McCallum. Some songs passed the company barriers like a breeze through a screen door.
“You look good,” he said.
“Thanks,” she returned. “It’s the stress. Keeps me young.”
The band’s lead singer started high and pure.
From the day of your birth
It’s bread and water here on earth
To a child of light, to a child of light
But there’ll be pie in the sky
By and by when I die
And it’ll be alright, it’ll be alright
Everyone in the pub raised their glasses and bottles and sang along.
Chapter Seven
Sylvia didn’t like driving. She liked being other places, but getting herself to wherever, in her mind, would be best left to someone else. Still, it was LA catchment. If you didn’t have a car, you were helpless. At the mercy of others. And she wasn’t ready to hire a driver. She didn’t make that much on her last film.
Her silver SAAB bounced and complained over the hard crumblecake that may have once been a road or a racetrack, before it lost its battle with the grasses and shrubs. Each thunk from around the front fender areas made her think the car was going to bend and break and leave her standing in the scrub, waiting for the coyotes to call all their friends and decide what sauce went best with a young, stupid girl.
The grass opened to a large expanse of broken concrete and asphalt. A few hundred yards beyond that, stood what? A long forgotten mausoleum? It sported three domes, with the center one twice the size of its companions. They weren’t smooth, though. One had a long hatch. The others might, too. She couldn’t tell because of the angle, and she had to drive, through all this silly ass brush.
“Marshall,” she said through clenched teeth.
Up near the building, she saw two other modern cars. Teardrops laid sideways. She never could differentiate makes and models like ops could in the movies. ‘Late model Chevy.’ Ha. It must have been easier in the old days. When cars looked like the one she saw up ahead, that massive black box on black wheels. It looked like a vault, if you overlooked the chrome trim and three-pointed star in a circle on its snout. That was the car you needed to drive up here, on this asinine hill.
“Marshall,” she said again.
She parked and walked a path of moss and white rocks— not rocks, but busted concrete she decided. The height and thickness of the plants made her uncomfortable. They stood well above her in certain places.
“ Centaurea solstitialis ,” she sneered. The pretty yellow thistles sat on battlements of hard needles. They could cut and many were cheek high. “You will love it up here, huh.” She recognized aristida purpurea , some very healthy leymus condensatus , with some fescue hanging in there, catching enough light to live. Were she still in the grounds keeping business, this would be her worst nightmare. Not that it wasn’t becoming that anyway.
At the fallen spire, she stopped. Marshall couldn’t be worth this. Chunks and rubble lay across the path, broken, but not so much that she couldn’t tell it had once been a concrete sculpture maybe four-times her height. Stone men had surrounded the base. Their lower portions still stood, atop a pointed pedestal. Their heads and shoulders ruined on the ground.
This place wasn’t safe. Not for a woman, all by herself. Probably not for anybody. Time to turn around.
Her wrist tingled. She shook it. “Yes?”
“You’re fine.” Marshall’s voice flooded her left ear. “We’ve been watching you.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m fine.”
He laughed as she shook her wrist again, telling the bracelet to end the call. She jumped the spire and continued on towards the main structure.
Marshall St. Claire didn’t like to meet indoors. At first, Sylvia thought he had an acceptable case of paranoia. His deals were, largely, opportunistic. After a few years, she concluded he simply found more comfort outside, watching people stroll, cars roll, birds, dogs and clouds pass him by.
“You look good,” he said.
“Thanks,” she returned. “It’s the stress. Keeps me young.”
The band’s lead singer started high and pure.
From the day of your birth
It’s bread and water here on earth
To a child of light, to a child of light
But there’ll be pie in the sky
By and by when I die
And it’ll be alright, it’ll be alright
Everyone in the pub raised their glasses and bottles and sang along.
Chapter Seven
Sylvia didn’t like driving. She liked being other places, but getting herself to wherever, in her mind, would be best left to someone else. Still, it was LA catchment. If you didn’t have a car, you were helpless. At the mercy of others. And she wasn’t ready to hire a driver. She didn’t make that much on her last film.
Her silver SAAB bounced and complained over the hard crumblecake that may have once been a road or a racetrack, before it lost its battle with the grasses and shrubs. Each thunk from around the front fender areas made her think the car was going to bend and break and leave her standing in the scrub, waiting for the coyotes to call all their friends and decide what sauce went best with a young, stupid girl.
The grass opened to a large expanse of broken concrete and asphalt. A few hundred yards beyond that, stood what? A long forgotten mausoleum? It sported three domes, with the center one twice the size of its companions. They weren’t smooth, though. One had a long hatch. The others might, too. She couldn’t tell because of the angle, and she had to drive, through all this silly ass brush.
“Marshall,” she said through clenched teeth.
Up near the building, she saw two other modern cars. Teardrops laid sideways. She never could differentiate makes and models like ops could in the movies. ‘Late model Chevy.’ Ha. It must have been easier in the old days. When cars looked like the one she saw up ahead, that massive black box on black wheels. It looked like a vault, if you overlooked the chrome trim and three-pointed star in a circle on its snout. That was the car you needed to drive up here, on this asinine hill.
“Marshall,” she said again.
She parked and walked a path of moss and white rocks— not rocks, but busted concrete she decided. The height and thickness of the plants made her uncomfortable. They stood well above her in certain places.
“ Centaurea solstitialis ,” she sneered. The pretty yellow thistles sat on battlements of hard needles. They could cut and many were cheek high. “You will love it up here, huh.” She recognized aristida purpurea , some very healthy leymus condensatus , with some fescue hanging in there, catching enough light to live. Were she still in the grounds keeping business, this would be her worst nightmare. Not that it wasn’t becoming that anyway.
At the fallen spire, she stopped. Marshall couldn’t be worth this. Chunks and rubble lay across the path, broken, but not so much that she couldn’t tell it had once been a concrete sculpture maybe four-times her height. Stone men had surrounded the base. Their lower portions still stood, atop a pointed pedestal. Their heads and shoulders ruined on the ground.
This place wasn’t safe. Not for a woman, all by herself. Probably not for anybody. Time to turn around.
Her wrist tingled. She shook it. “Yes?”
“You’re fine.” Marshall’s voice flooded her left ear. “We’ve been watching you.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m fine.”
He laughed as she shook her wrist again, telling the bracelet to end the call. She jumped the spire and continued on towards the main structure.
Marshall St. Claire didn’t like to meet indoors. At first, Sylvia thought he had an acceptable case of paranoia. His deals were, largely, opportunistic. After a few years, she concluded he simply found more comfort outside, watching people stroll, cars roll, birds, dogs and clouds pass him by.
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