Fade to Black Page 5

  “We’ll be ready for you in about five minutes, Mr. Johnson,” calls a bespectacled production assistant, sticking her close-cropped dark head into the small glassed-in cubicle.

  Brawley Johnson nods at her.

  She’s what he privately refers to as fashionably ugly. He knows it’s a stylish look; still, he wonders why women want to do that to themselves—wear boy-shorn hair and horn-rimmed glasses and boxy, baggy clothes that reveal not a hint of flesh or a womanly curve.

  Not his kind of woman at all.

  His kind of woman …

  No.

  Not kind of woman, as if there is an entire class of available, perfect specimens all ripe for the choosing.

  There had been only one woman for him.

  Cindy O’Neal.

  The bitch.

  He absently thrums his fingertips on the Formica tabletop, then realizes he probably appears nervous to anyone watching from the other side of the glass.

  The last thing he needs is for anyone to think he’s uncomfortable about the prospect of appearing on camera. He has to show them that he’s utterly relaxed, a real pro at this television stuff.

  He straightens his posture and tries to appear at ease, wishing he had a magazine to leaf through casually.

  He resists the urge to jiggle his leg impatiently, licks his lips, and finds that they taste strangely waxy, thanks to the lipstick the makeup woman insisted on applying.

  “You don’t want to look washed out on camera,” she had said, peering into his face as she applied the lipstick. She was decent-looking and he had almost opened his mouth to flirt with her the way he flirts with anyone attractive, before he realized that she smelled faintly of garlic. There was a telltale white paper bag from an Italian restaurant on the counter behind her.

  It was all he could do not to wrinkle his nose in distaste as she breathed into his face while she worked on him. He was so eager for it to be over that he hadn’t even protested the makeup she’d applied.

  Now, here he is, about to go on national television, wearing rosy pink lipstick. He won’t look washed out—he’ll just look like a freakin’ fag.

  He fumbles in his pocket for something to wipe it on, but comes up with nothing.

  Washed out.

  Yeah, right.

  With this tan, he’s going to look washed out. He’s spent every day this week roasting at the beach, just so he’ll look his best today.

  Not that, at the beginning of the past week, he’d even had any interviews set up. But with August twenty-second looming on the horizon, he figured the press would come sniffing him out. They do it every year.

  Only it’s not always television.

  Back when it first happened, five years ago, he was on every talk show and newsmagazine program that existed, not to mention the actual network news.

  But ever since, he’s done only some local television news spots whenever they commemorate Mallory Eden’s death with scholarship presentation.

  Mostly, it’s print reporters who ask him for comment. A couple of times he’s been interviewed by legitimate newspapers, and the tabloids always want to talk to him.

  But today it’s Scoop Hollywood, a live half-hour entertainment news program with millions of regular viewers.

  And here he is, bronzed and buffed, and dressed in head-to-toe Versace.

  She taught him to dress, Cindy did.

  Mallory, he corrects himself.

  That was a subconscious slip. He rarely thinks of her as Cindy anymore. She had, of course, officially stopped being Cindy when she started calling herself Mallory Eden, but it took him a while after that to stop thinking of her as Cindy O’Neal. Because at home, with him, away from the glare of the cameras, she still acted like her.

  At least, for a while.

  Still asked for his opinion, still laughed at his jokes, still gave him blowjobs whenever he asked. Maybe not as eagerly as she once had, but at least she made an effort. At least she was there for him.

  Especially when he reminded her that he had been with her from the beginning.

  He was her one remaining tie to her past life.

  And he knew her deepest, darkest secrets....

  One in particular.

  Whenever he brought that up, she started acting nice to him again.

  But gradually she had changed so much, he barely recognized her. Her emotional distance from him had grown in direct proportion with her success. The more she got caught up in all that Hollywood crap, the less attention she gave to him.

  And if she was worried that he would reveal her big secret, she didn’t let on.

  Finally, one day, just after they had returned from a week-long vacation he had paid for—even though he was making far less money than she was by that time—she fucking moved out of their one-bedroom Long Beach apartment. She relocated to a rented house in the Valley with her friend Rae, a real phony whom Brawley had never liked.

  And from there Mallory went straight to Malibu, to the Mediterranean-style beachfront mansion with the fancy gates and the picture-perfect landscaping and the professional decorating inside.

  Not that he’d ever been inside—as an invited guest anyway.

  How many times, in the years that followed, had he threatened to reveal her deep, dark secret to the press?

  “Go ahead,” she would say, looking at him with those fake blue eyes, making him wonder whether she was as undaunted as she appeared.

  But he had never been able to bring himself to do it. He was saving that secret as a last resort. He couldn’t use it to win her back—only to destroy her. He hadn’t had the chance.

  But it’s never too late....

  “Mr. Johnson?”

  It’s the production assistant again, smiling and gesturing. She has a speck of something dark caught between her front teeth.

  “We’re ready for you,” she says.

  He nods and gets up, following her into the adjacent dimly lit studio, where he will once again tell the world, in a halting, grieving voice, how much he still misses his dead lover, Mallory Eden.

  “Rae darling.”

  “Hello, Flynn.”

