The Hollywood Project: Shuttergirl Part 3

Chapter 3.

Michael My name is Michael Greydon. Try not to hold that against me.

I've never wrecked a car, never knocked a girl up and paid her off, never screamed at my driver, never never never.

I think I became a series of nevers, and those nevers made me more valuable to the people who hired me. So I kept it up, and there I was, not wondering why I might grab a camera and throw it off a balcony, but what kind of person did that. I was a paper cutout of a man, blank and ready for anyone else to draw on.

When I first got into the business officially, at eighteen, I was told repeatedly that I didn't need to like my agent. I was told that, as a matter of fact, liking my agent would not only make the task of firing him more difficult but necessary. Agents weren't meant to be sincere, ethical, or good company. Agents were meant to tear out their grandmother's throat and eat her esophagus for a deal.

I was sure Gene Testarossa had used his grandmother's hide for the seats in his Mercedes. At Club NV, I wasn't uncomfortable with the centripetal force on my douchebag agent's moral center. By the time he pulled me away from the scene in the Emerald Room and out to the parking lot, I started to question everything I had been taught.

"Get off me," I said, yanking my arm away.

"What were you doing with her?"

"Talking."

"This is going to cost you more than a camera."

This was a mess. Between Britt breaking a bone and my temper tantrum, we were internet fodder for the rest of the week.

Gene got me into his Mercedes SUV, whipped a U-turn out of the alley, and peeled east as if his a.s.s were on fire, and in a way, it was. His eyes were bugging out, and his finger jabbed at me, clicking the pink gold of his watch.

"Were you doing blow tonight?" he asked in a completely businesslike manner, as if the culmination of his job was in that question.

"What?"

"Were. You. Doing. Blow?" He peeled onto the 10 freeway toward downtown.

"No." I didn't know what he was getting at. I didn't do drugs, and he knew it.

"Then what's with the behavior?"

I leaned back in the seat. I didn't feel right. I felt down, as if the adrenaline spike had drained me of energy. I stepped outside myself and watched the emotional toll of my physical distress. I could use it some time to inform a scene, or a word, or a glance.

I'd been photographed constantly since I was a baby. I had plenty of privilege, but that came with plenty of responsibility. I couldn't show what I was feeling, ever. I had to be nice to everyone all the time, and I couldn't be sick, not really. If I was shooting, my sick day cost everyone millions. If I didn't work every single day I was contracted to, people could lose their jobs. That's what my father had taught me. He said if I insisted on selling my life, if I insisted on getting into the business, then I was accepting responsibilities that weren't to be taken lightly. Everything I did, right or wrong, was seen under a looking gla.s.s, disseminated, a.n.a.lyzed by the public, then ignored. And all I ever wanted to be was right.

"You are so lucky I caught you," Gene said. "You looked like you were going to punch someone."

"What was I supposed to do?"

"Act like a G.o.dd.a.m.n grown-up."

"I cannot believe who this is coming from."

"I'm going to be frank." He changed lanes on the 10, zipping east in a blaze of headlights.

"Good. Be Frank. Because Gene's a d.i.c.k."

"Tonight, everyone's going to be looking at you. After Britt's f.u.c.king meltdown, they're going to wait for Bullets to sink. Is that what you want? I mean, no one cares what DMZ says, but once Variety starts in, then you start losing the confidence of the studio. Then you know what happens? Money gets pulled. Notes called in. The schedule is screwed, and the bond goes up. Then you have a reputation. You end up not working."

He was talking about my father, who hadn't made a movie in ten years because no one would book a drunk. Gene wasn't a subtle guy, but when it came to my dad, he knew to shut the h.e.l.l up.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Ken."

Ken was my PR guy, a powerhouse rotating in the same moral universe as my agent. But as little as I thought of him, he didn't throw stuff when he got angry.

I stated the obvious. "It's late."

"You can tell him that when we get there."

Downtown appeared over the horizon, a smattering of star-drowning lights. Gla.s.s-encrusted shafts hung together in a huddle, and we twisted right into the middle of them.

I knew what I looked like to the public. I looked as if I had all the freedom in the world, but as Gene handed the night valet his keys with an admonition to take it easy and not change the radio stations, I realized I hadn't done a d.a.m.n thing I wanted to do my whole life. I shut my eyes and tried not to curse repeatedly, drowning out my anger with thoughts of work. Football. Food. But the only thing that washed away the frustration was my curiosity over Shuttergirl.

Chapter 4.

Laine Tom had picked up the pieces of my camera like a baby, then he took Randee's hand. Her eyes lit up like strobe flashes. He yanked her, and we all ran to the Exploder so fast I couldn't keep up. For a guy who had his head up his a.s.s whenever he was working, he seemed competent and together, even purposeful, as if he'd woken up from a long sleep.

