How to Make a K*lling in Hollywood

It's Thursday night on Sunset Boulevard and I'm outside a hot new dance club, Womb, waiting to get in. The doors have just opened, but already I can hear cheers and shouts emanating from inside, coupled with a rhythmic bass line.

I'm wearing my super-trendy jeans with my black D&G shirt with a matching belt and my favorite pair of Aviator sunglasses. I spent over an hour earlier, putting together this ensemble and doing my hair just right and I'm petrified that when I get to the door, the bouncer won't let me in. I don't really enjoy dressing this way, but I know it's the only way I'll get in. And I just have to get in.

The bouncer, a leviathan in black leather, gives a quick once-over and with an air of impertinent apathy, waves me through. For some reason, I find the lack of attention called to me distressing, but still I go in.

Inside, it's a scene from the worst depths of Dante's Hell. The sharp flashes of a strobe light filtered through acrid smoke puncture the darkness and a bass beat pulsing from the massive speakers placed strategically throughout the building, deafens my senses. The walls are flesh-toned and lined with red streaks, in a fashion that I can only assume are meant to symbolize veins and capillaries. The owners, I'm afraid, took the club's name far too literally when they designed its interior.

After examining the interior design, I take my sunglasses off and make my way towards the bar, scanning for any A-list celebrities on the dance floor. I don't see any immediately and this disappoints me so much that when I get to the bar, which of course is shaped like a sperm cell, I don't even feel like drinking.

After a few minutes, I finally spot some talent. Across the bar, there she is; this week's number 1 pop sensation.

She's sitting at a table, talking to an aging soap opera actor, a man with more lines on his face than screen credits. He has to be twice her age and she doesn't seem to be interested in a word he's saying. She yawns and plays with the straw in her apple martini. The soap actor, obvious to her boredom, prattles on. This is quite comic to watch.

After a few minutes with the actor, she finally makes eye contact with me and just for a moment, we have a connection. She smiles and even from all the way across the room, I know she's blushing. I seem to have that affect on most women.

I smile back and order a shot. The singer turns her attention back to the soap actor and excuses herself from his side with a slight hug and a peck on the cheek, and begins to make her way around the bar.

By the time the pop sensation gets to my side, my shot has already arrived and I down it, all the while doing my best to ignore her. She doesn't say anything for a moment, standing impatiently at my side, as if she expected to make a big deal that I'm in her presence. When I don't respond still, she offers a forced, awkward greeting and takes a seat next to mine.

I finally look at her and flash a quick grin to let her know that I'm still interested. "What's your name?" I shout over the throbbing beat of the club.

"Penny" she lies, not looking at me and nodding her head to the music. "You wanna dance or something?"

"Sure, let's go." I reply coolly, not betraying any of the elation I am feeling.

We make our way to the center of the dance floor through the mass of grinding flesh and start to dance. Even though I'm a good dancer, I hold off and let Penny show me her moves.

She's pretty good and knows it. She runs her hands through my hair and turns around, grinding her ass into my crotch. She bends down to the dance floor and slides her way back up slowly. She turns around and slips her hand down my leg and pulls me close to her face, so I can feel her hot breath on my lips.

"What's your name?"

I pretend not to hear her.

Penny smiles again and puts her mouth next to my ear, nibbling on it a little bit. "What's your name?"

Before I can answer, the techno remix of the newest hit rap song comes on and the crowd on the dance floor goes wild. Penny screams in ecstasy and grinds her body against my leg. The dance floor becomes a seething, uncontainable mass of humanity; breathing and convulsing to the beat of the sound system.

Carefully, I reach back and pull out the switchblade tucked in my back pocket. Penny shimmies closer to me now and slides her hand in my shirt. She closes her eyes and kisses me, sliding her tongue deep into my mouth.

The dance floor is packed so tight that it's hard to breathe. Nobody notices when I flick open the switchblade and drive it into Penny's side repeatedly, puncturing her lung. I taste her blood in my mouth and pull her head back, revealing clouded, unfocused eyes. I break the knife's blade off and push Penny into the crowd of dancers where her limp body bounces back and forth against them to the beat of the music. It's probably a full five minutes before anyone realizes that they're grinding against a corpse.

