From The Dead Page 2

  No. Forget the doubt, he thought. It’s been too long. This has to work out. He didn’t want to think about the alternative: another failure, another embarrassment, another step toward a terminated dream.

  Jada didn’t understand. Despite her industry savvy, she—

  Jesse heard keys jingle outside. Speak of the devil.

  She entered in a flourish. Without a greeting, Jada unleashed as soon as she spotted him on the couch.

  “Can you believe the guy in the next building parked his crappy car in front of our doorway again? I had to walk halfway up the block to get here. My Beemer is worth more than that guy’s gas pedal! What the fuck’s the matter with him?”

  A delicate body figure with a cast-iron tongue. Polished and professional on the job, though. Not an off-color word from her on the set. She knew who fed her and how to perform for an audience of her own.

  Jada left her purse and keys on the breakfast bar, then plopped down on the sofa beside Jesse and kicked off her shoes. As Jesse massaged her knee, she drew her legs underneath her and tugged at a bracelet. “I hate location shoots,” she said.

  That’s right, she spent today in Malibu. “That bad, huh?”

  “Once the police got the street blocked off and we started rolling, it went fine. A side street off the 101. We shot a couple of short scenes in the morning to minimize our days outside the studio lot.” In a single motion, her eyes lit up and she engaged her hands in a near pantomime. “Oh, then it got to be noon and the real fun started. You know those people who wander by and decide they want to make their screen debut? Someone peeks behind a building across the street? We got one of those.”

  “A side street in Malibu isn’t what you’d call a high foot-traffic area.”

  “I don’t know what this guy was thinking, but he’s coy. Starts out on the 101, just walks by. Maybe a tourist who just had lunch.”

  “How far away were you from 101?”

  “A couple of blocks, but he wanders up the sidewalk. No crime. He inches closer till he’s a few feet away from the action.” She leaned forward and spread her fingers toward Jesse. “Amanda Galley’s starring in this thing, okay? So she’s hanging out, flirting with the crew like she does. This tourist guy waddles up and makes a remark to her, thinks he’s gonna score with this A-lister. Well, I don’t know what he said to her; the story versions change depending on who you talk to. But he got assaulted with a shoe, and—”

  “A shoe? How?”

  “He got hit in the head with a shoe.”

  “Whose shoe?”

  “Amanda’s! She’s in costume, some riches-to-rags character, loses all her money and collects seashells by the seashore in her high heels. Anyway, she pulls off her shoe and hits the guy right in the middle of his forehead. Disaster. The guy doesn’t know what hit him. He starts to scream when a trickle of blood runs down his nasty face. So now the police wander over to check it out, the guy says he’s gonna sue, all this shit. Because he got nicked in the head by Amanda Galley’s pink shoe. She’ll probably show up on the news tonight. What a moron.”

  “Amanda or the guy?”

  “Both of them. Have you ever worked with her?”

  “No.”

  “Prima donna. And if you think about it, she’s never had a big hit.” In a huff Jada fell back against the sofa and drew her brunette hair to rest on her shoulders. Jesse found her olive, Mediterranean skin tone exotic.

  Jada had had dreams of her own at one point. She grew up in Reno, Nevada, with her own mother as her biggest fan since infancy. As a preschooler, the talented Jada entered a long list of beauty pageants, where she performed a tap-dance routine with a cane and top hat, choreographed by her mom, a former dancer in Vegas. By first grade, Jada had appeared in a handful of local commercials and, when she was eight, landed a role on television: Bailey’s Gang, a hip, educational program that started as a local Reno show and graduated to syndication during the mid 1980s. Jesse had heard the rundown countless times. Jada played one of a dozen Tree House Kids on the song-and-sketch show which was, in actuality, a rip-off of better-known predecessors—an admission Jada allowed because she considered herself the show’s answer to Annette Funicello.

