Sugar Valley (Hollywood's Darkest Secret) Read online

  Sugar Valley

  Hollywood’s Darkest Secret

  By Stephen Andrew Salamon

  © 2000 by Stephen Andrew Salamon.

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  Second printing

  The innocence always starts out slow. But the evil is what triggers the speed. Checkmate. -Damen Schultz

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Chapter Eighty

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  Chapter Eighty-Seven

  Chapter Eighty-Eight

  About The Author

  --Prologue--

  Dreams... Dreams are something that every human being possesses deep in their minds, hearts, and, most of all, their soul’s foundation. Those that possess it in their souls, possess it because they were born to see, feel and conquer that dream: their destiny. Yet, others that bear it in their minds, only bear such dreams because it sounds good to have, such as someone cloning, copying off another person’s artwork, only because their artwork’s better. And finally, the ones that retain, hold, possess it in their hearts, possess it because of some passion, some craving for that lifestyle, for that dream; they crave for an unexplained reason. Out of all these feelings toward ambitions, they all run along the same line, but in different bearings, directions; they’re all a form of “visions.” For some, they become verity, reality, but for others they become just a mirage, dream, just a reflection that will never be. Some work hard for their visions of what they want to be, and what they want to achieve, to come true: to be real. For others, they don’t have to work hard at all; it just comes true for them.

  In the end, those that worked for their dreams to become real in the eyes of others, as well as themselves, end up with pure happiness, pure prosperity. But, those that had their dreams become real by someone handing it to them, without breaking a single drop of sweat, end up with something else.

  That something else was the subject that Damen thought of as he flew in a private jet that was leading back to his hometown. He sat in his seat motionless, sweat dripping from his forehead and hands that shook as if they’d been soaking in a pool of ice. He held an Oscar trophy tight in his hands, his grip, and thought, how ... did I get here? These thoughts were something Damen never imagined would enter the depths of his consciousness, as well as subconscious. That question, to him, was not in his vocabulary, his way of thinking, until this moment, this fragile day that the question came to him, took over him, and finally allowed him to see it.

  He lay back in his seat, with a bloodstain on his white shirt under his new, black tuxedo, and kept on saying those words repeatedly. He began to chant that question, as if the question was a whole other being, trying to attack Damen and show itself to him. It was like the question was more than just words, assertions, it was a reflection of Damen’s life; a reflection that he didn’t want to see, or even feel its presence. The sweat from his forehead dripped onto his hands as he looked around the cabin in search of some meaning, some symbol of why he was in the position he was in.

  Fear built up in his mind. Beginning to wipe the sweat away from his forehead, he noticed that it was draining down his skin like a melting iceberg. The sweat symbolized his life, his position that he didn’t want to be in, and also symbolized this moment of nervousness. He started to get aggravated with the sweat, fighting it, and trying to beat its speed, so he turned to a man behind him, who sat in the middle row, and asked, “Could I get a tissue or something ... please?”

  The man came up to Damen. Handing him a tissue; he spoke in a comforting tone, “Don’t worry ... everything will be okay... I’ve been your agent for a while now. I wouldn’t lie to you, Damen.”

  His agent sat beside him and watched out of the corner of his eye as Damen’s pale face turned to the bloodstain on his shirt. He saw Damen’s eyes close immediately when they came into contact with the stain. The way his eyes fixed on it for a moment and then jolted away from the red, tormenting color, allowed the agent to know that Damen was screaming inside. It was as if the stain was a mirror and showed him how it was placed there: a reflection of his pain. The agent turned to him and asked, “So, um, why are we going to Mississippi?”

  A single tear fell from Damen’s right eye, a tear of pain, a tear of struggle. He lifted his head to face this man, and another teardrop was forced out from his left eye. His agent didn’t know if they were real tears, tears of sadness or tears of anger, or just watery eyes. Nevertheless, even more of these undefined tears fell when he opened his eyes to release some of the pain he was withholding. Damen looked about and around this empty airpla
ne, jet, and felt the emptiness of it, just like the emptiness he was feeling at the moment. He replied, “I have to retrieve something ... something for a friend. It’s the least I could do.” He looked out the window and gawked at the darkened clouds. Damen watched as they flew by each cloud, ever so slowly, but yet the plane was moving very quickly. He closed his eyes shut, sealed them ever so tightly, and suddenly felt like the plane. He felt like this jet, and how the clouds symbolized the unimportant things of his life, his past; that’s why he noticed them. But everything else, to his sight, the important things, he didn’t notice; only because his life, his career moved with too great speed to realize the most important things. The important things that came into his life, such as his loved ones, moved quickly through his mind’s sight, only because he didn’t notice them, didn’t find them important—until now.