By then, I'm out the door with my aviators back on.

******

It's Tuesday morning and I'm sitting in my older brother's office in Century City, flipping through a gossip magazine and waiting for him to get out of a meeting. I'm also eyeing a group of files on his desk that I know contains the addresses of a few dozen actors and assorted celebrities my brother represents.

Nick, my brother, breezes into the office, a phone pinned to his ear, firing instructions and condemnations to the person on the other end of the line.

He stops long enough to ask if I seen the article about him in the gossip magazine I'm reading. I tell him no and toss the magazine onto the coffee table next to me.

"Too bad," he says and focuses back on his phone call. For the next couple of minutes, I listen to the one sided conversation my brother is having with some movie producer or studio head or whatever.

"No, you have to understand. Mandy's booked solid until October.....Yes, October....If you want her for the role, you're just gonna have to wait till then.....Fine....Great....Get back to me on that."

My head aches. I wonder if I'm dying. I could slump over right here and I don't think my brother would skip a beat.

The wall behind Nick's desk is littered with diplomas, awards, and pictures of him with politicians and celebrities. By itself, it is a very impressive resume of his professional life. Noticeably absent, however, are any photos of me. Every inch of available space in Nick's office has been taken over by brassy illustrations of his prowess. It's obscene, really. In the corner of his office, on a small shelf, sits a framed picture of our parents taken in the 70's, back when they were still movie stars. That seems like such a long time ago and I would be surprised if any of his clients even knew who they are, but I have no doubt that doesn't stop Nick from showing off their picture, every chance he gets.

"Did you go talk to Eric Gander at TBI?" he asks, hanging up the phone.

Here we go. "No, Nick. I don't need any handouts from your friends." I light a cigarette, even though I know Nick hates them.

Nick just nods and rolls his eyes. "Alright, I can respect that. You're an adult and you don't need your big brother..."

"Shut the hell up, Nick. Stop with the passive-aggressive psychology bullshit. I'm not some movie producer and I'm not one of your cokehead clients. You worry about your own shit and I'll worry about mine." My face is hot with blood and my head is pounding. It's like this every time. He's always trying to change me. He's always like this. "Just because you blew some movie producer ten years ago and made a name for yourself, doesn't mean you can tell me what to do with my life."

"Listen, ok? I'm not gonna apologize for my accomplishments and for what I've done. I'm not trying to embarrass you or anything. I'm just trying to help." Even as he's speaking, I can see a bemused smile crossing his face.

I get up to leave, but Nick calms me down, and asks if I want a drink. I tell him no, I just want to leave. I have things to do - important things.

"Alright, buddy. We'll talk later, ok?"

I just shake my head and lower my eyes. Why does he do this?

My brother pours himself a drink, but he lets it sit there for a moment, watching the ice cubes melt into the brown liquor.

"You know...I worry about you, sometimes," he says and the words hang there for a moment like an unspoken accusation.

"I'm sorry about that, Nick. I'm sorry about a lot of things, but you never worried about anyone but yourself, Nick. Don't try starting now. It doesn't suit you." I say, hoping it hurts him, hoping he sees what a selfish prick he's been his whole life. But he just smiles and shakes his head, like he always does. I can't hurt him. He's a stone facade, a hollow shell, fake...just like our parents were. My my, wouldn't they be proud of him?

Nick's squirrelly assistant bursts into the office, frantic and breathless. "Elva's back in rehab."

Nick stares at him in puzzlement for a moment. "Who the hell is Elva?"

"You know Elva. The skinny bitch with the heroin problem. Cover of Vogue last September."

"Oh, right...." My brother is noncommittal, searching his mind for any sign of an Elva in it. "Shit. Alright, I'll take care of it." He goes to the mirror in his bathroom, straightens his tie, and flashes a smile to himself. "I'll go down there and get her out, but this is the last time. Next time she shoots up, she's gone. Got it?" The assistant assures him that he understands and dashes off to clear Nick's calendar for the rest of the day.

"No rest for the wicked, I guess." Nick says. "Make sure you go see Mom soon, alright?" He leaves.

