The Big Bamboo Page 2

  “You know I don’t drink.”

  “You should start. Take your mind off it.”

  Ford glanced around. “I just know I’m going to get thrown out. As soon as the Glicks notice I’m—”

  “They’re too busy figuring out who they’re going to nail,” said Mark, turning toward the loudest section of the party, where bookend vixens were fighting off all comers to stay attached to the Glicks’ arms. The competition was fierce, despite— and because of— the brothers’ reputation for spiking drinks and tag-teaming unconscious ingenues, who landed juicy movie roles in exchange for not going to the authorities. The brothers considered themselves fair men.

  “Look at those jerks,” said Ford. “I still can’t believe what they did to me.”

  “You’ll find another job. Besides, who’d have thought we’d make it this far?”

  Indeed. A mighty long way for two guys who’d begun the year wearing paper hats at a Pretzel Depot in the food court of a deserted mall in unincorporated Zanesville, Ohio. Ford Oelman and Mark Costa. Both on the thin side with extra-young faces that suggested childhood histories of being picked on.

  But they had dreams. Ford wanted to be a writer; Mark, an actor. The pair spent many an idle evening in the food court sharing a love of cinema, elaborately planning their shot at stardom. And that’s as far as it went. Months passed. Inertia set in. Ford eventually worked his way up to interim weekend night manager before mall occupancy fell below ten percent and the shopping center was slated for demolition to make way for a new empty field.

  Mark was crushed, but Ford saw the silver-screen lining. He knew opportunity when it knocked. That’s right: Pretzel Depot had several franchises in southern California.

  Westward ho! They landed evening gigs in a Burbank food court, where they served a steady stream of stagehands from Vistamax Studios across the street. Ford and Mark followed them back across the street one day and applied for jobs. Their big break came from the props department.

  The enormity of the warehouse blew them away, like that scene with all the crates at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark. It was a converted blimp hangar with endless, cavernous, interconnecting rooms. Hundreds of oil paintings, thousands of Tiffany lamps, two separate rooms for musical instruments, string and wind. They couldn’t have been happier, zipping around the studio in golf carts full of wax fruit, fireplace pokers, caveman clubs, yacht pennants, cowboy spurs, sousaphones and leather-bound books with spray-on dust.

  On their first Friday, a third executive producer wandered into the break room. “You guys need invitations?”

  “To what?”

  “Cast party. I got extra.”

  “But we’re not cast.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” The producer gave them an envelope. “Need coke with that?”

  “What?”

  “Call me if you do.” He handed out business cards. Dallas Reel.

  The producer was right: All night long, nobody cared they weren’t cast. And what a party it was!

  Actually, it was a whole bunch of them. Ford and Mark quickly learned that a single invitation was like an all-day pass to an underground social network connecting the entire L.A. scene in a fluid movement of strangers who came together in brief alliances to locate the next party, where they promptly dissolved to re-form new permutations and so on. The buddies didn’t recognize any stars for the first two hours, then just a bit actor who played a series of O.D. victims during three seasons of ER. For the most part, everyone was like them, bottom-feeders on an insatiable quest. But what was that quest? A young gofer from New Line told them: to get a limo. Studio brass were always losing track of them, and you had to be ready.

  “Been watching this one for an hour.” The gofer nodded toward the white stretch Hummer in front of a Bauhaus manse on Laurel Canyon.

  “Who’s it belong to?” asked Ford.

  “That guy.”

  A third executive producer trotted down the front steps with a bottle of champagne and a bottle blonde. They hopped in a black Ferrari and zoomed down the canyon.

  “To the limo!”

  Three young men dove in the backseat. The suspicious chauffeur turned around. “You with the studio?”

  “Yeah.”

  The driver handed back a pile of stapled pages. “My screenplay. Coming-of-age story about rival chauffeurs

  ” They sped off.

  That was several months ago. Killer parties every weekend. Ford picked up material for his scripts. Mark picked up a hobby. He began collecting phone numbers of actresses and actress-types that he stored in the directory of his cell phone until most of the alphabet was represented. Then Ford got fired. It’s a long story, and we’ll get to that. But right now: Skybar.

