The Actor's Guide To Murder Page 7

  I slowed down when I spotted the brown ranch-style house in the distance, just past East Horseshoe Canyon as Eli promised. I pulled over close to a hillside, got out, and walked the rest of the way. I noticed that nobody else in the neighborhood appeared to be around to hear me yelling if anything went wrong. Then I chuckled to myself. Once again I was being overly dramatic and paranoid. Besides, I took a scene combat class once where the teacher told me I was a natural fighter, so I wasn’t worried about defending myself if the need arose.

  I walked around to the back of the house as instructed. It was a beautiful home with impeccable landscaping, probably owned by an aging, successful film or music executive who was lucky enough to possess that reliable gay decorating gene that he used to express himself. The entire property was immaculate and well kept. My cynical side assumed Eli was probably well kept too.

  There was a lap pool similar to Willard’s in back just to the right of a small, quaint guesthouse, a miniature version of the main house. My stomach started flip-flopping as I rapped on the thick wooden door. Just then it dawned on me how stupid I had been. What if he recognized me from TV? I had used the name “Brandon.” My whole plan was falling apart at the seams, and I hadn’t even met him yet.

  The door opened.

  Eli’s ad didn’t do him justice. He was around twenty-two years old, with a tight, lean body and handsome face. It looked as if his nose had once been broken, probably in a bar brawl, which gave him a dangerous quality that was a complete turn-on. He wore tattered gray sweat pants and a form-fitting navy blue tank top. He greeted me with a warm smile.

  “Hi, Brandon. Come on in.”

  He waved me inside, and after a split second of indecision, I crossed the threshold into the unknown. He shut the door behind me, and the flip-flopping in my stomach got worse. Was I just new at this undercover work, or were my instincts screaming to tell me something?

  There were movie posters on the wall. Rebel Without a Cause, East of Eden, and Giant. All James Dean movies. There were a couple of books on acting strewn across a small wooden chest that served as a coffee table. So far this guy was a walking cliché. A massage table was set up in the middle of the room, a white sheet thrown over it, with a headrest in front. As I took in the scene, I suddenly felt a pair of big, solid hands caressing my shoulders.

  “So,” Eli whispered in my ear from behind, “what are you looking for today?”

  I took a long deep breath before answering in a squeaky, nellie voice that surprised even me. “Um, anything. I’m not sure. Whatever.”

  “Okay, why don’t you get undressed and lie down on the table? I’ll take care of the rest.”

  It took every urge not to run screaming into the hills. But I was on a mission, and I was prepared to make any sacrifice necessary, even if that included showing him my flabby stomach and the gross zit I spotted this morning on my right butt cheek. I slowly unbuttoned my favorite Tommy Hilfiger short-sleeve shirt, taking my time to fold it and place it on the arm of his couch, and then I unhooked my belt buckle, slipping out of my Ralph Lauren jeans. He watched me, smiling. This was unbearable.

  I instinctively turned away as I slid off my Joe Boxer briefs. And that was it. I was buck naked. I could hear him moving behind me, and then I felt the palm of his hand touching the small of my back as he guided me over to the table. I climbed onto it, my face in the headrest. After a moment, I felt warm oil on my back, and then his hands kneading it into my pores.

  “You’re a little tight. Just relax.”

  Of course I was a little tight. I was a complete wreck. If he was expecting to give me more than a massage, Charlie would never forgive me. Even in the name of finding the truth. I had to act fast before we went too far down this road.

  “So we have a friend in common,” I said, injecting as much casual confidence in my voice as I could muster.

  “Oh, really?” I knew he was curious. His strokes were more tentative.

  “Willard Hornsby.”

  His grip on my shoulders tightened. A sharp pain ripped through my body. I howled in pain. Finally, he let go.

  “Sorry. You have a lot of tension stored up. Just trying to get rid of it.” I felt more oil drizzling down my back, and then he continued. “I don’t know this guy you’re talking about. Wally did you say?”Il

  “Willard. Hornsby. I thought you knew him.”

