Sunset Boulevard Part 5

TRAIN WRECK CONDUCTOR.

Ash turned onto Moreno and reached for his phone, ready to call Mulberry Pizza for a large pepperoni-and-mushroom pie. After his weird encounter with Myla, he wanted nothing more than to sit in his room, play the new MGMT EP on repeat, and eat until he fell asleep.

Just as he was about to hit Mulberry's number on speed dial, his phone lit up in his hand, his dad's scowling face on the screen.

Ash picked up. "Hey, Dad," he croaked, knowing immediately what this was about and wis.h.i.+ng he hadn't answered.

"Hey, Ash," Gordon said, in a too-chipper-to-be-talking-to-your-son voice. Ash could hear the sound of hot-tub jets bubbling in the background. "So, did you forget our plan?" Gordon was using his salesman voice, which Ash recognized from years of his dad's bargaining. As a kid, Ash and his father had bargained and bartered over all Ash's ch.o.r.es-"Son, I thought you were gonna clean your room so we could go to Toys 'R' Us," "Ash, didn't we say you couldn't have Jake over until you finished your spelling worksheet?"

"Um, no, I didn't forget," Ash swerved in his one-handed turn onto Santa Monica Boulevard, nearly clipping a limo making a left into the rear drive of the Beverly Hills Hilton.

"Daisy needs a tour guide, kid," Gordon said. The goofy way he said "kid" made Ash cringe. Why was he being given an annoying grown-up responsibility if he was still a kid? "She said she can't get a hold of you."

"I had to be in a football game scene for Cla.s.s Angel. My phone was off," Ash said, hitting the brakes hard to avoid a cl.u.s.ter of ladies laden with shopping bags as they crossed Santa Monica at Rodeo Drive.

"For four days, Ash Gibson Gilmour?" Gordon said, his upbeat tone giving way to veiled irritation.

Ash pulled the phone away from his ear and flipped it the finger at the use of his full name, shrinking into the leather bucket seat. It was true, Daisy had called countless times over the last few days and he'd sent the calls to voice mail, figuring his dad would call himself if it was really important. When he'd agreed to his dad's plan at Spago the other day, he really hadn't thought it would mean Daisy would actually call him. And he was kind of annoyed with his dad's power. A couple little you're the only guy for the job remarks, and somehow Ash had agreed to take on what was really just dirty work.

"I was busy," Ash lied, turning onto Beverly Drive, through Beverly Gardens Park. He turned onto Carmelita, toward home, his ravenous appet.i.te for Mulberry's oily slices gone.

"Daisy is waiting for you at the W in Westwood. Be there in fifteen minutes, sport," Gordon said. "I know you don't want to. But my house, my rules. And it would mean a lot, bud."

Before Ash could protest, his dad had hung up.

Fifteen minutes later, Ash stood at the chrome front desk of the W, which looked like a giant staircase laid on its side. He was all business as he asked the pretty desk clerk, whose blond afro matched her golden tank top, to call Daisy's room.

She dialed, shaking her head at Ash after thirty seconds had pa.s.sed. "I'm sorry, there's no answer in Miss Morton's room."

"Okay, thanks," Ash said, smiling. He was off the hook. He'd send his dad a picture of himself waiting in the W lobby to prove he was there-and Daisy, his pill-popping, non-bathing prodigy-was not. Maybe he'd still get that pizza after all.

Ash walked through the lobby, toward a dimly lit seating area the W called the Living Room. The room's flattering mood lighting made the half-dozen wannabe screenwriters hunched over laptops look almost like GQ models instead of agoraphobic insomniacs. Ash plopped down onto a chair that was nothing more than a huge cus.h.i.+on with legs. He was about to take his photo when a familiar voice rang out.

"Is that Ash Gilmour? Finally arriving for little ol' me?"

Ash looked up. Daisy lay like an abused rag doll across a long white sofa. She clutched one of the couch's striped pillows to her chest, covered by a flimsy tank top emblazoned with black type that read, How Much? Her glittery yellow tutu rode up around her waist, exposing her plaid boy shorts. One leg stretched across the table, her other bent at an uncomfortable forty-five degree backwards angle on the couch. Both her feet were clad in R2D2 slippers.

"I'm ready to go," she said, leaping up from the couch, her limbs splayed like none of them belonged to the same person.

