Phoenix

Chapter One

LOS ANGELES

Wednesday, July 13

2:59 p.m.

YOUR NAME?

The voice came from somewhere beyond the glare of the lights. It was deep, resonant, and weary.

A pinpoint of light reflected from the camera lens; Jack smiled at this tiny beacon—a warm, open smile with a hint of vulnerability, as he’d learned in drama class. He held up the slate bearing his name and said, Jackson McCauley.

There followed a weighty silence broken by a gurgle as Jack’s stomach protested a skipped breakfast. He hoped the mic hadn’t picked it up. Not that breakfast was beyond what he had in his wallet, but when it came to auditions and screen tests, the void in his gut admitted a butterfly or two.

He sneaked a glance into the gloom and saw a tight closeup of his face on a floor monitor. He was shiny from the heat of the lamps, but it was an evenly proportioned face with strong bones, piercing blue eyes, and a shock of carefully casual sandy-blond hair—a handsome face, a face, he’d been told, that would take him far.

It had taken him as far as this ancient, rundown sound stage in the back blocks of Hollywood.

Jackson McCauley? The weary man intoned the name as if trying to place it.

Jack turned his gaze back to the camera lens. Most people just call me Jack—Jack McCauley. But, professionally…

There was a terse rustle of paper. How old are you?

It’s on my résumé.

The man sighed and said as if to a kindergarten dropout, We’d rather like to hear your voice.

Twenty-three.

Silence. Jack grabbed another look at his image in the monitor. He’d worn what he thought was appropriate to test for a western—a neat, sky-blue, long-sleeved denim shirt with tabbed pockets, faded 501s, and cowboy boots that were only slightly down at heel, a souvenir from a gig as an extra on a TV series; they added an inch or so to his lean six feet.

Profile. A female voice—the voice of the casting director who’d called him out of the blue that afternoon—Michelle? Nicole? Something French sounding. That was about thirty minutes before the phone company ended their bumpy relationship with him and killed his cell account.

He turned to his left, offering what he considered to be his best side to the camera. Across the dark stage in the yellow glow of a work light, he saw a bored grip gazing at the floor. Even from this distance, Jack could tell the only thought on the guy’s mind was getting the hell out of there for a cigarette.

Other side.

Jack did a one-eighty. His view from this angle was even more depressing: Another actor around Jack’s age stood in the dust-defined beam of a grid, rigid with nerves. His glance shifted back and forth from Jack to a page of script.

Jack—Jackson—whatever… Her voice had a husky, tough edge but sounded young; he could see nothing of her except the glint of a bracelet as she moved her hand in a casual, dismissive wave. Tell us something about yourself.

Jack turned back to the lens. Okay. Um, I was born right here in LA. I always wanted to act, I guess. Always.

How about your folks?

He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, unaware he’d done so, but this subtle movement, coupled with a second’s hesitation, was enough to suggest to anyone with the most elementary knowledge of psychology that this was a painful subject.

I never knew my mom. He let this sit for a moment, then added, She, um, she left when I was just a month old. And—my dad died when I was twelve. My grandmother took care of me until—

Any other family?

No, no one. What had his drama coach advised? Use it! Use the emotion! He lowered his eyes, subtly suggesting loss. This was good. He was getting to give them a range of expression without having read a word of the script.

What’ve you done? the baritone asked.

"Uh, let’s see…I did a spot in Girl About the House for Disney. That was a while back. I did an ep of Sands of Time—"

The soap?

Yeah.

That was canceled a year ago. Now the baritone sounded impatient; his precious time was being wasted by the nonevent of Jack’s career.

But the woman sounded interested. How about recently?

"I was in True West. HBO."

Oh? This elicited a hint of interest from the man. Which character?

Um, day player.

The interest evaporated. An extra.

Yeah, but I’m good with horses, so they wrote up the part a bit.

But no lines.

Jack shook his head.

Anything else?

You want to know about the theater I’ve done?

God no, the man said. Just give him the copy.

A disembodied hand darted into Jack’s pool of light and thrust a page at him.

Can I have a minute…?

From sight, the man said. I’ll cue you. He read in a monotone: ‘You wouldn’t mind living in the nicest house in town. Buying your wife a lot of fine clothes, going to New York on a business trip a couple of times a year. Maybe to Europe once in a while?’