  “Nope. Never heard of him.”

  “I found your ad in his house.”

  He chuckled. “There are a lot of guys in this town who have my ad. And I have a lot of clients who don’t give me their real names . . .” He paused for effect. “Brandon.”

  “Willard’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I’m trying to figure out how it happened.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “The police say it was an accidental drowning. I think there’s another side to the story they’re just not seeing yet.”

  “So you’re like playing detective? Checking out all the leads?”

  “I’m the Sherlock Holmes of West Hollywood.”

  “Cool. And this guy had my ad, so I’m a suspect? What a trip. I’ve never been a murder suspect before. How cool.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was genuinely excited or playing it up for my benefit. But then, out of the blue, I got the break that made this whole field trip worthwhile.

  “Well, let me know how it all turns out. I love a good whodunit. Was it Colonel Mustard with the candlestick in the conservatory? Who killed Willard Ray Hornsby?”

  He had just hung himself. And I relished in pointing it out. “Funny. I never mentioned that Willard’s middle name was Ray. He only allowed people who were close to him to refer to his full name.”

  Eli abruptly stopped massaging my back.

  There was a long, eerie silence.

  Finally, I turned over and looked up at him. The warm smile was gone. He was biting his lip, his bent nose flaring, his dark coal eyes suddenly menacing. My flip-flopping stomach acted up again. I had been so hell bent on catching Eli in a lie that I never stopped to think what I would do after I actually did.

  His eyes bore into me. “I think we’re done here. You better go.”

  It sounded like a marvelous idea. I jumped off the table and started scrounging about for my clothes. He never took those dangerous, livid eyes off me as I hurriedly threw on my pants. I didn’t bother buttoning up my shirt or threading the belt back through my Ralph Lauren pre-washed jeans. I just wanted to get the hell out of there.

  At the door, I turned to face him. He just stood there, rage in his face, his fists clenched. He hated himself for screwing up, and he hated me for calling him on it.

  “I’m not accusing you of anything. I just want to know what happened to Willard.”

  “Get out of here.” His voice was low, threatening. He didn’t have to tell me twice. I did an about face, and marched out the door.

  As I crossed the lawn towards the gate that led to the street, my stomach was going crazy, flip flopping wildly as if my instincts were trying to jar me awake, warn me of impending peril.

  By the time my brain started to catch up, it was too late.

  A powerful force slammed into me, causing me to lose my balance. I toppled over into the swimming pool, and slammed into the cement bottom shoulder first at the shallow end. By the time I surfaced to catch my breath, I sensed someone else in the pool with me, splashing violently towards me.

  A pair of big, strong hands grabbed me by the hair and dunked me under, holding me there. I flailed about in a confused, dazed state. What was happening? Only when I tasted the bitter chlorinated water as it flooded my lungs did the stark realization finally hit me.

  Eli the tattooed hustler was going to drown me.

  Chapter Nine

  As he held my head under the water, I knew it would only be a matter of moments before I swallowed enough water and succumbed.

  I flapped my arms wildly, reaching out for anyt
hing that might help me. I felt Eli’s gray sweat pants, and managed to grab a fistful of material, and pull myself closer to him. Then, I shot my hand out and, snatched a hold of his balls, and squeezed as hard as I could.

  His grip on my head loosened, and I was able to pop my head above the water’s surface, gasping and sputtering, the cool air pouring into my lungs, offering me a respite from impending death.

  I wiped the sopping wet strands of hair out of my eyes, and saw Eli, a pained look on his face, staring at me, fury rising once again.

  In obvious pain but with his adrenaline pumping, he lunged at me, his hands encircling my throat as we flew back against the hard cement side of the pool. He got up close to my face. So close I could smell the western omelet he had for breakfast on his breath. Why I was thinking of food at such a time as this defies explanation, but as he was choking me and I started to lose consciousness, I couldn’t help myself. It was the only thing I could focus on.

  I clutched his steel arms with my hands and tried to pry them off me, but it was hopeless. He was a lot younger, a lot stronger, and a lot madder. I must have set off an internal rage with my questions, and it was driving him forward, determined to kill me.