Daisy looked worse standing than she did lying down. Her short hair was matted in back, a snarl of purple and fire engine red locks clumped to her skull, and one eye drooped closed under a heavy layer of glittery eye shadow. She looked like an asymmetrical disco queen who needed a V8.

"Okay, let's go," Ash said, grabbing her wrist and pulling her toward the door.

Daisy let out a low whistle. "You're a rough one, eh? I like it." A little wobbly, she leaned into him. She didn't smell like booze, so Ash wondered if she was drugged up. She waved like a hyper child at the hostess and every person she pa.s.sed, yelling, "I'll see you later. And you! And I hope you too!"

Ash rolled his eyes. Anyone else would be getting paid to put up with Daisy's c.r.a.p. All the compensation he'd get was a "thanks, sport." If he was lucky.

After prying Daisy from the arms of the valet, who she insisted on hugging goodbye, they were safely in the car. "Safely" being a relative term, as Daisy pushed b.u.t.tons, rolled her window up and down, and reached for the steering wheel as Ash drove.

Ash searched his head for something to do. He'd never played tour guide to a rock star before and felt like he needed to come up with something to keep his charge occupied. It dawned on him that Daisy was a girl, and might like some of the things Myla did. "Where to? Barneys? Bloomingdale's? Saks?" Ash named Myla's favorite haunts near Rodeo Drive.

Daisy made a gagging noise. "Do I like look a f.u.c.king priss to you?" She rooted around in her "purse," a vinyl kids' pencil case with Dora the Explorer on one side. "I have directions." She fished out a piece of W stationery, on which were surprisingly neat penned directions to an address in Hollywood.

"Well, okay," Ash said. "Where are we going?"

Daisy put a finger to her lip in a shush gesture. "Secret. You'll see when we get there."

With the directions in hand, Daisy became oddly serious, navigating and pointing out landmarks from the pa.s.senger seat.

"You're not even going to give me a hint?" Ash asked, not moving his eyes from the road as Daisy stared out the window. They were stuck on the busiest stretch of Hollywood Boulevard. An army of tourists waddled along the crosswalk, headed from Mann's Chinese Cinema to the El Capitan. Daisy screeched with delight as two impersonators of Captain Jack Sparrow, an overweight version of Elmo with matted fur, and a Supergirl who'd long stopped being super anything wandered in front of the Camaro.

"Maybe I should give up this music thing and do that," Daisy said, not answering Ash's question, as a nearly seven-foot-tall black man in red platform boots, hot pants, and fiery-colored angel wings sauntered past the car. "Get my photo taken with American sods on holiday."

"Sounds good," Ash said blankly, wondering why Daisy would choose to shop here. The Hollywood & Highland shopping center had nothing you couldn't find everywhere in L.A. Actually, it had nothing you couldn't find everywhere in America. Ash mentally went over the mall's stores, trying to figure out where Daisy wanted to go. Forever21, a Virgin Megastore, Sephora, Guess, Lucky, Victoria's Secret. He winced at the idea of Daisy buying underwear. But then Victoria's Secret probably didn't carry bourbon-flavored edible undies.

"Yeah, I'd be good at it. Dressing up," Daisy said, picking at some crust of indeterminate origin on her tank top.

They parked, and Ash followed Daisy past the stores. "Everything closes soon, you know," he told her. He glanced at the time on his iPhone. He hoped this wouldn't take all night.

"Yeah, but the bars just got busy," Daisy said, striding toward the pedestrian crossing on Highland. They crossed and she beelined for a hole-in-the-wall bar called the Powerhouse, sandwiched between a Chinese restaurant and a Western Union. Against his better judgment, a vague flare of intrigue flashed in Ash's brain. As grimy as the place looked, at least Daisy wasn't making him chaperone her to some designer store or poser nightclub.

"Follow me, love," she said, pulling him inside.

The Powerhouse was not a nice establishment, which probably explained why neither of them was carded. The bar was a dirty gray steel, every leather stool torn or held together with duct tape, as though the decorator had been going for something called Urinal Chic. Few lights worked, and with no windows to the outside, it resembled a poorly lit subway stop out of a bad horror movie. Scattered around were old men with missing teeth, a few homeless guys nursing drinks as they guarded all their worldly possessions, and several terrified-looking hipsters who'd probably gone in search of a real dive bar experience and gotten more than they bargained for. Maybe a poser nightclub would have been a safer choice, Ash thought.

