"He died alone," said Pious Dundas, old as Methuselah, unblinking. "It don't matter a rat's ass whether there was anyone with him or not. He died alone."
It felt strange to be leaving the hotel.
I went up to the front desk.
"I'll be checking out later this afternoon."
"Very good, sir."
"Would it be possible for you to…the, uh, the groundkeeper. Mister Dundas. An elderly gentleman. I don't know. I haven't seen him around for a couple of days. I wanted to say good-bye."
"To one of the groundsmen?"
"Yes."
She stared at me, puzzled. She was very beautiful, and her lipstick was the colour of a blackberry bruise. I wondered whether she was waiting to be discovered.
She picked up the phone and spoke into it, quietly.
Then, "I'm sorry sir. Mister Dundas hasn't been in for the last few days."
"Could you give me his phone number?"
"I'm sorry sir. That's not our policy." She stared at me as she said it; letting me know that she really was so sorry…
"How's your screenplay?" I asked her.
"How did you know?" she asked.
"Well-"
"It's on Joel Silver's desk," she said. "My friend Arnie, he's my writing partner, and he's a courier. He dropped it off with Joel Silver's office, like it came from a regular agent or somewhere."
"Best of luck,"' I told her.
Thanks," she said, and smiled with her blackberry lips.
Information had two Dundas, P's listed, which I thought was both unlikely and said something about America, or at least Los Angeles.
The first turned out to be a Ms Persephone Dundas.
At the second number, when I asked for Pious Dundas, a man's voice said, "Who is this?"
I told him my name, that I was staying in the hotel, and that I had something belonging to Mr Dundas.
"Mister. My grandfa's dead. He died last night."
Shock makes cliches happen for reaclass="underline" I felt the blood drain from my face; I caught my breath.
"I'm sorry. I liked him."
"Yeah."
"It must have been pretty sudden."
"He was old. He got a cough." Someone asked him who he was talking to, and he said nobody, then he said, "Thanks for calling."
I felt stunned.
"Look, I have his scrapbook. He left it with me."
"That old film stuff?"
"Yes."
A pause.
"Keep it. That stuff's no good to anybody. Listen, mister, I gotta run."
A click, and the line went silent.
I went to pack the scrapbook in my bag and was startled, when a tear splashed on the faded leather cover, to discover that I was crying.
I stopped by the pool for the last time, to say good-bye to Pious Dundas, and to Hollywood.
Three ghost white carp drifted, fins flicking minutely, through the eternal present of the pool.
I remembered their names: Buster, Ghost and Princess; but there was no longer any way that anyone could have told them apart.
The car was waiting for me, by the hotel lobby. It was a thirty-minute drive to the airport, and already I was starting to forget.
CHAPTER 7: Eaten (Scenes from a Moving Picture)
INT. WEBSTER'S OFFICE. DAY.
As WEBSTER sits
reading the LA. Times, MCBRIDE walks in
and tells in
how his SISTER came
to Hollywood eleven months ago
to make her fortune, and to meet the stars.
Of how he'd heard from friends that she'd "gone strange".
Imagining the needle, or far worse,
he travels out to Hollywood himself
and finds her standing underneath a bridge.
Her skin is pale. She screams at him "Get lost!"
and sobs and runs. A TALL MAN DRESSED IN BLACK
grabs hold his sleeve, tells him to let it drop
"Forget your sister," but of course he can't…
(IN SEPIA
we see the two as teens,
a YOUNG MCBRIDE and SISTER way back when,
giggles beneath the porch, "I'll show you mine,"
closer perhaps than siblings ought to be…
to watch a passing butterfly.
We hear them breathe and fumble in the dark:
IN CLOSE-UP now he spurts into her hand,
she licks her palm: first makes a face, then smiles…
HOLD on her lips and teeth and on her tongue.)
Webster says he'll take the case,
says something flip and hard about LA,
like how it eats young girls and spits them out,
and takes a hundred dollars on account.
THREE NAKED WOMEN dance for dollar bills
Webster comes in, and talks to one of them,
slips her a twenty, shows a photograph,
the stripper-standing close enough that he
could touch her (but they've bouncers on patrol
wired steroid cases who will break your wrists)
admits she thinks she knows the girl he means.
Then Webster leaves.
A video awaits him at his home.
It shows A WOMAN lovelier than life
Shot from the ribcage up (Tier breasts exposed)
Advising him to let this whole thing drop,
forget it," promising she'll see him
soon…
INT. McBride'S HOTEL ROOM. NIGHT.
McBride's alone and lying on the bed,
He's watching soft-core porn on pay-per-view
Naked. He rubs his cock with Vaseline,
lazy and slow, he doesn't want to come.
A BANG upon the window. He sits up,
flaccid and scared (he's on the second floor)
and opens up the window of his room.
HIS SISTER enters, looking almost dead,
implores him to forget her. He says no.
The sister shambles over to the door.
A WOMAN DRESSED IN BLACK waits in the hall.
Brunette in leather, kinky as all hell,
who steps over the threshold with a smile.
And they have sex.
The sister stands alone.
She watches as the Brunette takes McBride
(her skin's necrotic blue. She's fully dressed).
The Brunette gestures curtly with her hand,
Off come the sister's clothes. She looks a mess:
her skin's all scarred and scored; one nipple's gone.
She takes her gloves off and we see her hands:
her fingers look like ribs, or chicken wings,
well-chewed, and rescued from a garbage can-
dry bones with scraps of flesh and cartilage.
She puts her fingers in the Brunette's mouth…
THE PHONE RINGS. It's McBride. "Just drop the case.
I've found my sister, and I'm going home.
You've got five hundred dollars, and my thanks."
PULL BACK on Webster, puzzled and confused.
MONTAGE of WEBSTER here. A week goes by,
we see him eating, pissing, drinking, drunk.
We watch him throw HIS GIRLFRIEND out of bed.
We see him play the video again…
The VIDEO GIRL stares at him and says
she'll see him soon. "I promise, Webster, soon."
Pale people stand like cattle in a pen.
We see McBride. The flesh is off his chest.
White meat is good. We're looking through his ribs:
his heart is still. His lungs, however, breathe,
inflate, deflate. And tears of pus run down
his sunken cheeks. He pisses in the muck.
It doesn't steam. He wishes he were dead.
A DREAM:
As Webster tosses in his bed
He sees McBride, a corpse beneath a bridge,