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  As I was wrapping my equipment I could see the two "driver" models talking in the background, setting up a dinner date. A few camera assistants and stagehands were milling around, doing various jobs at a leisurely pace. It had been an easy day for them. The kind of day that usually doesn't produce the desired results. It hadn't.

  Jennifer approached me. She was now dressed in tights. She wiped sweat off her neck with a black towel and purred, "What's on for tonight, Nick?" in a way that told me she had something very specific in mind.

  "No plans," I responded before I had a chance to think about it. I did not usually make a habit of seeing the same woman two nights in a row. It was a bad policy that could lead to trouble.

  "There's a Halloween party at Mark Pecchia's," Jennifer said.

  "Who's Mark Pecchia?"

  "You know, the rock video director."

  "Never heard of him." I had heard of Pecchia, but I wasn't about to let her know it. I didn't want to go to any party at some hipper-than-thou video director's sleaze pit.

  "C'mon, it'll be fun," she chimed.

  "I'm not much of a partier."

  "Unless it's your party."

  "Right."

  "I want to go." She played with my tie, trying to minx it up a bit. The manipulation was in full swing and I wasn't going to put up with it. It was time to start lowering the boom. I looked at her with my blankest stare and said, "Who's stopping you?"

  Jennifer's face dropped.

  "You are such a cold fuck."

  I turned and walked away from her. I began removing a lens from one of my cameras and realized she was right behind me. The stoic shoulder hadn't worked.

  "You think you've got it all figured out, don't you, Nick? I'm not just another one of your disposable models. I'm a real person! You can't just use me when you want me, then throw me on the trash heap!"

  This was starting to draw attention. It was the kind of publicity that I didn't welcome. I took a step closer to Jennifer so no one else could hear what I had to say. I had to come up with something to cool her off before she really went ballistic. Jennifer had a temper, but that's what made her special in front of the camera and in bed as well. This "special" quality had a tendency to backfire at times. I decided to exercise a rare bit of diplomacy.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean it the way it sounded. I'm just stressed out over this job. I don't think I've got a hold on it yet and it's pissing me off."

  It was as close to the truth as I could come without increasing her anger. I was pissed off at the job, but she was pissing me off even more.

  Jennifer was suddenly concerned about her performance. All thoughts of personal feelings were gone, tucked away behind the brick wall of career. She was a seasoned pro, through and through.

  "You think it's us?" She meant the other models, of course, not her, but she was showing a rare bit of diplomacy herself.

  "No, no, no. You guys are doing great. It's me. This campaign needs something more. Something special. Something I'm not seeing."

  "You should come to the party, then. The crowd'll be wild. Could be good inspiration."

  "I get all the inspiration I need driving home at night."

  "C'mon, Nick. Don't be such a recluse."

  "I really can't, Jenn. I'm wasted. Burnt to a crisp."

  I turned away and continued wrapping out my equipment. Jennifer pouted more sullenly than usual, like a six-year-old trying to get her way. I looked at her and thought about it for a moment. She was pretty funny at times. I involuntarily snorted a little laugh.

  "You know how I like to see you pout."

  "I'm not asking you to marry me or anything. I just thought you might like to go to a party. As friends. No strings attached."

  I did something stupid and unusual. I gave in.

  "What time do you want me to pick you up?"

  Jennifer brightened. "Eightish."

  She kissed me on the cheek and said, "Thanks".

  I felt awkward. I was not accustomed to displays of emotion, no matter how simple. I'd much rather have sex with a complete stranger than kiss a friend with meaning. I mumbled, "Uh-huh," and went back to packing up as Jennifer scurried off to change.