  After five years on the air, controversy raged when a reporter photographed Bailey handing a beer to a Tree House Kid. The show entered hiatus and never recovered. Jada’s acting career screeched to a halt, but still existed in the deep recesses of her subconscious. She seemed to long for those golden days and, due perhaps to unresolved childhood issues, seemed to remain a little girl at heart. When they first moved in together, Jesse discovered a secret stash of videotapes in Jada’s closet—her favorite Bailey’s Gang episodes. Jesse found the stash adorable, but when he took his discovery a step further and joked about her collection, Jada actually cried.

  Jesse got up and headed for the kitchen. “I’ll get you a beer, how’s that?”

  “No, I’ll just have a glass of wine at dinner. Did you work at the shop today?”

  “Yeah, a full day. Wasn’t as eventful as yours, though.”

  “Nobody tried to steal a roll of film? No armed robbery?”

  “Not quite,” he called from the kitchen. “A customer hired me to shoot pictures at his kid’s birthday party. A little extra cash.”

  Expressionless, Jada examined her manicured nails. “Gee, exciting stuff. I can see why you like it there.”

  Bottle of Budweiser in hand, Jesse walked back into the room and took a swig. He settled back on the sofa, rested his elbows on his knees as Jada moved closer. She ran her hand along his back.

  “I heard from Maddy today,” Jesse said as he picked at the bottle label. “She scheduled me for an audition.”

  “Which project?”

  “Taking Sides. It’s a bit part.”

  “The new Mark Shea project? Why would you want that?”

  “I need the gig. What’s wrong with it?”

  “He’s lost his vision. His last three films tanked. He cast a sinking star in the lead role. You want to associate yourself with that? How many times have I explained this to you?”

  “Look, it’s not like I have a choice. I don’t work for Barry Richert, who picks his projects.”

  “How many others are up for the part?”

  “Four or five. Maddy doesn’t have many specifics on it; she just knows they want someone tall.”

  “Well, you should have a decent shot at it.” A quick pause before Jada swung her head around to face him eye to eye. “What else is going on? You’ve got those lines in your forehead—the ones you get when you’re worried.”

  For a moment, Jesse traced his finger along the permanent crease line of his khaki pants, where the fabric had lightened a shade. He shrugged.

  “Do you ever feel like you’ve lost your edge?” he asked.

  “Like what, risk-taking?”

  He waved at her reply. “More like your momentum—that bold side of you that drives you to face the odds.”

  “Have you forgotten who you sleep next to?” Jada searched his eyes, but furrowed her eyebrows when Jesse remained stone-faced. To her, he must have looked like he studied the ether that hovered over the coffee table. In truth, Jesse knew she didn’t have a clue what motivated him. Nor did she care, as long as his motivation existed. “You aren’t afraid of that audition, are you?” she asked.

  “After as many as I’ve been on? Granted, not lately—”

  “Because if you are scared,” she continued, “you need figure out a way to hide it. Or else you’ll never get that role.” She chuckled to herself. Jada shook her head, then plopped back against the sofa and crossed her arms. “Don’t you want to be an actor anymore?”

  “Now you’ve forgotten who you sleep next to. Why would you even ask that?”

  “Things change.”

  Great, now she’s in challenge mode. Jesse clenched his jaw, threw his hands on his head in frustration. “Dammit, Jada! Nothing’s changed!” After a deep breath, he let his hands fall
to his sides. Why did he try to talk to her about this? Of all people, she would be the last to understand unless the struggle was her own. “Forget it.”

  For the first time in L.A., Jesse felt alone.

  Weary, he turned to Jada and looked into her eyes. With a gentle rub to her back, he said, “Sorry, babe. It’s nothing. Jitters.”

  But he could pinpoint the suspicion in her autumn eyes. When it came to fear detection, the woman had radar.

  Jesse leaned in and planted a kiss on her lips.

  He’d always adored her Italian lips.

  CHAPTER 4

  The next morning, Jesse grabbed the handful of film rolls from the overnight drop-off bin and carried them to the room behind the checkout counter, which housed a small processing lab.

  A far cry from his high-school photography class, the room contained the same fluorescent light that filled the retail area. A mini-lab machine sat against a wall, where he deposited the rolls of film, cartridge and all. The machine would handle the rest.

