Leaving Unknown (22 page)

I
t wasn’t until I was staring directly into the sun that it hit me I was in Los Angeles. The standstill traffic on I–10 should have been a clue, but it was the perfect round ball heading toward the sea that signified my arrival. The jittery feeling I’d had since leaving Unknown abated for the first time, replaced by a blossoming euphoria. And disbelief. How had I,
Maeve Connelly, gotten myself this far? I forgot about kachinas and donkey suits and a bookstore blocked from my mind, and sat in wonder. I’d
done
something.

“We’re in LA, bud!” I exclaimed to Oliver.

Oliver raised and lowered his crest feather as he considered the endless stretch of taillights. “Twat,” he pronounced, then burrowed into his Snuggle Hut, where he’d spent most of his time since leaving Lulabell. Unsatisfying response.

I called my mother. “Guess what I’m looking at?”

“I couldn’t possibly know, dear. A cow’s butt?”

“A bumper. Lots of them! This one says ‘I’ll never live east of the 405’ and ‘Give Peas A Chance.’”

Silence. Then, “Well, that’s just…”

“I’m in LA, Mom! I made it!” I was actually teary.

Silence again. “I’m so happy for you, Maeve.” Her voice was tender. I waited, aching with my need. She delivered. “We never doubted you for a minute. Your father and I are so proud. I’ve always been in awe of your strength.”

Her statement took my breath away.
My
strength?

“But I…”

“Maeve, cancer isn’t a punishment. You didn’t earn it by bad behavior or inferior ingredients. It was random. It’s how you respond that defines you. I’m not talking about how your body responds to treatment. Cameron wasn’t a better or worse person, she was just sicker. I’m talking about your tenacity. I honestly don’t know if I could have endured what you did.”

“I don’t feel like I’ve done anything,” I admitted.

“I never knew how to talk about it with you. In some ways your experience has put you beyond me.” She sighed. “Maeve, you dug deep for resources many of us never need. I thank God every day you had enough. After it was over, perhaps your fields needed to lie fallow for a while. Now it’s time to start using all the wealth you possess again.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I blinked back tears, thankful for the standstill traffic.

“If I could give you one gift, Maeve, it would be to see yourself as I see you. And if you could give me one gift it would be a chunk of George Clooney’s lawn. But don’t get arrested.”

I hung up, images of verdant fields, sunny beaches, and palm trees swirling in a kaleidoscope of color behind my eyes.

I’d made good time from my Joshua Tree camp. It was four in the afternoon and Laura wasn’t expecting me until eight. We’d planned to meet at her place but I knew she was at work. She’d described an important shoot, and couldn’t leave early. She wasn’t answering her phone. I decided to head to Fox Studios. I was dying to see it, so why wait? I knew she worked in Building 100, so I figured I could track her down. If the shoot was really demanding, maybe I could help. It might make getting a job easier if I could dive right in. My trip had proven that an ability to sell on my feet worked. My mother’s words buoyed me with a new kind of confidence.

After consulting my map, I eased off the 10 and headed north on La Cienega, turning left on Pico. I knew I couldn’t drive right up, Laura had complained often enough about the hassles of demanding stars trying to park on the lot, but my map-trained eye spotted a public park across the street. The weather was perfect—Oliver would be fine. In the rearview mirror I glimpsed the box filled with crimson paper flowers Tuesday had given me to decorate my new home, and smiled. It would do nicely.

“I’m sorry girl, I don’t see your name.” The guard apologized. Distracted by the fact that his eyebrows were shaved into lightning bolts, I almost dropped my ruse to ask about them.

“Well, hell’s bells.” I recovered. “What’m I supposed to do with five hundred paper flowers?” I find a Southern accent useful from time to time. I blew out my bangs for effect.

“You say Laura Mills. That the gal, with, you know, the
clothes
?”

“Sure is,” I agreed, having no idea. He had two lightning-shaped earrings to match his eyebrows, and his carefully manicured pinkies sported miniature bolts. Man had an identity.

He gave a conspiratorial giggle. “Lord, I don’ know how that girl keep her job. You know what I’m sayin’?” Hunh. I rolled my eyes and shook my box of flowers in response.

“Help me out here, Shazam,” I begged. “There’s a sad luau scene waiting.”

