Sugar Valley (Hollywood's Darkest Secret) (90 page)

Curtis shot open his eyes, and looked around
with fear as well, asking with nervousness, “What? What
happened?”

Mark peered down at his wrist, trying to read
the time on his watch through his blurry vision of just waking up,
and discovered it was broken. Mark then turned to Curtis,
questioning “What time is it? What time is it?”

“It’s 7:35 p.m.”

Mark slowly began to get up from behind the
big box, feeling the dead presence of those humans they killed not
too long ago, but ironically feeling relaxed, due to Curtis’ words.
“Oh, good, I thought we slept through the Oscar ceremony,” said
Mark. He looked out in the distance, creeping up toward the
railings of this suspended bridge, and saw hundreds of heads that
resembled fire flies, due to the fancy apparel that the actresses
wore. His eyes were dazzled, intrigued by this sight of high
society, amazed by the beauty that the ground held. “Wow, look at
that, it’s amazing, it’s beautiful.”

Curtis looked over the railings as well,
chuckling, “Yeah, well, pretty soon all of those fancy ensembles
will be running around like dogs chasing a cat.”

Creak.

Suddenly, the doors to the staircase made a
creaking noise, showing to their ears that it was opening up fully.
Mark turned to the doorway, and saw a shadow in his view,
whispering to Curtis with eagerness, “Damn it, hide.” He pulled
Curtis behind the box with him, covering his mouth, because he knew
he would open it and speak, causing them to be found by the
phantom, by the person that they didn’t know of yet; all they knew
is that it was a person.

They both looked from behind the box, very
gently, and saw an old man in their sight, holding a vodka bottle
in his grasp. Curtis whispered, “Who is that?”

“That must be Sam.”

The man named Sam started walking toward the
box, but instead sat down in the middle of the bridge, gazing out
at the people below.

“Who’s Sam?” muttered Curtis, still staring
at Sam, watching him very closely to see if he showed any suspicion
on his drunken face that would point to him knowing their existence
behind the large box or crate.

Sam started to drink his vodka, taking a
stupendous chug of it, enjoying this grand seat, with a sight of
luxurious and intriguing natures. “You know, the guy that one of
the guards was talking about last night, the drunk,” answered
Mark.

“Wait a second, I remember now, he’s the guy
who stays up here and watches for any lights that burn out.” Curtis
expressed excitement through his tone; he was so happy that he
remembered that.

“Yeah, and that means he stays up here for
the whole, entire ceremony, you idiot.” Mark then hit Curtis on the
head, feeling angered toward his stupid excitement, feeling fury
toward this serious situation, but with him showing delight toward
it.

Sam turned his head, hearing the hit that
Mark gave to Curtis, and asked, “Who’s there?” Sam put a cap on the
vodka bottle and sat it down. Getting up and standing in the middle
of the bridge, Sam was trying to see if he could hear a noise
again, to prove that it wasn’t just his drunkenness that was
playing tricks on him.

Mark pulled out his gun with the silencer on
it, hearing Curtis whisper to him, “What should we do now? Dude,
what are we gonna do now?” Curtis, as well, took out a gun from his
black overcoat, and held it tightly in his grip, waiting for a
reason to use it, yet not yearning to have a reason to use its
powerful force.

“Listen, a lot of money is on the line if we
don’t get rid of this old bastard,” Curtis yelled out. The old guy
just stood motionless in the center of the bridge, knowing that the
loud voice he heard wasn’t his drunkenness at all.

Sam started to walk toward the big box,
questioning with massive hesitation, “Who’s there?”

Curtis pointed his gun toward the box,
waiting to shoot it, and have the bullet travel through it, and
head straight for Sam’s body. “Shit, what do we do now, Mark?”

“Here, follow my lead.” Mark then came out
from behind the box, and glared at Sam’s old, liquored-up, glossy
eyes, smiling at the same time.

“Who are you?” asked Sam, showing shock in
his voice. The sudden presence caused Sam to accidentally kick his
vodka bottle over. Curtis and Mark watched it, rolling quickly
toward the end of the bridge, praying in their minds that it
stopped, ended its momentum, but gravity overpowered their prayers.
It was like the bottle was moving in slow motion, actually hearing
its roll in their minds, seeing the future, perceiving what would
happen to them if the bottle fell off the bridge, and into the
crowd of riches. They both watched it rolling to the end of the
bridge, where it stopped, balancing off the edge of it.