  His agent inhaled a quick breath of air and began to tap his foot on the ground. Tap. Tap. Tap. His nerves built up inside him, aggravation at Damen’s excuse and his motive for the flight. So he questioned in a snotty tone, “You mean your ex-friend?”

  “No, I mean my friend,” Damen replied defensively.

  “Damen ... listen to me, he nearly destroyed your career. Just forget him,” said his agent. He then got up from his seat and gazed at Damen with sincerity. “Listen, I’m gonna tell the pilot to turn this plane around,” he added. Damen gazed out the window again, and began to stare at his reflection in the window’s pane.

  “We will be landing in approximately ten minutes,” the pilot announced over the intercom.

  “Great ... just great, now we’re going to waste our time by retrieving something for a friend, a friend who would back-stab you at any second,” his agent said sarcastically. “Listen to me, Damen, I know you’re a little upset right now, but we should be back in California at this very second. The Academy Awards hasn’t ended yet, and your butt isn’t there to answer questions.”

  “You actually believe that the Academy Awards are still on after this happened?” Damen then shouted, “Are you crazy?” At the same time, he pulled the bloodstain on his shirt toward his agent, as if the stain should explain everything to him. He shouted again, in an angry but sad manner, “Look at this stain ... this is my fault.” He then pulled out a cigarette, lit it with his trembling hands, holding a lighter, and inhaled it like it was air, pure oxygen that was needed at the time. The agent watched as Damen’s undefined tears soaked into the filter of the smoke, making it feel soggy on his lips.

  “It isn’t your fault ... you didn’t cause this to happen,” his agent answered, pointing to the stain, touching the blood that still was thick to its form.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Even if it is your fault, there weren’t any witnesses to say it was,” he stated, watching Damen take another long drag of the cigarette.

  “What are you talking about? Did you hear what you just said?” Damen asked; his fists began to tighten. “You make it sound like it was alright...”

  “Alright, alright, calm down. When we get back to California, we’ll try figuring out if you were the cause of this shooting,” his agent carefully mentioned. Damen looked down at the Oscar trophy and began staring at its golden body very heavily, like he was trying to ignore this man, this person who called himself an “agent.” “I just don’t want you to destroy your career over something like this. It doesn’t look good to the cops, you going to your hometown directly after the shooting. They’ll think you’re running away,” he announced. After his words of warning, Damen’s anger got the best of him, and caused him to punch the man directly in the gut.

  “Just shut up already! This is my career and my life, I have every right to decide if I want to destroy them or not. So, just sit back and relax, we’ll be landing pretty soon.” Damen’s voice rose to a higher pitch. “And another thing, the LAPD lieutenant told me that they’ve already found a suspect.”

  He just sat in his seat while his agent remained silent. He feared opening his mouth to him again; he knew Damen was at the point where his nerves were forming like wild flowers. The young man put the Oscar on the floor and took out a wallet from his coat pocket; his nervous hands made the wallet tremble in his grip, making the ashes from the cigarette to fall like snow. His agent just stared at him in silence. Damen opened it up and pulled out a torn photo that was wrinkled and full of lint. He just stared at the photo like he was in a trance: the photo that was once reality, but now was a dream. The photo of his past, the photo of his true friends whom he thought became false. That’s where this novel begins.

  It begins in a place deep beyond the barriers of friendship, of trust, blood, and bonds. It begins at a place where his dream began, formed itself, first made itself known to him. It begins at a place called Sugar Valley.

  I

  Through the Vanity of Dreams,

  the Angels Now Show a Bit of Their Wings...

  Chapter One

  Within a small town, along the banks of the Mississippi River, lived a community that had a single bond, tether, to it. A bond that was full of innocence, trust, and peacefulness. The town, village, the place where innocence grew, was surrounded by trees on top of trees, that acted as a fence, an invisible shield that protected the good within it. It was like another dimension, a dimension that most people would love to be in, but can’t, only because this town was special: it was a town that many souls would call paradise, would call heaven. Through the foliage that protected it, God’s nature, shield, allowed them all to be captured within his love, to be destined for his paradise.

