Imperial Bedrooms

Banks closes his menu when the owner leans down and whispers something to him. Josh Hartnett, who was going to play one of the sons in The Listeners and then bailed, walks over and crouches by the bamboo chair and we have a brief exchange about another script of mine that he's been circling, but his apologetic lack of commitment only makes me seem more remote than I'm actually feeling. Though I know that what he's saying isn't true I smile and agree anyway. Austere plates of raw fish start arriving, along with ice-cold bottles of premium sake, and then the guys make fun of a very successful shark movie I wrote, and the series about witches I created that ran for two seasons on Showtime, then Wayne starts telling a story about an actress who stalked him until he cast her in a movie about a monster that looked like a talking beanbag. Just as the owner sends the table a complimentary dessert - an elaborate plate of sugared doughnuts drizzled with caramel - the night begins sliding into its last act. I'm scanning the room when I see the cascade of blond hair, the wide-open pale blue eyes, the dumb smile that offsets her beauty while at the same time making it more pronounced: she's on the phone at the hostess stand. And then I realize it's time to cross the line.



I knew you were here," Rain says.



"Why didn't you say something?" I ask, sobering up immediately in her presence. "You could have sent over a few cocktails."



"I assumed you guys were already wasted when you came in."



"Why didn't you say hello?"



"I was seating a table," she says. "Plus the owner likes to impress Banks."



"So, this is where you work?"



"Yes," she purrs. "Glamorous, isn't it?"



"You seem happy."



"I am," she says. "I'm almost afraid of how happy I am."



"Come on, don't be afraid."



She mimics a little girl. "Well, I could always be happier."



"Well," I say contemplatively. "I got your pics."



When I get back to the Doheny Plaza, waiting for Rain to come over after she finishes her shift, I sit in my office checking Rain's IMDb page again, studying it for clues. There are no credits for the last two years, stopping abruptly after "Christine" in a Michael Bay movie and "Stacy's Friend" in an episode of CSI: Miami and then I'm filling in the missing pieces, the things she doesn't want anyone to know. The credits begin when Rain must have been eighteen. I'm doing the math by guessing - the date of birth has been shaved by at least a couple years and I'm putting her age at probably twenty-two or twenty-three. She was at the University of Michigan (cheerleader for the Wolverines, "studying medicine") but no dates are given (if she attended at all) so it's hard to confirm exactly how old she is. Though Rain would say it doesn't matter. Rain would argue that just the idea of her in a cheerleader's uniform is enough. But the fact that there are no photos of her as a cheerleader causes more whispers in that darkly lit hallway, and the addition of "studying medicine" makes the whispering even louder.



The most recent information: Rain posted a month ago that she was listed as one of L.A. Confidential's most eligible singles in the December issue, and so is - I notice unsurprisingly enough when I pull up the magazine online - Amanda Flew, the actress I hit on at JFK and who texted me during Rain's audition. The photo of Rain in L.A. Confidential is the same headshot that obviously is Rain's preferred image of herself: staring blankly at the camera so that her perfect features can speak for themselves, but there's the beginning of a slight grin she almost manages to make suggestive of an intelligence that the cle**age and her career choice otherwise argue against. And it doesn't matter if any intelligence actually exists because it's really about the look, the idea of a girl like this, the promise of sex. It's all about the lure. The MySpace page reveals nothing to me at first except that her favorite band is the Fray. "How to Save a Life" plays when you open the page. I'm about to scan it when I get a text from a blocked number.



I look down at the phone on my desk.



The screen says: I'm watching you.



Instead of ignoring it and turning away, I text back: Where am I?



Within the time it takes another text to arrive I've already walked to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of vodka. When I reach for the phone back in my office I freeze.



You're at home.



I hold the phone away from my face and glance out the window.



And then I text back: No I'm not.



It takes a minute before the phone flashes a glow that tells me I have a response.