Jack’s eyes darted over the page trying to find the place. He realized he was squinting and eased the tension from his face.

Keep it simple.

‘I know what I’m going to do tomorrow and the next day and next.’ The words were familiar. They triggered a faint memory of something rare and bright in a shadow-filled childhood. He couldn’t pin it down without losing concentration, but the emotion it generated was a gift to an actor. ‘And I’m going to build things! I’m going to build airfields! I’m going to build skyscrapers a hundred stories high! I’m going to build a bridge a mile long!’

Okay, that’ll do, the man said.

Jack turned the page over and back, then peered into the void beyond the camera with a puzzled frown. "Isn’t this from It’s a Wonderful Life?"

We just want to see how you handle dialogue, the man said.

Jack smiled his easy, all-American smile. Can I take it again?

The request was ignored. There was a whispered exchange in the dark. He strained to catch the voices.

First the baritone: …strictly an under five…

Then the woman: …exactly what I want…

A little more muttering and then a firm "I know what I want!" from the woman.

You’re a good-looking guy, the man said. It sounded more like an accusation than a compliment. Jack lowered his head modestly anyway. Can you be in Flagstaff by noon tomorrow?

Flagstaff, Arizona?

The baritone sighed. It’s the only Flagstaff I know. It’s not a big part. You’ll have to get there on your own.

Realization hit—he’d got the part!

A chair scraped as the woman rose, and Jack heard the sound of her high heels as she crossed the concrete floor to an exit. A stagehand opened the door, and Jack saw her trim silhouette as she left the stage.

Be there twelve noon on the dot, or we’ll have to cast a local, she said as she vanished into the light.

*

3:21 P.M.

THE OFFICE THAT fronted the dilapidated sound stage was a sterile recent addition. No boastful movie posters adorned the walls, but the extravagantly tattooed girl at the desk more than compensated for the absence of decoration. Having ascertained Jack was between agents, she shoved a basic agreement across the desk. The money wasn’t great, but given his circumstances, food stamps would’ve been a plus.

Jack winced a little as he noted the girl’s pierced tongue and wondered if it got in the way when she kissed or ate. It certainly made a mush of the rote information she imparted.

Twelve noon for makeup and wardrobe.

Jack was relieved he was not expected to provide his own costume.

Sign here, initial here, and here.

He wanted to tell someone about his good fortune but realized, with no rancor, there was no one. Everyone to whom he’d been close had deserted him—his actor boyfriend for a good-looking realtor with an income, his roommate for a fringe theatrical production in Riverside, and his agent, who had cut him loose three weeks ago with spurious sympathy and a brief observation on the state of the business.

Fuck them all! He had a job. With dialogue. No billing, but maybe this could lead to something. He signed Jackson McCauley with a flourish. The girl provided a call sheet and directions to the location and the one-star motel where they would accommodate him during his week’s work.

Done with the formalities, he took the crisp, new-looking script and hurried out of the office into the searing Southern Californian sun. He punched the air and shouted a joyous, Yesss! as he ran into the street to the shady spot he’d found to park his car.

The spot was there, but the car was gone.

*

3:52 P.M.

HE TRIED THREE payphones before finding one that worked on a dull stretch of Sunset. He had to shout to be heard above the traffic.

"Yeah, a 2004 Nissan!… 2004!… I dunno why anyone would steal it either. But it’s gone. The cop was either dim or just didn’t give a shit. Jack figured the latter. No, I can’t come and make a report. I’ve got this job. I’ve gotta get to Flagstaff and—"

The cop interrupted, giving him a lecture on the necessity of filing a report. The pointlessness of the call occurred to Jack. The car was gone, period. No degree of complaint would get it back in a hurry.

He took a look at his watch. Hey. I was gonna trash the fuckin’ thing anyway. He slammed the phone down and took off at a sprint down the hill toward Santa Monica Boulevard.

Running in cowboy boots was hell, and by the time he reached West Hollywood, there were patches of sweat on his formerly pristine shirt.

Take a shower. Soon as I get in. Take a shower and change and…

And what?