Seeing Ash looking around warily, Daisy patted his arm. "Don't worry, it's all bark, no bite. They're just supposed to have really great live music, and small crowds 'cause it's kind of a dump. The CityBeat reporter got it right." She smiled, her glossed lips parting to show off her gleaming teeth. She turned toward the bar, standing on tiptoe and placing an order. She stretched past a few overdressed guys who looked like lost members of Franz Ferdinand, who both stared at her shapely legs peeking out of the tutu, and the bare skin of her back where her tiny T-s.h.i.+rt rode up. Neither guy made an effort to hide the fact they were checking Daisy out, as if her looking so right-out-of-bed gave them a right to ogle. Ash glared at the guys, feeling oddly protective of Daisy all of a sudden.

She hopped away from the bar, holding two bottles of Budweiser. "Sorry, they don't have anything fancy here," she said, handing one to Ash with an unstudied shrug. She was so unposed, so natural about everything, that he kind of got why guys stared. There was something about a girl who didn't announce to the world how hot she was. And yet when you looked at her, you wanted to keep looking.

Daisy gestured with her beer bottle to the stage as a pretty girl, with red curls and a short flowered babydoll dress, strode out. "This is who I came to see," she whispered to Ash, her eyes scanning the singer.

Ash relaxed as they got settled in a spot by the bar. If babysitting Daisy meant an evening of checking out some good live music, he could handle this. It was actually a pretty decent way to spend a school night, minus the bar's down-and-out decor.

The girl picked up a guitar and started to strum a slow and somber medley. "I wrote this when I was feeling a little broken," she said. As she began to sing, the guys in the room s.h.i.+fted their stares from Daisy to the redhead.

"You think I'm just a feather in your cap Just a pin upon your map That I'm just a number, in this urban jungle.

But when... will... you... realize...

I... will... cut... you... down... to... size You're a lowdown dirty shame Promised you'd be different...

But you're a different kind of same Ain't no way you'll get me back Not this feather in your cap..."

"Do you hear this b.o.l.l.o.c.ks?" Daisy said, grabbing Ash's forearm more tightly with each word. Ash knew the song was one of Daisy's, though her version was a faster rock number, and the girl was playing it in a bluesy way. It was a pretty good song. Not that he'd ever tell Daisy that. Or Gordon. Still, it was really s.h.i.+tty of the girl to try to claim it as her own.

"You f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.hhole!" Daisy suddenly screamed, the anger morphing her face from stoned Raggedy Ann to American Gladiator.

Before Ash realized what was happening, Daisy ran and lunged at the girl, instantly grabbing a fistful of her hair. "Hey," the redhead squealed. She reeled backward and then lashed back, grabbing for Daisy's T-s.h.i.+rt. The mic stand toppled, wailing feedback. The mostly male crowd watched the girls grab for each other, seeming to do nothing more than yank at each other's hair and clothing. A deep voice in back bellowed, "Catfight!" as an excited murmur floated through the crowd, like the five-dollar cover charge had just become a great deal.

"Who do you think you are?" Daisy cried out. "You don't just play my f.u.c.king music, my f.u.c.king heartbreak, like it happened to you, you little, nothing phony!"

Ash could barely hear the girl's terrified whimper of a reply. He jogged to the stage to break them apart just as a giant paw of a hand came down on his shoulder.

A guy with a bald head and a jet-black goatee towered over Ash. His arms, bared in his sleeveless black muscle tee, were huge. "Get her back to whatever methadone clinic she came from," he bellowed coldly. "This is my place, and we don't tolerate low-cla.s.s behavior here. These are good people."

Ash looked at the lascivious stares of the crowd watching Daisy chase the girl around the stage, one shoulder of her T-s.h.i.+rt ripped, exposing her red bra strap. "I'm gonna sue you, you intellectual propertystealing wh.o.r.e!" shrieked Daisy. In response, the redhead spit at Daisy's slippers.

"Yeah, good people," he said, sarcastically.

"What did you say, sonny?" Huge Arms said.

"Nothing. But that's Daisy Morton, and that's her song that girl was singing. She's just protecting herself." He sort of got where she was coming from. A cover was one thing. Claiming someone's song as your own was another.

The owner grabbed Ash by the collar, yanked him to the stage, and, with his other giant arm, grabbed Daisy around the waist and pulled her down from the stage.