On Nick's desk, surrounded by magazines and headshots of newly minted celebrities, is a folder with my brother's client list in it. Addresses. Real names. Everything.

Outside, the afternoon haze forms a blanket around the skyline of the city, and in the distance, a veil of rain blurs the hills overlooking the city. My head throbs and I can feel the sickness in me grow.

I grab the folder from the desk and I am gone.

******



It's late Wednesday morning and I'm driving east on the 101 and even though I've got the body of last month's Vogue cover girl wrapped in a bundle of sheets in my trunk, I still drive well over the speed limit. I'm planning to dump Miss Vogue on some street in Inglewood and then maybe I'll head up to Santa Monica, get some lunch, and see the sights.

After turning onto the 110, I spot a black and white police car following me, a few car lengths back. Every time I speed up into the passing lane, the cop shadows me, darting in and out of lanes with absurd recklessness. It's obvious he's following me.

Panic builds in my chest. My breath catches in my throat. I'm always so cool and now I don't even know what to do. Quickly, I get off the 110 at Gage and fly south to Watts, hoping to find a dumpster there where I can get rid of the body.

To calm myself, I turn on the radio and for a second I can't recognize the song that comes on. It's some cheesy pop song being sung by some young girl and I can't put my finger on who it might be...

Ohhh...

I can't help myself from laughing.

Oh, the irony.

The panic is gone and I'm calm and composed again. I switch the radio off and check my rearview. Nobody's behind me and its smooth sailing southward.

A half hour later, I'm on a side street in Watts carrying the bundle of sheets with Miss Vogue inside.

I toss the limp body next to a pile of crates in a back alley and start covering her in some papers so she won't be found for a few days. The entire time I'm looking at her face and try to imagine who she was in real life, before she was Miss Vogue. I wonder if she was a mean spirited bitch who felt nothing but disdain for everyone else on Earth. Or was she kind? I guess it really doesn't matter now. I forgot to say anything before I started strangling her with my belt and by the time I remembered, she was already unconscious on the floor of her apartment. I thought about waking her up and asking something about her life, just to get a sense of what Miss Vogue is all about. But I guess that probably would have been rude of me. So I just shot her in head and forgot about it.

As I'm covering the body up, the sunglasses that were tangled in Miss Vogue's hair drop down onto her face and I see myself in the mirrored frames. I'm sweaty and disheveled and my hair is a stringy mess. I throw Miss Vogue down and lean over her, adjusting my shirt and hair from the reflection of the sunglasses. I'm in such a frenzy, I don't even notice the blood from the bullet hole from Miss Vogue's head that seeped out and covered my hands. As I finger comb my hair, the blood streaks through it and I'm left a tousled, bloody wreck.

My car is parked on the corner and just as I walk out, I see a black and white parked behind it and I just know it's the same guy that was following me earlier. Nonchalant, I stroll past my car and start to walk across the street and even though I'm covered in blood, I walk right past the black and white's windshield. The cop inside doesn't even look up. He's busy talking on his radio and scribbling in his notepad and just for second, I think I can hear him saying my license plate number over the radio. But I know I'm just being paranoid and he's probably talking about what kind of doughnuts he wants when he gets back to the station or whatever.

Or whatever.

I'm still cool. I've always been cool.

I walk across the street and duck into another alley, until the black and white pulls away and I'm sure he's not coming back.

******



Later, I'm driving through the bad section of town and it's so dry and washed out that it looks like old sepia toned newsreel footage. By the time I reach the good section of town, the colors of the city are so obscenely bright that they seem fake, as if Hollywood magic had spread to the real world. It's strange to think what this place could be.

I just need someone to hear me. I need them to listen and then they'll see what these people have done to us. I know I have the courage in me to do this; to make them see what it is they need to see. To believe the awful truth of what we've become; a society that lives vicariously through empty vassals; through plastic starlets and glamour cover boys.

I stop at a newsstand on Highland Ave. I need some calm, a moment of repose. The events earlier have left me shaken.

At the newsstand, a few dozen people are milling around, flipping through the magazines and newspapers, chattering like pigeons about all the big news in Hollywood.