“Shazam! I like that!” He grinned. “Tell you what. I don’ want that girl to lose her job ’a cause a me. This ain’t the first time she done forgot to send someone’s name up.” He tapped his keyboard and a badge spit out of his printer. “Don’ be stealin’ no golf carts, hear?”

“Thanks, man.” I stuck the badge on my
Rainbows Make Me Happy
T-shirt.

“Shazam!” I heard him chuckling as I walked away. “That good.”

I consulted the map he’d given me. Building 100 was easy to find. I saw that Stage 5 was closer. I decided to try there first. She was likely to be on set.

Stage 5 was an enormous pink stucco building with no windows, stretching half a city block. The street out front was cluttered with haphazardly parked golf carts, a coffee cart, a semi-truck stuffed with costumes, and a scattering of trailers. Teamsters, grips, and electricians lounged in open equipment truck beds smoking cigarettes. Double doors into the lobby reminded me of a darkroom entrance, devoid of anything but a serious-looking red lightbulb to indicate when filming was in progress. I bypassed the lobby in favor of the enormous bay doors beyond, stepping carefully to avoid wires and cables. Shooting must’ve been on a break, because the doors were
open, and people wearing heavier utility belts than cable repairmen scurried about the cavernous space speaking urgently into headsets. Others stood around drinking coffee and grazing a buffet.

I was a little overwhelmed by the frenetic activity after the slow pace of Unknown, but I shook it off. This was my new life. I observed a moment, then approached a bear of a man more at home as a roadie for Social Distortion than on a Hollywood set. His belt had more colored rolls of duct tape, notebooks, and tools than the others.

“Hey there,” I chirped.

He broke off talking into his headset and looked at my box of flowers. “What are those?”

“Um, not sure. I’m supposed to find Laura Mills.”

His confusion increased. “Laura Mills?”

“She works here?” My certainty wavered. But Shazam had known her. I must’ve picked the wrong mark. Guy was probably an animal handler.

“Aaron!” He bellowed. “You know a Laura Mills?”

“Never heard of her,” floated back a reply.

“I think she’s that Lola girl,” said a grungy guy in a Queens of the Stone Age T-shirt and low tops, shoveling a hot dog into his mouth. He wiggled his eyebrows at Bear. “You know, with the
clothes
.”

Bear’s face lightened. “Ohhhhhh.
That
Laura.” Confusion returned. “Why would she be ordering anything?” he asked me.

Crap. I didn’t want him to take Tuesday’s flowers. “Personal, I think.” I gave my best “who knows” shrug, tightening my grip on the box.

“Figures,” Bear grumbled. “Well you won’t find her here. She’ll be in Building 100.”

“Rock it, Mr. Socket.” I was beginning to get a bad feeling about Laura’s illustrious career. I followed the map to Build
ing 100, distracted along the way by signs for
House
,
Bones
,
The Simpsons
, and
24
. All Fox productions. It occurred to me to wonder why Laura had been driving Katherine Heigl around. Wasn’t Heigl’s show on ABC? Maybe she was making a movie. I recognized some building signs for “coming soon” movies. I also convinced myself that Jack Nicholson whizzed by on a golf cart. It probably wasn’t true, but it made a better story to tell Vi and Brick later than Any Guy in a baseball cap almost ran over my foot.

Building 100 was a squat, white building, identical to Building 101 and Building 102. Its sign proclaimed B
LACK
A
NGUS
. Laura either worked for the show, or served steak. The unattended reception area was standard—industrial gray carpeting, unnatural orange sofa, and dusty fake aspidistra in the corner. It fed into a hallway. I could hear activity. My choices were right or left. I hovered. The door opened and a Greek god walked in.

No really. Colin Cantell had played a Greek god in
Athens
. And here he was, larger than life (at least his chest), three feet away. Sadly, not in a toga. I vaguely remembered that he currently played a detective on a TV show.

“Hi.” He looked harried. I worked on keeping my jaw hinged, and managed a small squawk. He didn’t notice. Must happen a lot. He hurried off to the right. Decision made, I followed, keeping a restraining-order-safe distance behind him and wishing I wasn’t carrying a box of paper flowers in case I wanted to casually show off my favorite sunshine kneesocks.

