away from customs and stretched back and forth on my heels in a vain attempt to get some life back into my legs. I was thirsty, badly in need of a shower and starting to feel rapidly pissed off. The flight from London to Los Angeles had seemed as long and drawn out as always, the food had been poor, the movie had been worse. A woman roughly the size of Alaska had shoehorned her way into the seat next to mine and had insisted on making small talk until the meal arrived to take her mind off conversation. While she was shovelling mashed potatoes into her mouth I’d escaped to the bathroom for as long as possible, then returned with my Walkman firmly in place. I feigned sleep and listened to music and fantasised about a parachute or an escape pod. Just as sleep was starting to look favourable the dulcet tones of the Captain rang out, announcing our imminent arrival at LAX, and I groaned as the lady next to me became excited again. I’d imagine that as soon as she had cleared arrivals she’d be heading for the nearest all-you-can-eat buffet.
Finally, I reached the X-ray and scanning equipment and offered my worn passport to a young guy who wore both his uniform and experimental beard with unease. I watched my small bag and laptop getting probed and searched while the officer stamped the relevant pages and looked questioningly at the photo and then at my pale, stubble-scattered face. I replied with a smile and tried to look the same as I did nine years ago, a physical impossibility. Just as I was starting to have visions of being led into a side room containing rubber gloves and vaseline he handed the passport back.
‘Are you here on business or pleasure Sir?’
I pocketed my details and sighed. ‘Business.’
‘Well, have a good trip.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ I replied, and walked on past his booth to where my bag and laptop where waiting for me. As soon as I collected my things I searched out the exit signs and pushed my way past the throngs of people waiting for their suitcases to come spinning around on the travelators. I’d long ago given up that game. You start to travel often and you soon pick up a few tricks. Number one is learning to pack everything you need into hand luggage. It saves your time and your temper.
Cabs lined the exterior of the arrivals building like a swarm of flies, and I fell heavily onto the backseat of one and told the Spanish driver to head for downtown. I checked with the driver for the right time and adjusted my watch accordingly. 5.37pm. My eyes were heavy and felt like I’d been awake for a week. The late afternoon sky was mustard yellow and hazy with pollution, and the sun hung like dirty ball of silver and gave off a heat that was sticky and uncomfortable. I cracked the window as soon as we hit the freeway and breathed in a neat combination of exhaust fumes and smog. Three seconds later I closed the greasy glass and leant back and shut my eyes. The driver kept his foot to the board and sang along with a Jennifer Lopez tape that was roughly the volume of a nuclear blast and possibly just as hazardous to my health. I tried to keep my mind filled with happy thoughts and failed.
After the combination of speed, traffic, blown red lights and J-Lo had virtually driven me insane we arrived at the Marriott, situated just off the former party avenue of LA, Sunset Strip. The hotel was my base for the next couple of days and I could think of worse places to be staying. In the seventies it had been infamous for debauchery and rock and roll excess; Bowie was a regular and Zeppelin often booked the entire top floor. Countless television’s had made their way into the pool from various balconies and Keith Richards was once found in an elevator near death with a spike in his arm. Scenes like that were now a world away. The Marriott was as cleaned up as the current stable of pop acts troubling the charts, and was now a haven for tourists and businessmen. Not to mention scruffy journalists.
I walked through a lobby that was bright, cool and piping Beethoven through unseen speakers and side-stepped a large man dressed in a Haiiwanain shirt juggling multiple bags. The girl at the reception desk was young and beautiful. The smile that she greeted me with was the first good thing that I’d seen since leaving London. Of course, it was as fake as the rest of the city, but right now I was beyond caring. I gave my name and watched as she scanned through bookings on the computer.
‘Room on the seventh floor, Mr. Wilson. Shall I have someone collect your bags?’
I raised my meagre possessions to indicate that there was no need, thanked her, collected my key and headed towards the elevators. I shared the ride with the man wearing the bright shirt; he exited on the fourth floor, heaving his luggage out with much difficulty and cursing. Presently I was at the seventh, and I was almost staggering with fatigue by the time I found room 714. I was just sliding my card into the lock when the door on the opposite side of the corridor was flung open to the sound of raised voices. A woman with ink-black hair and large breasts barely concealed by her sprayed on dress strutted out, followed by a guy wearing just a towel, his skin shining with some kind of oil. He had a fist full of bills in his hand, which he waved at her impatiently. In return, she span on one heeled foot, called him a fucking asshole and strode off towards the elevators. Towel boy’s expression changed from anger to disappointment and finally settled on embarrassment as he noticed me. I gave him a bemused look for a moment and he shot back inside his room and slammed the door. I grinned as I opened my own door. The Marriott might well have spruced it’s act up, but there were something's that would never change.
