she had a name.
She’s all Special Agent Marcus August sees when he closes his eyes. Sultry green pupils tease him, inviting ruby lips mock him, and the crimson locks framing her porcelain face haunt him. She’s high above Hollywood for the world to see. And they do see her. Crowds gather from far and wide to breathe in the spectacle, bask in her presence. She’s all anyone can tweet, text, and talk about. There isn’t a starlet in Los Angeles who wouldn’t die for that kind of attention.
Phone cameras preserve her elegance and ethereal beauty. Glazed eyes so wide they’d make Audrey Hepburn seethe with jealousy. Blood trickles from lips, slightly parted, soiling the white lace negligee that hangs over her body. Manicured fingers curled by decay belong to delicate hands that have never weathered the storm of a hard life. Blunt, rust-encrusted nails impale soft flesh, pinning her shoulders and wrists to a wall adorned by spray-painted angel wings, the neon reds and yellows of the feathers glowing brightly in an otherwise dank parking lot.
Crime scene analysts come and go, collecting evidence, studying the environment, examining her. The nails are pried from her body, and she’s placed in a body bag atop a gurney. August stands over her and she looks right through him, her blank expression still teasing and mocking, taunting him for his failures and broken promises.
When he finally opens his eyes again, he’s staring down the barrels of a dozen or more microphones and cameras, the assembled press corps closing in around him outside the Federal Building on Wilshire.
Twenty-nine hours without sleep take their toll. August winces, eyes smarting in the harsh midday light. He addresses the press, delivering a variant on a statement he’s given many times before. The words rote and familiar, he goes above and beyond to ensure his delivery is on point when he tells them she was last seen Monday night, her roommates only realized she was missing Tuesday evening, and her body was discovered Wednesday night. He then tells them the FBI believe Emilia to be the latest victim of the Angel Killer—as named by a junior staff writer at LAist, who also took the liberty of dubbing his victims “fallen angels”—and the FBI will continue working around the clock until he’s caught and arrested. He urges the public to stay calm, remain vigilant, and look out for one another, and when he’s finished, he opens the floor for questions.
With clicks and hits at stake, reporters erupt in a frenzy. August’s mind drifts back to the parking lot and he barely hears the press, their voices coalescing until one shouts a little louder than the others.
August nods at the reporter. “Please, go ahead.”
The press simmers. The woman repeats her question. “Can you speak about the killer’s MO?”
August leans into the microphone, scanning his audience, forcing eye contact on the reporters, and tells them what he always tells them, what his superiors will let him tell them: “Emilia Jenkins matched the description of the previous four victims. She was twenty-two, five-six, slim, a redhead, an aspiring actress and has—had—only lived in Los Angeles for a few months. We believe the killer stalked Emilia over the last month prior to kidnapping her, holding her for a day, and then pinning her to a wall in front of a set of graffiti angel wings.”
What he doesn’t tell them about is the presence of a paralytic, the absence of anesthetic, the extensive bruising masked by concealer, the internal bleeding, the removal of reproductive organs via crude surgical methods, or the foreign saliva found in and around Emilia’s mouth, breasts, vagina, and anus. Reviewing the MO, a consulting psychologist suggested the presence of saliva indicates the killer worships his victims. Worships. In the car, at his desk, standing in front of the press, the word torments August.
“At this time, I am unable to divulge information about the MO beyond what I’ve already shared. Any further questions?”
Competing reporters shout over each other.
“Did he torture her?”
“Was she raped?”
“Did she feel pain?”
August pauses, eyes closed. Emilia’s dead eyes stare back at him. “She had a name,” he says, eyes opening. “Her name was—is—Emilia Jenkins.” Through the sea of press, August finds a KTLA camera, stares into it. “Emilia Jenkins is survived by her parents. This is a parent’s worst nightmare. Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins sent their daughter, their child, to Los Angeles so she could pursue her dream. As a city we owe the Jenkins family answers and we must make a promise, here and now, that we won’t allow Emilia’s fate to befall anyone else’s daughter.”
The promise means nothing. He’s made it before. Four times before, in fact. The first, when he was assigned the murder of Ashleigh Meyer. If it had meant something then, Emilia would still be alive. As would Kate May, Laura Stinson, and Amy Bates.
Ignoring the din of questions, August glances up. A plane glides through the sky, bound for LAX, and August once again closes his eyes.
you have the look.
Sitting behind the redhead on the flight from West Virginia to Los Angeles, Ed Arkin exchanges smiles when she passes him en route to the restroom, hesitates to collect his luggage until she’s collected hers, and abandons his plans of getting a cab when he sees her violently crush a cockroach under her Converse while waiting for a shuttle. Welcome to LA, he thinks to himself.
Sitting across from her in the shuttle, Ed realizes it’s time to shit or get off the pot when she finally wraps a phone call with a bittersweet, “I love you too, Dad.”
She slips the phone into her purse and Ed’s heart thumps, palms sweat. Seven hours have been building up to this moment. Almost paralyzed by the pressure, he opens his mouth to say something, holds her eye contact and then, deciding on exactly the right combination of words, asks, “New in town?”
She smiles, blushes a little. Red cheeks complement red lipstick that complements luscious red hair. “Is it that obvious?” she asks.
“It sounds like your dad misses you already.”
She smiles again. Ed finds it sweet, unassuming. It makes him feel confident. “I’m his everything.”
“How long are you here for?”
“As long as they’ll have me.”
“Actress?”