I was p.i.s.sed at him. Livid. But we were on autopilot. I didn't know how to stop the process and b.i.t.c.h out my brother. I only knew how to stop everything and upload the pics. Everything went on hold between the picture getting shot and the upload, because the lapse between the click of the shutter and the pic going online-complete with negotiation, photo retouch, and edited copy-was all of ninety minutes. A ten-minute delay to b.i.t.c.h at Tom could lose the sale.

I stood at the driver's side automatically, hand on the handle and waiting for him to lean over and pop the lock. Randee stood with her hands in front of her.

"He's not driving," I said. I wasn't getting in the back because he'd locked lips with her for fifteen minutes. That was already more explanation than she'd earned.

Pop.

I got in, and Tom and I did our thing. I snapped the camera from him and did quick forensics on the damage. The Canon was busted. The scratches and dings were nothing, but the hairline fracture across the front meant I'd have to buy a new body, and the lens was cracked. This would hurt to the tune of about seven thousand dollars.

"The memory card is shredded," I said, reaching for the laptop and wifi.

Randee sat crammed against the door, hands in her lap. I still hadn't heard her speak.

"I ran it through the internal." He looked into the back. "There's food and water in the cooler if you want." He plugged in the cable. "You gross industry douche, I got you."

"He's not," I said.

"Who are you defending?"

The picture came up. The angle could not have been more perfect. Michael was caught mid-camera grab, looking like an enraged, ent.i.tled little prince. The public loved seeing them rise and loved seeing them break. Tom was about to make a couple months' rent and then some.

"Wait, Tom."

He didn't look up from his screen. "What?"

"I'm in the picture."

He hit Send. "You wanna sign a release?"

"Tom!"

"What?"

"You don't talk to me? You don't ask me? It's my camera, my face-"

"Your back."

"You are an a.s.shole."

I knew Randee was back there. Her presence loomed like a video camera in a bedroom.

"It was a shot," Tom protested. "You told me-"

"Don't-"

"Get the shot if the shot can be got. That's what you've always said." He tossed me the keys. "Drive."

"I told Leo we didn't have our rigs."

"You lied," he said.

"You lied. You 'borrowed' my rig, and you lied. That is not cool. He could get fired."

I'd never spoken to Tom like that because I'd never had to. He was fragile and pa.s.sive, which explained too much of his childhood.

He straightened up and got onto the freeway. I faced front and stewed. He knew I wouldn't cut him off, not for this infraction at least, but I didn't know what to do with this level of rage. One, because he was my brother, but two, because the picture was going to net him a bundle, and I wouldn't stop him from making a bunch of money. I was trapped by my own loyalties. But I wanted to punch him in the face because I was who I was.

"So what?" Tom said. "I'll make a nice take on this, and I can buy you a new camera and dinner."

"I lost my appet.i.te," I said, pulling away from the curb. "I am so mad at you. Do not speak to me again."

"Come on, Laine." He flicked my knee. "Let's meet Irv. You can get mad at him."

The sad thing was, Irv, our mentor, had joints that ached late in the night. He was probably already awake and would be happy to meet us at three in the morning.

"Oh, Irv is going to eviscerate you good."

From the back, Randee snickered. I turned around. She just sat straight.

"You all right back there?" I asked.

"Yes. Thank you." She smiled.

I did not trust that girl. I'd wanted to make things happen for Tom, and I had, but I determined that I'd never do that again. Nothing good could come from this.

We waited for his upload, and the calls started coming in. The heat on the picture and the story of the temper tantrum surrounding it was so hot, we had to pull over three times while Tom and Kill Photo negotiated the sale. Even though I wanted to strangle him, I made hand movements to communicate when he could ask for more money. If he was going to screw up, he should at least get paid for it.

It took us over an hour to even get to downtown, and by the time we hit club traffic on Olive Street, the picture was just about to go viral.

"Poor Michael," I said.

"He broke your camera," Randee said from the back.

I shrugged. "Still. It didn't belong there." I punched Tom in the arm for the tenth time. "You're lucky about that nice payday."

"Maybe the guy who threw it should replace it."

"Don't even..." I let myself drift off. Tom had to replace it, because there was no way Michael Greydon would lower himself to speak to me ever again, and that shouldn't have bothered me. I didn't need to talk to him to do my job. But he'd touched me, and I still felt the electricity of it. Jesus, I wanted him, and I hated myself for it.

Chapter 5.

Michael Kenneth Braque, LLP, was the biggest public relations firm in Los Angeles. He did politicians, doctors, lawyers, corporations, and industry types like myself.

His expansive lobby was quiet at that hour. The floor had been cleaned and buffed, the plants watered to a glisten, the gla.s.s and metal polished, and the sound system silenced. The night watchman looked up from his book. His face was blue from the bank of screens. I'd never seen him before, but then again, I'd never shown up at three in the morning.

"Sign in, please," he said.

Gene snapped up the clipboard. "Did Ken Braque get here?"

"Yeah," he said then pointed at me. "You're the guy from Dead Lawyer, aren't you?"

"Yes, I was in that."