Forget That Day
Wendall Thomas
Fuck hardwood floors.
Only in L.A. would self-respecting slumlords put stained pine and an asbestos echo chamber over a cracked, stucco ceiling and call it a “feature.” I had moved from apartment to apartment—Spanish to Deco to Tudor—in search of quiet, but found nothing but clacking heels, pounding Doc Martens, and tinny MTV. I thought I’d left shag carpeting behind when I fled New Jersey, but now it called to me like a comforting heroin habit.
I couldn’t blame my entire searing headache on the hammering of stack-heeled boots or the screeching monologue from Barefoot in the Park assaulting me from upstairs. That fourth tequila shot, and the two martinis hadn’t helped. Tomorrow, I swore for the eight hundredth time, I would find a concrete building with industrial carpeting which banned actresses, drummers and three-year-olds. Until then, martinis were mandatory.
In the meantime, I was due at work. I ate three generic aspirin, dry, and emerged from the shower feeling the same, just wet. I let my hair air dry, as that seemed to soothe my headache a little, as did the microwaved coffee from yesterday. Or was it the day before? Finally dressed, I went to grab my purse.
There was a gun in it.
I lowered myself onto my “Ikea lies” couch. The Ikea catalogue made you feel a four-hundred-dollar sectional could change your life. It couldn’t. But by the time you’d announced your intentions, driven to Burbank, and seen the depressing Nordic reality, you felt so stupid you bought it anyway.
Mine was Stockholm Blue, scratchy, uneven at one end, and had a perpetual creak; a few of the screws had rolled away and disappeared while I was putting it together.
I shifted to the stable end, trying to form a picture of the night before. I remembered spearing an errant olive in my drink. Somewhere. Had I had “aspiring actor” sex? Doubtful, as actors usually bored me into leaving before they could proposition me. I did have that post “which headshot should I use?” headache, though.
I was too hung over to remember if I’d actually touched the gun when I opened my purse. I’d read enough crime fiction to know I didn’t want my prints on it. I grabbed it with the bottom of my Esprit sweater, wiped it, then shoved it under the sagging end of the sofa.
I heard the diesel whine of the street sweeper outside. I was late.
I hated Wednesdays.
I headed out and stopped at the bottom of the stairs. All the cars were parked on the wrong side. The Thursday side. It was Thursday.
I hadn’t lost a night, I’d lost a whole day.
That meant I’d probably lost my job. I unlocked my car and got in. I may as well get the yelling/terminating over, so I could come back home and go to bed. What would be faster? Highland or Laurel Canyon? I opted for Highland. Any Angeleno knew the idea of hurrying over the hill was an oxymoron.
As usual, there were BMWs passing on the right, then jutting in before they hit the inevitable parked car. I finally made some progress, only to slam on my brakes to avoid a Jaguar idling across three lanes. There should be a special place in hell for drivers who’ll hold up dozens of cars, rather than go one block up to a light. I wished I’d brought the gun. I switched over to the Cahuenga Pass.
I debated passing on the right myself (some jerk was going left on Mulholland and blocking the only available lane) rather than think about what I’d forgotten. I usually didn’t drink past the “salient details” point.
I always remembered who I went home with (if not why) and even though I’d had a lot to drink, I was no lightweight. So you’d think I’d remember a gun. It wasn’t even some tiny femme fatale pistol. It had taken up a third of my Benetton tote. Had someone given it to me for protection?
Nah. I’d never dated anyone that considerate. Someone who might frame me, yes. Waiters, yes. Actors who were waiters, yes. It was part of the job. Actors always flirted with casting assistants. Short term, it made them feel attractive before their auditions. Long term, I might be more than an assistant one day. If I weren’t in jail.
Once I hit Ventura, the dread started. My boss, Perry Prentiss, was a legend. And a legendary foul-mouthed screamer. She’d been the head of casting at Paramount for twenty years, where she abused the Head of Production and the agents at William Morris, ICM, and CAA with impunity. Now that she was on her way down, you could imagine how she treated her staff. Especially if they’d missed a day of work.