“That’s not up for me to decide.”
Ed smiles, happy to have closure, but sad the mystery is over. She may be a cliché, but so is he. “You’ll be fine,” Ed promises. “You have the look.”
“Really, you think?”
“I was a development exec at Global until last year. I know.”
“Thank you,” she says. “Global? That’s so cool. What do you do now?”
“I’m between projects,” he tells her, a phrase he habitually uses as a euphemism for “semi-retired Uber driver.” If you consider divorce and death to be projects—and he does—it’s not even a lie.
She nods, possibly more fluent in bullshit than Ed had accounted for.
“I gotta ask, though… Do you have a plan?”
“Get a job, get an agent, get auditions… Does that count?”
“You’re gonna need more of a plan than that. A lot of people hope to make it big, come out to LA, don’t have a plan. They sit in an apartment all day, get a job waiting tables, go to a few auditions, then get jaded and bitter when nothing happens. You need a plan.”
“I’ll get a plan.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“I will! I promise!”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
She smiles. “By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail.” Something about the way she speaks—calm, with dead eyes—seems slightly strange and, for a fleeting moment, Ed is wary of the girl sitting across from him. “My dad told me that when I was ten.”
“Your dad is a smart man.” Ed reaches into his jacket pocket, heart pounding harder than ever. “Speaking of preparing for success…” he says, handing her his business card, “if you need help decoding Hollywood jargon, getting in a room, making connections… Give me a call.”
She takes the card from him, reads it. “Thank you, Mr. Arkin.”
“Call me Ed.” He offers her his hand. They shake.
“Ariel.”
“That’s a lovely name.”
She smiles. “My dad chose it.”
“He did a great job.” Ed’s self-control lapses just long enough for his eyes to wander to her cleavage. He kicks himself for his mistake and when he looks up her smile has already gone. Ariel gazes out of the window as they travel north on Sepulveda, sitting in silence until the shuttle reaches a duplex in WeHo, and she gets out. Ed will never hear from her again.
Todd Bronson is mid-thrust and entering the seventeenth minute of his current erection when he hears a knock at the door. He doesn’t acknowledge it. A few days ago, he’d overheard his girlfriend telling her friends he’s a selfish lover. He’s now on a mission to prove her wrong and he’s not going to let a knock at the door stop him. Or a second knock. Or a third knock.
“You gonna get that?” Michelle suggests, through labored moans.
Todd barely hears her over his rhythmic grunting. “You like that?” he asks, stealing a glimpse at the seconds racking up on his phone’s stopwatch. “Oh yeah, eighteen minutes. Tell yo’ friends. Tell all yo’ friends.”
Another knock.
“Todd!” Michelle shouts.
“Babe, I love it when you say my name. Say it again!”
Another knock.
“Todd!”
“Oh my God!”
And another.
“Todd!” Michelle repeats, hitting his arm.
The combination is enough to bring him to fruition, his body quaking as he explodes inside of her. Momentarily losing control, his arms give way, and he crushes Michelle under the weight of his athletic two-hundred-and-twenty-pound frame. Todd rolls off Michelle and lies next to her, drenched in sweat, staring at the ceiling, and basking in the afterglow of eighteen minutes spent giving Michelle Carmichael the Todd Bronson. “You say something, babe?”
“I’m so fucking sore.”
“But in a good way, right?”
Another knock at the door. “You expecting someone?” Michelle asks.
“Oh, shit, yeah.”
Michelle, slightly taken aback, pushes further, “Who?”
“Some chick.”
“Chick?”
“New roomie.”
“The new roomie’s a chick?”
“That’s what the email said.”
Two more knocks and Michelle elbows him in the ribs. “Answer the fucking door.”
“I’m spent. Can you do it, babe?”
Michelle raises an eyebrow and Todd gets the hint, sliding out of bed, pulling on the nearest pair of boxer briefs—lipstick kiss-patterned, natch—that he can find on a floor littered with dirty clothes waiting to be cleaned. With the nearest tee to hand, Todd wipes the sweat from his armpits and chest.
“Hey!” Michelle protests. “That’s mine!”
Todd looks at the tee and shrugs. “You said you love how I smell.”
“I did not!” Michelle says, hurling herself across the bed to snatch the tee away.
“Really?”
“I hate how you smell.”
“That’s harsh.”
“You think I want to smell like your fucking armpits?”
“Who wouldn’t?” Todd shrugs. Stumbling over his clothes, he exits the bedroom, wiping his brow with his forearm as he makes his way to the front door of the Spanish duplex, throwing the door open so abruptly he startles the redhead on the other side.
One arm leaning on the door frame, he declares, “New girl!” She struggles to meet his eyes, her gaze bouncing from his boxer briefs to his chiseled abs, and then beyond him to the inside of the duplex. Todd laughs a little.
“That’s my name,” she quips with a nervous smile.
“No, it’s not!” he protests, affecting an approximation of charm. “Aura, right?”
“Ariel,” she asserts, still lingering on the second-floor porch.
“Close enough.” Todd extends his hand. “I am Todd and welcome to my humble abode. And by ‘my,’ I totes mean ‘our,’ roomie.”
Ariel acknowledges his greeting with a small nod and rejects the handshake with a meek shake of the head. Pouting, Todd wipes his hand on the leg of his boxer briefs before offering it again.
“Still no,” Ariel confirms.
Todd extends his fist. “Fist bump?”
“Maybe later.”