  The Glicks basked. Supermodels posed. Mark and Ford made their way around the pool to a tiny, tin-roofed bar. Mark ordered an apple martini. Ford asked for a Coke.

  “You should get something to drink,” said Mark. “Help you relax.”

  “I’m getting something to drink.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  The pair leaned against a wall outside the women’s room so Mark could lurk. A waiter came by. Ford grabbed two flutes of Dom Pérignon from the passing tray.

  “Ford,” said Mark. “You’re drinking.”

  On the far edge of the patio, a melancholy young woman stood alone at the railing, gazing out over the City of Angels, her long, wispy hair fluttering in the breeze. Each time she turned around, another blinding burst from paparazzi. So she didn’t turn around much. Ally Street, the newly cast star of All That Glitters.

  Street was soon joined by another attractive but older woman, her agent/publicist Tori Gersh, the primary reason for Street’s success. The actress had literally come out of nowhere to land the big role, following the heavily reported dismissal of Naomi Passious for creative differences, which meant drugs. The casting of a complete unknown in such a high-profile part triggered an avalanche of media requests and forced Gersh to rapidly compose the fake biography: Born during a West Virginia blizzard that killed her parents and raised by gypsies who sold counterfeit Bon Jovi beach towels in midways along the Atlantic seaboard before escaping to join a breakaway convent in New Hampshire that had rejected Vatican II and was later indicted for an Internet Ponzi scam involving “miracle” wrinkle gel, then three missing years in the Pacific Northwest that she refused to talk about before resurfacing as Guinevere in a renaissance troupe out of Bakersfield, where Gersh’s Volvo just happened to break down. The trades consistently described Street’s rise to fame as meteoric, even though meteors actually fall.

  And that’s how she didn’t come to be in Skybar tonight, standing next to Tori at the railing. They looked out over the city and saw a shooting star.

  “I hate these parties,” said Ally.

  “Just a few more minutes,” said Tori. “For appearances.”

  Two people came toward them. One was another publicist. He shook their hands. “Ms. Street, a pleasure. I’m a big admirer of your work. I’d like you to meet my client, Jason Geddy.”

  Jason shook Ally’s hand. “Yo, word.”

  Paparazzi cameras flashed.

  A brief period of very small talk. The other publicist shook their hands again and left.

  “That was nice of them,” said Ally.

  “Nice, nothing,” said Tori. “It was just to generate rumors about you two in the press. Jason’s career’s been racing south ever since the breakup of Boyz II Synched XS.”

  On the other side of the patio, Mark pestered a babe exiting the women’s room.

  “Excuse me, you’re a model, aren’t you?”

  She raised her chin in umbrage. “Spokesmodel.”

  Mark tapped a spot on the side of his face. “You got throw-up.”

  Ford slumped against the wall and grabbed two more glasses from a passing tray.

  Mark opened his cell phone and looked up at the woman. “Maybe I can call you sometime?”

  “Uh, sure

  ”

  Ford killed the glass in his left hand, then his right. The woman hurried away.
Mark turned to Ford and held up his open cell phone. “Just got another number.”

  Ford read the blue liquid display: 555-1234.

  Mark closed the phone. “That was a good one, too. I was low on H’s.”

  “Do you ever call them?”

  “Constantly.”

  “And?”

  “They’ve all been wrong numbers. I think something’s the matter with my phone.”

  Ford scanned the patio with double vision. “Haven’t seen any stars yet.”

  “There’s Ally Street,” said Mark.

  “Where?”

  “Against the railing.”

  Ten minutes later, the rest of the gang from props clustered around Ford. They stared at his cell phone in astonishment.

  “I can’t believe you got Ally Street’s number!”

  “I just walked up to her,” said Ford. “I guess everyone else is too intimidated.”

  “When are you going to call her?”

  “Tonight,” said Ford. “She wants to meet later.”

  “Probably a fake number,” said Mark. “That’s what they do.”

  Ford flipped open his cell and hit the last number entered. A phone rang on the other side of the pool.

  “Hello?”

