The Grey Tier (3 page)

Chapter Four

TWO WEEKS PLAYING and singing at Nick’s taught me quite a bit, including how to make his famous tacos (except for the fish, his top secret recipe). I’d also learned how to pour a stiff drink or two. When my mama and daddy called every other day, I found myself telling little white lies about eighty-percent of the time. I told them a story about a fancy resort I was playing at out in Malibu and how Cass and I were doing just fine.

I guess in some ways we were. The hours at Nick’s were great—six to midnight every night but Monday (bar was closed . . . Nick said he needed a day off, but I had a sneaking suspicion there was more to it than that). The pay wasn’t great, however. I made eight bucks an hour plus tips, and the tips were, well, on the meager side, considering patrons like Candace and her sidekick Mumbles.

Speaking of Mumbles, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out how he got his nickname. He was a stout old guy with deep lines across his forehead and around his visible eye. Nearly bald, he never took off the eye patch. He was a character. Don’t know how he got the patch, but one day, I’m sure I’ll get the backstory. If I can understand it, that is. I think his accent is Irish—hard to say, though.

One warm evening I slapped him on the shoulder as I came in, guitar strung on my back, Cass tailing me. I hadn’t thought about it before I did it—it was a light pat but he was wearing a tank top so the shoulder was bare, which meant no barriers. Now, I realized pretty much anyone who sat at that bar day after day probably had some significant trauma in their life, but what came rushing at me in a wave was pretty intense. There was no vision of anything, but I could hear something awful—black, loud, and scary as . . . well, you know. It was only two seconds worth, but I yanked my hand off his shoulder like I’d burned it and brought both my hands up to cover my ears. I began shaking my head frantically, trying to rid myself of the pain and confusion. That had never happened before. I had only seen traumas before, never heard them.

Mumbles was staring at me with his one eye, a look of concern spreading across his face. I quickly pulled myself together and shot him a weak smile.

“Hey, Mumbles. How’s it going?”

It’s hard to tell but I think his answer was something like, “Good. Yep. Okay . . . don’t know, really. You? Your ears covered! Okay?”

I decided to mumble back, “Good. Okay. Think so anyway. Ears are fine.” And that was the beginning of my strange and unexpected friendship with Mumbles.

Candy—who preferred to be called Candace even though she revealed to me one night her name was really Barbara—always sat two seats away from Mumbles. I think she’d once been beautiful. She had deep-set brown eyes, long, white-blonde hair, and a terrific smile, but time, a hard life, and booze had taken a toll on her. It’s funny what people will reveal after they’ve had a few drinks. It didn’t take long before I knew all about Candace’s four husbands, her hopes of being an actress, her daughter who hadn’t spoken to her in eight years, and her cat, Goldy. I didn’t have to touch Candace to quickly understand the traumas in her life.

I also learned a bit about Nick himself. He didn’t exactly have as many show biz contacts as he’d initially indicated. Turns out, he was the child star of a 1970s show called Next-Door Neighbors. He didn’t talk much about it, but I know he played the precocious kid named Jeff.

I didn’t know much about actors or actresses. We were not allowed to have a TV in the house growing up. The only exposure I ever really had to television was the one in my mama’s beauty shop.

One Tuesday night, not too long after I started at Nick’s, things were a bit busier than usual. Some of the college kids from USC liked to pop in on occasion. I had just finished playing a set, and decided to take a break and grab a bite to eat. I sat between Candace and Mumbles. No one ever sat between them but me. Candace smiled. She was already a good three sheets to the wind and it was only nine o’clock. Then again, she’d been pretty bombed around six when I set up for the night. She patted my knee. Fortunately the jeans I had on were a good barrier. “You are
such
a pretty girl, sweet pea. And so talented! Isn’t she Mumbles?”

Mumbles bobbed his head up and down slowly “Yep. Pretty.”

I smiled at them both and then scanned the bar. “Thank you. Hey, where’s Nick?”

Candace spun around on the red vinyl and pointed to a booth near the kitchen. “He’s visiting with some old friends,” she said.

Nick was seated across from a woman who, from where I sat, looked Hollywood pretty. She had a too-perfect, plastic quality about her, but whoever had done the work had done a good job. She sat next to an older, handsome guy . . . he was probably about fifty. Nick appeared kind of uncomfortable, but he was having a drink with them and the conversation looked light and cordial to me. I decided to get my own tacos.

It was one of those nights when things simply felt out of place and a little off. Candace excused herself to go to the bathroom when another woman who she seemed to recognize walked in. The woman was an attractive redhead—petite, probably close to Candace’s age, but again, hard to tell age since guessing Candace’s actual age is near impossible.

Candace glanced at me. “I’m going to the restroom to put some lipstick on.”

Hmm. Now that was a first.