Shrugging his shoulders, Todd steps aside for Ariel to enter, clumsily wheeling her cases behind her. “Let’s give you the tour.” Without checking to see if she’s keeping up, Todd walks down the hallway, pointing out each room he passes. “Living room, kitchen, bathroom, your room, my room.”
Todd reaches for his door handle, champing at the bit for another round with Michelle.
“So, it’s just the two of us living here?” Ariel asks.
Todd chokes back an impatient sigh, turning back to answer the question. “There’s another guy. Danny. His room’s at the end, but he’s like never here. I never see him, anyway. He’s always out or holed up in there. Think he works in computers. Between you and me, he’s kinda nerdy.”
Ariel nods and Todd turns his door handle again.
“What about my key?”
Before Todd can answer, Michelle calls out to him from the bedroom, “Are you coming back to bed?”
“Coming!” A playful smile sweeps Todd’s face, unapologetically blasé, as he answers Ariel’s question. “Key should be in an envelope in the kitchen. Excuse me, gotta go.” In a whisper not nearly as subtle as Todd thinks it is, he adds, “This chick’s not gonna fuck herself. Although it would be totally hot if she did…”
“I’d have more chance of coming!” Michelle yells.
Todd blushes, bids Ariel adieu, “See you around,” and re-enters his bedroom.
“How’s the new roomie?” Michelle asks as Todd leaps into bed.
“She cool.”
“How cool?”
“Not as cool as you.” Todd kisses Michelle on the lips, a prelude to working his way down her body.
“You seriously want to go again?”
“You’re hot when you come,” he says as he begins going down on Michelle for the fourth time in two hours.
“Don’t you mean I’m hot when I pretend to come.”
“Ignorance is bliss. I just don’t want to be accused of being selfish.”
Todd buries himself between her legs and gets to work, her body tensing with pleasure as she moans, “Your generosity has been noted.” He smiles to himself, only to jump out of his skin when her thighs slam shut, crushing his head, and she screams, “What the fuck?”
Todd looks around until he sees what Michelle sees. The door linking his bedroom to the bathroom is slightly ajar.
“Ariel?” Todd shouts.
The door slams shut, and Ariel pleads, “Oh my God, I am so sorry!” from the other side. “I was testing the lock. So, so sorry.”
“No worries. Yeah, the lock doesn’t work. We normally just knock or whatever.”
“Okay. Thanks,” Ariel replies.
Todd turns his attention back to Michelle who snaps, “I thought you said she was cool?”
“She’s a redhead.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“I don’t know. I’m just saying…”
“I think she wanted to watch us.”
“Who wouldn’t?”
Michelle shrugs, accepting his point, and Todd picks up where he left off, burrowing his head between Michelle’s thighs. She grabs his hair and the longer he licks, the harder she tugs, pulling him closer, euphoria spreading through her. Climaxing, she relaxes, her body limp to the touch.
Proud of engineering another fait accompli, Todd looks up to see Michelle catching her breath. “Michelle…”
She struggles to crane her neck up far enough to look at him. “Yeah?”
Their eyes meet and Todd grins. “How do you feel about threesomes?”
Michelle rolls her eyes, pulls herself out of bed, and throws on a hoodie. “I need to phone my sister.”
“Babe, what about my turn?”
The question falls on deaf ears and when she leaves the bedroom he lies back, naked, absent-mindedly playing twirling his dick around and around while smoking a joint and indulging fantasies of Michelle and the new roomie getting it on. He doesn’t let Michelle’s reappearance in the doorway an hour later put him off. Nor does she react, whispering loud enough to be heard over Ariel showering in the next room. “You need to see this…”
He holds a finger up. “One second, babe. Just need to…”
“Now!”
Sad, Todd stops playing with himself and sits up. “What up, babe?”
“Your new roomie’s a freak.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Come and have a look…”
“I don’t wanna.”
“Why?”
“Effort.”
“You’re the worst.” Michelle walks in, snatches a pillow, and hurls it at Todd.
“Hey!” he complains, rolling over to shield himself.
“Get the fuck up! Before she gets out of the shower.”
“Okay, okay.” Todd reluctantly gets out of bed, following Michelle to Ariel’s room. “You went in her room?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re nosey.”
“I’m curious! I’m a curious person.”
A sly smile spreads across Todd’s face. “How curious?”
“Very.”
“Curious enough to have a threesome?”
Michelle punches his arm. “Shut the fuck up and look at this,” she demands, opening Ariel’s door and leading him inside.
“What am I supposed to be looking at?”
With a flick of a switch, she bathes the room in light, and points to the wall opposite the bed.
“Woah,” Todd says, scanning the collage of quotes that fill the wall, each one more inspirational than the last. Among them—
“some people dream of success while others wake up and work hard at it.”
“the difference between who you are and what you want to be is what you do.”
“when you want to succeed as much as you want to breathe, that’s when you will be successful.”
“Cray,” Todd concludes.
“I know, right?”
“Fuck.”
“I told you.”
Todd looks to Michelle, a twinkle in his eye. “Think she brings this can-do spirit to the sack?”
Michelle hits him again, muttering, “Prick,” as she walks away.
“I’m sorry,” Todd professes, following her back into his room.
“How sorry?”
“Sorry-sorry.”
“Prove it?”
“Okay. Wait. How?”
Michelle answers with a coy smile, laying down on the bed, and parting her legs.
“Again?”