“We’re Security, what are you doing up here?”
asked Mark as Curtis noticed the vodka bottle was leaning off the
edge and ready to fall on top of the movie stars’ heads; it was
balanced like a teeter totter.

They both didn’t want to be too suspicious,
or show any worry, so they were calm about the bottle being
balanced. But then, Mark noticed the bottle cap wasn’t on tight
enough, and saw the vodka liquid lingering its drops onto the
crowd, dripping a little bit at a time. Mark switched his eyes to
Sam, questioning with seriousness, “Excuse me, would you please get
that bottle before it falls on top of the people?” They noticed
that Sam wasn’t complying with their polite wishes, showing
stubbornness and suspicion through his alcohol-drowned eyes. Mark
saw that this old man knew they weren’t guards of tonight’s
ceremony, so Mark added, “I’m sorry, sir.” Mark lifted his gun
toward Sam and shot him directly in the center of his head. Before
the old guy fell to the ground, Mark reached over and caught him;
at the same time, Curtis grabbing the vodka bottle before it could
fall.

“Alright, let’s put him in the box with the
rest,” Curtis said. Mark helped him carry the body to the box.

After they dumped him into the large,
cemetery-like box, Curtis picked up the vodka bottle and started to
drink it. Mark explained, “Okay, Julienne told me that the Best
Actor category isn’t until about 9:00 p.m. If Damen wins, as soon
as he reaches the podium, we shoot him and then we take care of the
other guy.”

“Mark, let me kill that Damen guy. I only
killed one person so far, you killed four,” Curtis announced in a
child’s voice.

Mark grabbed the bottle of vodka and began
drinking some himself. “No, you get to kill the other guy,
Curtis.”

They both sat down in the middle of the
bridge and watched as the movie stars took their seats. It was like
going to the movies or having grand seats at an opera; these were
the best seats in the house. The way the lights that came from the
bulbs above them would show a straight piece of ray, that could be
seen by dust dancing in its way, was breathtaking to these killers,
and breathtaking to anyone else that would be up here, but
wasn’t.

Curtis became pissy, upset, aggravated, and
whining out, “What the hell, man, I want to get the main guy.”

Mark hit him on the head, hating and
despising his childish voice. Yet Mark tried to be civil about this
situation, and attempted to calm him, speaking with sincerity,
“Listen, let’s just wait till 9:00 p.m., and then we’ll
decide.”

“Alright.” Curtis took another swig of the
vodka bottle, and as he took it, he dripped a little bit out of his
mouth, and the drops fell beyond the bridge.

Mark saw, catching the drops in his view, and
tried to catch them with his grasp as well but couldn’t. “Watch it,
Curtis, you idiot, you’re dripping vodka everywhere. Everywhere and
every job I take you to, it’s like I’m your babysitter.”

Chapter Seventy-Six

While Curtis and Mark drank the vodka,
enjoying this massively set view, another drop spilled beyond the
bridge, and soared downwards, creating momentum, and headed
straight to Jose’s arm.

Jose and Julienne went down the red-carpeted,
middle aisle, heading toward their seat, with himself feeling a
drop of some substance, hitting him at a great speed, forcing
itself to be known to his touch. “What the hell is this?” he asked,
touching his upper arm and seeing a stain of liquid embroidered on
it.

“What’s what?”

Jose didn’t bother to hear Julienne’s voice,
but instead tried figuring it out on his own by looking toward the
ceiling of the building. He sniffed the stain, speaking, “It smells
like, like vodka.”

Unanticipated, without warning, the lights
started to dim, and the stage lights quickly evoked to a brighter
setting. Julienne turned to Jose’s eyes, and spoke, “Come on, let’s
just find our seats.”

A man, with a large head-set on, came to the
glass podium on the stage. He held a clipboard in his right hand,
and in his left, he held a walkie-talkie. Coming up to the
microphone, the man announced, “Alright, everyone, please take your
seats, we’re going on live in approximately three minutes.”

“Here, we’re in the third,” Julienne stated
to Jose. She pulled her lavender, glittering dress close to her
while she entered into the third row, rushing a bit, because she
wanted to get a seat before the cameras came on.

Jose accidentally stepped on a woman’s foot
while entering into this row, so he whispered, “Oh, excuse me,
Miss.”

When they finally sat down, Jose looked to
the right of him and kissed Julienne on the cheek, craving to make
this moment perfect, yearning to have this night being a night to
remember. When he looked to the left of him, before he could turn
back to Julienne, he noticed a familiar face. “Oh shit,” he
suddenly shouted, staring Damen Schultz directly in the eyes.

