James Conway - In Cold Blonde

“Actually,” he said. “The fax was a mistake.”

“I knew it.” I reached my seven-year old red Miata convertible, dumped my crap in the back seat, and took proper hold of the phone. “I mean, you promised me no more bit parts. So when I saw—”

“Not that kind of mistake,” Lucas interrupted. “More like the ‘you’re not a client anymore so we’re not sending you out on auditions’ kind of mistake.”

“What?”

“Times are tough, Grace. Too many actresses, too few parts. So the partners have decided to trim the client list.”

“If this is a joke, it is so not funny.”

“No joke. Look, I fought for you, I did. But the partners just looked at the bottom line. Each year you’ve booked less and less work.”

“But we’ve been so close! I almost landed that Cameron Crowe comedy six months ago. And you said I was the second choice for the CBS pilot.”

“I was being nice, Grace. You were a bust in both auditions.”

“What?”

“You’ve got tons of talent, don’t get me wrong. But you’re just not the same actress I met five years ago. It’s like the passion’s been sucked out of you.”

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to learn two or three parts a day, drive all over town auditioning — seeing the same actresses trying out for the same roles — and almost never getting hired?”

“I do. But you used to be excited to have all those auditions. Now you dread them. Does that tell you anything?”

“It’s hard not to get discouraged, Lucas. But I’ll do better, I promise. Give me another chance; I’ll be the new improved Grace Taylor, you’ll see.”

“I’m sorry, it’s out of my hands. Stop by anytime to pick up your head-shots and demo reel.”

“Lucas, no, please…”

“Prove us wrong, kiddo. Go out there and become a star.” He hung up.

I promised myself I wouldn’t cry on the drive home. I made it twenty feet. Tears of anger, frustration and humiliation poured down my face. I was crying so hard traffic was a blur so I turned on the windshield wipers. They scraped uselessly against the bone-dry glass and when I realized how stupid I was, I started laughing.

Then my old optimism came roaring back. Hey, it’ll all work out, I told myself. I had tons of actress friends who would be happy to introduce me to their agent. And guys hit on me all the time. So fuck Jason Settles. Grace Taylor was available again and Hollywood was full of hot guys.

It was about a fifteen-minute drive from Jason’s house to my apartment in Westwood. Or should I say, apartment about to go condo.

Would you pay $560,000 for a 400 square-foot, one bedroom apartment in a thirty-year-old building? Me neither. Never mind the fact I had no money and lousy credit. The apartment was shabby, the walls were paper-thin, the refrigerator rattled, the toilet ran, and the shower stall smelled like rotten cheese.

My lease was up and, since I wouldn’t buy the shithole, they were kicking me out. I had twelve days to vacate the premises. To be honest, I hadn’t even started looking. I was kind of hoping Jason would ask me to move in with him.

Idiot!!

I heard the phone ring inside the apartment. I was holding the box in one arm and the armload of clothes in the other, but I managed to dig my keys out of my purse and let myself in. I dumped my stuff on the chair and dove for the phone like a lifeline. “Be someone I know and love.”

“Will I do?” I recognized the voice instantly. Madison Stone, one of my best friends. We met at an audition for the TV show, House , both reading for a newlywed who’s got a brain tumor and only Dr. House’s quirky brilliance can save her. If I was the Girl Next Door, Madison was usually cast as the Drop Dead Gorgeous. Madison had incredible red hair, a killer body and this oozing kind of sexuality that usually left guys tripping all over themselves. And, if she’d been a better actress, she could have been a star. But to be honest, and she was the first to admit it, Madison was a little stiff. She always seemed to be “acting,” was never able to disappear into the role. But she worked it. She was in two different acting classes, and a cold reading workshop. Madison did book a lot of print work and enough commercials to keep her in a nice apartment, let her shop at Barney’s, and treat us to hundred-dollar lunches at the Ivy.

“Oh, thank God, Madison. You won’t believe the day I’m having. Jason dumped me and my agent fired me.”

“Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry. I never liked Jason, though. None of us did. But your agent is a different…” Madison tailed off. A beat later her voice was louder, angry. “What the hell are you doing here?” She was talking to someone else in her apartment.

“Madison, who’s there? Are you all right?”

“Get away from me.” She sounded scared now. Near panic.

“Madison!”

She screamed. Then I heard what sounded like a punch, followed by another scream, shattering glass, the thud of the phone hitting the floor, and then the line went dead.

Oh shit. I quickly called her back, but it just rang. And rang. Not good.

Madison only lived a couple of blocks away, so I thought about running over there and rescuing her, then got real. I’m an actress, not the Bionic Woman. I called 911. It was busy. Ten-fifteen on a Thursday morning and 911 is busy! I called again. Busy. Goddamn L.A. I grabbed my purse and bolted out the door.

I started running. If I cut through the alley and caught the light on Santa Monica Boulevard, I could be at Madison’s in a couple of minutes. And while I may not have been the Bionic Woman, Madison and I did take a self-defense class from Charlie Wang’s Women Empowerment Academy.

I reviewed Charlie’s Five and Five. The five target areas: Eyes, Nose, Throat, Jaw and Groin. The five attacks: Palm Strike, Throat Strike, Head Butt, Elbow Blow, Knee Kick. Charlie was also a huge proponent of mace. We drilled using it when attacked from the front and attacked from the rear. On graduation day, we each got a diploma and a four-ounce can of mace. I’d never fired it in anger, so to speak, but it was in my purse and ready to go.

I looked for help as I bolted out of the alley and raced down Kelton Avenue. No cops, anywhere. No hunky guys standing around who might want to help a lady in distress, either. The light blinked from yellow to red as I got to the intersection. Screw it, I thought, and I darted into the street. Screeching brakes and blaring horns greeted me, but I made it across Santa Monica unscathed and stopped in front of Madison’s building. There was an exterior staircase leading to the second floor landing and Madison’s apartment.

I pulled out my cell phone, tried 911 one final time and couldn’t get a signal. I had a copy of Madison’s key, part of Charlie Wang’s Buddy System. I grabbed it and started up the stairs. When I reached the apartment, I put my ear to the door, heard nothing. Tried to look in the window, but the drapes were drawn.

I thought about knocking. But if some evildoer was inside, I was afraid they would just shoot me through the door. So I unlocked the door, traded the key for my can of mace and slowly stepped inside.

The living room was empty, but a complete mess. Stuff was tossed everywhere. I inched forward, peeked into the kitchen. Madison was sprawled on the floor. I rushed to her, blood dripped from a gash on her forehead. She was either dead or unconscious.

“Madison!” I whispered urgently. I put two fingers to her carotid artery — I played a nurse on an episode of The Mentalist and the technical advisor had taught me how to do it. The pulse was strong, thank God. “Madison,” I whispered again. I looked for something to staunch the bleeding. There was a dishtowel on the counter. I grabbed it, but when I pulled it, I realized it was sitting under a nest of copper measuring cups. They went flying; with a loud clang, they hit the floor.