The redhead sat at the end of the bar. A few minutes later, I saw Nick come back behind the bar and head over to her. He kissed her on the cheek and they hugged. He looked happy to see her. I contemplated getting up to introduce myself when someone sat down next to me. Someone I had noticed in the bar before.

“Hi. I’m Jackson.”

I turned to face the guy. He could frequently be found in a back booth with his laptop open, sipping a tall glass of iced-tea. I’d seen him speak with Nick a few times but decided not to force an introduction . . . partly because he was always so focused on his computer, and partly because of how intimidated I get around hot guys (and yes, he was hot).

“Hi,” I said, looking into his brooding, dark eyes. Yeah, I know. I sound like the heroine of a romance novel. But what can I say? He had nice eyes. He also had deep brown, disheveled waves of hair . . . very sexy. And, he was talking to me.

I started to stick my hand out and then thought better of it, “I’m Evie.”

“I know. I asked Nick.”

“Ah, so you know Nick?”

“Well, yeah. I
love
that guy. If I could only get him to star in my film project.”

Film project? Nick? I shook my head. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry. I get so excited sometimes. I never imagined I’d be hanging out with Nick Gordin.”

I felt like I was missing something crucial but decided not to pursue it. “Nick’s great. Thanks to him, I now have a steady job.”

“You’re an amazing singer. I love coming in to listen to you while I work.” He nodded down at his ever-present laptop.

“Thank you. That’s really sweet.” I could feel the heat rise to my face big time. I hoped the dim lighting made it hard for anyone else to see. “Um, so tell me about your project.”

“It’s a documentary for my film class. I’m in a graduate program at the USC film school. My subject is childhood stars and what happened to them. Nick would be perfect for it. His story is
so
fascinating.”

“It is?” I asked. I knew there was something more to Nick, and Jackson seemed to have a line on it.

“Oh, yeah.”

Candace came back at that moment. “Excuse me. That’s my seat.”

He glanced up at Candace, “I’m sorry,” then looked back to me. “Do you want to sit over there with me?” he asked, pointing to his usual booth. I started to say yes when I heard Nick calling my name.

“Evie, come meet a friend of mine.” He beckoned me from the other end of the bar, where the redheaded woman sat.

I glanced back at Jackson. “Rain check?” I asked.

He nodded. “I actually have somewhere I need to be.”

There were those brooding eyes again. Had I blown it? “Oh, okay.”

He smiled, then (be still my beating heart!), “Rain check definitely.”

I turned away as I felt the blush reappear and headed over to Nick and Red.

“Evie, this is, uh, well this is my good friend Rebecca Styles.”

“Friend, huh?” Rebecca raised an eyebrow and started laughing. She faced me. “You can call me Becky, hon.”

“I’m Evie.”

Nick nodded slowly, “Beck is in town, maybe to stay, right?”

Becky took a quick sip of her drink before answering. “That’s the plan. I’m looking for a place. I wanted to come home to be close to old
friends.
New York has been wonderful, but I needed a change of pace.” She smiled widely at Nick.

Okay, clearly something was going on here, but once again, I was missing whatever it was. Not to be cliché and all, but you could slice the sexual tension with a knife. I looked back and forth between Nick and Becky.

“Hey, Beck, do you remember Bradley Verne?”

“Of course! You two still friends?”

“Yeah. That’s him and his wife I was talking with. I don’t think you’ve met her. They got married, you know, after . . .” He didn’t finish his sentence, but Becky nodded as if she understood completely. “Want to say hello?”

“Sure.” Becky smiled politely at me and picked up her glass of wine. The two of them headed back to the booth where the other couple sat.

I walked into the kitchen to fix dinner. On the way there, I couldn’t help but notice Candace’s glare fixed on a seemingly oblivious Becky. Things around the bar were getting awfully interesting.

Chapter Five

AS FOND AS I was of Nick, Candace, and Mumbles, I still had a major problem: the money (or lack thereof). I loved singing nightly at Nick’s. I love to sing, period. And play the guitar. But fifty bucks a night (and that was on a good night) was not going to get me far. Cass and I were still holed up in that motel. It stank. It was loud. And I was way over it. However, choices were few and far between. I’d been on the apartment hunt every day in my spare time. Studio apartments in LA ran at least twelve hundred a month and most landlords wanted first and last month’s rent (and this wasn’t even in the nice parts of town). On top of that, most didn’t rent to dog owners and if they did, they wanted at least a month’s worth of cash for the deposit. You do the math. That five grand from Betty LaRue was looking like chump change.

Late one night, lying on the creaking, uncomfortable motel bed with Cass, I found myself in tears. Cass scooted closer to me and practically licked my hand off. When the tears didn’t stop coming, she stood and licked my entire face dry (so to speak). I couldn’t help but start laughing, which only wound Cass up even more as she twirled in a circle, her tail swinging back and forth wildly, smacking me in the face with each twirl.

