From The Dead (2 page)

Jesse’s wavy, dark-blond hair, chiseled jaw line, and
tall, fit form caught frequent second glances from both genders.
But for Hollywood’s cameras, handsome didn’t seem to cut it, not
when perfection stood next in line.

Jesse felt a vibration in his pocket. When he flipped
his cell phone open and discovered a new text message from Maddy,
his agent, his hopes surged. She had gotten word of a possible
audition, a small supporting role in a feature film, and had
pursued the prospect for weeks. Although it consisted of five
lines, it represented an opportunity to expand his resume and
connect with its director and principals. Jesse needed the gig.

And the audition was scheduled.

Emotional attachments are dangerous; better to take
the news in stride, but this audition could mark the official end
of his dry spell and justify years of waiting in L.A.

Jesse returned his attention to the store and the hum
of its electric doorbell. A customer, a man around forty years old,
entered and hung his sunglasses on his shirt opening. Dressed in
starched khakis and a perfect haircut, the man looked more like a
mid-level executive who had stopped by on his way to a round of
golf. Jesse wondered what a corporate job with steady hours must be
like.

“Can I help you?”

“I tossed a roll of film in the drop-off bin
yesterday.”
Jesse reached for the basket of completed photo packets on the rear
counter. “Name?”

“Glen Merseal,” he replied.

As Jesse flipped through packets, Glen fingered
through some eight-by-tens stacked beside the cash register. When
Jesse returned, Glen couldn’t seem to pull himself away from a
photo of a homeless man. In the photo, the subject leaned against a
railing and gazed at the ocean, his face afire beneath a midday
sun. With his fishing rod extended in search of a victim, the
homeless man’s face spoke of mystery. Jesse couldn’t determine
whether the subject appeared content or forlorn; perhaps the man
struggled between the two.

Jesse began to ring out the order.

Glen tapped the edge of the photo with his finger and
said, “This guy’s expression intrigues me. The photographer
captured his, what? His aura?”

“Oh, it’s not a professional photo.” Jesse chuckled.
“It’s just a sample photo to illustrate the paper quality.”

“Do you know who took the picture?”

Jesse shoved a hand into his pocket. “I did.” When
Glen’s eyebrows rose a bit, Jesse added, “I shot that photo at the
Santa Monica Pier. I’ve seen that man from time to time. Guy’s name
is Marshall. He must catch dinner there. Life on the beach,
huh?”

“Did you take photography classes?”

“A high school class way back, but nothing else. I
dabble in it here and there, flip through books to pick up tips.
Trust me, I’m no professional.”

“That’s amazing.” Glen glanced at the photo again,
but this time he held it up to the light. He extended his hand.
“What’s your name?”

“Jesse. Nice to meet you.”

As they shook hands, Glen reached for his wallet and
removed a business card.

“My kid’s got a birthday coming up. We’re giving her
a little party in a couple of weeks at a park nearby. Would you be
interested in taking some action shots?”

“You’re making a professional out of me, is that
it?”

Glen nodded.

“Sure,” Jesse said. “Who couldn’t use the extra
cash?”

If only film and television jobs were this easy to
obtain.

“Great! We’ll figure out the details letter. Number’s
on the card.”

As the customer walked away, Jesse peered down at the
business card. Was it possible Glen might work in the legal
department at a studio?

No such luck. Glen was a franchise owner in a
fast-food chain.

CHAPTER 3

Jesse arrived home around six that night. No purse or
keys on the breakfast-bar ledge above the kitchen counter, which
meant Jada hadn’t yet come home. He tried to recall her schedule
today: Dinner plans with Barry Richert and a studio executive? Ink
a deal to direct an adaptation of that recent book lauded by
critics? He couldn’t keep track of her life. By virtue of her job,
Jada subjected herself to Barry’s continual beck and call. Then
again, Jesse was thankful to have the apartment to himself for the
moment; nowadays her presence alone could trigger tension.

His eyes sensitive from the fluorescent lights at the
shop, Jesse slid onto the black leather sofa in the living room and
went limp for a few minutes. He ran his hand through his hair. Was
he getting tired quicker? Though subtle, he had noticed a
difference.