“It would be selfish not to…”
Suffering a crippling case of dry-mouth after another hour spent proving he’s the most selfless man on the planet, Todd grabs a Gatorade, pulls a pair of boxer briefs on, and retreats into the living room with Michelle where Ariel, in sweats, is already sitting on the edge of the sofa, glued to the television as an FBI agent in his early forties addresses the camera. “I can confirm that Emilia matched the description of—”
“What are we watching?” Todd interrupts as he splays out on the sofa opposite, inviting Michelle to lie on top of him.
Ariel doesn’t respond.
“Okay, don’t answer me.”
Michelle glances up at him and whispers, “That was hella rude.”
The agent on the television continues. “Like the other victims, Emilia was twenty-two, slim, five six, a redhead, has—I’m sorry, had—only lived in Los Angeles for a few months.”
Reaching for the Gatorade, Michelle says, “I need to replenish my electrolytes.”
Todd looks at the bottle he’s already drained. “I’m all out.”
“Ugh, asshole,” Michelle sighs. “I’m fucking starved. Can we order take—”
“What’s this Angel Killer thing all about?” Ariel interrupts, turning to Todd. The residual dampness from a shower has turned her otherwise blood red hair jet black. It clings to her face.
“You haven’t heard?” Todd asks. “Some dude’s killing EmSto wannabes.”
“Actresses?”
“Yeah. Hey, the landlord told me you’re an actress. Is that why—”
Michelle cuts him off with another punch. “You didn’t tell me she was an actress.”
“I forgot!”
“Bullshit, you forgot.”
Todd’s attention wanders to the TV where one MILF is interviewing another. “I’m Ruby Maine and I’m here with my agent and tonight’s guest, Mary Zingel of The Zingel Group, the sole female-only creative agency in Hollywood.” Ruby faces Mary. “What are your thoughts on these killings?”
Mary doesn’t need to consider a response, immediately replying, “They’re horrific, it goes without saying. But I think they also underscore a societal hypocrisy. Living in LA has always been hell for women, yet it has taken these Angel Murders to open people’s eyes to something that has been a reality long before the last few months. This is one of the reasons I started my agency. To help protect women from the dangers and exploitation of the—”
Turned off by too many multi-syllable words, Todd realizes he too is hungry. He nudges Michelle. “Mexican?”
“Sounds good to me.”
Standing up to get menus, he clicks his fingers in Ariel’s direction. “Yo, Ariel, I’ma order Mexican. Burritos or nah?” Todd waits for a reply that never comes. She’s too fixated on Ruby and Mary’s conversation. “Okay, whatevs, more for me.”
Michelle shoots Todd a look.
“Us. More for us. Jeez. Babe! You know I’m all about the sharing.”
Are you asleep? xoxo, reads the text on Tony Ames’s phone. He was until the phone rattling against his bedside woke him. He strains to see the alarm clock. 4:00 a.m. He hadn’t been asleep long. An hour, tops. His constant wheezing had seen to that.
He wipes his eyes, squinting while typing a reply. I am xoxo. Less than a second after the message delivers, his phone vibrates, the screen lit. His daughter’s calling. “Ariel? Are you okay? Is everything alright?”
“Hi, Daddy,” she says, her voice girlish and weak. “I’m okay, everything’s great.”
“What time is it?”
“1:00 a.m. here.”
“What’s up?”
“Nothing. I just… I couldn’t sleep.”
“Me neither,” he lies. “How’s LA treating you?”
“It’s treating me well. I haven’t seen much of it yet, though.”
“How’s your place?”
“It’s nice. It’s big. My room’s big. I like it.”
“How about your roommates?”
“I’ve only met one. He’s… Well, I’m not planning to be indoors much anyway.”
Tony laughs a little. The pause in the conversation allows him to hear a guy’s voice saying, “Have a good night, pretty lady,” down the end of the line.
“Where are you?”
“Oh, I’m at CVS.”
“At 1:00 a.m.?”
“I was hungry.”
“How’d you get there?”
“I walked.”
“How far?”
“A few blocks.” Her voice grows distant for a moment as she says, “Thank you,” to someone.
“What’s the cross street?” Tony fumbles for a pen and paper.
“Fairfax and Sunset. I’m about to head home.”
“Ariel, you shouldn’t be walking around in the middle of the night.”
“I was hungry.”
“I know, but… Can you get a cab?”
“I can’t afford—”
“What about an Uber?”
“I don’t have the money.”
“Use my card.”
“I’m not going to let you pay for my Ubers.”
“And I’m not going to let you walk around LA by yourself at 1:00 a.m. One of us isn’t getting their way and I have seniority.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll get an Uber.”
“Can you do it while I’m on the phone?”
“Yeah, sure. I can do that.” Tony hears her fingers tap the phone screen, cars driving in the background, people shouting, cursing. He closes his eyes and makes a fist, squeezing hard, digging his nails into his palm, only relaxing his grip when his daughter speaks again. “Done. It’ll be here in two.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Stay on the line until it arrives.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Got any plans for tomorrow?”
“Huge plans. Need to get a bus pass, send my headshots out, find a job. It’s going to be non-stop fun from dawn ’til dusk.”
“Made a list of restaurants?”
“And bars. I’ll take whatever I can get.”
“Just make sure you find a place with good tippers.”
“You know me… I go where the money is.”
Tony laughs and, low on talking points that won’t betray his concern, he struggles to keep the conversation going, settling on a very uninspired, “What food did you buy?”
“Chips, guac, peanut butter.”