  Midnight.

  The props guys sipped Long Island iced teas and gazed out an upstairs picture window overlooking Wilshire Boulevard. Novelty ice cubes blinked in their drinks. New tote bags hung from their shoulders.

  The music was loud and industrial, the dark room behind them jammed and sweaty with people dancing by the light of a hundred blinking cocktails. A record label release party for the new anarchist punk band Plastic Corporate Man Massacre, whose name was embroidered on the promotional tote bags.

  “When are you supposed to call Ally?” asked Mark.

  Ford held his watch to his drink. “Half hour.”

  “Let’s get something to eat.”

  They took the elevator to the ground floor. The party was being held above a high-end department store, and the Otis doors opened to the bright, jarring light of the bedroom section. Ushers in bow ties were waiting to take the next group upstairs; others escorted the props guys back through the cologne atrium to the front entrance.

  A daisy-yellow Malibu convertible headed north on Vine. Normally, Ford would have been behind the wheel. He was the gang’s permanent designated driver, because he never drank, until now. So they reverted to their previous rotation: whoever was currently shit-scared onto the temporary wagon. Tonight that would be Pedro, still trying to shake off being awakened naked in a Topanga Dumpster by a bunch of transients poking him with sticks.

  They turned left on Sunset, the radio cranked. Ford’s head lolled, chin to his chest.

  “

  All right now, baby, it’s all riiiiiight now!

  ”

  Five more blocks. The Malibu entered a drive-through. Pedro shook Ford. “Wake up!”

  Ford looked around. “Where are we?”

  “The In-N-Out.”

  “May I take your order?”

  “What do they have?” asked Ford.

  “Just burgers, fries, soda. It’s the In-N-Out.”

  Mark was trying to make calls on his cell but only getting out-of-service messages.

  “Hey, Ford,” said Pedro. “What time were you supposed to call Ally?”

  “Oh, shit!” Ford flipped open his own cell.

  A hand reached over the passenger door and snatched it away. The gang turned.

  Two guys with ski masks and guns.

  “Give it up! That other phone! Now!”

  Mark held out a quivering arm.

  “Wallets and watches!” demanded the second robber.

  The guys were suddenly sober, fishing out billfolds and undoing wristbands.

  “Hurry the fuck up!”

  “May I take your order?”

  A police car with two hungry officers pulled in.

  “Damn!” The jackers took off across the parking lot and disappeared through a hole in the fence with the Days Inn.

  Five hearts pounded in the convertible, five frozen guys holding wallets and watches.

  “Hello? Anyone there? Can I take your order?”

  They began snapping out of it.

  “That was close,” said Pedro. “We almost lost our wallets.”

  “They got my cell phone!” said Mark. “All my numbers!”

  “They got mine!” said Ford. “How am I going to call Ally?”

  A yellow Malibu sat in the rear of the parking lot behind the In-N-Out.

  “This is insane!” Pedro grabbed into the backseat. “Give me back my phone!”

  Mark jerked it out of reach.

  “Come on, give it!” said Pedro. “I never would have lent it to you if I’d known—”

  “I have to get my cell phone back!” said Mark, punching in numbers.

  “I have to call Ally!” said Ford.

  “You’re both drunk!”

  “Shhhh! It’s ringing!” said Mark. “Uh, hello?

  Yeah, it’s us

  We just met

  The guys you robbed

  Sorry, should have figured there were several

  At the In-N-Out

  That’s right. I want to make a deal. I want my phone back

  No, this isn’t a joke. We’ll pay

  because I got a bunch of stuff stored in it I need

  Look, it’s not worth anything to you anyway. We’ll have the police trace your calls and then you go to jail

  No, I wasn’t threatening you. I was trying to make a point—

  You just found my personal info in the phone? You’re going to hunt me down and kill me?

  ”

  Ford waved drunkenly in Mark’s face. “Gimme, gimme, gimme. Let me talk to him

  ”

  “Hold on. Someone else wants to talk to you

  ”

  “Hi, Ford Oelman here

  Right, another fuck-head. Listen, we’ll give you two hundred dollars for the—

  Because I met this really hot actress tonight and her number’s in the phone

  Ally Street

  I did so meet her!