No clear plan had evolved before he reached his apartment building. He climbed the stairs to the second floor. There, he was greeted by his landlord, a sullen Armenian who made himself clear in minimal English:

No rent, no room. He dumped a backpack onto the floor by Jack’s feet.

What about my TV? My clothes?

You pay rent, you get. The landlord turned and started for the stairs. I keeping safe for you.

Jack grabbed his arm. Look, I’ve got a job. I’ll be back end of the week. I’ll pay you then.

No rent, no—

I need my fuckin’ clothes, man, Jack yelled. A couple of heads appeared from out of apartment doors. Jack tried to get past the landlord, but the man pushed Jack hard against the wall.

Jack’s reflexive reaction was to lurch toward the landlord, who stepped back shielding his face with his hands.

Don’ you touch me! he whined as he backed to the top of the stairs, teetered, seemingly in slow motion, then tumbled down the entire flight. He lay on the bottom step in a fetal position, quite still.

Are you okay? Jack called.

Shouldna pushed him, one of the onlookers offered.

I didn’t touch him!

There was a hearty scream from below, and Jack looked down at a large woman in a grimy green velveteen bathrobe inspecting the prone form of her husband.

Call the cops! she yelled to no one in particular as she ran back inside their apartment.

Jack grabbed his backpack from the floor and took the stairs two at a time. He knelt by the twisted figure and put his head to the man’s chest.

Get offa me!

Jack jerked upright and the man scrambled to his knees, clearly no worse for the fall.

Are you okay?

The man winced as Jack helped him to his feet. Assault! he yelled. I have you behind bars, asshole!

Jack drew breath to protest his innocence, but from within the landlord’s apartment, the wail of Police! He kill my husband! deflated him. He turned and ran blindly through the lobby and out into the smoggy West Hollywood afternoon.

Chapter Two

4:20 P.M.

JACK SHRANK BACK into the corner of the bus shelter as a police siren added shattering counterpoint to the dull hum of the passing traffic. He wondered if it was in response to the hysterical Armenian woman.

This stretch of Santa Monica Boulevard in WeHo was alive at any given time, day or night. People strolled, jogged; some had cell phones clamped to their ears, some were plugged into music, all gave the impression they had somewhere to go, people to see, lives to live. Unlike Jack, most were innocent of assault and battery, albeit alleged.

He sat this way for some time, his arms folded around the backpack on his knees, the finger and thumb of his left hand absently twisting a silver ring on the pinky of his right. No bus came, but that was the nature of public transport in Los Angeles.

Jack opened the front pocket of the backpack and sifted through the contents: A strip of photo booth pics of him and his defunct boyfriend; a few playbills for waiver theater productions he’d done in remote parts of LA, and for which the gas for his antediluvian car cost more than he was paid; and attached to these, neatly cut newspaper reviews in which the word most frequently aligned with the name Jackson McCauley was promising. There were several unheeded warnings from AT&T, a couple of year-old head shots, some stapled script pages, the extent of his part in the soap in which he had a terminal illness and died a noble death right after the opening credits, and a copy of Uta Hagen’s Respect for Acting.

The dull ache of despair deep in his gut intensified suddenly, and he took a few short, deep breaths. Was this the bounty of his twenty-three years on earth? A box of souvenirs?

He flicked through the pages of the Uta Hagen and two small photographs fluttered to the sidewalk. He picked them up and inspected them. The familiarity of the pictures infused his despair with a further layer of emotion that brought tears to his eyes. In one, a young woman stood at the door to a modest Toluca Lake house Jack knew but didn’t remember as that in which he was born. The image was blurred, suggesting she’d turned away as the shutter opened, reluctant to be photographed. But her blonde hair was unmistakably of the same genetic material as Jack’s. This was the only evidence he had of a mother—a mother who’d abandoned him and his father within a month of Jack’s birth.

In the other picture, a handsome young man stood by a plain stucco wall, bent at the waist as he held the hand of a blond boy of twelve; with his other hand, he pointed to the camera urging the boy to smile. Pride in his child was glowingly evident on the man’s face. The picture had been taken the day Jack and his father set out for a weekend drive to Big Sur. The drive led them onto a back road, a rotten wooden bridge, and into the ravine below—a drive that killed his father and spared Jack.