He stared at the jasmine candles on the coffee table,
the ones from the previous night, his sinuses acute to the sharp
scent.
What is it with women and candles?
he wondered. Jada
wasn’t the kind of woman to leave them at random spots around the
apartment, however, so he counted his blessings. Subtle yet
aggressive, she was the type to lay the bait and wait for someone
to notice and respond with a compliment. And Jesse was grateful she
chose a scent other than vanilla. Then again, Jada herself was
anything but vanilla.

In its entirety, the apartment décor could be
credited to Jada. The glass-top coffee table on a slab of generic
gray stone, jazz wall prints fit for a coffee house, muted chrome
lamps—everything possessed a contemporary nonchalance, as if an
interior decorator stopped by on periodic visits and left behind
articles much like you’d forget a ballpoint pen. Every element
reflected Jada’s personality. It was a far cry from the more
traditional embellishments he found in his northern Ohio hometown.
But to her credit, Jada had managed to frame a few of his
photographs and put them on the bookshelves. Jesse held no strong
opinions in the matter, though on occasion he felt like a stranger
in his own home.

And, of course, the lease was in her name.

He grabbed his cell phone from his pocket and read
Maddy’s text message again. Countless months had passed since he’d
heard good news; he had to savor this audition prospect. Most of
Jesse’s media work was as an extra, a random individual who walked
down background corridors or pointed at superheroes that clung to
the sides of buildings. Seldom did Jesse learn whether he appeared
in the final cut until the film opened in theaters.

But he had never carried a line of dialogue. If
successful, this audition would be a game changer. A small role,
yet even award-winning celebrities had their minor moments early
on: Richard Dreyfuss offered to call the police in
The
Graduate
; Jodie Foster lent her voice to an animated Charlie
Brown.

On the other hand, his confidence had taken a severe
blow the last two years. It’s said you shouldn’t become an actor if
you can’t handle rejection. But while the initial rejections are
heartbreaking, soon those rejections become routine, to which you
grow impervious, like skin numbed by an ice cube. Jesse had always
taken rejection in stride. Today, however, with his gears rusty,
Jesse fought internal doubts about whether he could win this role.
The way he saw it, the odds didn’t fare well for him.

No. Forget the doubt,
he thought.
It’s been
too long. This has to work out.
He didn’t want to think about
the alternative: another failure, another embarrassment, another
step toward a terminated dream.

Jada didn’t understand. Despite her industry savvy,
she—

Jesse heard keys jingle outside. Speak of the
devil.

She entered in a flourish. Without a greeting, Jada
unleashed as soon as she spotted him on the couch.

“Can you believe the guy in the next building parked
his crappy car in front of our doorway again? I had to walk halfway
up the block to get here. My Beemer is worth more than that guy’s
gas pedal! What the fuck’s the matter with him?”

A delicate body figure with a cast-iron tongue.
Polished and professional on the job, though. Not an off-color word
from her on the set. She knew who fed her and how to perform for an
audience of her own.

Jada left her purse and keys on the breakfast bar,
then plopped down on the sofa beside Jesse and kicked off her
shoes. As Jesse massaged her knee, she drew her legs underneath her
and tugged at a bracelet. “I hate location shoots,” she said.

That’s right, she spent today in Malibu.
“That
bad, huh?”

“Once the police got the street blocked off and we
started rolling, it went fine. A side street off the 101. We shot a
couple of short scenes in the morning to minimize our days outside
the studio lot.” In a single motion, her eyes lit up and she
engaged her hands in a near pantomime. “Oh, then it got to be noon
and the real fun started. You know those people who wander by and
decide they want to make their screen debut? Someone peeks behind a
building across the street? We got one of those.”

“A side street in Malibu isn’t what you’d call a high
foot-traffic area.”

“I don’t know what this guy was thinking, but he’s
coy. Starts out on the 101, just walks by. Maybe a tourist who just
had lunch.”

“How far away were you from 101?”