“All of life’s essentials,” he replies, suppressing a cough, lest Ariel hears, lest Ariel worries.
“I’m gonna hit up Trader Joe’s for actual food first thing.”
“Don’t snack too much.”
“Don’t worry, I—” Ariel pauses. Tony can faintly hear her ask, “Uber?”
“Ariel?” replies a muted Eastern European voice.
“That’s me.” She speaks into the phone again, “Daddy, I’ve gotta go. Uber’s here.”
“Be safe.”
“I will.”
“Text me when you get home.”
“I will.”
“That’s my girl.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
The line dies and Tony finally indulges his cough. Slipping out of bed, he gets a glass of water and relocates to the kitchen table with his laptop. His first pit stop is Facebook. He sips his water while his daughter’s profile loads and is greeted by a photo of a Caribbean sunset posted two hours earlier. Written over the image, a quote: “Success doesn’t come out and find you. You have to go out and get it.”
The sentiment brings a smile to Tony’s face but does nothing to quell his anxiety. So, he loads Tumblr, logging in with account details he’d found on a scrap of paper in Ariel’s room a year ago. If her account hadn’t been set to private, he wouldn’t need them. Her latest post is titled, new city, new worries.
I arrived in LA today. Roommate’s kinda obnoxious. Have yet to see him with a shirt on. If he wasn’t so fratty, he’d be totally hot. Who am I kidding? He’s still a little hot. A tiny bit.
So, sue me, I’m shallow and he’s got a six-pack.
He also has a girlfriend. They were having sex when I arrived. A lot of sex. They barely came up for air. And now I’m lying in bed, alone and horny, wearing lingerie I bought especially for LA, all dressed up with nowhere to go.
This is why God created vibrators.
Tony clicks away from the post and explores her list of bookmarked Tumblrs. His eyes narrow at the first on the list: Fuck Yeah Angel Killer! Clicking on it leads to hundreds of headshots of young, wide-eyed redheads that don’t look unlike his daughter. Sprinkled among them are paintings of girls in white negligees pinned to brick walls, blood running down their bodies, bright neon angel wings sprouting from their backs. The gothic images drain his face of color. He’s light-headed, faint.
He knew about the Angel Killings before Ariel had even booked her flights. But he didn’t know Ariel knew about the Angel Killings. They’d never discussed it.
Tony looks at the time. It’s 4:40 a.m. Forty minutes since Ariel got in the Uber. He checks his phone for a text. Nothing. His heart beats faster in his chest, the images from the Tumblr etched into the forefront of his mind as he imagines Ariel being kidnapped, undressed, and pinned to a building high above Hollywood. To say it’s a father’s worst nightmare would be inaccurate. Nightmares have to be conceivable, and the Angel Killer’s modus operandi is far beyond anything Tony could ever conceive.
Tony picks up his phone, hand shaking, a stream of unwelcome thoughts flooding his mind, thoughts that cease as abruptly as they begin, courtesy of a text alert and a notification. A message from his daughter: I’m home. Love you xoxo
Tony takes his first breath since discovering the Angel Killer tribute Tumblr, coughing and gagging as he types his reply. I love you too. Good luck with the job hunt tomorrow xoxo.
She replies within five seconds. Success above all else :) xoxo.
yeah! ’merica!
Nate Harris is reading casting sides for the role of a tech analyst in a network crime procedural. The dialogue—expositional at best, clunky at worst—is far from enchanting. It’s nothing he hasn’t read a billion times before, which is probably why he’s eavesdropping on a conversation between two assholes, likely producers, at a nearby table in the Starbucks on Santa Monica and Fairfax where he’d come to sate his latte macchiato addiction. Although more inspiring than the casting sides, he doesn’t find their conversation especially enchanting either. What he does find enchanting, however, is the disgust dripping from the face of a nearby redhead who’s eavesdropping on the same conversation.
“I don’t know what the line is on this,” says one producer to the other.
“What do you mean?”
“The Angel Killings are going to make a hell of a movie. You know it, I know it. There’s not a producer in town who doesn’t want to option the shit out of this story, but no one wants to be the first person to make an offer to the victims’ families. No one wants to be that guy.”
“Oh. Shit.”
“What?”
“I think I may be that guy.”
“You made an offer?”
“I may have accidentally asked my assistant to reach out to Ashleigh Meyer’s parents.”
“When?”
“Last week.”
“Congratulations, you are officially that guy.”
“Shit.”
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Did you get the rights?”
“The parents wanted time to grieve or some shit before making a decision.”
Nate watches as the producer who isn’t that guy pulls out his phone and types something.
“What are you doing?” asks that guy.
His friend ignores him until he finishes typing. When he eventually lowers his phone, he feigns innocence. “Nothing.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“You just reached out to the family, didn’t you?”
His friend doesn’t reply. But he doesn’t need to. A shrug of the shoulders is confirmation enough.
“What the fuck happened to not being that guy?”
“I’m not. That’s still you. You think they’re still grieving?”
“She was their only child.”
“Well, what better way to mourn a loved one than by preserving their memory on film? Or, you know, digital.”
“In a movie about her death?”
“Well, I’d make a movie about her life, but no one gives a fuck.”
“You know I’m going to outbid you the moment we leave here, right?”
“Relax. There’s like five other victims. Why don’t you option Amy Bates’s or Laura Stinson’s story?”
“Is Stinson the one with the tatas?”
“You’re thinking of Bates.”
“I’d love to option her rights. Ja feel me, playa?”