  I tried going for the groin again with my knee, but he anticipated it, and pinned me against the side of the pool with his body, his legs jammed up against mine, as he squeezed harder and harder. I felt my eyes retreating up into the back of my head, as images of Charlie in a dark suit at my own funeral took over. I kept asking myself, “Why didn’t we make up before this? Why didn’t I tell him how much I loved him? And why aren’t there more people here to mourn me?” And then there was blackness.

  I heard voices in Spanish as my eyes fluttered open to see three Mexican men staring down at me. Two were in their thirties, had potbellies, mustaches, and wore Lakers t-shirts and ball caps. The third was much younger, early twenties, wiry, and with the whitest teeth I’d ever seen. He smiled as I came to, and then gently lifted my head, helping me to sit up.

  I coughed up some water, and tried to get my bearings. I was still in the backyard of the house in Laurel Canyon. Eli was nowhere to be seen.

  I asked the men what had happened, and the younger one, who spoke English well, told me they were gardeners for the property, and arrived to find Eli rescuing me.

  I jerked my head and said, “He said he was rescuing me?” Apparently, when the gardeners happened upon the scene, Eli pulled my unconscious body from the water and told them I had fallen into the pool, and couldn’t swim, and he jumped in to help me.

  “Where is Eli now?”

  “He went to get help,” the younger man said.

  They helped me to my feet, and despite a woozy feeling in my head, I felt well enough to drive home. The men were apprehensive about letting me go in my condition.

  “Don’t you want to wait for Eli to come back with a doctor?”

  I smiled. “Somehow I don’t think he’ll be coming back with anybody.”

  I thanked them for staying with me, and making sure I was all right. Yesterday, a gardener was responsible for the police arresting me and throwing my ass in jail. Today, three more gardeners were responsible for saving my life. Strange how it all evens out.

  I walked back down the road to my car, and found a slip of paper tucked underneath the windshield wiper. At first I thought it was a Handyman’s advertisement or a Chinese take-out menu, but when I picked it up and unfolded it I knew it was a note from Eli. “Leave it alone or next time I’ll finish the job.” Why was everybody telling me to leave it alone? First Spiro at Willard’s funeral and now this two-bit hustler with the eagle tattoo. And what were they talking about? Leave what alone? In their panic to get rid of me, they were all but showing me their cards.

  All these threats just confirmed in my mind that there was more to Willard’s drowning than just an unfortunate trip over a lawn chair. Didn’t these clowns realize that the more they warned me to stay away, the more I’d be determined to find out what the real deal was? I also found it interesting that I nearly suffered a similar fate as my dear departed friend Willard—drowning in a pool. Maybe this was Eli’s modus operandi, and there just weren’t any gardeners to show up and save Willard on the night of his birthday party.

  Eli’s note was right out of a bad B movie, or at best an episode of Barnaby Jones. The whole thing just pissed me off. How dumb was he to leave a hand-written threatening note? If Eli thought he had succeeded in scaring me off, he was sadly mistaken. In fact, if I could patch things up with Charlie, I knew he would be enormously helpful in scaring the hell out of Eli. But that would also mean telling Charlie everything. And I wasn’t sure I had the guts to come clean about my impromptu visit to a hustler’s bungalow.

  As I drove down Laurel Canyon and across Franklin to Beachwood Drive, I stopped at the small market just past the gates to Hollywood Land. Nestled in the canyon just below the famous Hollywood sign was a tiny village with a café, novelty shop, hair salon, and realtor’s office. It was like a small town where people waved as they drove by, residents had their names engraved on stones in a small park just outside the cafe, and tourists stopped for directions on their journey to get as close to the sign as possible for a photo op. This was a haven for artists, musicians, writers, and actors. A hideaway far from the disappointments and rejections of the company town below. I adored this neighborhood. Charlie and I lived just up the street from the village and had a charge account at the market.