“Well, hello to you too, my dear friend.”

Julienne turned to Jose, desiring to kiss him
again, but instead looking past him, and seeing Damen in her view.
“Oh shit,” she also spoke.

Jose gave a sinister grin toward him,
speaking, “Why don’t you avoid embarrassment and leave now?”

“Embarrassment about what?” Damen then gave
an honest smile; it was as if he was turning into Jose. The way he
asked was as if he had all the evil, cruelty, strength, and
audacity as Jose himself, being Jose’s character, craving to be the
best like Julienne taught to Mr. Rodrigo.

“Well, when I win the Oscar, it’s gonna make
you look pretty stupid. I mean, it was only your first actual
movie, and already you’re a nominee? It’s gonna make you look like
a want-ta-be actor, and that’s just what you are,” stated Jose.

John Smitherson leaned over and looked passed
Chuck and Damen, gawking at Jose’s eyes. He smiled toward Mr.
Rodrigo, speaking in a profound fashion, “Why don’t you just sit
back and enjoy the show? If you don’t, then I’m gonna stick the
Oscar, that Damen’s gonna get, up your ass so far, that next year
they’re gonna have your face on the trophies.”

Damen grinned toward John, and turned his
head to face Jose, saying with proudness, “Yeah, you better listen
to John, John Smitherson that is. You know, the one we all look up
to as an actor? The one that you would die to get an autograph
from? Did I mention, that my agent, Chuck, is John’s father?”

The Oscar building closed their doors,
hearing the sounds traveling through the foyer and all the way
toward the theater in a reverberating motion. The people also heard
the doors locking, tightly, having the echoes passing by them like
a mist of heavy fog.

Julienne grabbed Jose’s face with her
aggressive hand, turned it toward her, and whispered, “Jose, don’t
pay any attention to them, just concentrate on your speech.”

Damen didn’t even bother talking to Jose
anymore, so he turned to Chuck, and muttered in his ear, “Where’s
Darell?”

Chuck pointed his finger toward the front
row, and Damen followed it. As soon as he came to the object Chuck
was pointing to, all he saw was Tom Fryer’s head. “I don’t know, I
don’t see him. There’s Tom Fryer,” responded Chuck.

“Yeah, and there’s a vacant seat right next
to him.” Damen was confused, even though they weren’t friends, he
still wanted to have them all present, so in a way, it would be
like they were all together again, just separated by confusing
anger, and other things that they all kept inside.

Jose overheard their conversation, so he
turned to Damen, and spoke, “He’s probably in the bathroom getting
stoned. Or else, he’s probably getting drunk.”

Damen slowly turned to face him, speaking in
defensiveness, “Darell doesn’t drink, or do drugs.” Damen tried to
cover up Darell’s drug habit with a lie, realizing at that point he
couldn’t trust anyone, not even his ex-friend, Jose.

“Oh come on, it’s all over Hollywood,
everyone knows about his addiction, or addictions, for that
matter.” Jose’s tone showed that he no longer cared for his
childhood friend, as if he was having a conversation about a total
stranger, like he was spreading the rumors, hearsay, gossip about a
person he despised.

“Okay, if you know about it so well, then why
the hell aren’t you helping him with it, you fuckin’ asshole?
Darell’s like our little brother, Jose, and you know it too.” Damen
was angered, hurt, frustrated by Jose’s change in character,
personality, but he meant what he said, and with him not even
staring at Jose, but staring straight ahead at the stage; it was as
if Jose didn’t exist to him anymore, or any less.

At that moment, precisely as a breath was
exhaled and inhaled, Jose’s eyes blinked, feeling a little
emotional toward Damen’s words, his verbalizations, knowing that he
was right. The button that Julienne pressed down was slowly
beginning to release, somehow, some way, and managing to show Jose
his own true character, that he lost through the vanity of lies,
deceits, that he didn’t know of yet. Julienne’s force, or power,
was slowly diminishing, abatement itself, but she didn’t know it,
she was too busy gazing at the stage in titillation, thrill, and
ravishing excitement. Within this moment of reality-filled rapture,
Jose began to think of Sugar Valley again, something he hadn’t
thought of for a long, long time. Normally it was up to Julienne to
push the button back down, but Julienne was still too busy, paying
attention to the stage. So, in return, Jose did something that he
hadn’t ever done before, he pushed the button down himself.