I had no chance at keeping my job if I didn’t get her coffee right, so I over-supervised the waitress at Du-par’s, making sure there was just the right amount of cream and two sugars and four Sweet-n-Low’s in the bag. People were so picky about their coffee these days.
I had lucked into the job with Perry after I’d crashed and burned with a TV movie producer who’d told me the days of the week should not be capitalized. I had pulled out my Webster’s Dictionary and things deteriorated from there—mostly when I brained him with it.
One of my cubicle mates knew Perry was looking for an assistant, so I’d shredded the producer’s pending expense report receipts and run.
Perry was an honest to God tough broad, but not without her charms. It was how she got away with all her bad behavior. She had a wicked sense of humor and gave great dinner parties. Actors adored her, the young male ones, especially. She gave them nicknames and treated them like her favorite nephews. Everyone knew she could make or break a career, including mine.
I sat for a few minutes, waiting to go left into our parking lot. Maybe I’d get there first. If I could stretch the job through tomorrow, I’d be okay for rent this month. I could put food on my credit card.
Perry’s two ton ’70s Mercedes sat there like an unexploded grenade. Damn. Just to be safe, I backed in for a quick getaway. I gripped her coffee so hard I spilled half of it. Maybe if she kept the lid on she wouldn’t notice.
I headed for the back of the boxy concrete building. As soon as I walked in, the chemical smell of the thin carpet made me reconsider the hardwood floor issue, but at least it gave me a silent entry.
The office was in its normal state—stacks of glossy headshots, covered in yellow Post-it notes, were scattered across the floor. Three whiteboards filled with actor lists were pushed up against the walls.
Perry’s office door was open. I put her coffee on her desk and called out. No answer. Her long-suffering assistant, Courtney, wasn’t in either. Great.
I set up the remaining appointments for Cowboys #3, #4, and #5 for Guns Ablazin’, five mid-range actresses for the teen horror, The Postman Always Goes Postal, and five preppy twenty-year-olds for the corpse in This is It, a teen gang movie. With heart.
A few people, including Dick from O’Brien’s House O’ Props, called for Perry. After a couple of hours, she had a stack of pink message slips on her desk. I finally called Courtney at home. I could hear a baby screaming in the background.
“What?”
“Court? Have you heard from Perry? She’s not answering. Her car’s here. But no sign of her.”
“No idea.”
“Are you coming in?”
“No. I’m dealing with a pandemic here. Just do the pre-reads yourself.”
There was a crash in the background, then a wail. “Gotta go.”
She hadn’t mentioned my absence yesterday. Had it been one of those holidays that everyone, but the USPS and the banks ignored, the kind you forgot about until you thought, Where the hell is my mail? Courtney could get away with a sick day, as she had children, a pension, and fifteen years of dirt on Perry. The burden of being expendable fell on me.
Where was Perry? After a quick check that she wasn’t dead in her car, I decided to use my fifteen-minute lunch break to check in with the friends who might have gotten obliterated with me. I eliminated people who only got blotto on their birthdays, New Year’s Eve, and Halloween. And those who went wild on the weekend but were good during the week. I needed ones who drank on a Tuesday or Wednesday night. That meant Josie.
She worked for a Hollywood wife, which was about as grim as it got.
When Josie inquired about her boss’s pregnant housekeeper, the woman said “Thank God, she had a miscarriage. What a relief!” Out loud. So Josie’s job didn’t require brains, just desperation, patience, and a strong stomach. Martinis were mandatory for her, too.
“Hey,” I said, “Can you talk?”
Josie lowered her voice. “For a minute. She’s almost done with her bikini wax.”
“She gets a bikini wax at home? That’s just lazy. Look, I know this is a weird question, but did you see me last night?”
“No. I saw you Tuesday.”
“Where were we?”
“Musso’s. Yeah. We were having martinis with your boss. Remember?”
“Tuesday night? Not last night? And you didn’t see me then? I didn’t call you?”
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. I lost a day.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
I heard a scream in the background.