“A couple of blocks, but he wanders up the sidewalk.
No crime. He inches closer till he’s a few feet away from the
action.” She leaned forward and spread her fingers toward Jesse.
“Amanda Galley’s starring in this thing, okay? So she’s hanging
out, flirting with the crew like she does. This tourist guy waddles
up and makes a remark to her, thinks he’s gonna score with this
A-lister. Well, I don’t know what he said to her; the story
versions change depending on who you talk to. But he got assaulted
with a shoe, and—”

“A shoe? How?”

“He got hit in the head with a shoe.”

“Whose shoe?”
“Amanda’s! She’s in costume, some riches-to-rags character, loses
all her money and collects seashells by the seashore in her high
heels. Anyway, she pulls off her shoe and hits the guy right in the
middle of his forehead.
Disaster.
The guy doesn’t know what
hit him. He starts to scream when a trickle of blood runs down his
nasty face. So now the police wander over to check it out, the guy
says he’s gonna sue, all this shit. Because he got nicked in the
head by Amanda Galley’s pink shoe. She’ll probably show up on the
news tonight. What a moron.”

“Amanda or the guy?”
“Both of them. Have you ever worked with her?”

“No.”

“Prima donna. And if you think about it, she’s never
had a big hit.” In a huff Jada fell back against the sofa and drew
her brunette hair to rest on her shoulders. Jesse found her olive,
Mediterranean skin tone exotic.

Jada had had dreams of her own at one point. She grew
up in Reno, Nevada, with her own mother as her biggest fan since
infancy. As a preschooler, the talented Jada entered a long list of
beauty pageants, where she performed a tap-dance routine with a
cane and top hat, choreographed by her mom, a former dancer in
Vegas. By first grade, Jada had appeared in a handful of local
commercials and, when she was eight, landed a role on television:
Bailey’s Gang
, a hip, educational program that started as a
local Reno show and graduated to syndication during the mid 1980s.
Jesse had heard the rundown countless times. Jada played one of a
dozen Tree House Kids on the song-and-sketch show which was, in
actuality, a rip-off of better-known predecessors—an admission Jada
allowed because she considered herself the show’s answer to Annette
Funicello.

After five years on the air, controversy raged when a
reporter photographed Bailey handing a beer to a Tree House Kid.
The show entered hiatus and never recovered. Jada’s acting career
screeched to a halt, but still existed in the deep recesses of her
subconscious. She seemed to long for those golden days and, due
perhaps to unresolved childhood issues, seemed to remain a little
girl at heart. When they first moved in together, Jesse discovered
a secret stash of videotapes in Jada’s closet—her favorite
Bailey’s Gang
episodes. Jesse found the stash adorable, but
when he took his discovery a step further and joked about her
collection, Jada actually cried.

Jesse got up and headed for the kitchen. “I’ll get
you a beer, how’s that?”

“No, I’ll just have a glass of wine at dinner. Did
you work at the shop today?”

“Yeah, a full day. Wasn’t as eventful as yours,
though.”

“Nobody tried to steal a roll of film? No armed
robbery?”

“Not quite,” he called from the kitchen. “A customer
hired me to shoot pictures at his kid’s birthday party. A little
extra cash.”

Expressionless, Jada examined her manicured nails.
“Gee, exciting stuff. I can see why you like it there.”

Bottle of Budweiser in hand, Jesse walked back into
the room and took a swig. He settled back on the sofa, rested his
elbows on his knees as Jada moved closer. She ran her hand along
his back.

“I heard from Maddy today,” Jesse said as he picked
at the bottle label. “She scheduled me for an audition.”

“Which project?”

“
Taking Sides
. It’s a bit part.”

“The new Mark Shea project? Why would you want
that?”

“I need the gig. What’s wrong with it?”

“He’s lost his vision. His last three films tanked.
He cast a sinking star in the lead role. You want to associate
yourself with that? How many times have I explained this to
you?”

“Look, it’s not like I have a choice. I don’t work
for Barry Richert, who picks his projects.”

“How many others are up for the part?”

“Four or five. Maddy doesn’t have many specifics on
it; she just knows they want someone tall.”

“Well, you should have a decent shot at it.” A quick
pause before Jada swung her head around to face him eye to eye.
“What else is going on? You’ve got those lines in your forehead—the
ones you get when you’re worried.”