A little more than a week ago Kirkus Reviews told me that they will be naming City of Angles one of the Ten Best Novels put out by an independent publisher in 2023. The citation includes the last line of their review: “A genuinely funny sendup of a much-lampooned industry.” They also called it “lighthearted literary entertainment at its best—easily companionable, intelligent, and brimming with artful humor.”
This is another free excerpt. Please buy a copy here if you haven’t already: https://www.amazon.com/City-Angles-Jonathan-Leaf/dp/1637587880.
“In Hollywood you have to be a big dick, not have one,” David Clarkson observed. He was smiling as he said it, making use of the skills he had honed as an actor.
Those years of unsuccess had taught him. Above all he had learned how to read subtext and how to seem knowing and shrewd. The deluge of actors, producers and agents in Los Angeles has rendered it a place – more than any other – where people are attuned to vibrations, to sensing what has not been said, to grasping what is coming into vogue. A decade of trying to make it as a thespian and living among this tribe had etched this into Clarkson. He knew when a clothing style was about to become trendy or when someone wanted a hug, praise or chastisement.
He understood as well that the city was one where people unexpectedly fell or rose, often because of unforeseen reinventions. So you had to be alert with everyone, and you had to remember that nothing you said was an aside, nothing incidental, that every statement was a sales pitch, a presentation, a performance.
He bore this in mind in speaking to the assistant to one of the International Church of Life’s most important members, a much-admired writer-director and two-time Academy Award winner. He was trying to hit the notes required to be the man’s pal. This was of particular value as he required a favor of him, and, as the assistant had just joked about his self-doubts regarding the dimensions of his middle leg, Clarkson was flattering him, suggesting that he was soon to be a somebody, telling him that this was more important than his endowments, while also talking in his language. It was a mode of speaking Clarkson despised. But he knew that there was no point in “being himself.” In order to serve the Church and to perform his job he had to be a thousand people.
That was especially true then. Two hours of studying Vincenza Morgan’s file – most especially including that splotchy, handwritten report of her first Church confession – had persuaded him that he had to go to Culver City to see her. The night before he had left the office in the early evening and driven to her apartment, which lay between Hollywood Boulevard and Franklin Village. But she was not there. Yet, before phoning him, she had sent him a text saying that she could talk after an audition in Culver City at 9:30 am the next morning. He was determined to intercept her.
There were two obstacles. First, he had to get from Thai Town to Culver City during the morning rush hour. That could take upwards of an hour, if not more, depending on how backed up the westbound lanes of the freeway were. Second, he had to arrange for a pass, permitting him onto the studio’s lot. This was why he was calling the assistant: to cadge a brief meeting with the director that would provide him with one.
The joshing finished, the assistant paused and then got to the matter at hand. “You’re sure you have to see him here, this morning?” he asked. “What’s this about?”
“We’ve been thinking about a birthday party – a surprise party – for Richard, our Church’s Priest Counselor for your boss, and I wanted to chat with him, get his involvement.”
“You can’t do that over the phone?”
“I have to be in Culver City anyway, and, while I don’t think it will take long, yes, I’d rather face to face.”
The assistant hesitated, then relented. “What time were you thinking? I guess I could slip you in.” The tone of voice told Clarkson that there would be a debt, one which a pilot in the International Church of Life would be able to pay. Agreeing, he explained that he would call from his car to say when he was approaching the studio and that the assistant should arrange parking for him in the meantime.
Reaching the studio gates at nine, he arrived with some confidence, and waved in and parked, he marched over, planning to just quickly pop in to say hello to the director he was ostensibly visiting. That, though, was where things had gone wrong. For they had kept him waiting, and by the time he returned to the parking lot it was nearly ten-fifteen.
Even so, he remained convinced that there was a good chance that he would spot Vincenza on her way back to her car. To that end he circled around the lot three times, pretending that he was being choosy in selecting a spot, rather than delaying in exiting, and momentarily it appeared he had seen her at a remove. Then another driver in an SUV blocked his field of vision, and, when he gazed back once more, towards the dark-haired woman with the oversized glasses, the one resembling her, she was gone. All he saw in her place was a man with a confused expression, a writer or a junior executive from the looks of him. There was no telling who it had been.
This prompted him to text her back to say that he was at the studio. Why didn’t they meet at a coffee shop nearby when she was done?
When there was no answer, he hopped into his car. His text specified Gregorio’s as a meet point, and it called for seeing each other there in five minutes. A coffee shop which was just north and west, it was at the intersection of Washington and Overland. But before he could depart he had to return a phone call. Then, because he was passing through the studio gates at a moment when an extended line of cars was exiting and the security people were arguing with one of the drivers, it took him ten minutes to get out of the lot. Next he hit a pair of red lights. Incredibly, it had taken him almost twenty minutes to reach the shop, just four blocks from the studio, and at that point Vincenza was nowhere to be seen.
Was it possible that she had gone to the wrong Gregorio’s, the one in the opposite direction? Or had she mistakenly placed herself at the Gregorio’s located within the studio? Getting out of his car, Clarkson walked into the shop and sat down at a table. Overly caffeinated already, he ordered an herbal tea from a server. Then he waited.
He was afraid of what might come from calling or texting her again. Listening to her voice the night before, he had sensed her fear. That was of concern. It was out of character that he had misread her reaction. He was not about to make the mistake twice.
Trying to make up his mind, he saw on his phone a text from the Supreme Pilot, telling him that he was to bring Vincenza to the Church headquarters immediately. It was absent of additional explanation.
Clarkson drank the tea. For the first time in weeks, he was feeling anxious. He was not eager to tell the Supreme Pilot what had taken place, that he had failed to find Vincenza. He knew his temper, and he had seen him strike women and even men when incited.
Still, this appeared to be a trivial matter. All he was being asked to do was to ferry a woman to the Church headquarters, and he knew so much and had done so much for the Church that it was hard to believe that it could matter greatly if he failed. He had, after all, handled secret abortions, illegal adoptions and tortious litigation. He had dirtied up those who had left the Church, moved sums into offshore accounts and led publicity campaigns to make gay actors appear straight. He had intimidated those intent on writing books and articles critical of the Church, and he had pressured or paid off women who had been attacked or molested by higher-ups. He had done what was desired and what was necessary. Even so, the Supreme Pilot had given him clear directions, and he had not accomplished what had had been asked.
Driving to her apartment near Franklin Village, he arrived with the intention of staking out the building. His hope was that he might stop her as she was entering or leaving. He would then frankly explain to her that the Supreme Pilot had called for him to find her and that he had been waiting. However, because there was no space across from the building, he parked a block away and returned on foot. Then he set himself down on some steps in its underground lot.
He tried not to look at his watch as another half an hour passed. Neither she nor her car had returned, and the people coming into the building, parking their cars in the garage were staring at him, taking note, puzzled as to why he was there. Going to the gate of her building, he pressed the buzzer for her apartment. There was no response. She was somewhere else, doing something else. Where was she? Events were getting ahead of him. That was made plain by a phone call he received as he walked back to his car. On the line, speaking breathlessly, was an aide. He was with a girl, he said, someone whom he had brought to the Malibu beach house that the Church provided to its most important followers.
“And I found something in the garage,” he said. His tone was of alarm and excitement.