“She’s done. Gotta go.”
Josie and I had drinks with Perry? Why? Had she given me a roofie? As punishment for accidentally double-booking Dylan McDermott and Dermot Mulroney? Unlikely, but honestly, not as unlikely as her buying us drinks. She was a legendary cheapskate. She must have wanted something.
I was so confused. Most of the time, I was grateful my car couldn’t talk, but today it would have been a “feature.” I went back to confirming appointments and hoped my memory was just waiting for my headache to go away.
I heard a car squeal away, then the building door slam. The carpet muted the tread. Was it an overeager actor?
It was Perry.
At six feet tall (with her “French Twist,” more like six-four), she was intimidating even when she was happy. Her taste in clothes was early seventies, including muumuus. On her they became intimidating. What was under there? A knife collection?
At least she was alive. She leaned into the doorway.
“Well, did you do it?”
Do what? Book her appointments? “Yep, we’re reading ‘Preppy Steves’ between three and five.”
She sighed. “No, you fucking idiot.”
I honestly had no idea what she was talking about, but it was safer to fake it and figure it out later.
“It. Yes. Of course.”
“Good. Where’s the gun?”
I barely stopped myself from saying, “That’s your gun?” Instead, I mumbled “Um, it’s at home.”
“Are you kidding me? Jesus. You are worthless.”
She stomped out. WTF? Did she hire me for a hit? Did I do it? At least she hadn’t fired me. What should I do now?
“Go get it,” she yelled. “And hurry!” Just as I hit the door, she added, “And bring some hot coffee for a change!”
There was nothing like going back and forth over the hill three times before lunch. When I got to Mansfield, there was still an hour of street cleaning left, and I had to go four blocks to find parking. Great. I looked forward to doing a concealed carry back down La Brea.
Once I hit the apartment, I got on my knees and used my sweater to pull the gun out from under the couch, then dropped it in my tote. I was starving, so I headed to the kitchen for some peanut butter.
That’s when I saw the other cup in the sink. Had it been there this morning? The dregs of the coffee were a milky brown. I took mine black. Had I brought someone home after all? Last night, or the night before? The gun mystery was at least half solved, but I was still getting nothing on the missing day. Except creamer.
After I chewed down three more aspirin and re-checked the apartment, the only clue I found was an unopened pack of American Spirits. I didn’t smoke.
Then I remembered I hadn’t checked my answering machine. There were three messages. Beep. “Where are you?” That was Courtney from the office at 9 a.m. yesterday. I guess it hadn’t been a holiday. Beep. “Save money on carpet cleaning today! Call Carnival Cleaners, 213-555-2345!” Beep. There was nothing like “tele-irony.”
Just as a low voice came on the machine, I heard the click, click, click, thud, crash above that meant my aspiring actress neighbor, Stokely Lamar (a stretch even for a stage name) was home, drowning out the machine and tightening the metal band around my brain.
She turned on a Phil Collins song, heavy on the bass and drums, almost loud enough to drown out another of her over the top, mismanaged monologues. Even through the ceiling, her acting stank. This had been going on, day and night, ever since she’d moved in, despite requests for consideration from everyone in the building.
I had no regrets that, every time her agent submitted her for one of Perry’s projects, her headshot wound up in the “circular file,” except for the one with the international “No” sign through it, which hung on my fridge. She would never, ever, read for us if I could help it. It was rare in life that anyone was in a position to enforce Karma. Just consider me the Shiva of casting.
Finally, she stopped stomping, Phil went into a slow whine, and I rewound the answering machine tape.
“Hey, I had fun the other night.” The other night? Couldn’t he have at least said which one? “I’m headed to Gorky’s around eleven if you’re around.” Beep.
Gorky’s sported a huge mural of Lenin, featured kielbasa omelets, and was the only beacon in a dodgy industrial area downtown. Why would he want to meet me there? Had I slept with a Marxist? Who smoked?