  3

  I fought the rush-hour traffic and got back home by six-thirty. My house on PCH was high-tech, yet minimally furnished. I was never much for collecting possessions. I think it gives one a false sense of permanence. I've always lived spartanly, almost Japanese in style and simplicity. I had no more than was needed to make things comfortable, but what I did have was the very best. The best couches and chairs from Italy, the best bedroom furnishings from Denmark, the best dining room layout from Japan, and the best kitchenware from France. My decorator had taken the simplest styles from each of these countries and designed an interior that had symmetry and class. It sounds like it would be schizophrenic, a tour through the United Nations, but it wasn't. She found just the right pieces to complement the whole and make it all work, as if a new race of people had been discovered using the finest these countries had to offer and discarding the rest.

  The setting sun cast an amber glow throughout my house as I entered and dropped my satchel by the door. The beach side of the house was all glass, floor-to-ceiling windows throughout. The PCH side was thick concrete block and various soundproofing materials to muffle the traffic noise. It worked wonders. The sound of waves cascading on the beach easily drowned out the stream of traffic flowing eight feet outside the front door.

  I collapsed into a chair and stared through the blinds at the ocean. A dark orange fireball reflected off the Malibu surf. Smoke from the fires to the north gave it an even bloodier tint than usual. Another day was shot. I'd never get it back. And how had I spent my lost day? The same way I spent the last three thousand days. Taking pictures. Burning film for some advertising house trying to sell the public twenty cents of stink for thirty dollars an ounce. Somewhere on the planet people were doing something worthwhile. I did not know these people.

  I watched the ocean devour the sun and wondered what the night would bring. I was so fed up with "the scene." L.A. was growing stuffy for me. I was feeling the itch. I had a touch of wanderlust. Or maybe it was nerves. Things had been going smoothly for too long. I could feel something coming, waiting around the corner to pounce. For months I had had the uneasy feeling of a gambler who had stayed at the same blackjack table for too long. The smart operators know when it's time to make a move. I had my eye on the door, I just couldn't seem to be able to get out of my own way.

  PART II

  "Risk increases exponentially with beauty."

  —Nick Gardner

  1

  I picked Jennifer Joyner up at a little after eight. We drove slowly into Beverly Hills. I was in no hurry to get to this party. Jennifer's eyes were red and I could tell that she'd been crying. I asked her what was wrong.

  "I took a nap when I got home," she said flatly. "I had a dream and when I woke up I was crying."

  "What was the dream about?"

  "It was nonsense. You don't want to hear it. It's boring."

  "We've got time."

  "You won't believe it."

  "Shock me."

  "In the dream I'm living with someone in a tiny house out in the country. It's beautiful. The house is like a dollhouse, white picket fence and everything. The countryside is spectacular and there are no houses anywhere except for ours."

  "Ours?"

  "Mine and the guy I live with in the dream. Don't worry, Nick, it's not you. It's not anyone. I can never see his face clearly, but he's got a gorgeous body. So I guess he's the perfect man. Great body, no face, no mouth. And he loves me. We're happy. Incredibly happy, living out in the country in our little dollhouse, ready to raise kids, protected by our little white picket fence. Corny, huh?"

  "What happened next?" I asked. "Why did you cry?"

  "I woke up."

  2

  Mark Pecchia lived in Benedict Canyon, up where old money nestled side b
y side with the nouveaux riches. It was an impressive neighborhood. You had to be some breed of shark to buy into that pond. I pulled up in front of a very large house that used to belong to Errol Flynn. A long line of expensive vehicles were parked along the side of the street, stretching far up the hill in front of us. A young white guy in a Jack Pick's Parking uniform opened the door for me. I recognized the kid from a half dozen parties I'd been to in the last year. His name tag read Daniel, but I knew him as Clyde Vogel. He had changed his name recently at the suggestion of his talent agent.

  "Take it easy on her, Clyde," I warned.

  "I treat this car like it's my own," Clyde sang, like he was auditioning for an opera.

  "That's what I'm afraid of."

  A similarly dressed Latino attendant opened Jennifer's door and helped her out, copping a little feel as he made his move. She lived with it.