"Did you hear about that director who disappeared?"

"No, I didn't, but did you see on the news that they identified that body they found in the hills?"

"Yeah, that actor was in that big movie a few years back."

"Man, that's shocking, isn't it?"

They shrug and move on. It's not shocking anymore. Why should it be? People come here to disappear; to turn into a completely new person. Carbon copied, fresh faced celebrities. Who's going to notice when a few of them disappear for good? There's plenty more to take their place. It's how business is done here in the magic city.

There's a magazine rack full of glossy covers with pictures of a burnt-out actor turned addict. Confused. How the hell did I get here? What went wrong?

I pick up one of the magazines and flip through it. On every page, I see the same famous faces, bold and smiling with empty eyes. I think my brother represents a few of them.

Dear old Nick.

My own flesh and blood.

A man saunters up to me. He's young, probably not much older than I am, and he seems to be sporting a perpetual dazed look, as if he's just walked off an Iowa cornfield and he doesn't know how to process the things he's seeing.

Probably a runaway who's just gotten into town. Farm fresh. Still dreaming of those bright lights and big marquee letters spelling out his name. Still hasn't gotten his proper taste of reality. Still doesn't realize that he's already...

"Hey man, you done with that," he asks suddenly, nodding at the magazine I'm holding. I'm confused until I see that I have the last copy of it and I hand it over to him with an awkward smile.

"Thanks, dude. I love this magazine. It's like my life." Mr. Iowa says, thumbing through it, with childish glee.

"You w-what?" I can barely get the words out. "You love this magazine?"

"This magazine...it's awesome, you know. Lets me in on my favorite celebs and whatever. I read it all the time."

"Oh come on, I just met you and I know you're better than that. You actually..." I don't even know where to begin with this guy, but I start talking and the words fall out in rapid succession.

"They're not real...none of them...at all. The celebrities you've built your life around. Believe me, I know. They're just petty machines, smiling and feeding off our hopes and desires, all the while telling us that materialism and fame is this miserable drain on existence..." I'm really going now, drawing confidence from Mr. Iowa, who seems enraptured by my words. I draw a breath and continue. "...and then, just when they realize that people are actually dumb enough to listen a word they say, they bring religion or their stupid goddamn politics up and make believe just because they've got an Oscar, that their opinion on life is more important yours or mine. They take themselves seriously, because we let them. But no more...

I stop, satisfied and breathless and wait for Mr. Iowa's response.

He smiles.

He actually smiles at me.

"Hey, are you an actor or something? That was pretty cool. Real intense." He walks away, laughing to himself.

I pull out a cigarette and light it. People brush past me, pushing and clamoring in line, thumbing through this week's copies of Vogue and Entertainment Weekly. I stand motionless, numb by the newsstand, my eyes turned west, to an ocean resting under a tequila sky.

A small child runs to his mother, his arms held wide, flailing as he runs. An old man shuffles down the street, his eyes lowered unfocused on his falling feet. The sun, dimming and outlined in the lacy smoke coming from my cigarette, falls to the west. The wind catches a breath of the ocean, carrying it over me, and the glint of the sun off the window of a passing black and white and the distinct click of a camera shutter sends me on my way.

******

It's Friday night and I'm on a beach in Malibu, walking along the water's edge, which is basked in the soft amber glow of the million dollar homes looking down from the rocky ridge nestled next to the beach.

Walking through the sand just ahead of me is some C-list actress that I picked up at some dive bar named Pete's on Vine in the city. She told me her name was Hannah Miller and that she was the daughter of a famous German model. Of course, I know her real name is Denise and she's from Schenectady and her mom's never even been to Germany. But I can play along because I know everything there is to know about her, thanks to my brother's files.

Her real name.

Her next movie role.

Where she lives.

I even know that her favorite place to go on Friday nights is some dive bar named Pete's.

We had driven down to the beach, smoked a joint, and fooled around a little, and after awhile she said she wanted to take a walk on the beach.

Perfect. That would work out just fine.

Earlier at the bar, things hadn't gone so well. Every time I said anything, she'd respond with a vacant mechanical comment, as if she was reading from a script and the bile would rise in the back of my throat so much that I had to order another shot to chase away the taste.