  Unlike his film development in high school, minimal human intervention occurred here: no need to remove strands of film under the glow of an ominous red light, no gloved hands to immerse film in toxic chemicals. While in the past he’d handled development with the same tender care he’d given to the shot itself, nowadays he treated the development phase like an afterthought rather than an art.

  He removed a set of prints the machine had spit out during its last run. In his days at the store, he had seen a vast array of human behavior immortalized in photographs—some to his detriment, seared in his memory with regret. But this set of prints, a family gathering at a lake in a rural, wooded area, made him grin. Jesse flipped through the shots.

  A proud young boy and his father posed with a silver fish, its length almost that of the boy’s arm. A mother, dressed in a brick-and-charcoal-colored flannel shirt, humored the amateur photographer with a stare that implied, “I dare you: Take one step closer with that camera.” Another photo showed the full family of four enveloped in a hug, where the boy giggled as his younger sister attempted to grab his nose. This last photo spurred similar memories of Jesse and his sister, Eden.

  Jesse started to put the family photo down but took another look. Intrigued, Jesse stared at the father, who tried to kiss both kids at once.

  When viewed through a camera lens, fatherhood didn’t seem an intimidation.

  After he matched the processed photos with their negatives, Jesse assembled the final package and brought it to the pickup bin on the sales floor. At ten thirty, ready for business, he unlocked the front door to a waiting crowd of nobody. Jesse maneuvered across the retail floor, wound around displays of cameras and how-to books, slid between narrow rows of shelving. He approached a row of sterling wedding frames and dusted them as he pondered the prior night’s conversation with Jada.

  Jesse had resided in California for eleven years. When he mulled this over, the banality of his status quo struck him. At twenty-nine years old, Jesse anchored his hope on an upcoming audition.

  Don’t you want to be an actor anymore? Jada had asked.

  Jesse and Jada met at a Java Cup location a few months after he moved to the L.A. area. Invincible at a haughty eighteen years old, Jesse had made a swift departure from his home in Hudson, Ohio. At that point, Jada herself had lived in the L.A. area for a year already. Both starved for fame, both felt as though they flailed against its odds as if in deep water, and they became friends quickly. Their fear and vulnerability cemented their bond. They confided their dreams. At the time, Jada’s personality represented everything Jesse wished he could be—an image contrary to that of his Midwestern roots, a previous life he had managed to escape. Jada thought she’d discovered someone as independent and driven as she herself was. And Jesse the actor played the part well.

  A year later, the two friends moved into an apartment near Hollywood and Vine—a shoddy location after dark, but mere steps from the Capitol Records building, a shrine of industry power. The pair sought opportunities with a vengeance and exhibited sheer confidence, while in the evenings they returned home to dinners of seasoned oriental noodles at ten cents a package. At that time, Jesse and Jada made a pact: If one succeeded before the other, they would remain roommates to help the pair’s less fortunate half in their quest for fame. For all Jada’s flaws, she never reneged on her promise.

  For the next ten years, Jesse and Jada gelled in a comfortable understanding, a shallow lifestyle speckled with self-centeredness and minimal thought to its consequences. Their focus centered on creature comforts and a dependence on credit cards.

  Now Jada, with her steady career at thirty-one years old, paid the bulk of their monthly bills. And her elevated taste had, in turn, elevated their expenses. Convicted at heart, Jesse wished he could contribute an equal share. He wasn’t raised to live this way, to meet a partner less than halfway. If anything, Jada was the gold digger of the two.

  Life had unfolded contrary to Jesse’s plan. By his estimation, he should have nabbed a handful of speaking roles by now.

  Jesse felt the precursor of a headache settle in, one so slight he forgot to give it a second thought.

  As customers trickled in, Jesse made his rounds, greeted those who arrived and offered assistance to those who searched the shelves. The store’s core clientele consisted of professional photographers and serious hobbyists, most of which arrived during the day. By contrast, portrait-studio patrons gravitated toward early evening appointments.

  Jesse approached a balding man in wire-rimmed glasses, who examined a shelf of chemicals.