  Clyde gave me a ticket stub, got into the Lamborghini and burned rubber up the hill. I looked at the other attendant and handed him a ten. I had seen this guy parking cars at parties for the last three years, but I still didn't know his name. He never wore a name tag and never offered to reveal his identity. He was friendly enough, but he seemed to want to remain anonymous. Probably another failed actor thinking he should protect his name for the big time. Not spread it around so everybody remembers him as what's-his-name, the parking attendant. I respect a person's privacy, so I never pushed him on his identity. He folded the ten and smiled at me appreciatively.

  "Tell your buddy not to race anything faster than a Porsche in my car tonight," I said. "It needs a tune-up."

  "Will do."

  Jennifer and I walked toward the house. A big, beefy fucker was standing at the door to make sure only the elite entered. He gave Jennifer a kiss on the neck, which I took as a good sign, then he ushered us in without a word.

  The place was a sparse, half-decorated mini-mansion packed with every type of Hollywood fiend in the catalog. Many of them were dressed in outlandish Halloween costumes, many had just come as they were in real life. It was a minor difference.

  Either Mark Pecchia and I had similar tastes in decorating or he had bought into something he couldn't quite pay for. The town is full of people who buy or rent big houses for show, then don't have enough money left to buy a chair to squat on. There are people driving sixty-thousand-dollar automobiles who can't pay the rent on their five-hundred-dollar-a-month apartments. It's all show. It's flash and front. Runners going long, hoping for the miracle pass and a winning touchdown. In these neighborhoods you didn't have to keep up with the Joneses if you were going to stay in business, you had to keep up with the Rockefellers and Bill Cosby.

  Pecchia had about half the furniture one would expect in a place this size. I couldn't tell if it was on purpose or out of poverty. The stuff he had was nice, what could be seen of it. The place was filled with wall-to-wall bodies. What decor that could be seen appeared to be Santa Fe stuff trying to blend with the classic Spanish design of the house. Pecchia probably picked the furniture up cheap at a Beverly Hills yard sale in the late eighties as the style slipped out of vogue.

  The lighting was low in the auditorium-sized living room, the average moral attitude even lower. They had rounded up the usual suspects, plus half of Santa Monica Boulevard. The room was a steaming sea of tattoos and pierced flesh, black leather and torn lace. Jennifer and I moved through the crowd and mingled. It was frightening how easily we blended.

  Jennifer pulled me toward a tall man with long hair, beard, mustache, blue jeans, pink shirt, red tie, and hipster sunglasses. He had an imported beer in one hand, a joint in the other. It had to be the host.

  "Mark!" Jennifer exclaimed as she kissed him on the cheek.

  "Hey, JJ," the man responded with utter cool. JJ was not something I had ever heard anyone call Jennifer Joyner. I hoped I wouldn't hear it again.

  "Mark, I want you to meet a friend of mine . . . Nick Gardner."

  Pecchia put the joint in his mouth and shook my hand vigorously.

  "Glad you could make it, Nick. I really like your stuff."

  I was a little taken aback by that statement, but I mumbled "Thanks," and nodded like an idiot.

  Pecchia offered me the joint. "Hit?"

  "No thanks."

  Pecchia grabbed the arm of an overweight guy who was breezing past and stopped him in his tracks. "Morrie, get Nick and Jennifer something from the bar," Pecchia commanded.

  "Sure thing," the chunky guy bubbled. He seemed accustomed to kissing ass. He appeared to enjoy it.

  "What are you drinking, Nick?" Pecchia asked.

  "Jack Daniel's straight up will be fine."

  "JJ?"

  "I'll just have a diet Coke."

  "Be right back," Morrie said, skipping off like an obedient bunny.

  Mark turned me around and walked me through the crowd. Jennifer trailed along, her eyes scanning the room for potential pleasures and thrills.

  "I gotta be real honest, Nick," Mark said. "I've ripped you off, man."

  "What?"

  "Your images, guy. I've been so blown away by your images that I've used some of your stuff in my videos. I hope you haven't been too pissed off."

