The surroundings there weren’t
much better, but she could feel the threatening air begin to lift. As she
rounded the last corner, she saw the building Tony had given her as a landmark.
Voices in her head shouted, “Turn around
and get out of here,” “Stardom is too far a reach,” “What if he is an ax
murderer?” but she refused to listen. She had come too far. She wanted this
too much and was determined to make it happen.
She pressed on through the gate.
Above the man-size door, she saw
the address numbers Tony had given her—“9797.” This is it, she thought, and her heart skipped with both
anticipation and anxiety as her mind raced forward to the scene she was about
to do for Ansell’s approval. The sweep of her car’s headlights fell on the only
other vehicle in the parking lot, a large dark sedan she judged, at first
glance, to be at least forty years old, maybe
older. She saw that much of the brown paint had faded or rubbed away to
bare metal, and some of that had been replaced with gray primer. The body, the
lower edge eroded with jagged rust holes, also presented with dents and
scratches under a fresh coat of LA smog. As Natalie glanced at the old classic,
she felt that something about the car didn’t set right. But with the next step
in her career waiting, she pushed the warning and uneasiness aside. She proved
she could take care of herself the day Alex attacked her in the cornfield and,
as self-sufficient as she had been over the last two years, she could do it
again now. It’s just nerves, she
convinced herself.
While the others made the final
preparations, Tony Alonso stood at the make shift desk and shuffled papers.
With the hungry look in Natalie’s eyes in the studio parking lot yesterday, he
knew what he tendered would have been beyond mere temptation for her, there was
no other decision she could have made. So her confirming phone call came as no
surprise. With that knowledge, he could induce her to do anything he wanted,
but if she was the chosen, she would volunteer to begin the passage.
Always at the base of Tony’s
thoughts, Ma demanded his attention. Over time she had revealed enough truth
about his beginning to know he was no accident. The rest grew from a distorted
view of his truth.
Ma
had only been a girl when John Lennon recorded “All You Need Is Love.” She took
it literally. Her search became both her obsession and her addiction. Her
abusers—johns, pimps and dealers—substituted for what she needed, but didn’t
fill the void.
Then,
from the depths of her exploitation and hopelessness, the answer opened itself
like a fresh spring tulip. It seemed so simple, so obvious. A baby! In her
work, no shortage of men could provide the missing element—the seed. Not only
would he never know he fathered a child, but she wouldn’t know who the father
was. The plan was perfect. No one would ever vie for what she created, what she
craved. Conception would cleanse her. Birth would bring forth that one perfect
thing.
Her
anguished drive, though, had a perversion all its own. Love was an act she sold
to any man with a wallet. But her quest could only be fulfilled by spawning
someone who must give her the unconditional love and utter dependence for which
her soul ached. No other human relationship could bring her to the heights of
nirvana.
But
the bondage to her daily work trumped the dream. No matter how much she willed
otherwise, her weakness couldn’t control the damage she heaped like blazing
coals on her only child. By the time Tony could form sentences, so she wouldn’t
be fettered to the needs of the boy, she forced him from her studio so the
parade of men could tramp at will up and down the stairs of the brownstone
walk-up.
Tony pulled a document from a
manila envelope just enough to expose the heading and studied the name written
across the top—“Natalie Beaumont.” He thought, Could she really be the one?
The squawk of a dry hinge pulled
his attention away from that thought. He realized it was most likely the signal
that Natalie had stepped inside. His tan, tweed jacket lay in front of him. He
slipped his arms into it, and then reached to the small of his back to make
sure the coattail concealed the pistol tucked into his waistband.
Meanwhile, Natalie stepped
inside and let the door close behind her. With a dull thud, it slammed to an
abrupt stop on a small stick wedged into the doorjamb. Her mind, focused on her
future, dismissed what should have appeared as an apparent breaking and entry,
and glanced down the long stark hallway. It was poorly lit by incandescent
bulbs in steel mesh fixtures suspended from the ten foot ceiling. At the other
end, some fifty feet away, she could see light stream through another door
opening.
She began to walk.
The click of her black boots on
the concrete floor and the swoosh of leather against leather as the arms of her
black jacket swayed forward and back with each stride, made a confident sound.
But self-assured she was not. With each step fear, like that fourteen year old
standing in front of the contemptuous cheer-squad queen, washed over her. She
wanted to do her best tonight, to capture the scene perfectly so when Ansell
viewed the tape, he would know he had discovered his next costar. But, like the
nightmare where the pursued needs to run but each step pulls deeper into
quicksand, Natalie felt that with each tread her legs gained ten pounds. Her
heart responded with heavy throbs under the strain.
When she reached the opening,
another man-sized door, she stepped into a large warehouse room out of breath
and exhausted with emotion. She stopped just inside and allowed her eyes to
adjust to the brighter light.
Her heart slowed to normal as
she took in the room. Around the walls she saw rows of appliances in brown
cardboard boxes. The sizes of the cartons varied. Some large enough to contain
refrigerators and freezers while others were small enough to protect washers
and dryers from shipping damage. They were stacked on top of each other and
reached high enough to almost touch the rafters. Some of arrows on the “This
Side Up” stickers pointed towards the floor. Can this be a sign? she wondered.
She focused on the middle of the
room. Several neat stacks of pallets piled at least ten feet high formed a row
across the center of the open area. At the far right end a shorter stack
rested. She recognized the tan jacket and dark ponytail of Tony Alonso. He
stooped over the pallets like a work bench.
“Come on in, Natalie,” he said
without turning around.
She hesitated for a moment
longer and then walked with purpose toward the lone figure. She stopped a few
feet from him, like last night in the parking lot, just out of easy reach.
“Mr. Alonso.”
“Tony, please. Here for your
screen test?” he asked with his back still toward her.
“Interesting place for a shoot,
Tony,” she said, and took another look around the room.
“Yes, but if you use your imagination,
it’ll be the perfect setting. Won’t you step over here?”
She took three steps forward and
could see he had several papers spread out on the makeshift desk. Her eyes fell
on a manila mailing envelope with a document partially exposed at the open end.
It looked much like contracts she had signed under the guidance of her agent.
Enough of it was exposed so she could see her name at the top.
“Are we signing a contract
tonight?” she asked, and couldn’t thwart the hope that eased her soul.
_____
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Jearl Rugh 2012
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