My room was bright, cool and clean. There was a large TV, desk and the usual fixtures, but I ignored all of them. At that moment the entire focus of my life was for the large double bed that dominated the floor. I regarded it for a second with as much pleasure as an alcoholic would lavish on a fresh bottle, dumped my stuff on the rug, kicked off my shoes and fell into it. I rolled over and wrapped the covers around me and the earth just seemed to fall away.
**********
I was in the kitchen fixing an omelette when the phone rang. I cradled it on my shoulder and continued slicing a tomato. ‘Hallo.’
‘How would you fancy a trip to Los Angeles?’ My editor Barney Hammond was always keen to get to the point. He was a man low on pleasant greetings.
‘Morning Barney.’
‘That’s right. So, how about this trip.’
I put my knife down. ‘How about some details?’
‘New movie. Twentieth Century Fox. Just your kind of thing.’
He was right. It was just the kind of job I liked getting involved with. Fox had given the greenlight to Daredevil, based on the comic book hero of the same name. Superheroes were big business at the moment, and every major studio was looking for the next blockbuster. I knew that the movie was in production, and I’d picked up a few details from around the internet, but nothing major. Ben Affleck was starring in the title role; he was an actor I liked and thought could do good things with the part. I knew nothing of the script, the director or the budget. The only other cast member I knew for definite was Jennifer Garner, who was slated to play a character called Elektra. She was starring in a hit TV show in the States called ‘Alias’, which I was yet to properly see. Word was that the show was sensational. She certainly was. I’d seen clips of the show and a couple of movies she’d featured in previously. Tall, dark hair and eyes and a set of legs that went on forever. Stunningly beautiful. Barney had arranged a set visit for my magazine and we’d been allotted good access. He wanted a set-report and interviews with the major cast and crew, and that was where I came in.
‘The usual expenses and what have you,’ said Barney. ‘I’ll have all the details e-mailed to you.’
‘Sounds good. When am I due to leave?’
‘Tonight.’
Good job I’d put the knife down, or I’d have been missing a thumb. ‘Tonight? Jesus, Barney, thanks for giving me plenty of time to prepare.’
His laugh was flat and cynical. ‘Listen, I can send someone else. Plenty of guys waiting to fill your shoes if you can’t handle it.’
And again he was right. There were dozens of people who’d have taken my place at the drop of a hat. Ten years ago when I was a nineteen year old rookie thrashing out obituaries for the local paper my first editor told me that a good writer drops everything in favour of the story, and that was a piece of advice I’d always remembered. Of course, George Hales had slumped dead across his desk one afternoon at only forty-three, but that was something I tried to forget.
‘No, No. I’m in.’ I replied. ‘Send me what I need...’
**********
When I finally forced my eyes open the world seemed very pale and a cool sensation brushed my cheek. There was a soft, musical noise and the smell of spring flowers somewhere in the distance. I lay there for a few seconds and let my senses adjust before I finally realised I was lying in bed, my vision washed out from the sheet that was covering my face. With a groan I pulled the covers down and propped myself up on one elbow.
The drapes were still drawn, but enough sunlight filtered through the material to let me see the girl that was chasing a large yellow cloth across the surface of the table. Her blonde hair was fixed up high on her head and the black skirt she wore was short enough to afford me a great view of her thighs. I blinked a couple of times and watched her before I realised that the noise I was hearing was her humming to herself. I groaned again and she looked over her shoulder with a flash of blue eyes and a coy smile, and returned her attention to the furniture, giving the wooden surface a small squirt of polish. That explained the flowers.
‘Excuse me?’
She looked again. ‘Good morning sir.’
‘Who are you?’ I asked. For a brief second I had visions of a porn mag situation running through my mind. You know the kind of thing; I-never-thought-these-letters-were-true. That kinda bullshit.
‘Housekeeping,’ she replied, this time not looking around at me. That was okay though, I was more than happy to converse with her ass, which was almost fighting for escape it looked so lively.
‘You always start work when people are in bed?’
She stopped the cleaning and turned towards me. ‘Not unless they say I can,’ she said, and when I didn’t answer she continued. ‘Which you did.’