Finally, I changed the subject and started talking about her. She became more responsive to my advances, giggling and coyly playing with her hair. That was my cue. She was mine for the taking. And one thing led to the other and here we are, on a beach in Malibu, playing in the sand.

I have to admit, in this light, she really is beautiful. The moonlight glitters on the ocean surface and reflects to her eyes, which have become a hypnotic blue-grey and so unnerve me that I have to look away.

I just close my eyes and imagine what she would look on the cover of People; her headshot and in the top corner, a black and white crime scene photo of her body sprawled out on the beach.

Maybe she'll be bigger when she's dead. Her friends will tell cute stories about how kind and loving she was and how it's a horror that she had to wind up like this. People won't remember her acting. They probably won't even remember what she looked like. They'll just remember she was killed. She can be the new Black Dahlia. It's really the best she could hope for.

"Why did you come up to me at the bar?" she asks, breaking me from my reverie.

"Excuse me?"

"In the bar, why did you come up to me? Why did you pick me up?" She smiles. It's an innocent question. "Did you know I was an actress?"

"Well, I just thought you were good-looking. I didn't know anything about you."

"Sure," she says, eyeing me sharply. Though I'm not really sure why, it bothers me.

To get the conversation back on track, and maybe for my own selfish reasons, I turn the discussion back to her. I ask all the right questions and she gives me all the right shallow party-girl answers. I'm finally getting the satisfaction that I never got with any of the other ones. But still, I have to ask the question that will make it all come clear for me.

"Why?"

Hannah turns and blinks. "What do you mean?"

"Why did you want to be an actress?" I say it slowly, enunciating every word. Oh yes, I'm going to enjoy this.

But Hannah just lowers her head and whispers something that I don't hear. I ask again, more insistent.

"I wanted to feel special. It was the only way."

I stop walking. "You wanted to feel special. That's it. What the hell does that even mean?"

"It's a terrible thought, I know, but I think this is the only way I could feel like I'm important or special or whatever. By acting. By seeing my name on a marquee. It feels so good to be important to people, even if it's for something as silly as being an actress. I know I'm not to that level where people will recognize me on the street and ask for my autograph. I'm just starting out. But I will be soon."

"Why do even want to be like that? What about your family? I'm sure you're important to them. Right?"

Hannah's face reddens. "You don't understand at all. You just can't. I need this. It's all I have."

I put on a brave face, a charming demeanor, hoping to bring her back to the petty, empty talk of earlier. But Hannah continues on.

"I was alone growing up. I mean, all the time. I never had anyone to talk to or anybody who would tuck me in at night. All I had was a stupid black and white television with a shitty reception and that was my only friend. My mom was the only family I had, and she didn't have much use for me, I guess." She stops and looks towards the ocean and then back towards the ridge over the beach, her eyes damp with tears.

I don't know how to respond to this. A grinding pit of pressure begins to build in my stomach. She needs to stop talking. I can't do what I need to do when she's like this.

"She promised me, you know? Every year, she promised me she'd get clean. That it wouldn't be like this anymore. She wouldn't come home strung out or trashed. Her drunken boyfriends wouldn't try to..." Her voice trails off, but her presence seems to grow stronger.

"Every year at Christmas...that was my present." She stops to catch her breath and I can see her lower lip trembling. "It was her present to me. A promise that it would be better next year."

She looks at me, eyes defiant, daring me to respond. "So pretty boy, did you ever have someone make a promise you knew they'd never keep?"

A moment of silence follows. In the stillness of the night, I fight for the words to say, the words that make this better, the words that would make this night worthwhile. But there's nothing there, no words to hold on to.

"I don't...I don't understand. I mean, I can't..." I say finally, more to myself than for Hannah's benefit. She just smiles bitterly, seemingly oblivious to what I had said, and starts down the beach towards a jetty that juts out into the water. She takes off her shoes, rolls up her jeans, and begins to wade out into the surf, with her arms draped heavy at her sides. It's reminiscent of a baptism, a cleansing of the spirit for the sins of the past. But they aren't her sins.