“Joel!” he called in a surprisingly high-pitched whine. “I need to talk to you!”

“Oh joy.” The disgruntled answering voice indicated this was not a shared need. “What now?” Colin Cantell followed the voice, and I almost trailed him right into the producer’s office until I realized it and stopped short.

“It’s the script. The part where Kate discovers that the stamp on the confession letter is a rare and valuable Mauritius Post Office that leads to the killer.” He named his costar. “Angus would already have known that. He’s a philatelist.”

There was a long pause. Then, “A hard-bitten, streetwise detective with a shady Mafia past has expertise in rare stamps.” The tone was weary.

“Uh-huh.”

“See, that’s funny. Because I invented your character and I don’t remember that.”

“The script needs to be rewritten. All those scenes need to be taken away from Kate and given to Angus. The show is called
Black Angus
.”

“That’s because you insisted we change the name from
Two Sense
. As in
two
people.”

“Like on page sixty-seven…”

“Hold on. Hold the fuck on. Where’s my script? Why the fuck isn’t the script ever where it’s supposed to be?” His voice became a roar. “Lola! Lola!”

I stepped out of sight. A second later Laura Mills tottered down the hall looking tense. And like Cyndi Lauper and Posh Spice got into a fight and both lost. The tottering was due to bizarre heel-less platform boots, requiring her to balance on the balls of her feet. These accompanied mesh tights and an extremely short pleated kilt. Her smooth coif from the Facebook photos was now a haywire tangle around a peculiar feather ornament, perhaps to match the fingerless gloves. Only the schoolmarm-style white blouse offered relief for the eyes. She didn’t notice me as she wobbled into the office. She looked almost green when she wobbled out. If someone had directed that language toward me, I’d be green too. The only non-invective had been the word
intern
, which amplified my bad feeling.

The voices in the office dropped to murmurs. I tiptoed after
Laura. The hallway drained into a large room filled with desks. Laura was nowhere to be seen.

“Excuse me,” I asked that-guy-who-tries-too-hard-with-the-skinny-tie. “Did you see where Laura went?”

“Laura-Lola, Fashion Icon?” His signature was sarcasm, naturally.

“That’s the one.”

“Copy machine.” He snickered at the paper flowers. “Those all the flowers you could afford?”

“That all the tie you could afford?” I followed the sound of the copier.

Laura was muttering over the machine, collecting pink sheets as it spit them out. “White isn’t right. Blue is two. Green is no. Pink is go. Or is pink no? Shit. God, please let the final be pink.”

“Hey Laura,” I ventured.

“For the last time, it’s
LOLA
,” she snarled as she turned. Then her mouth dropped open. “What are
you
doing here?”

“Surprise!” My announcement was weak. “I got in early.”

A big smile replaced her shocked look, and she gave a theatrical shriek before hugging me, box and all. “Maeve! Wow! How’d you find me?” She sounded genuinely glad. I relaxed.

“From your emails.”

“Wow.” She repeated. She gave a little hop, then regained her balance. “You’re here! How fun! Yay! We’re going to have all
kinds
of…”

“
Scriiiiipt!!!
” A bellow reverberated down the hall. Laura jumped again, different cause.

“Shit. Hang on a sec.” She grabbed the sheaf of pink pages and lurched off. I stayed where I was and studied the chart above the machine that indicated all final scripts were to be printed on green paper.

Laura returned shortly. Joel was either colorblind or just happy to have a script. She led me to an impossibly cluttered desk.

She made a face. “I have to share with the other in—I mean, another staffer.” Her voice dropped. “She uses oil in her hair so it smells funny. It’s not
me
.” She rolled her eyes and returned to normal voice.

“What does a First AD do?” I asked.

Laura looked shifty. “This and that,” she hedged. “I won’t bore you with details.” Then you could almost see the lightbulb pop over her head. She adopted a superior tone. “So much is
confidential
.” Her voice dropped. I felt like a one-woman audience for the Laura Mills show. “But I’m
so
outta here. I’ve got a connection with this new cop drama,
Badge Attitude
. He’s totally going to hook me up as soon as the show’s picked up. I’ll have my own office and everything.” I was pretty sure I heard a snort from Skinny Tie.