After the accident, Jack lived with a doting grandmother who felt the loss of her son as keenly as Jack did his father. But when he was fourteen, she died, and he was given over to foster parents who, while not unkind, were distant, their care of Jack fueled solely by the financial settlement from the fatal accident.

As he moved from high school to college and a theater arts major, the emotional gap between him and his foster parents grew, and he kept his thoughts, his feelings, and his ambitions increasingly to himself.

Another year, and the dregs of the settlement money were spent on a reputable acting class in which he’d shone. Convinced that the world of entertainment was waiting impatiently for someone of his superior talent, Jack took a share in a cramped apartment with two other budding actors and started the rounds. Since then, he’d managed to make ends meet, but only just. The residual checks for the few TV gigs he’d had were small but regular.

The emptiness he’d felt in recent years was due in part to a career that was, so far, less than stellar. But this only toughened the shell he’d constructed in adolescence—the warm smile, the well-practiced congenial manner—all to conceal the gut feeling that he was somehow unworthy and undeserving of a brilliant career or a fulfilling relationship.

There had been occasions, though not many, when he trawled the lower depths of his psyche and admitted he’d erected his own barriers against such things as upward mobility, against loving and being loved. Once, and once only, he opened up to someone and admitted these self-imposed restraints. Two roommates ago, there’d been a USC student, a kid who’d studied psychology but yearned to be an actor; he’d failed at both. But during their brief affair, his assessment of the root of Jack’s inadequacy feelings was simple and, not surprisingly, derived from Freud: Jack felt he’d been denied the most basic of all human rights—a family.

He slipped the photographs into his wallet and counted the bills in it. With a jolt, he realized he’d left a small stash of residual checks under a mug in his room, now no doubt in the custody of his landlord.

The rest of the memorabilia, including Respect for Acting, he shoved into a trash can. He closed his eyes and reached absently for the silver ring and twisted it back and forth. It was the only possession of his mother’s that his father had kept, perhaps in the hope she’d return someday to claim it. She’d left behind the cheap wedding ring when she bolted. Considering it fit Jack’s little finger snugly, it must’ve been a snug fit on his mother’s left hand, third finger. It was a flat band with a perched bird engraved on the upper surface, the work of an amateur. But to Jack, the ring was precious. She’d abandoned it on the kitchen table the night she left, and his father had worn it until the day he died. Then Jack kept it.

As almost an afterthought, Jack opened the script he’d been handed after the test. This he’d kept clutched as closely as a drowning man might a life preserver. He flicked through the pages of routine western jargon and found the first and virtually last evidence of his role. A couple of interiors of domestic bliss and one exterior scene working his gold claim in which his character assailed the villain over property rights, reached for his gun, and was shot dead by the bad guy. Thus ended his role. But, with even one closeup, he could make an impression, he knew it!

Okay, enough. Get your shit together.

He’d catch the bus to Highland, walk to the highway, I-101, and hitch. He’d hitched around California, he’d hitched to Vegas, to Tijuana. People always gave him a ride. With no hint of narcissism, he was aware of his looks; he knew the first impressions he gave to total strangers were of openness, honesty. His reliance on this perception was calculated, sure, but the mechanism was never evident; such was the actor’s craft. If he could get as far as I-10, sure as hell a truck, a produce van, a biker, someone would be heading for Arizona. How long could it take, six hours? He glanced at his watch. He had seventeen hours to make his noon appointment in Flagstaff. He could do it.

As he turned to search for an approaching bus, a tall guy moved into his line of vision—a bunch of tanned muscles in shorts and a tank. The guy dropped his gym bag and sat, flashing a toothpaste-commercial smile at Jack.

Hey, man, waitin’ for the bus?

Jack nodded.

Look like you work out.

Yeah, when I can, Jack said, not taking his eyes off the stream of traffic.

In a hurry? Or can I buy you a drink?

Jack smiled apologetically. In a hurry.

The guy moved closer, and his knee nudged Jack’s. Sure about that?

I’m sure, Jack said affably. On any other day, he might’ve submitted to such an overture, welcomed sex just to alleviate tension, or boredom, or loneliness, but now he had priorities. Got a job waiting for me in Arizona.

The musclehead laughed. "You’re not gonna get a bus