October 4: She stepped out of the shadows, as ship-shape and shapely as the percolating piece she held in her bejeweled, bespangled hands.
Yes, I knew this voluptuous vixen. It was Lucky Lola LaRue, the love of La-La Land. Siren of stage and screen. Top hot box-office draw. Media minx. Star of stratospheric magnitude and meteorological mayhem. Stately symphony of form and function. Bright as a brilliant day in the San Bernardinos.
I tried to stay smart, but me in a room full of Lola–
My brain took a walk and locked the door behind.
She cocked the Glock, glad-handing the rambunctious rod. “Well?”
“I’m thinking,” I stalled, stuttering and stumbling back over the body.
“Think fast, friend. The next siren call’s for you.” She aimed, arms out, heat to my head.
I staggered to a stop near the sofa. Surrendered. “How can I help?”
“Good boy, Getchell.” She waved her wicked wand. “Out the back door. My way’s on the highway.”
I stepped over the overblown blow-hard, careful not to crush Cal’s corpse. I opened the back door, holding it for Lola. Despite the deadly weapon, she inspired my chivalrous side.
She gestured to the Jag, parked perfunctorily to the side. “Let’s jet. You drive.”
On the road in a sporty sports car, low slung and lethal as Lola’s laugh. I snaked onto Sunset, motoring toward Mulholland.
She rustled her revolver. Pointed to a pullout. A precipice overlooking the Pacific. My life on the literal edge. I complied, no hope for a hearing. I retained my composure, cheaper than a solicitor.
Lola licked her lips, eyed me eerily, referenced the repeater. “Here’s the plan, Dan. We meander to Mexico at midnight. We’ll stay at my beachside bistro in Baja. I was with you all weekend. Including the incriminating instant of Cal’s crushing curtain call.”
I looked into her gorgeous green eyes. A brief breeze ruffled her red-gold curls. “Why kill Cal?”
“Drop it, Danny. Do as I say, and no one gets gone.”
“Cal’s crushed. That’s not gone?”
She laughed. Low, luscious, and lethal. In her films, the guy always gets it after she lets loose a laugh. Signature signal of doom and death. “Just taking out the trash.”
I leaned out and looked at the luminous moon. “It’s not okay to kill. Even Cal.”
She hoisted the heater, flicking off the safety. “Know how many people will sleep soundly tonight, now that Cool Cal’s cashed it in?”
I sighed, surrendering the salient point. “Millions, most likely.”
Sailing south. Silently swerving past I-5 sights. The border by breakfast.
October 5: Surreal sensibilities. Felonious fallacies. Hellacious headlines. Lola LaRue Locked up for Life. Star Shoots Scum. History of Histrionics Halts Hollywood Harlot. Lola Looks out for Little People.
They caught us in Coronado. The peeping pansy next door phoned the police when Lola lost her lead. She saw the whole show from her shower. Lola loading me out.
The cops found my car at the scene of the crime, suspiciously clean of crud. Lola’s Jag left tracks. Slight, but noticeable to forensic Fran Filletti. When Filletti matched prints to specialized tires, made only in France for foreign-made Fords, she scratched her head and set us up.
In the immediate interrogation, Lola looked up and lisped, “I did it for Daddy.”
Factually, Cal was crushing her career. Dug up detailed despicableness, a frisky flick called “Nowhere’s Nymph.”
At the same time, Cal’s comrades, the cops, tired of his tortuous tentacles and terrible tomfoolery, were watching the house round the clock, trying to pin pervertedness and evidential errors. They let Lola in, armed and angry. Easy way to eliminate evil.
A sad day in Hollywood. No more Lola LaRue, locking lips at luaus or swaying with the suave sucker in the saloon. Swanson, Shearer, Sidney, Sarandon. Lola loop-de-looped their galaxy, surpassing seventy times that bevy of beauties.
And me? I’m back on the beat, looking for loonies and lost souls. Ready to spill the beans about born-again beauties and benevolent bad boys. Digging up scandal skank and printing perishable press releases.
Hollywood. Queen of the quick buck. Prince of Pentecostal producers. Shah of show and illusion. Mullah of movies and money. Somebody’s gotta cover it.
Shé’s work has been published by Seal Press, Running Wild Press, Vox Populi, Chiasmus Press, The Passionfruit Review, and Letter X and Evergreen magazines. Her novella, Letters to Lulu, hits bookstores in 2025.