  Skybar

  Me neither, but I got on the list this time

  I know she’s really hot— I just told you that

  Can we speed this up? I was supposed to call her twenty minutes ago

  You found her number?

  Great! Why don’t you just read it off to me and then we don’t have to meet?

  What do you mean, you’re going to call her yourself?

  No, I’m supposed to call her. You can’t—”

  “What happened?” said Mark.

  “He hung up.”

  Mark grabbed the phone and dialed again.

  “Is it ringing?” said Ford.

  “Busy signal.” Mark hit redial. “Still busy.”

  “Gimme that.” Ford hit redial. On the fifth try, he gave Mark a thumbs-up. “

  Hello. It’s me again

  The guy who knows Ally Street

  You just talked to her?

  You set up a meeting?

  But how—

  You said you were my driver?

  Could you repeat that last part?

  I see

  Hold on

  ” Ford covered the phone and turned to Mark. “The price is now five hundred.”

  “Five hundred!”

  “Says they’ll give us both phones as well as the location where I’m supposed to meet Ally.”

  Mark winced at the cost, then nodded reluctantly. “Split it fifty-fifty?”

  “Deal.” Ford uncovered the phone. “Five hundred it is

  Yeah, I know the place

  Fifteen minutes in front of the Pig ’N Whistle. You got it

  Hey, when you talked to her did she say anything about me, you know, if she thought I was cute or—”

  “What happened?”

  “He hung up.”

  Fifteen minutes later.

  A yellow Malibu sat in the shadows of a dark side street off Hollywood Boulevard, a half-block down from the Pig N’ Whistle.

  “What are you
doing?” said Ford, pointing up the street with a five-hundred-dollar wad from an ATM. “We’re supposed to meet over there!”

  “Not a chance,” said Pedro, stretching his neck to see if anyone was lying in wait near the pub. “I should have my head examined just for being here. This is the most dumbass stunt I ever—”

  Pedro felt something cold and metal in his ear.

  “Gimme your wallets,” said a man in a ski mask.

  “And your watches,” said his accomplice.

  The money was plucked from Ford’s hand. The robbers collected the rest of their loot and ran off.

  Ford turned to Mark. “They lied.”

  The next morning.

  Ford lifted his head off the pillow and checked the alarm clock. Actually afternoon. His head fell back down with a groan.

  Mark was already up, frying ham and eggs in the kitchen of their modest third-floor unit at the Alto Nido Apartments. It was the quiet north end of Ivar Avenue, Jackson Browne playing softly on a small stereo from the Home Shopping Club mounted under a cabinet next to the stove.

  Ford stumbled into the kitchen rubbing his eyes.

  “

  Running on empty

  Running bliiiiiiiiiind!

  ”

  He filled a glass under the faucet and plopped two Alka-Seltzers, waiting on the fizzing action by staring out the window over the sink: light freeway traffic, partial glimpse of the Capitol Records tower

  Hold it. Something out of place. He turned to Mark at the kitchen table, sawing ham and dipping in yolk. “Why is it so quiet?”

  Mark flipped a page of the Los Angeles Times sports section and pointed toward the living room with his fork. Three guys watching TV. “The silent treatment.”

  “Why are they giving you the silent treatment?”

  “My guess is you’re going to get it, too.”

  “What did I do?”

  “Still sore about the robbery.”

  “I didn’t steal anything.”

  Mark turned the page. “They won’t listen.”

  Ford grabbed the edge of the sink. “Whoa

  ” He felt a momentary wooziness and the sensation something was pushing on his eyeballs from the inside. “I think I need to go back to bed.”

  He started walking away. Pedro ran into the kitchen and grabbed his arm.

  “Look,” said Ford. “I’m sorry as hell about last night, but Jesus!”

  Pedro’s face wasn’t angry. It was white.

  Soon, they were all gathered around the TV in the living room. A publicity photo of Ally Street filled the screen. The image switched to a reporter on the sidewalk in front of a trendy restaurant.