“I feel ya. Sucks that she’s dead.”
“Total bummer. Silver lining… I’ve been looking for an excuse to cast the chick from Perjured.”
“I think her days of playing twenty-two are over.”
“Fuck, you’re right.”
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”
“Maybe she could play the mother…”
“You should lead with that when you make the Bateses an offer.”
The execs finish their cappuccinos, pick up their iPhones, and make moves to leave. “Just think, if that FBI dude ever feels like catching the guy, we could option his story. Now that would be a hell of a movie,” he says, before exiting onto Santa Monica, the door closing behind them.
Nate turns to the redhead and motions to speak but pauses when he clocks how pallid she now looks, her repulsion having turned to dread. Hoping a joke will shake the girl from her trance, Nate says, “I think it’s going to take me a moment to recover from that onslaught of humanity.”
She turns in his direction, eyes vacant while she registers his words. When she does, she replies with a weak laugh, “I feel like I’ve been meeting stereotypes left, right, and center since I arrived.”
“In that case I won’t tell you that I’m in Starbucks because I’m writing a screenplay.”
“Are you?”
“No,” he laughs.
She cracks a smile and Nate silently congratulates himself on a job well done.
“But if I was, you bet your ass I’d be writing it here. And on a MacBook. Shame is for little people.”
“What about originality?”
“Even littler people.” Nate sips his macchiato, and the redhead sips her Sweet Greens juice. “So, you’re new in town?”
“That’s the buzz phrase.”
“How are you finding things?”
“With Apple Maps.”
“And she’s got jokes.”
“Never leave home without ’em.”
“Well, I’ve been told I make a kick-ass tour guide, if you ever find yourself in need of such services.” He jots down his number on a napkin and hands it to her. “My office hours are Monday to Friday, nine to five.”
She takes it from him, offering a raised eyebrow in exchange.
“I kid. I’m Nate.”
“Ariel.”
He leans across the gulf and offers a handshake, which Ariel reciprocates. “What brings you to LA, Ariel?”
Raising her chin high in the air with a slight flourish, she affects an uncharacteristic pretension. “Fame and fortune!” She punctuates the declaration with equally insincere shame, lowering her head, and straining to add, “Which is to say I’m an actress.”
“I heard actresses flocked to these parts, but I thought it was a myth.”
She leans in, whispering, “Everything you’ve heard is true. I’ve got the headshots to prove it.” She reaches into her purse, pulls out an eight-by-ten, and hands it to Nate.
In the photo she wears a slight smile. The image has been Photoshopped, the colors heightened to make her crimson hair pop against her ghostly skin. “Cute.”
“Literally just got them printed.”
“Where you gonna send them?”
“The usual suspects. CAA, STA, Gersh, William Morris.”
“You should try The Zingel Group, too. All-women agency.”
“One step ahead of you!” she beams. “What about you, huh? What’s your story?”
“You got an hour?”
“I’ve got until the bus comes.” She checks the time on her phone. “Which is two minutes from now.”
“I can work with that. So, I too am an actor. Theater, presently. But that still counts, right?”
“Only technically.” Ariel pointedly surveys Starbucks, taking in the other customers. Nate follows her lead, looking around until he sees what she sees: a sea of attractive twenty-somethings, each only one audition away from playing a high school freshman in a Freeform drama. Ariel turns back to Nate, slightly flirtatious when she says, “An actor and an actress meeting in a coffee shop in WeHo? What are the odds?”
Nate laughs. “You’re funny.”
“I’m also late. Shit!” She fumbles to screw the lid on her half-finished bottle of Sweet Greens, throws it in her purse, and stands up.
“You’re going already?”
“The bus waits for no woman,” she says while scrambling toward the door.
“Can I get your number?” he calls out, so invested he doesn’t care how many people overhear.
“Bus!” she shouts. “Don’t worry, I’ve got yours. I’ll text! It was good meeting you, Nate!”
And with that, she’s gone. Nate flops back in his chair, watching her sprint to the bus stop across the street with a spring in her step that can only belong to someone yet to experience the lows and lower lows of pilot season.
“Fuck,” he mutters, watching her board the 217 bus. This isn’t his first rodeo. The odds of a girl like that in a city like Los Angeles texting him first are slim to none. He’s already mourning the missed opportunity.
The 217 bus is as full as Al Reuben has ever seen it. A veteran of the LA Metro system, he navigates it like a pro, assertively weaving through a medley of tourists, homeless, Hispanics, and a lone twenty-something redhead. One of these things isn’t like the others.
With nowhere to sit, the redhead stands, her hand tightly gripping a pole. She’s guarded, her body language closed, eyes to the floor, earphones wedged in place. She’s so preoccupied with keeping herself to herself, she doesn’t see Al approaching through the crowd of passengers, nor does she see him grab her by the pussy en route to the back of the bus. Al has already disappeared in the swell of passengers, watching from afar, as she spins around, a wounded animal, trying and failing to work out who groped her.
Local news drones in the background as Mase Porter updates his monthly financial records. Of all the many, many perks that came with inheriting Misty’s Menagerie of Misfits, Marvels & Maladjusts from his mother, the busy work is not one of them. As monotonous as it is, it must be done, which is why he responds with a sigh and a grunt when he hears a sheepish and feminine “Hello?” from outside his office.
“Yo, chica, one minute,” he shouts. He dots the i’s and crosses the t’s on the January accounts, double-checks the totals, ties his hair into a man bun, and pours himself a Jameson. “Come on through.”