  It took me a second to even understand what he was saying. Why should I give a fuck if he stole some print idea of mine for his stupid videos? This guy was vain. I decided to give a little attitude back in return.

  "I have to be honest with you, too, Mark. I haven't seen your videos. I don't watch videos."

  "You don't watch videos? How do you come up with your ideas? I mean, like, we're all interconnected, right? I mean, we all basically do the same things, you know? Blow people's minds into buying our products."

  "I suppose," I said. The guy was creeping me out. He was some weird hybrid of a character. He seemed to be all the worst elements of the sixties, seventies, and eighties rolled up into one pretentious package for the nineties.

  "You bet," he continued relentlessly. "When I first saw your stuff I said, 'Now here's a guy that ought to be directing fucking videos!' I mean, your shit just blew me away. That stocking ad you did last year, the overhead shot with the chicks and the razor blades . . . "

  "Shear Wear?"

  "Yeah, that's the one. Well, I was on a Megakill video and we were all ready to shoot and first thing on the set that day I open a magazine and see that ad . . . I just said, 'Fuck it,' canceled the shoot, and reworked the concept using that kind of imagery. I won a fucking MTV award on that video. You're the best there is, Nick. You're my inspiration."

  Jennifer seemed proud that I was getting all this praise from Pecchia. I felt embarrassed. I don't like compliments and I particularly don't like compliments from people like Mark Pecchia.

  Morrie appeared with the drinks and distributed them properly.

  "Thanks," I said.

  Morrie nodded at me, then stood waiting for Pecchia to tell him what to do next. "Disappear" was the command.

  Morrie moved off like a good slave. I felt very uncomfortable about the whole exchange. Jennifer noticed and I think she understood. I don't give a lot of emotion to the people I work with, but I try not to shit on them either. There was a different set of ethics at play around here.

  Pecchia moved us through the party like Gandhi parting the true believers.

  "You've got quite a crowd here," I said.

  Pecchia laughed. "They're animals. . . . It'll get worse before it gets better."

  Pecchia glad-handed a few of his minions, and a buxom blonde in a tight-fitting Catwoman outfit suddenly grabbed me by the arm and turned me around.

  "Nicky!" she squealed. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

  I experienced a moment of confusion. I wasn't even sure where I knew this girl from, although I knew I had slept with her. She was a model, of course, and a pretty hot number even as models go. I just couldn't put a name on the body. Whoever she was, I didn't want to get in the middle of a real catfight between her and Jennifer. I stumbled around for an ans
wer to her question, which, by the way, was a good one. What the fuck was I doing here?

  "I. . . uh . . . Jennifer invited me," I stammered.

  She didn't miss a beat or give a shit who I was with. "That's great," she said. "Listen, you've got to meet my girlfriend, Sarah. I told her all about you."

  "I . . . um . . . "

  I looked at Jennifer, who smiled knowingly and nodded her approval. The girl looked at Jennifer with appreciation.

  "Thanks. I'll only steal him for a minute."

  "Do what you have to do," Jennifer said with a faux smile.

  The girl started to drag me away into the crowd. She was still gabbing. "Shit, Nicky, what happened to you? You haven't called me in months. . . . "

  I could see Pecchia and Jennifer talking as I was towed through the mob. Pecchia leaned in close to Jennifer and whispered something into her ear. She didn't laugh, so I assumed he wasn't trying to pick her up. Actually they looked quite serious, considering this was a party. Los Angeles. Business is a twenty-four-hour-a-day process here.

  Twenty minutes later I was sitting off in a corner, nursing a drink, watching the crowd. The party had long since zipped past the point of novelty for me. I had been to a lot of parties like this but not lately. It was a pre-AIDS kind of atmosphere. Lots of drugs. Lots of loose sex being negotiated. Halloween usually brought this kind of behavior out of a crowd, but this bunch didn't need any prodding.

  Jennifer was laughing it up in the middle of the room with a bunch of black-clad rock and rollers. She looked funny, all slinked out in a sheer white evening gown amid these Hell's Angels rejects.