He stomped, still dragging Ash and carrying Daisy, to the door. "Stay the f.u.c.k out," he said, kicking the door open with his combat boot. He dropped Daisy onto the sidewalk and shoved Ash so hard he almost landed in the middle of Highland.

Daisy instantly sprang up, almost gleeful. Slinging an arm around Ash, she leaned her head on his shoulder and guided him across the street. "I bet you've never been treated like a common n.o.body before, eh, Mr. Bigshot?" She burst out laughing, her tiny frame quaking against his side. The vibrato of Daisy's giggle almost tickled, and soon Ash was cracking up, too. The tourists taking pictures along the Walk of Fame stopped and stared, whispering, "Is that Daisy Morton?"

Before the crowd could descend on Daisy for autographs and photos, she took Ash's hand and broke into a run, zipping through the throngs to his Camaro. They finally caught their breath as he started the car.

"I hope I didn't ruin your evening," Daisy said, smirking, her gray eyes still twinkling.

Ash shook his head. It wasn't the night he'd planned, but Daisy Morton was definitely more interesting than pizza.

CHECK, MATE.

"'We are the champions, my friend....'" Miles tried to mimic Freddie Mercury, as he swayed in the pa.s.senger seat of Jake's Corolla. "'We'll keep on fighting till the end....'"

Jake lowered the volume on the Queen tape. The Corolla's stereo wasn't exactly modern, and he and Miles only had about three ca.s.sette tapes that they could play in the car without seeming like two guys in a musical time machine. Miles had unearthed Queen, Tom Petty, and Billy Idol from his dad's collection. Jake had hidden the shoe box his mom had given him of her old favorites: Duran Duran, Air Supply, and Flock of Seagulls.

"Dude, why are you turning that off? We are the champions, my friend!" Miles hadn't stopped grinning from ear to ear the whole ride to school. "I'm not trying to ride on your coattails, but I am totally riding on your coattails. This is the best thing that ever happened to us."

Jake drained his Starbucks cup as he made a sloppy left turn. He was exhausted after a long weekend of filming. This movie starhigh school student dual role was taking its toll. His mom, Gigi, had treated the news of his Cla.s.s Angel role with the same kind of horror she'd shown in fifth grade when Jake had come home with Twinkie, the cla.s.sroom's pet rat, to take care of for the summer. She'd wanted him to quit immediately, and had only reluctantly come around when Jake had played the Don't you want me to be happy? card. But Jake could only stay Tommy Archer if he kept his grades up. So whenever he wasn't shooting, he was trying to cram in a.s.signments for his cla.s.ses, and it seemed like he was always shooting, or reciting and re-reciting his lines in hopes of not making a total a.s.s of himself. He hadn't slept for more than four hours a night, and his body felt leaden. And Miles, in hyper-enthusiasm mode, wasn't making it any easier.

"Maybe," Jake finally answered, pulling into the BHH parking lot behind a pink Range Rover. "But I won't be a student here much longer if I don't finish my homework. I was up till three last night working on that Golden Gate Bridge case study for physics. My paper's a half-page short. And calc, I'm behind. English, I haven't started Crime and Punishment. Or that essay on health care as a right or a responsibility for civics."

Jake parked in his usual spot, his whole body weak just from thinking about his to-do list. Miles grabbed his backpack and Jake's, hefting one on each shoulder. "I got it, dude."

"Thanks, Miles," Jake muttered, not even remotely concerned about being teased for Miles carrying his bag. What, was Rod Stegerson gonna say they were gay lovers? Big deal.

"So, okay," Miles said, his voice in battle-plan pitch. "You've got physic, calc, English, civics. I can help. I'll talk to your teachers for you. Get you extra time. I'll tell them I'll get them on the AV squad priority list for equipment." BHH teachers frequently fought over the school's flat-screens, to show their cla.s.ses high-definition doc.u.mentaries.

Jake grimaced. "What priority list?"

"Exactly," Miles said, nodding a.s.suredly, like a politician selling a fiscal plan the public didn't understand. "AV has keys even teachers don't get; they'll believe whatever I tell them. Think of me as your personal manager. What else do you need?"

Jake grinned. It was a goofy plan, pure Miles. No way would Jake make his best friend some servant/errand boy. But at least he could help with the homework situation. Priority list? Cla.s.sic.

"Dude, just talk to the teachers, that would be awesome," Jake said. "I have to hurry if I'm going to make physics between scenes. First, let's stop by the production trailer for my check."