The sound of her heels against the hardwood floor grows louder the nearer she gets and when she appears in his doorway, he lowers the volume of the TV. “Hey,” she says, meeker than the girls who normally walk through his door.
“Can I help you?”
“I called last night about working here…”
Resting his hands behind his head, exposing his sleeve tattoos for the girl to see, Mase leans as far back as his chair will allow. He doesn’t make any overtures for her to take a seat. Instead, he looks her up and down and takes another sip of Jameson before replying. “I work here. The doormen work here. The bartenders work here. I don’t need another me, you’re not burly enough to work the door, and I’ve got bartenders coming out of my ass. So, I’m hoping you’re a dancer.”
“I am.”
“Dancers don’t work. Dancers dance.”
“I want to dance.”
“Got any experience?”
“I took classes back in West Virginia.”
“You got a name?”
“Ariel.”
“That your dancer-name?”
“That’s my actual name.”
“Like the mermaid?”
“My dad’s idea.”
“Little on the nose.”
She shrugs.
“He name you that before or after he saw your hair?”
“Before.”
“Huh. That’s your natural color?”
“It is.”
“If that’s your real name, what’s your dancing name?”
“I haven’t thought about it.”
“I’ve got a rotation of thirty girls. Every girl has two names and the only one I’m interested in is the one that goes on that board.” He points to the whiteboard that doubles as a schedule at the back of the room. “Start thinking about it.”
“Scarlet.”
“That’s even more on the nose.”
“Do your customers appreciate subtlety?”
“What do you think?”
“I think ‘Scarlet’ will look good on your board. Right between ‘Lolita’ and ‘Trix.’”
“You know much about Misty’s?”
“I read the Wikipedia page.”
“So, you know it’s a bikini bar. That means no nudity. Under any circumstances.”
“Wouldn’t be here if there was nudity.”
“There’s a jukebox in the corner of the bar. Has everything from Pixies to Queen. You choose a song; you dance for tips. No tips, no money.”
“I know this too.”
“Then there’s nothing more I can tell you.”
“You’ll add me to the rotation?”
“Lucky for you, tonight’s amateur night. Come on down, show me what you’ve got. If I like what I see, I’ll add you to the rotation. Off-peak to begin with, natch. Pay your dues and we’ll think about making you prime time. That’s where you’ll make the real—” He stops talking when he realizes she’s stopped listening, her eyes wandering beyond him to the muted TV on his desk. The chyron reads, angel killer describes gruesome mo in viral video. Above the chyron, footage of a man wearing a black hoodie in a darkened room. The merest suggestion of an expressionless white mask emerges from the hooded void. “Chica? What the fuck?”
She doesn’t answer Mase, her mouth slightly agape, hypnotized by the broadcast.
“You hear me?”
Still no reply.
“What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
Hiding behind a mask that in turn is obscured by shadows, the man claiming to be the Angel Killer stares directly through the camera and straight at Tony Ames. “Out of sin comes purity,” he begins, his voice distorted and reverberating out of the laptop’s speakers. “But what is that purity but a promise of future sin? That is why I’m acting to break the cycle. What I do, I do out of mercy, not malice. I kill because I care.” The Angel Killer takes a long pause, before adding, “But you know that.” The Angel Killer looks to the ground, a mournful shadow engulfing his masked face. “What you don’t know,” he says, looking back to the lens, “what the FBI hasn’t told you, is how I absolve my sacrifices of their sin. It’s time you know.”
Tony manages his breathing, hanging on every word. Since learning of his daughter’s obsession with the Angel Killer, Tony taught himself everything there is to know about the murders plaguing Los Angeles. So much so he downloaded the LA Times app, spent two hours teaching himself how to set up Google Alerts, and created a Twitter account for the sole purpose of following any outlets that might report on the story. As soon as the Angel Killer released a video, Tony’s six-year-old iPhone lit up with a dozen notifications in the space of five minutes. He couldn’t load the video fast enough, but now—less than thirty seconds in—he can barely watch.
“If you are under the assumption I take their lives in haste, you are mistaken. To truly purify these fallen angels, they must not only understand what is happening to them, but why it is happening. This is why I use a paralytic. It’s also why I don’t use anesthetic. With the paralytic coursing through their system, the fallen angels are unable to deny my love for them. I worship their potential, everything they could be but never will. Once I have given myself to them, I remove their ovaries and uterus,” the Angel Killer explains, his altered voice a flat monotone that has Tony retching between breaths. “By eliminating the reproductive organs, I eliminate the fallen angels’ need to embrace sin. My mission is one of cleansing.” Tony’s imagination runs wild, his vision blurring, head spinning, stomach turning. “Once I sew the fallen angels closed, I adorn them in white lace and display them high above Hollywood to perish of their own accord, spending their final moments as paradigms of purity and beacons of innocence to a cesspool of a city otherwise filled with despair and depravity.”
The video fades to black, leaving Tony with a very vivid, very graphic mental image of his daughter’s lifeless corpse hanging above Hollywood Boulevard. The thought of Ariel befalling such a fate is so horrifying Tony is barely aware of logging into her YouTube account and navigating to her viewing history. At the very top of a list that includes movie trailers, makeup tutorials, pole dance routines, and kitten videos, is the Angel Killer’s video. The knowledge his daughter has seen it makes him sick to his stomach, and the next thing he knows, he’s calling her on FaceTime, on the verge of passing out.
“Hey, Daddy,” Ariel says, as cheerful as she’s ever been.