After another hellish commute, I made it back to the office just in time to check in the Guns Ablazin’ hopefuls. I got a lot of “cute outfit” and “are you an actress?” Actors loved Westerns, as they got horseback riding lessons and dummy Winchesters. Their enthusiasm was both cute and sad.
Perry was locked inside her office. She finally emerged, held out her hand, and sighed. I gave her the coffee, then the gun.
She looked at it and frowned. “This is the one from the prop house?”
“Absolutely,” I said. The prop house. It was a fake gun. Hurrah! Perry often had props around for actors, though the gun was a first.
“Did you do that pre-read for me?”
Had that been the purpose of the free martinis? If I had done a pre-read, I didn’t remember it. I reached for the most logical lie. “She passed.”
“Good. I’m off the hook.”
Off the hook for what? I could ponder this later. I had a reception area full of twitchy Silverado wannabes. “Are you ready to start?”
She nodded and I gestured to Geoffrey Baker, a lanky character actor who’d just done a great turn in an Island Pictures indie. We followed Perry into her office. She handed him the gun. She proceeded to read through the scene, which ended on the line: “Giddy up, asswipe,” and the stage directions “Strother raises his gun in a threatening manner.” This seemed like the Department of Redundancy Department, but I was no screenwriter. Geoffrey aimed the antique pistol, stared Perry down, then lowered it.
“Thanks, Geoff. Nice stance,” she said, never one to disappoint them while they were still there. “I’ll speak with Sue.”
I went to retrieve Carlton “Casey” Harrigan, who Perry had cast as the nice boyfriend in a couple of Movies of the Week. He was hoping to break into features, so this was a big audition for him. He jumped up, spilling his Diet Coke. I mopped it up, then escorted him in.
“Remember, Casey, threatening,” Perry said, handing him the prop gun.
“Yeah, just give me a minute,” he muttered, fumbling with the gun and his script pages.
“Callie, I need another coffee.” I knew she was trying to make him more comfortable, so I obliged.
“More! Give me more!” I heard her scream through the door.
I had just grabbed the wooden cuff on our new Chemex coffeemaker when I heard the gunshot.
At least Perry died doing what she loved. Yelling. That didn’t make it any less traumatic for the rest of us. Poor Casey was so hysterical, I could barely call 911.
The paramedics were there in under three minutes. They declared Perry dead on the spot and told me to wait for the detectives. They talked to Casey first, then me. I told them Perry had asked me to pick up a gun from O’Brien’s House O’ Props (I really wished I had remembered doing that) and that both of us had been sure it was a fake.
“How was your relationship with Ms. Prentiss?”
“Complicated. I liked her, but she screamed at everyone and she didn’t suffer fools. There are probably a hundred and fifty actors alone who hated her, not to mention agents and managers.” Then I thought about how Perry had given me a job when no one else would, and I burst into tears.
Once I was all cried out, the detectives asked if I could make a list.
“No problem.” Anything to distract them from the fact that I’d wiped off the potential killer’s prints, leaving only the actors’ and mine.
They took me to the North Hollywood Station for a set of those prints and more questions. I figured, since I’d been responsible for the gun between the prop house and the office, I was suspect number one.
As bad as it sounded, I told them about my night of heavy drinking and current amnesia. It was better than lying. I assumed their eye rolls meant they didn’t buy it, but they let me go around 8 p.m., telling me not to leave town. No problem. I wasn’t going anywhere until I knew who’d swapped the gun and wanted Perry dead.
I called Josie from the police station and she met me at Art’s Deli, which was probably a mistake, as the rhythmic crashes from the bowling alley at the back weren’t helping my headache. The me that still felt hung over wanted tequila, but the me who’d just seen her boss shot and been interrogated by the cops wanted hot chocolate. She won.
“Tell me everything you remember about Musso’s. Please.”
Josie had come straight from Jazzercise and thrown a poncho over her leotard and leg warmers. She picked at its fringe.
“I did think it was weird. I saw some guy on the stool beside her get up and stomp off, just before she waved us over. She told us her Eric Roberts story—the one you’ve already told me five times—and sprang for two martinis before she asked if you’d walk her to her car.”