  I parked the car and hurried into the store for a few items. I figured I would make Charlie’s favorite dish, baked ziti, for dinner. He said it was his favorite, but since it was the only thing I knew how to cook, I figured that it was just his kind heart making me feel useful.

  I grabbed a scuffed plastic yellow shopping basket and raced up and down the aisles, grabbing various ingredients. I noticed the line at the checkout counter growing, and Bill, the sweet-natured owner, was short-staffed today, so I hurried up the last aisle, tossing a small bottle of oregano into the basket, before getting in line.

  There must have been five or six people waiting ahead of me as I browsed the magazine rack to pass the time. And that’s when I saw it. On the cover of the National Enquirer. My mug shot. Splashed right there on the front page. The headlines blared, “The Tragic Saga of Another Fallen Child Star!” My arrest must have hit the wires just as the tabloids went to press.

  I stared dumbly at the rack stuffed with copies. My eyes fell to the Star one rack below the Enquirer. They were a little more creative. Prison bars superimposed over a publicity photo of me when I was a scrub-faced cherubic twelve-year-old with the caption, “Baby, don’t even go there!” Underneath that it read, “80s sitcom star does go . . . straight to jail!” My arrest was everywhere. Pretty soon the legitimate wire services would pick it up, and I’d be another footnote in Hollywood lore.

  A tired-looking woman unloaded her cart in front of me, holding the hand of her hyperactive nine-year-old daughter. The girl looked at me, then looked at the rack of tabloids. Her eyes grew to the size of saucers.

  “Mommy, look, it’s him! It’s him!”

  The woman stopped, a tub of cottage cheese in her hand, and followed her daughter’s gaze to the mug shot on the cover of the Enquirer, and then glanced back up at me. She tried to hide her surprise, but she was no Meryl Streep in the acting department.

  I dropped my basket full of baked ziti ingredients and fled the market.

  I felt the world closing in on me. Willard’s death had barely merited a brief blurb in Entertainment Weekly. My arrest at his house was front-page news. This was only the beginning of an avalanche of sordid deeds they would surely pin on me, whether they were true or not.

  I jumped in the BMW and roared off, glimpsing back to see the mother and daughter, the check-out clerk, the bag boy, and yes, even Bill, the sweet-natured owner, all standing at the front of the store, watching me speed away. How could I ever show my face in there again?

  I felt as i
f my head was spinning like Linda Blair’s in The Exorcist as I parked the car in the garage, and stumbled through the door leading to the kitchen.

  Snickers, tail wagging, tongue flapping, was at her usual post to greet me as I hurried to the pantry and grabbed the nearest bottle of blue Smirnoff vodka. Then I sifted through the fridge for any mixer I could find—club soda, juice, tonic, anything. It was bare. Ice would have to serve as my mixer.

  Snickers stared up at me, her excited eyes dancing. As I swallowed a gulp of the vodka and began to relax a bit, I looked down at her. Dogs are God’s gift to the human race. You can be splashed across the papers, trumpeted as a has-been screw up with an arrest record, and a dog will still look at you as if you’re the most perfect, most important being in her entire world. Of course, the fact that a dog depends on you to feed her and take her out to do her business could have something to do with this unconditional love and devotion, but at that moment I was in no mood to question my dog’s motives.

  I poured myself another vodka and hurled it down my throat. I usually don’t drink much, especially since Charlie never touches the stuff. But stress can often break down your will power, and today, stress was consuming me.

  The phone snapped me out of my mental spiral, and I snatched it up when I saw Laurette’s name on my caller I.D.

  “Have you seen the tabloids?” I said.

  “Have I seen them? Honey, they’re everywhere! My phone’s been ringing off the hook all morning.”

  “How did they find out? How did they get my mug shot so fast?”

  “Please. If it can happen to Pee Wee Herman, it can happen to you. Just be glad they didn’t nail you for jerking off in a porno theatre. The point is I’m getting offers.”

  “Offers? What kind of offers?”

  “Commercials. Guest spots. Talk shows. The whole town’s buzzing about your arrest. This could be the break we’ve been waiting for.”