“Hi, honey,” he replies, struggling to match her tone.
“What’s up?”
“Oh, not much. I just wanted to see you. How’s it going out there?”
“It’s going good! I may have a job.”
“Oh, yeah? That’s wonderful. Where?”
“It’s waiting tables. Doesn’t pay much, but it’s in Hollywood so it’ll be busy. I’m hoping for lots of tips. And I’ll have plenty of time to go to auditions in the day.”
“When will you know if you get it?”
“I’m actually about to head there for a trial shift. So, I should know by the end of the night.”
Tony wants to congratulate her, wish her luck. But his lungs won’t let him. He erupts in a violent coughing fit.
“Daddy? Are you okay?”
Recovering, he wipes spit and phlegm from his mouth. “Think I have a cold coming. No biggie.”
“That sucks. You sure it’s just a cold?”
“I am.” Tony, eager to change subject, forces a more upbeat tenor. “I’m so proud of you, honey. It sounds like you’ve really hit the ground running. Are you enjoying it?”
That’s when he hears the sound he’s been waiting for since she picked up the phone, a tell that betrays a fear she doesn’t want to share. It isn’t what she says or even what she doesn’t say. It’s the slight hesitation that prefaces her answer. “I am, Daddy. I really am.”
“I’m happy to hear it.” He struggles to fight another cough, his head so light the kitchen is spinning.
“I’d better go, get ready for my shift. I want to make a good first impression.”
“Go get ’em. And remember… Success above—”
“—all else. I never forget. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
They end the call and Tony tries to collect his thoughts. They’ve worked too hard and too long to fail now. Yet, as Tony stands to get a glass of water, the two thousand five hundred miles between him and his daughter weigh heavily on him. He stumbles, dizzy, leaning on the kitchen table for support, his feet tripping over each other as he falls, taking two chairs and the laptop with him as he crashes to the ground, blacking out the moment his head bounces off the floor.
A stone’s throw from Hollywood and Serrano, Misty’s Menagerie of Misfits, Marvels & Maladjusts has been a Hollywood staple since its humble beginnings as a neighborhood dive bar in the late seventies. In the eighties, the bar hosted a weekly burlesque night, inviting amateur dancers to perform for tips. The terms of their liquor license prohibited nudity so while the girls in the clubs on the Strip were only too willing to bare all, Misty’s attracted more imaginative and athletically gifted girls. The burlesque was such a draw that every night became burlesque night. Misty’s reputation preceded it and what had once been a dive bar for locals began attracting a more diverse crowd, becoming the low-key haunt of choice for rockstars, drunks, and Hollywood hipsters alike.
Amateur night, a staple of Misty’s dating back to its first month as a bikini bar, endured and thirty years later the bar is filled to capacity. Garbage’s “#1 Crush” fills the space and patrons buzzed on generous pours gather around the stage. Scarlet, the latest amateur of the night, saunters out of the dressing room, hips swaying. Red lights bathe the stage and mirrored walls, ceiling, and floor, allowing the Misty’s regulars a panoramic view of the ivory redhead whose jagged hair hangs below her shoulders while a black linen bed shirt hides her body, flowing just south of her waist.
Scarlet slowly circles the pole, matching Shirley Manson’s desperate, seductive vocals. The crimson stage lights flicker on and off and the patrons and bar staff succumb to her thrall as she writhes against the pole, crawls along the floor, and discards her shirt to reveal a matching red lace bra and thong. When the lights dip, the lingerie complements her hair, but in the moments when the stage is drenched in red and the spotlights are trained on her, the lingerie may as well be invisible. With one hand on the pole, Scarlet circles it, around and around, offering the patrons a full three-sixty of her body. When she’s done, she shimmies up the pole until she reaches the top, using the strength of her thighs alone to hold herself in place, lying with her back flat to the ceiling, arms outstretched in a crucifix formation. Maintaining her position, she runs her tongue along her teeth, bites her lower lip, and teases the regulars with pleading “fuck me” eyes. A rapport in place, they respond by showering her in dollar bills and a thunderous ovation.
“Yeah! ’Merica!” shouts the owner of Misty’s from behind the bar.
She doesn’t react to the excitement in the room, her expression indifferent, and when the song fades out, she crawls along the stage on all fours and collects her tips before disappearing through the folds of the red curtains that lead to the dressing room.
How was the waitressing tryout? Tony Ames texts his daughter from the discomfort of a hospital bed. While awaiting a reply, he glances at his laptop. The screen displays Ariel’s most recent Tumblr posts.
Trying out for Misty’s Menagerie of Misfits, Marvels & Maladjusts tonight! I’m so nervous. Been watching videos for inspiration. Wish me luck!
Beneath her words sits an embedded YouTube video, three years old, of a half-naked girl engaging in an acrobatic flirtation with the Misty’s pole to the tune of “Where Is My Mind?” Dimly lit, the venue hasn’t changed since Tony visited during a vacation in 1989. He watches the video four times while waiting for his daughter to reply. When she does, her message reads, I broke a plate but they still offered me a job! I’m so excited! xoxo
Tony is expressionless as he types his response. That’s fantastic, honey. I’m so proud of you.
Why are you awake? xoxo
Full bladder. Never get old.
Is everything okay? xoxo
Everything’s fine. The finger movement required to tap send aggravates the IV needle in his hand. The pinch punishes him for his lie, but the pain doesn’t deter him from sending a second text. I love you xoxo.