“Easy girl. Easy. Stop! Stop it!” I laughed even harder, and then a knock at the door sobered me up real quick.

Cass started barking and the knocking grew louder. Uh-oh.

“Just a minute,” I yelled at the door and then hissed at Cass, “Stop, stop, shhh!”

“This is the manager. Open up the door! Do you have a dog in there?”

I tried to sound as innocent as possible. “No. No. It’s just the TV.”

“Open this door, or I will call the cops!”

I closed my eyes and cringed. This was not looking good.

“Cass, get down,” I whispered. “Down.” She growled. Not at me, but at the door. I got her off the bed and locked her in the bathroom. I cracked the door open and there stood the manager—ugly, overweight, spectacled, and in a wife beater with his paunch exposed and hanging over ill-fitting sweats. Lovely.

“Hi!” I put on my best fake smile. “Is there a problem?”

He crossed his arms. “You have a dog here.” A statement, not a question. Crap.

“No. It’s the TV,
Animal Planet
.”

“We don’t get that channel. And the dog you don’t have is scratching on the bathroom door. I’m not deaf. You need to get out.”

“What?”

“No dogs. No cats. No birds. No lizards. No pets! Get.”

“Now?”

“Did I stutter?”

The beginnings of panic unfurled in my chest, “I-I can put her in the van for the night.”

“Nope. Get. Out. Bye-bye.” He wiggled his pudgy fingers at me, and then accidently dropped his keys. I bent down at the same time he did to grab them and my fingers grazed his. I yanked my hand back but it was too late. I saw the manager in a car with a tiny little girl. He looked much younger, a lot less weight on him, and he was happy. They were singing “Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head.” Rain splattered against the windshield, and in an instant, something hit the car. It went black and then I saw the manager crying over the child. “No, Sara! No!” She was covered in blood and very still. I pulled my fingers back and stood up.

“You got ten minutes,” he said.

“I’m sorry.” It was all I could say.

He frowned. “I was going to charge you for the night as well and keep the cleaning deposit. I can’t rent the room until it’s fully cleaned and fumigated. Pets have fleas and I am running a nice place here. I can’t allow someone to stay in this room after a dog has been in it.”

“My dog does not have fleas.” She probably did. I have, in fact, seen one or two on her, but seriously, this guy was not running the Ritz Carlton by any stretch of the imagination. Motel 6 was a five-star by comparison.

“I said I
was
going to charge you, but you seem a bit down and out, so I won’t. You still gotta go though.”

I nodded and shut the door softly. I knew if I had not touched him and saw what I had, he would have definitely charged me. In some ways it would have been worth it, even though I didn’t have much left. It is not easy to see the suffering of others, especially when it involves the loss of a child. It’s why I’m usually so careful not to touch people. Damn. But hopefully his pain had been eased some.

I sighed, and took Cass out of the bathroom. I quickly threw my things into my suitcase and we left the motel without a clue as to where we would go.

We drove around for thirty minutes with me in a daze and Cass curled up in the back seat. I finally decided the best idea would be to park in a residential area and get up early in the morning and move. I found a quiet, well-lit street, parked, and climbed in back with my dog. Was this how people wound up on the streets? I couldn’t go back home. Not considering all the faith Betty had in me, and I didn’t want to prove to my daddy I couldn’t make it on my own. I also didn’t want to wind up panhandling with Cass, looking sad and desperate. I could ask Nick for more money. I could ask him if I could work the day shift, but I knew that wouldn’t work either. Nick ran the day shift, and it was rare many patrons came in during the day. I knew Nick did not have the money to pay me more. I also knew I didn’t want to give up singing. It was all I had, besides Cass, and she counted on me.

I put a blanket over the two of us and eventually slept, only to be woken by the early morning sun and the droning of a nearby lawn mower. Who mows their lawn at seven in the morning? It didn’t matter. I needed to move before the neighbors wondered about the beat up van with the homeless lady and her dog inside. Reality hit me then that we were living out of my van. Reality also hit that I needed a shower. I was determined today was the day I got a second job and found a new place for Cass and me.

I washed up and put on some war paint inside a McDonald’s restroom after getting a couple of Egg McMuffins. I put an old U2 cassette into my tape player. I needed to upgrade my sound system to an iPod, but the tape player still worked. I sang all the lyrics to “Beautiful Day” at the top of my lungs, and Cass howled along with me.

I had a full stomach, was sort of clean, and received an attitude adjustment from none other than Bono himself. I was ready to take on the day. Little did I know what was in store for me.

