car was factory-new. Delivered yesterday. Yesterday she’d been on a shoot, the last day. The car was a present from the director. The car was a thing of high-speed beauty. She loved it, and loved that it made Blond Viking God jealous. She could tell.
The delivery guys woke her up. The shoot had been long, grueling. She was fried to the point of not knowing what day it was, or what a normal routine felt like. This was always the case; it took a few weeks of film detox before she felt normal again. By then she’d be diving back in for her next role. Which was fine. She wanted to keep busy. She liked being busy. She’d heard a term—
Blond Viking God told her she was lazy; anything less than Total World Domination wasn’t worth her time.
Blond Viking God was in a position to say something like that. Even then, three years ago, he was the Blond Viking God.
So she received her new car and quickly showered and dressed and ate a croissant—the first breadlike food she’d had in five weeks—and poured some orange juice down her throat and went off to Blond Viking God’s place in Santa Monica. He was hung-over but immediately suggested a drink.
She pouted a little—she’ll admit that much. She wanted to go driving around L.A. Something she used to do all the time.
Wait until I show you Decker Canyon Road, she said.
Fuck that, he said. Mulholland or nothing, baby!
He had a few drinks, and then she was coerced into having a beer—again, the first booze she’d had in five weeks, since the start of the shoot. The first sip was a cold, fuzzy blast. Wow. Reluctantly, she accepted another beer, nursing it as he tossed back bourbon. He’d been on a big bourbon kick lately, having come back from shooting a gothic/science-fiction thing down in New Orleans. Bought it by the case. She hoped it was a phase; she didn’t like kissing him after a bourbon jag.
She saw the light in his eyes go dimmer and dimmer, and she hated when that happened. He got to a certain point where it was impossible to reach him. So she said, shoes on, we’re going for a ride.
He put his shoes on; they went for a ride.
They didn’t go as far as Decker Canyon Road—honestly, she was afraid all the twists and turns would make him puke. And sorry, she was not cleaning Blond Viking God vomit out of her factory-new sports car. He egged her on—Mulholland, baby! Mulholland! Until finally she agreed, taking the PCH up to Sunset, then up Beverly Glen.
Finally to Mulholland.
He gleefully told her the story behind the name. Mulholland was a government official who was responsible for the deaths of at least 450 people—including forty-some kids—when a dam burst.
Only in L.A., he said, would they name a road after someone like that.
They stopped at a lookout, at which point Blond Viking God grabbed the keys.
No.
C’mon.
Fuck, no. Don’t be an idiot.
I’m fine. I just want to give it a test spin.
And I’m saying no.
He jingled the keys in front of her.
Just a mile or so.
How much bourbon did you drink?
See you at the bottom.
She screamed his name—
But ultimately he won, because he always won, because he was the Blond Viking God and he raced her factory-new sports car down Mulholland Drive, yelling, NOW, THIS IS HOW YOU DO IT.
They didn’t die.
They didn’t hit anyone.
Frankly, he was actually okay behind the wheel.
And Lane had to admit, maybe she was being silly, because it was a pretty amazing ride, the cool January air making all of L.A. look crystal-clear sharp down to the molecule. And there they were, on top of everything.
They decided to get a bite down in the valley. Somewhere quiet, out of the way. He said he knew the perfect place. They went down Beverly Glen to Ventura. Blond Viking God was confused; he knew it was here somewhere, but maybe he’d passed it. So he hooked a left onto a side street, then another left, onto another side street. I’m hungry, he said, then gunned it. He saw the kid two seconds before—chasing a Wiffle ball into the street. He slammed the brakes. The tires screamed. She screamed. None of it did any good.
The world ended.
Lane saw the white ball spinning, slowly making its way to the opposite curb.
He cursed.
He looked around.
He cursed again.
He put the car in reverse.
Lane screaming, WHAT ARE YOU DOING
He raced around the kid and rocketed the rest of the way up the street, even though doors were opening all around them.
WE CAN’T WE CAN’T
She looked back and saw his little body and she screamed again, but they were cut off by a hairpin turn to the right, and then everything receded into the distance.
Hardie’s fingers touched his Manhattan, but he didn’t lift the drink from the table. He watched her as she spoke. Low tones, quiet and calm, as if she had been rehearsing this tale ever since it happened. But she wasn’t acting—there was a difference. She wasn’t becoming someone else. This was the real her, beneath everything else. Letting it all go.
“They never caught you,” Hardie said.
“They never caught us,” she said, “because of the Accident People.”
He called his manager.
His manager gave him shit right away—Lane could tell, even hearing just one side of the conversation. But Blond Viking God put the manager back in his place and made his wishes explicitly clear:
GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF THIS.
See, the Blond Viking God could not be wrapped up in a manslaughter trial. The Blond Viking God had a full slate, and nothing could stop that without the risk of losing a ridiculous amount of money. Even Blond Viking God’s death wouldn’t stop the production of the next six films—two of them summer tent-poles—because, by God, the money men would find a way to reanimate his fucking corpse to finish them.
And the manager understood that.
So the manager advised his client:
HIDE
And then he called the studio’s lawyers, who got word to the top, and it was deemed important enough to bring in the Accident People.
By then Blond Viking God had taken them all the way out beyond the San Bernadinos; they were directed to a garage in Chatsworth. The car would have to be destroyed; the studio was already arranging for a duplicate to be delivered to Lane’s Venice address. They were cleaned up, given new clothes. They were told to never, ever speak of this. Because it didn’t happen. It would be erased.
The Accident People asked the Blond Viking God for his precise route. A third car was procured—same make, same model, same color. Two actors were hired. They drove around Sherman Oaks recklessly, then disappeared.
By seven p.m. they were having drinks at the Standard, having arrived there in Blond Viking God’s own car
