Fade To Black

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.’

‘Did I?’

She nodded. 'Absolutely, about ten minutes ago. You don’t remember?’

I shook my head and ran a hand through my hair. ‘No. I must have been really out of it.’

‘Tough night?’

‘Story of my life,’ I yawned. ‘You always start the rooms so early?’

She smiled, and I guessed she wasn’t long out of her teens. Suddenly I was happy to be in LA. ‘Depends what you class as early,’ she said. ‘It’s after Ten.’

For a brief moment I just lay there, propped up on one elbow and hoping that my inevitably dark circled eyes and messy hair would be enough to convince this sexy looking maid that I was worth risking her job for by jumping under the sheet with. And then my brain started to work, and I realised what she’d just said.

‘What time did you say it was?’

She glanced at her watch. ‘It’s almost Ten fif-’

‘Fuck it!’ I flung myself to the edge of the bed and threw back the sheet in once quick motion. Unfortunately sometime during the night I must have stripped myself, because at around the same time my feet hit the floor I realised that I was completely naked. I watched the maid’s eyes flick down my body for a moment before she quickly turned her attention to a blank piece of wall. I cursed again and snatched the sheet up and around myself, already sensing the rush of blood that was heading for my face.

Shit, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m just really late.’ I started to pace the room for my clothes and bag, and couldn’t see anything. In a daze I whirled around on the spot and already felt the first stages of some supreme jet-lag forming. ‘Where’s all my stuff gone?’

‘In the closet,’ she said, still focusing hard on the wall. ‘And don't worry about it. You do this job for long enough and you see everything, believe me.’

‘I didn’t really mean you to see my everything,’ I muttered, dropping the towel into a white pool at my feet and stuffing my legs into the first pair of jeans that I’d grabbed out of my bag. Jesus Christ, how could I have slept so long? More to the point, how could I have been so stupid as to not ask for a wake-up call? I was scheduled to be at the Fox Studios for nine. With traffic it would be a miracle if I made it by eleven.

‘Would you like me to come back?’ she said.

I fell on the bed and pulled on my boots. ‘No, I’ll be gone in thirty seconds.’ I glanced over my shoulder at her. She was rearranging items near the fridge, her back bent which accentuated the curves of her butt even more. ‘Okay, it’s safe for you to turn around,’ I said, as I started to button my shirt.

As she turned their was large grin on her face. ‘Somewhere you should have already been?’

‘You wouldn’t believe it,’ I said, grabbing my laptop and a bunch of notes that I’d made on the flight.

‘You should get some breakfast.’

I laughed, searched frantically for my phone and spotted it under one of the pillows. ‘Breakfast? You’re joking. I haven’t even got time for a shower,’ I said jamming the phone into my pocket and snapping the last button closed on my shirt before glancing up at her. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Kirsty.’

Cute girl, cute name. ‘Kirsty, I’m Rich. How do I look? Professional?’

She looked me up and down and the answer was written all over her face. Of course, I looked like a sack of shit. Two minutes ago I’d been comatose. Finally she spoke.

‘Do you want me to lie?’

‘I’d appreciate that.’

She grinned. ‘You look great.’

Superb. I made a bolt for the door, already racking my mind for plausible excuses concerning my lateness. ‘Sorry about all that again,’ I said, pointing at the bed.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Kirsty. ‘Have a good day.’

I let the door slam on the sound of her sweet voice and jogged down the corridor towards the elevators. Have a good day? I’d need to put some effort in and work on that. Because let’s face it, the beginning hadn’t been that fucking spectacular...

**********

The morning light was glaring and the weather had already decided to crank the heat as high as it possibly could, and I fished my sunglasses out of my top pocket. There was a small coffee stand at the edge of the sidewalk infront of the Marriott and I grabbed a cup of something hot and dark before hailing a cab. The back-seat of the taxi was black vinyl, and in the heat penetrating through the back window had turned into a virtual hotplate. I shuffled around in an attempt to avoid blistering and as we lurched out into four lanes of traffic I prayed for as few hold-ups as possible.

The Gods must have been smiling on me, because we made the four mile journey in around fifteen minutes, and for Los Angeles on a Wednesday morning that was nothing short of a miracle. The closer that we got to the Hollywood district the more things changed. Cars got bigger, palms got greener, plastic surgery became more noticeable. The streets were wide and clean and filled with expensive boutiques and smart diners where the thousands of hopefuls worked their passage while they waited for the big break to arrive.

We cruised into the heart of the World’s film capital, the place where dreams are made and hearts are broken. All the major studios seem to be situated next to each other, like a set of powerful neighbours spying on what the other is doing, and in quick succession the cab passed Universal, Dreamworks and Antamount before the familiar searchlight logo of Twentieth Century Fox loomed before us. We pulled to a halt across the street from the imposing main gates and I pressed Dollars into the driver’s hand and peeled myself out of the stifling cab. I checked my reflection in the glass of a phone booth and tried to work my hair into some semblance of style as I trotted across the street. The back of my shirt was already damp and sticking to my skin, and I hadn’t even had time to run a brush across my teeth. Lack of dental hygiene was a sin in Hollywood that ranked just below murder. Yeah, I was in great shape to meet movie stars.

The guard who stood before me at the gates had a head the same size and shape as a bowling ball, but his tone was friendly enough. ‘Help you, sir?’

I gave my name and stated my business and he ducked back inside a small booth and proceeded to tap away on a keyboard. His partner, smaller and meaner looking, kept his eyes firmly on me. After a moment the guard returned and waved me through. ‘Straight down, Mr. Wilson. Stage 13, off to the right.’ He paused for a minute and then checked his watch. ‘You know you’re late?’

I thanked him and assured him that I was aware of my tardiness, and quickly made my way into the Fox Studio complex. A huge expanse of offices, all marble and reflective glass, rose ominously to my left, and a parking lot filled with the very best that European Motor companies had to offer was away to my right. Beyond and into the distance stood the large warehouses that made up the soundstages, the places where the real magic happens. The small roads that burrowed between the stages were a hive of activity. Small electric vehicles buzzed around carrying people and equipment, guys in overalls humped large sections of bare plywood back and forth and more clipboards were being checked than I could count. And above all the activity the sun still burned fiercely in a sky that looked as if it had never been introduced to a cloud. All in all, a typical Hollywood morning.

I dodged a blue pickup that sped into my path and reached the first of the buildings, grateful for the shadow that was thrown across me. I looked at the time, 10.46am, and kept moving in the direction of soundstage 13.

**********

There was more security at the building’s entrance, but it was nothing more than a formality, and I soon found myself inside the blessedly cool interior. There were a couple of simple looking offices that were stuffed full of desks, paper and no people, and away down a corridor I could hear the sounds of hammering and raised voices. I removed my sunglasses and headed for the noise.

The corridor emerged into a huge indoor area several stories in height and the length of a couple of tennis courts. The heat here was back with a vengeance as several enormous spotlights shone across a very impressive rooftop set that dominated the whole area. There were perfect recreations of the tops of buildings, adorned with all the usual stairwells, windows and neon signs that you might expect to have seen in New York City. I knew from my hurried research that that was where the picture was set, and the production crew had done a fine job in their imitation. Behind the set hung an enormous blue curtain that stretched upward from the floor and curved almost around the ceiling, stopping before it hit the gantries of lighting. This was the special effects bluescreen, and it was here that the digital wizards would paint the rest of the city during post-production. I spent a minute taking in the look of the set, already forming ideas for the opening of the article in my mind, and then looked around for someone to introduce myself to. Just then there was a nudge on my shoulder which saved me the trouble.