  In this community, lived hard-working farmers, fishermen, and carpenters; the types that only believed in one of those traits to be, to take on, and achieve at an early age. Hard workers that would sweat all hours of the day, and then go home to their families, only to sleep and wake up the next morning, to sweat all over again.

  The children of the town of Ridge Crest were to be groomed at a young age by their fathers to take on one of those traits. It was a normal cycle, tradition; it passed on from generation to generation and was never interrupted, or broken. Yet, like always, in every sector of life, with every village or town, there’s always a wrench that is thrown into the cycle and causes it to break. With Ridge Crest, a wrench was what damaged this cycle of tradition, tormenting the wheel of simplicity and allowing all eyes to open with shock toward the determination of the wrench; that wrench was made up of three young men.

  These young men, the youth of the future, changed the same old tradition when they decided to swallow their fears and leave the town which nobody had ever escaped from, or wanted to. No one wanted to leave, because they had no reason to; they had no purpose to leave Ridge Crest behind and go to another part of the world. Yet, Jose, Damen, and Darell did; and all because of their dream. Power, and a magical twist of invisible fate, ran through their veins, and made these young men see a vision of their own future that went beyond the foliage boundaries of Ridge Crest and stretched miles in length, to a place where they felt, imagined, and thought they belonged.

  These three individuals at one time were best friends, like brothers who were inseparable. But, their friendship, bond, their loving trust was not like the normal stereotype of friendships. Like always, when you’re young, you meet friends, hang out with them, and then leave them behind as you get older. But these friends were different, special—they were unique because their relationship was drawn together by a single dream that they all possessed. A dream that gave them the courage to leave their surroundings behind: the dream that they called “fame.”

  Fame is such a small, unique, minute word that means such a titanic symbol when it’s reached. It’s amazing how such a word can change the lives of people; even the lives of innocence. Fame to them was just a small part of the dream that they wanted; the dream of becoming a movie star. It wasn’t the normal pipe dream or fantasy that a lot of people grow within them; it was a dream. Like with everything, an ambition has to begin from a pipe dream, and th
at’s how a person is able to make it into more than a vision, make it into reality. This word, fame, was something they wanted since they were children, and it was something that they knew would come true. Not being ever pessimistic, cynical about it, they knew, in their hearts, minds, and souls that one day their vision would come true. This vision grew on them at a young age, as if an angel came to them and told them to take on this dream, this vision, and follow through with it. But, like with every dream, it has to grow or come from a single source.

  They would always discuss and fantasize about the day, night, the moment when they would walk down a red carpet that stretched a block long. It would lead to a building, decorated with great big lights that spelled out each of their names in hot, bright bulbs. On the building would be a golden sign under their names that read “Oscars”; and they would smile with pride. Fantasizing about their names being called for the Best Actor category, they would feel honor on this mysterious night, it would be a moment to grasp ahold of, and remember. All of them would say their speech and walk back down the red carpet, with an Oscar in each of their hands, and say, “Thank you, I love you all.” At the same time, they would sign their names repeatedly into autograph books, autograph books that their fans held; and learn to love their fans, not in a corny way, but in their own way. It was a normal dream of being an actor, a normal stereotype that normal people laugh at, and say, “They’re pipe dreams.” But were they?

  Jose, Damen, and Darell always made sure to discuss their dream only in one spot, in one place that was concealed by nature and where they felt safe. They were frightened of ever allowing, by accident, their town to find out about their dream, and cause them great grief, sorrow, only because of the normal cliché everyone believes an actor follows. This spot, place, this piece of land was special to them. It was their home, it was their own little piece of happiness, where their visions could be protected from the outside world, and only have them to hear it, and enjoy it. It wasn’t a normal place, only because it protected them; they loved it like a mother. Through the reflections of their fears and their vanities of happiness, this place would show it all to them, and teach them, in its own way, about how you should follow your ambitions all the way to the very end. It allowed them, in a sense, to actually believe, see, and trick their minds into having it become reality; manifesting itself, allowing them to believe, somehow, that they were already real. That spot was called Sugar Valley.