  They embrace, the golden-haired starlet and the flamboyant retired agent, beside the table at Mitsuhisa, the trendy nouveau Japanese restaurant on La Cienega Boulevard in Beverly Hills.

  Flynn Soderland casts a shrewd eye over her well-sculpted features and thinks that she has aged; well, who hasn’t? His own hair is fully white-gray now, he reminds himself, and his hairline seems to be shrinking back from his face at an alarming rate.

  Still, he is no longer in the business—at least, not technically.

  But Rae Hamilton is still a working actress—for the most part. Until recently she had played the role of dim-but-adorable Rainbow Weber on the soap opera Morning, Noon, and Night. But poor Rainbow had been hacked to death by a machete-wielding serial killer during May Sweeps.

  “How have you been, really?” Flynn asks Rae after they’ve ordered—sashimi and salad for her; a shrimp dish in wasabi butter sauce for him. He leans forward and lays a gentle hand over hers, finding it icy.

  “Do you mean since my character was killed off?” she asks, her blue eyes narrowing at him as she sips her club soda.

  “I mean since your best friend was killed off. Five years ago today, to be exact. Isn’t that why we’re here?”

  They get together for lunch every year on this date—at first to console themselves over her lost friend; his lost client. Now that the grief has waned and they have little in common, they continue the tradition out of habit. He suspects Rae is as reluctant as he is to let go entirely.

  “Oh. I didn’t realize you were referring to Mallory.” She shakes her head and echoes, “God. ‘Killed off.’ You always were blunt, Flynn.”

  “Well, it was your phrase.”

  “I was talking about Rainbow Weber, who, in case you aren’t a soap fan, met her maker a few months ago.”

  “I’m not a soap fan, but I watched.”<
br />
  “What did you think?”

  “You were very good.”

  A white lie never hurt anyone in Hollywood, that’s for damn sure.

  And anyway, it wasn’t that she was so awful. It was the writing, the melodrama … just not the kind of scene that’s conducive to an actress’s reputation.

  He can tell, by the world-weary expression in her blue eyes, that she’s perfectly aware of that truth.

  He continues. “But I was more concerned that you might be upset over Mallory, even after so many years. I’m just … worried about you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re out of work, and because you look …”

  “What?” she presses when he trails off.

  Never criticize an actress on her appearance.

  He may have retired, but he hasn’t lost the Hollywood touch.

  “You look sad,” he says. “Or tired. In your eyes. They’re not sparkling.”

  “Well, hell. I was up before dawn this morning to tape a live interview with one of those New York morning shows.”

  “Good for you,” he tells her, thinking maybe, contrary to local gossip, she isn’t out of work after all. Has she landed a role without his hearing about it?

  Maybe he’s more out of the loop than he realizes. He still lives right there in the Hollywood Hills; he continues to subscribe to the trades and to dine with his friends in the industry. But it’s not the same as being in the business.

  He asks tentatively, “What are you publicizing, Rae?”

  “Are you kidding? You just said it yourself. Today’s the fifth anniversary.”

  “Ah, yes.” He nods, surprised at his own momentary lapse. Of course she had been interviewed about Mallory.

  Even after all these years the media wants to rehash her life, her death, as though some new detail is going to pop up and stun the world.

  “I’m surprised they don’t come after you,” Rae remarks. “After all, you were her agent.”

  “But you were her best friend.” He pauses, then admits, “And anyway, they do come after me. I’ve talked to several print journalists recently about Mallory, but I’ve decided not to do television interviews any longer.”

  “Too emotional?”

  He nods, though of course that isn’t the case at all. He’s perfectly capable of controlling his emotions, particularly on camera. It’s just …

  Who wants to have their balding head and wrinkled, liver-spotted face broadcast to millions of people?

  “You always were a proud SOB.”

  He looks up, startled, at Rae’s comment.

  “And you’re a lot sharper than you look,” he responds.

  “Touché.” She smiles and shakes her head so that her long blond hair flips back, behind her shoulders.

  She tells him, “I’m glad you’ve noticed. It’s taken me a long time to shake that pesky dumb-blonde image.”

  He doesn’t tell her that sometimes it’s better not to try too hard. Not everyone likes a smart cookie—not here anyway.

  Mallory knew that instinctively, without his having to tell her. She knew just how to play it, the role of the sweetly sexy, slightly zany girl-next-door. She never worried, the way Rae always has, about being seen as a bimbo.

  Not that anyone—within the industry or beyond it—perceived Mallory Eden as a bimbo. Far from it Her superb comic timing was pure genius, and she had always been quick-witted with the press, tossing off quips with the aplomb of a shrewd professional. She was able to laugh at anything—including herself—a rare trait in Hollywood.

  Rae, on the other hand, for all her beauty and intellect, isn’t nearly as sure of herself.

  And why would she be?

  She hasn’t had anywhere near Mallory’s success. There have been a few minor movie roles in recent years, and a lead in a quickly-canceled television sitcom last season before Morning, Noon, and Night came along.

  Flynn wonders, as he has many times over the years, whether he could have made a difference in Rae Hamilton’s career had he signed her on as a client. She had approached him almost a decade ago, and he had met with her on Mallory’s recommendation.