"Isn't it kind of dangerous here?" I call to her. The hissing ocean waves beat against the side of the wooden jetty and churned white foamy water bubbles over the top of the jetty wall. The sound is deafening.

"Come on," she calls over the crash of the waves. "Don't be scared."

I take off my shoes and socks and walk into the ocean waves, a baptism of my own.

"It's so beautiful out here. You can actually see the stars," she says absently, maybe to herself or maybe to me. I'm getting anxious. There's also something different about Hannah. She's seems more reserved, melancholy. I don't know what it is. I can't put my finger on it.

We stand in the water, the waves brushing up against us, our thoughts our own. Over the wide expanse of the ocean, a cool breeze cuts through the warm air and brings a taste of salt to my lips. It's bitter.

I pull Hannah close to me. She doesn't resist.

I let my hands crawl up her back and caress the smooth, graceful arch of her neck. Her eyes are closed and her breath is shallow and relaxed. I can feel her slow, steady pulse. She's completely at ease in my arms. I lean close and smell the scent of her lilac perfume. But still the bitter taste of the sea breeze lingers in my mouth.

She looks at me, with her eyes full and bright. A smile passes between us.

And I tighten my grip...

Her eyes bulge wide with terror. Tears stream down her face, clouding her matinee idol beauty, with dark streaks of mascara.

Those eyes, Hannah's eyes, cloud and strain from the pressure, turning red and flooding with tears, and for a second, I can see myself in them. The man with the movie star looks and the perfect hair and brooding, sexy demeanor is gone. The man who could get any woman he wanted and didn't want any of them is gone, too. In the dimming light reflected off Hannah's eyes, I see the monster in me, just a selfish boy who kept his promises.

A penetrating white light falls on us from the jetty, interrupting our tragically beautiful moment together. The angry shouts of men carry across the water's surface, and on the beach, a flurry of activity disrupts the serene darkness.

I release Hannah from my grip and her limp body falls awkwardly into the surf. She's silent for a moment, then violently sputters and coughs, fighting against the waves crashing over her supine body. She lifts her head, above the water and looks at me innocently, her face portraying the confusion and horror I know she must be feeling; just a poor girl who wanted to trust the ones she loved. Just like everyone else.

I leave the ocean, my arms held wide to my side. "Take me away," I scream to the beach and the dark shadows gathered on it. "I don't want to fight it anymore."

Men in dark coats pour into the ocean surf, flashing badges and menacing looks. Some surround me and carry me towards the beach. Some run past me, towards Hannah, and lift her from the water. They congratulate her, telling her what a good job she did. It was perfect, they say. Absolutely perfect.

Hannah walks past, a sly deliberate smile creeping across her face, and onto the dunes above the beach where reporters and cameramen have gathered. As the flashbulbs pop and reporters push forward, the smile fades and she again reverts to her part. Tears return and she hides her face from the prying eyes of the press, behind the veil of the men in the dark coats escorting her up the dunes.

Above her, standing on the crest of the dunes, is my brother.

Nick.

My only brother. My flesh. My blood.

We look so much alike, that it could be me standing there with my arms open for Hannah. Telling her she was so brave. Telling her she's not going be on the C-list anymore.

She's going to be a star.

She's going to be special.

You know, when we were growing up Nick and I didn't have parents. We had drivers. They drove us everywhere, all day long, from one music lesson or acting camp to another. Our parents were big Hollywood stars and we were going to be stars too. God, how we hated it. Then and there, we knew we'd leave this place as soon as we could. We'd make a real life for ourselves, away from the shrouded smog filled land of L.A. We made it an oath, a pledge to ourselves that we would leave no matter what the consequences were. We were better than this, we said. We had to be.

I made it out. Nick didn't even try.

My brother turns away from the cameras and from me, and walks Hannah off the beach, towards the million dollar homes with their soft amber glow, and beyond the dark, bitter flavor of the ocean. He doesn't look back. He never did.

Without a word, the men in dark coats push me up onto the dunes, towards the reporters and the searing flashes of their cameras, and above me, in the distance, the lights of the city burn so bright the stars in the sky are only a memory.