“Did you come with me?”
“Why would I come with you?”
“Wishful thinking.” I tried really hard to conjure up Musso’s parking lot. But I couldn’t remember anything. Maybe one of the parking guys could.
Josie and I headed back over the hill to the corner of Hollywood and Cherokee, made a right just before the green 1920s neon sign, and entered the Musso & Frank’s lot. Josie followed me toward the valet umbrella. The attendant in the red jacket was short, with big eyes and freakishly tiny ears.
He smiled. Maybe my habit of over-tipping anyone in the service industry might’ve paid off.
“Hi. I’m Callie. Were you working Tuesday night?”
“Yes, ma’am. I was.” Thank God.
“I know there are tons of people in and out all the time, but do you remember my talking with a tall blonde woman?”
“Miss Prentiss? The casting director?”
“Yes! Ms. Prentiss. I work for her. I had a few too many martinis that night and I can’t quite remember our conversation. Any chance you overheard anything we were saying?”
He hesitated. I didn’t know if this were the right time to hand him the twenty I didn’t have. I hoped Josie did and I did a “money” sign behind my back. I felt a bill there. I loved her. Until I saw it was a five. I shook my head. She gave me another five.
“I’m not implying that you’d eavesdrop. It’s just that sometimes it’s hard not to hear things. And it would really, really help if you remembered anything. Anything at all.” I handed the bills to him.
“She does have a pretty loud voice,” he said. “I didn’t hear everything, ’cause a woman came up in the middle of it.” He thought for a minute. “Something about a ‘shorter, fatter, Daryl Hannah, without the talent.’ And then, ‘pity read,’ if that makes sense?” It did. “Then she said some guy was a lousy lay, but he’d put a word in with Sydney Pollack.” His total recall reminded me to keep my mouth shut in parking lots.
“Then she got some stuff out of her trunk,” he said.
“Any chance you saw what it was?” He hesitated again. I felt another bill against my back. I took it and handed it to him, hoping it wasn’t a one.
“Some headshots, I think. And, well, it kind of looked like a gun.”
“A gun?” I turned and grinned at Josie. “Great. Thanks so much, this is great news!” He stared at me. I shrugged. “If necessary, would you be willing to tell this to the police?”
He handed me his headshot. I took a moment to “fake contemplate” the photo. In it, the valet was kneeling in a soccer uniform. “Is there anything else you remember?” I turned the photo over. “Gary?”
“There was another girl here, waiting for her car. She was definitely listening.”
“Any idea who she was?”
“No. Sorry. Blonde. High heels. Squeaky voice.” Well that narrowed it down. “She does come in sometimes with that actor guy, he was in that Judge Reinhold thing? The one where Judge Reinhold is kinda goofy.” Not particularly helpful, but something.
“Thanks, Gary. I’ll be in touch.” Josie and I walked back to our cars.
At least I hadn’t forgotten going to the prop house. Perry must have picked up the pistol herself. But that also meant, as soon as the police contacted O’Brien’s House O’ Props, they were going to know I’d lied, which wouldn’t look good. And I still couldn’t remember a “pity read” or anything else.
“Dammit!” I said, looking at my watch and remembering my mystery caller. “He’s going to be at Gorky’s at eleven. I have to go.”
“Downtown? Now?” After I explained, we consolidated cars, then headed for the 101 South. On the way, Josie admitted she’d gotten tired of waiting for me at the Musso’s bar and had gone home with an art director.
We got off the freeway at Temple. Josie followed me in and sat at the counter. The diner was too bright and smelled like old grease and paprika. I looked around, hoping whoever it was remembered me, as he was just a big fat blank.
Then I spotted Harry Samson. He’d come into the office to read once or twice. He winked at me, then rose and pulled out the chair across from him. He was wearing a vintage suit jacket and Air Jordans. Josie raised her eyebrows as I walked toward him.
“Hey. You showed up.”
“Of course,” I said, wondering how I could possibly have blacked out Harry Samson. Had we had a date? Had we had sex? And if so, did he drug me to get it? How the hell could I ask him?