  “May I help you, sir?” Jesse asked.

  “Do you still carry a generic version of potassium bromide? It looks like the shelf is empty,” the man answered. “Chemicals are chemicals—no sense in paying Hart-Bauer Corporation extra cash.”

  Potassium bromide is a powdery substance. After photographers dissolve the substance in water, they combine it with other chemicals to create developer and intensifier solutions. The same potassium bromide is also used as an anti-seizure treatment for domestic pets. Jesse marveled at the contrast: One substance could be used for exposure or suppression.

  The things nature could hide.

  To ensure a customer hadn’t scooted the bottles into obscurity, Jesse peered into the recesses of the shelf but still found it empty. “Let me check the storage room. I’ll be back.”

  The man nodded. Jesse headed through the door marked “Private” and into the shop’s rear hallway. In the back of the building toward the right, Jesse walked into the storage room and flipped the light switch. A large ventilation grate loomed overhead. The room reeked of chemicals, a sharp collection of odors reminiscent of a science lab. The type of nervous scent that elicited apprehension in an untrained passerby, one who lacked knowledge behind what he smelled, yet sensed intangible danger that lurked somewhere within.

  Two of the overhead bulbs had burned out—a task each employee pledged to fix and had, in turn, neglected. As a result, dabs of darkness overshadowed one side of the room where shelves of chemicals sat. Jesse considered a flashlight but decided against it. This wouldn’t take long.

  As he entered the shadows, he squinted at the assortment and found the small bottles of potassium bromide. Jesse removed a white plain-labeled bottle from the shelf and turned on his heel to leave the room.

  Then the drip occurred.

  He felt it hit his hand.

  The plastic bottle hit the floor. Lightheaded, Jesse slid down the edge of the shelving unit to the floor, where he sat for a moment. Had the chemicals caused a reaction? He doubted it; after all, he’d worked in this shop for years. But what else could it be? Perhaps a temporary allergic reaction. This hadn’t happened before.

  Jesse shook the wooziness from his head and looked at his hand to see what had dripped. Whatever it was, it was red. He furrowed his eyebrows and gazed up at the shelves: All of the containers stood upright, squadrons of chemical soldiers. Nothing had tippe
d over—and stranger yet, nothing had dripped from them.

  With his unstained hand, Jesse, still in a haze, rubbed his face. His hand came down smeared in scarlet. When he touched his nose again with the back of his hand, he discovered another droplet.

  A nosebleed.

  Odd, Jesse thought. By no means did a nosebleed pose reason for concern, but it would make more sense in a high-humidity climate. Southern California had been kind to him.

  It had to be a reaction. Maybe the ventilation needed examination. Jesse would let his boss know when he arrived after lunch.

  For now, the man with the glasses needed his product.

  Bottle in hand, Jesse made a slow rise to his feet. As his lightheadedness subsided, he took a deep breath and exhaled.

  Then he shut off the light and walked out.

  CHAPTER 5

  Outside his apartment building sat a large patch of gravel where grass had failed to grow. The patch accommodated three cars and, on a first-come basis, apartment residents parked there to avoid the scratches experienced by those who parallel parked overnight. When he eyed an available gravel spot, Jesse grinned at his luck and pulled his midnight-blue Honda Accord into it.

  Aside from the occasional vehicle break-in, his neighborhood was safe. But nearby, if you continued northbound along Van Nuys Boulevard, the status soon deteriorated. On one occasion after dark, Jesse had ventured too far, taken a wrong turn, and questioned his safety in two of the most frightening minutes of his life. Soon after his arrival in California, Jesse marveled at how community conditions could change in a moment. What a difference between neighborhoods that sat five minutes apart.

  Jesse made his way on foot toward his apartment building. Two stories high and laced with ivy, it featured pale yellow stucco and Spanish roof tiles that looked like adobe arches. Each level housed two apartments with front doors that faced each other. A similar building sat beside his own. Across the street, matching four-room houses sat nestled in a small, white-collar neighborhood, where the front yards lacked trees.