  Years in the business had taught him to recognize instantly whether an actress had potential. He had seen that star quality in Mallory the moment she had walked into his office.

  He hadn’t seen it in Rae.

  He had turned her down for representation, softening the blow by telling her his client list was simply too crowded at the time.

  He never knew whether she’d believed him.

  But they remained casual acquaintances, both before and after Mallory’s death.

  And she is still with Buddy Charles, the agent to whom he had referred her. Charles is a decent agent who has made a name for himself over the past few years managing the careers of middle-of-the-road performers.

  “she’s going to be my breakout star,” Charles had crowed to Flynn years back when he’d called to thank him for sending her his way.

  “I hope so,” Flynn had said sincerely, though he was fairly certain that Rae Hamilton wasn’t destined for cinematic greatness.

  She, like Mallory Eden, is beautiful, and smart, and funny.

  But her pale beauty is considerably less accessible than Mallory’s fresh-faced loveliness had been; it’s almost too deliberate, as though she has spent the last hour and a half applying makeup and styling her hair.

  And her Ivy League background is a little too apparent; get her talking about a classic novel and she’ll go off on a tangent about themes and metaphors and leave everyone in the dust.

  Meanwhile, her quick wit is a little too direct; some comments too barbed for comfort.

  Sharp.

  Yes, that certainly does describe the actress sitting before him.

  There will never be another Mallory Eden.

  Flynn Soderland clears his throat and lifts his glass.

  Rae Hamilton follows his cue.

  “To Mallory,” he says quietly. “Wherever she is.”

  Chapter

  3

  “Manny?”

  The child, who had been running across the small gravel-paved playground toward the swingset, turns at the sound of his name.

  “Elizabeth,” he says happily, doing an about-face and making a beeline in her direction.

  She is reminded of the first time she ever laid eyes on him, a few years ago. She had been strolling through the small park in the winter dusk, huddled into a down parka, her head bent against the wind that whipped off the bay. She had assumed she had the place to herself until she followed the path around a bend, through a grove of evergreens, and came upon the child. There was something so desolate about the way he sat in the swing, barely moving, his feet scuffing the worn, muddy spot in the gravel beneath him.

  He had looked up, spotted her with those enormous brown eyes, and offered a halfhearted smile that melted her heart.

  From that moment on, Manny Souza has been her sole friend in Windmere Cove. Just as she is his.

  And she had fallen in love with the child long before she realized that his background was nearly identical to her own. That merely sealed the bond.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks, obviously thrilled to see her.

  He hugs her, knocking her large sunglasses askew.

  She hurriedly rights them, then says brightly, “Visiting you. How have you been?”

  “Good.”

  She nods but looks him over, taking in the frayed cutoff jeans, the ripped, stained white T-shirt, the dark circles under his big ebony eyes. He hasn’t been sleeping. That’s nothing new. But there are no new bruises; none that she can see. The mark on his right cheek where his grandfather bashed him with a fist has almost faded.

  “How are your grandparents?” she asks him.

  He shrugs, knowing what she means; that she’s not merely inquiring after their health, though ever since his grandfather’s heart attack, that has been a family issue. But Elizabeth wants to kn
ow how they, as his legal guardians, have been treating him this week.

  “They’re okay....”

  “Manny, is everything all right at home?” Elizabeth persists, reaching out to ruffle his thick straight black hair.

  “Yeah …”

  She knows him too well to believe that’s all there is to it.

  “What happened?” she asks him.

  “Nothin’.”

  She waits.

  “My mom stopped by yesterday,” he says at last, kicking at the gravel with a worn sneaker. “She wanted money. My grandfather threw her out.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “Nah. I was busy watching TV.”

  Sure you were, Manny.

  She pictures him, huddled in front of the television set, trying to shut out the screaming voices of his mother, the crack addict, and her poverty-stricken parents, who have been saddled with the care and feeding of an asthmatic grandchild who might as well be an orphan.

  Elizabeth has never met Manny’s family, though there have been times when she has almost felt compelled to confront them.

  But she has always held back, primarily for his sake, yet partly for her own.

  After all, his grandparents are all Manny has, and they do love him—even Manny has admitted as much. His grandmother, who is nearly crippled from arthritis, still manages to make him his favorite devil’s food cupcakes with fudge frosting every chance she gets, and his grandfather, whose heart is growing weaker every day, painstakingly built him a polished wooden sled from secondhand scrap lumber last winter, carving the boy’s initials into the underside, along with the phrase “made with love by Gramps.”

  But the Souzas believe in old-fashioned discipline, which in Elizabeth’s opinion sometimes seems to qualify as borderline child abuse. She knows from experience.

  Her own mother had beat her, yes. Not to discipline her, but out of teenage rage against the child she perceived as having tied her down, ruined her life.

  But Vera, her grandmother, had been quick to spank her behind or smack her across the face. When Elizabeth talked back, Vera had often snatched up the nearest object—a lamp, a toaster, the vast leatherbound family Bible—and sent it sailing toward her impudent granddaughter. The physical discipline wasn’t the same as what Becky had done to her. But to a child, the line between discipline and abuse might as well not exist.