Then, I remembered two things. First, he’d played Judge Reinhold’s best friend in Valley Girl 3: Sherman Oaks. He might know the squeaky blonde. And second, he was an actor. Actors loved to talk, especially about themselves. If I just cued the scene, there was a chance he would tell me what I needed to know, in monologue form.
“So,” I said. “Last night.” And prayed.
“Yeah. Great night, right? Funny running into you and Perry. You know Perry discovered me? I was doing a showcase at Northwestern and bam—I’ve got a Movie of the Week and the rest is history.” As he listed more of his credits I realized that if he’d run into me and Perry together, he had definitely been in the Musso’s lot.
“I apologize, but the whole Musso’s thing is a bit hazy. Martinis. Were you there on your own?”
“No, that was the weird part.”
That was the weird part?
“I was meeting Mare. She didn’t know you worked for Perry Prentiss.”
“Mare who?”
“We dated in high school, but it didn’t work out. We still hang out, though. Help each other with auditions. She said it was weird that you work for Perry and you live downstairs from her. And that her father is boinking your boss.”
“Wait, how does she know where I live?”
“We went back to your apartment.”
“There’s no Mare in our building. The woman who lives upstairs is named Stokely.”
“She’s Stokely for work. She had to change her name because of the whole Mare Winningham thing. That really pissed her off. Now she says Stokely’s more authentic.”
His date, the squeaky blonde, was Stokely Lamar, the tap dancing screecher who lived upstairs. The woman who’d deprived me of, seriously, a year of sleep, and given me a Phil Collins ulcer. The woman who’d heard Perry call her a “shorter, fatter, Daryl Hannah type with no talent.” And who’d possibly seen her vandalized headshot on my fridge.
“I’m not surprised you forgot,” he said. “After she made you a couple of Grayhounds, you were pretty wasted. You said you were dizzy, so she gave you some aspirin too. Then you passed out. That’s when I realized, damn, I didn’t have any head shots on me.”
He held out a glossy black and white photo of him, shirtless, on a horse.
“I thought you and Perry could bring me in for This Is It. I’ve died before.”
Josie and I waited until we got to Hollywood Boulevard to use a pay phone. When we got to my building, the lights were off in Stokely’s apartment. I didn’t even have to break into the building’s quaint mailboxes. Stokely’s was wide open. I pulled out an electric bill mailed to Mary O’Brien. The question remained, had she meant to kill Perry and frame me, or just kill me? And if it was me, would she try again? I bet on it, leaving a message saying the producer would not be bringing her in on The Postman Always Goes Postal.
For some reason, the cops thought I had an honest face. Once Gary the valet had identified Stokely from her headshot and had confirmed her father owned the prop house, as well as a real gun business on the side, they agreed to stake out my apartment for a night or two. It only took one.
It was never quiet in L.A. at night, really. There were the requisite sirens and LAPD helicopters, and the distant boom of fireworks from the Hollywood Bowl.
Finally, I heard it. Someone trying not to make noise upstairs. For once. Feet hit the loose board right over my bed, the one that always creaked just enough to wake me at 2 a.m. Then I heard the vibration of someone coming down the wooden stairs, and my key in the lock. I assumed she’d had it copied while I was unconscious.
I eased the closet door closed, as bare feet hit the cheap pine of my entryway.
Stokely’s shot took out my beloved Married to the Mob poster and the dummy the cops put in my bed but missed me.
She missed the funeral too. Perry had a great turnout at Hollywood Forever. I guess she made more careers than she ruined, in the end. Or maybe some of them were there to gloat. Not me. I was there to apologize. And to feel sick.
Afterwards, Josie insisted on buying rounds.
“It was not your fault. The woman was a psychopath,” she said. “Who kills someone because she doesn’t get an audition? Who only plays Phil Collins? If that bimbo ever thought for one second about anyone but herself, if she had ever, just once, taken her heels off in the house, you would’ve let her fail all by herself, just like everybody else.”
Maybe. But I still blamed the hardwood floors.