At eleven o’ clock I received a phone call from Nordstrom. They needed a new MAC girl. For the record, MAC appears to be the best makeup in the world. Or maybe they just have the best marketing in the world. Because it seems everyone who is anyone wears MAC. I don’t, because I can’t afford it, but I thank my lucky stars Mama took such great pride in teaching me how to make up my face, hers, and everyone else’s in Brady. This job had my name written all over it. I was going to get it if it killed me. I almost got the VW up to sixty on the freeway. It was shaking.

I walked in, trying to be as sophisticated as possible in my all-black ensemble, and do you know what? They hired me! That night I celebrated at Nick’s with a glass of cheap Merlot and a hamburger.

Nick toasted me. “You’re on your way, kid! And speaking of, I know a producer, one of the best, coming in next week to hear you.”

“Really? Who?”

“Can’t say, but I can tell you he’s the man, and I told him you were terrific. He’s excited to meet you.”

“Great,” I said, but wondered why Nick wouldn’t tell me who the guy was. Why all the mystery? But that was Nick. Sort of a mystery himself.

Nick held up his beer and hollered, “Everyone . . .” Everyone consisted of Mumbles, Candace, and three other people I didn’t know, “. . . cheers to Evie! She got a new job today, and she’s going to be the next music sensation!”

Mumbles stood up and mumbled, “Evie, good deal, girl!”

“To Evie!” the others cheered.

Maybe this was the City of Angels of after all.

***

Cass and I offered to lock up that night, and although it felt sneaky, we slept in one of the booths inside the bar and I got ready for my first day of work the next morning in the bathroom. I knew Nick wouldn’t open until ten, so I had time to get ready and get out. The problem was, I had no idea what to do with Cass. I decided to leave her in the van, parked in a shady spot, and crack the windows. I’d check on her at lunch.

So I started my new job at the Nordstrom on La Cienega at The Beverly Center. I liked it. I really did. But I was exhausted by the third day. Here I was, sleeping with my dog in a booth at Nick’s every night, closing the bar for him, and trying hard to get out of there in the mornings before he came in. I checked on Cass during my breaks and took her out for quick walks. I hated leaving her in the van all day. I was still trying to find a place, but my hours at MAC and then at Nick’s weren’t too conducive to apartment hunting. I thought about asking Nick if Cass could stay with him during the day. But I didn’t really want to impose, and then he’d know I was in need of a place. And honestly, I didn’t want that.

At the end of the week, I was at my wit’s end. Thankful I had only two more days until my day off. I was determined to take the first apartment I could find. Now that I had two steady jobs, I felt reasonably comfortable I could make it work.

I was finishing up for the day. The store would be closing in thirty minutes, which meant I would be running from the store to Nick’s.

A young woman approached the counter. “Hi. I need a new look. I’m tired of being called cute. What can you do for me?”

“Well, we are getting ready to close.” I really did not want to do a makeover. I always had to be careful about touching skin. Experiencing random people’s traumas had a tendency to bring me down, so I exercised caution and did my best to use only tools to apply makeup for makeovers. I just wanted to get out of there, take care of Cass, and eat something before I set up at Nick’s.

“I understand. But this is important. I want to look fabulous for a big party tonight.” The young woman stared at me hopefully.

I eyed my boss who was watching from the behind the cash register and smiled. “Of course I can help.”

Thirty minutes later, the young woman, named Brenda, looked like a movie star. Even my boss said she couldn’t have done better. I gave Brenda a smoky look around the eyes to bring out the blue in them, and a dusting of soft pink across the cheeks, with just the right peachy-pink gloss on her lips for a pouty, kissable look. What I did not know as I rushed out the door, was that Brenda’s new look would change my life and my lifestyle in less than twenty-four hours.

Next day while behind the counter, a guy approached me (scared me half to death, too, because he was all decked out in black, with slicked back hair, dark eyes—very Godfather-esque). He cleared his throat. “Are you Evie Preston?”

What I wanted to say was, “Who wants to know?” But I figured that wouldn’t go over too well with my manager, so instead I replied, “Yes, how can I help you?”

He handed me a card with the name “Simone” written on it. I looked down at the card and then back up at him. “Simone?” Mafia Man nodded and replied, “Yes. I’m Dwight Jenkins, and I represent Simone. You know, Simone, the singer?”

I took a step back, glancing around me. “Am I on one of those TV shows where y’all have hidden cameras? Do you mean
the
Simone?”

“No hidden cameras, I assure you. Yes, I’m referring to the pop star, Simone.”

My head started spinning. Had she heard me playing at Nick’s? Maybe Nick really
did
know people in high places, and maybe the producer guy who was coming to listen to me next week was her producer. Oh wow, would Betty LaRue be so proud, and my mama and daddy! How had I missed seeing Simone at Nick’s? She had to have been in disguise. That’s how those celebs do it when they want to go out—they go incognito.