Miles's eyes widened. "Sweet. The inner sanctum."

Cla.s.s Angel's production trailer was at the edge of the school's courtyard, a site long ago claimed by the coolest kids at BHH. Jake and Miles normally had no occasion to walk through it. The courtyard, a sunny, red-bricked area surrounded by benches, a low stone wall, and an array of rosebushes in the school colors, red and white, was like a micro-paradise where Jake wouldn't have been shocked to see Greek G.o.ds lounging as loincloth-clad women fed them grapes.

Today, it thrummed with people who were not BHH students. It was payday, and the hundreds of workers it took to film even a midlevel-budget movie had come out of the woodwork. Jake knew he'd be getting something for his part, but he wasn't exactly sure what.

The trailer was long and white, like the actors' trailers, but instead of being a metal box, it had a long row of windows along one side. He could see Kady Parker inside, talking to the line producer, as the woman handed her an envelope. Jake felt a nervous tingle rush through his body. He hadn't talked to Kady since before yesterday's scene, when he'd told her about his fake ACL injury. Miles knew about his What Would Justin Klatch Do? mantra, but not the lie, and now he prayed silently that Miles wouldn't blow his cover.

Jake clattered up the steps and into the trailer. Kady stood near the Arrowhead water cooler, chatting with a PA about the new David Fincher movie.

Jake cleared his throat. "I'm here to pick up my check, um, Lorraine."

Miles extended his hand. "Lorraine, it's a pleasure. Miles Abelson, Jake's manager."

Lorraine eyed Miles, who was straining under the weight of two filled-to-br.i.m.m.i.n.g backpacks, but didn't laugh. "Nice to meet you," She pulled an envelope from her stack. "Should I give this to you, or to your manager?" she said, looking back at Jake.

Jake was about to say she could hand it to him, since the Miles-as-a.s.sistant thing was just a joke. But Miles spoke first. "I'll take care of it," he said, all business, politely taking the check and nodding to Lorraine. He turned and tore it open, and Jake could read it over Miles's shoulder.

Ten thousand dollars?

Ten. Thousand. Dollars!

"Holy c.r.a.p," Miles said with hushed reverence as they moved to an empty corner of the trailer. "This is a lot of money. This is lease-an-Escalade money."

Jake chuckled. Yeah, right. If most of that money didn't go directly into his college savings account, his mom would have a fit. He didn't want to say that here, though. And he couldn't stay much longer. He had to get to physics in five minutes. There was a break in filming as the crew erected a pep rally set, so he was going to try to squeeze in a cla.s.s. It would help his case when Miles went to speak to the teachers.

Jake was about to grab Miles to leave when a pet.i.te hand tapped him on the shoulder. Jake turned and saw Kady behind him, wearing a silky blue tank top that brought out her otherworldly eyes.

"Nice pa.s.s last night, Jake," she said, her hand still on Jake's arm. "Or should I call you Tom Brady?"

"He's good, right?" Miles said, introducing himself to Kady. Jake wanted to leave the trailer immediately, before Miles revealed something embarra.s.sing, like the fact that Jake previously couldn't even get a spot as a water boy on BHH's team.

"I'll say," Kady said, her eyes never leaving Jake. "Were you and Miles just talking about leasing an Escalade?" She was regarding Jake like he was captain of the football team, Hollywood heartthrob, and all-around stud combined into one wild-haired-but-muscular Jewish package.

"Well, yeah," Jake said, the words barely controlled by his brain. "Fully loaded, right?" He grinned at Miles, Justin Klatch style.

Miles took the bait. "You got it."

Kady raised one eyebrow s.e.xily at Jake, nodding goodbye to Miles. "Can't wait to see it." She headed to the exit. As she unlatched the metal door, she turned back, winking at Jake. "Maybe you could give me a ride sometime."

Miles let out a long, low breath as he watched her hop down the trailer steps in her rhinestone flip-flops and purple pleated miniskirt. "Jake, that was bada.s.s. She got any friends?"

"I'll let you know." Jake grinned, feeling more victorious than he ever had as a champion Mathlete. So, fine, he hadn't had much experience with "bada.s.s" anything up until now. But if he wasn't mistaken, right now he was the definition of the word.

And bada.s.ses didn't worry about being late for physics.

YOU SAY IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY?