The Disappearing Act(75)

I pause for a second staring down at the shiny bullet in my lap. I could load it. But if it’s purely a deterrent, then why do that? I’d just be asking for something to go wrong. But then what if the deterrent doesn’t deter? If push comes to shove, couldn’t a warning shot be more useful?

I think of Chekhov’s gun. The theatrical trope that tells actors and playwrights: Never place a loaded gun on the stage if it isn’t going to go off. Don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep.

I peer down at my now loaded gun. Apparently, Hemingway hated Chekhov’s “loaded gun” advice. If every loaded gun in every story ever written had to go off then there would be no new stories.

A bell tinkles as I enter the 101 but nobody looks up, the diner music muffling my entrance. I scan the customers. Mainly men, various shapes and sizes, sit up at the counter.

The whites of a chef in the back, only his chest visible through the kitchen serving hatch. Two waitresses, one wiping the countertops, another refilling coffee. A middle-aged woman at a window booth tucking into a basket of sweet potato fries while quietly working on a crossword, reading glasses low.

Farther into the restaurant, I see the back of her head. Her long glossy chestnut hair twisted up into a bun, the back of her ivory neck visible through fallen strands. Marla. My stomach flips. The woman I’ve been looking for since she disappeared six days ago. The woman I thought was Emily Bryant. Emily’s best friend.

I make my way over and slide wordlessly into the booth opposite her. Then I catch sight of her face and recoil before I can stop myself. She’s definitely the girl I met at the audition six days ago, but the right side of her face from eyebrow to cheekbone is a smudge of deep-purple bruising. The delicate skin around her eye socket is swollen and puffy. She’s tried to cover the worst of it with concealer but the livid colors beneath are impossible to hide. A deep cut punctuates her right eyebrow, the wound beginning to scab over.

She darts a reassuring hand across the table as I pull back, her cold fingers circling my wrist gently but firmly. “Relax,” she coos. “It’s fine. It looks worse than it feels.” She smiles but the motion makes her wince.

I let my shoulders relax and place my bag down carefully beside me as I take in the damage to her face. She studies me with interest now too, the woman who has been doggedly tracking her for almost a week.

“Who did it?” I ask.

She knows I mean her face. “Who do you think?”

I think Ben Cohan. Probably not Ben himself, someone Ben knows.

“He sent someone, didn’t he?” I ask, and she nods almost imperceptibly. “Was it Ben or Mike who arranged for that to happen to you?”

“Same thing,” she answers. “You heard the recording?”

“I did.”

“So you know what happened that night.”

“Yes. And then Emily tried to blackmail them?” I clarify.

She nods again and it occurs to me that talking must be painful, damaged muscles aching under bruised skin.

“She played them the tape,” she says, her voice low. “She contacted a few other girls at the party. She had an actual witness, someone saw Ben’s assistant spike a drink. If she needed it Emily had a witness. But she said she’d drop the whole thing if they made it right.”

“And what would make it right?” I ask.

“A job. She didn’t want a trial. And she didn’t want the payoff she knew they’d offer her. And by God did they offer her a payoff. She wanted what she came to LA for in the first place. The price was too high but she figured she’d already paid it so she should get something in return. And they’d done it for other actresses.”

“What? Given them jobs after they’d…?” I blurt before I can temper my question. Marla nods. “Then what went wrong this time?”

She falls silent as menus arrive; she doesn’t speak again until the waitress is safely back behind the counter.

“The recording. The fact she had one. They wanted it. She wouldn’t give it to them until she was actually on set, in costume, deal done. She didn’t trust them. So she wanted to keep the evidence until they delivered.”

“But she could have kept copies. Not told them,” I argue.

Marla chuckles then winces. “They would have known. They wanted to send someone over, they wanted to wipe her hard drives, look through emails. That was part of the deal. They’d already taken so much from her, she wasn’t going to let them into her home, into her life as well.”

“So she said no?”

“Yeah.” Marla rips open a bright-pink Sweet’N Low, tipping it into her black coffee. “She told them she’d hand everything over once filming was complete. That way they’d have to reshoot the entire movie if they wanted to pull out of the deal, and there was no way they’d do that.” She pauses, her mug halfway to her mouth. “She was a good enough actress, by the way, good enough to handle a role like that. Genuinely good. They wouldn’t have had to reshoot for that reason.”

Was. Was good enough. The words hang in the air between us.

I don’t suppose she’ll have much of a career to come back to if she ever comes back. I’m sure they’ll make sure of that. I take a moment to steel myself before I ask, “What did they do when she refused to give them the recording?”