Ragged Point: Death on the Rocks

"But I do, Les," Linda laughed, "Who do I gotta kill boss?"

Les smiled with his lips, but it didn't extend to his eyes.

"Very funny. But let me lay it out to you straight — tonight is your test. The test of your desire and drive to reach the top of the feeding chain,

"When we get to Ragged Point, we're going to get a room, and I'm going to fuck your eyeballs out. You leave me sexually exhausted by tomorrow morning and when we go back to L.A., you'll have sewn up Marv's job. Otherwise..." he shrugged his shoulders.

Linda was looking at Les with the eyes of a deer shined by the headlights. She could hardly believe what he was proposing.

"Les! I'm married. I mean — what you're asking me to do..."

"Linda, your husband will never know. But this is the make-it or break-it time. Are you a grown up willing to do what it takes, or just another gutless wannabe?

"So what is it? Yea or nay? And this is part of the test — you have to be decisive, now or never. "What's your answer?" he demanded in his best bullying tone.

Linda sat there in the chair looking down at her lap, but she was slowly and reluctantly nodding her head in agreement.

"Well?" Les barked.

"Yes," Linda whispered.

"Yes what?" Les continued to press.

"Yes, I will have sex with you tonight. You can fuck me the whole night."

"Good! I knew you had it in you if you tried. You won't regret this. Every woman I've ever had tells me I'm damn good. You'll wake up with a smile on your face tomorrow..."

Les continued on; Linda had tuned him out and was reflecting and looking inward.

But Linda was already regretting her cowardly acquiesiance.

Damn, she wanted the job, but was this too high a price? She knew that Hollywood was amoral at best and immoral much of the time, but she'd never had to confront it face-to-face. Maybe Les was right, though. Maybe she needed to be this tough to move up into the upper circles of Hollywood. This was, in it's own way, paying her dues to make it. Paying her dues on her back — a long-time Hollywood tradition.

Another side of her could see herself walking with her husband, Art, into the Academy Awards — a movie she had produced was up for an award. Having photos taken on the red carpet of her in her designer dress, designed and made for her for that one night. Sitting in one of the corner offices with windows overlooking the city.

That was the glamour of Hollywood, but first she had to crawl her way though the shit, grabbing this opportunity by the hands.

— Friday 6:15 P.M. — Cambia, California

As I drove up the main drag in Cambria, coming from the south exit that took you through the business district, I kept my eyes open for the Bimmer I knew that Les drove. I was especially paying attention as I went by the 'Coeur de la Côte' restaurant/wine shop — but I still didn't see the car. Bummer! I was going to walk into the dining area and drag my wife out of the clutches of Lester the perv producer.

I was getting to the north side of the little town where the main street intersects the old coast road, still known as Highway 1, again, when I saw the car coming out of the lone gas station on that side of town. If I didn't know the car any other way, I would have recognized it from the 'PRODCR' vanity plate. They were far enough ahead of me that I figured I would have to follow them until they stopped again to make my move.

Just about then, the little alarm telling me I was really low on gas started beeping. Shit.

Damn, damn, damn. I pulled into the gas station that Les and MY wife had just pulled out of. I dug into my wallet for cash (not wanting to leave a trail of credit card purchases) and pre-paid to fill up my car. By the way — gas is about a buck more per gallon in Cambria than in San Luis, but it's a buck cheaper than at the top of the hill at the gas station at Ragged Point.

Finally, after watching the gas virtually trickle into my tank, it was finally full and I could get back on the road. Lester and his Bimmer were long out of sight, but at least I knew where they were going.

{?}

Les was trying to make Linda feel more comfortable about the night ahead. 'Well, in truth,' he thought, 'at least it will be a night of delicious sexual conquest for me."

There was something that Les actually understood about himself — it wasn't really the sex that attracted him so much about fucking a starlet, it was the bending of another person to his will. 'Hell,' he thought, 'if it was just sex, there's honestly never been anyone better than Barbara.' His wife would do almost anything he wanted, except anything that would scar or disfigure her. She wasn't about to get involved with any sort of scat either, but that didn't matter to him; he wasn't in to it either. But they had done quite a number of edgy things during their married life. But Les had always drawn the line at doing things that might get out to the public. Even in Hollywood there were rumors, but anyone who actually knew anything wasn't talking about Lester Holder's sex life.

He turned his attention to Linda for a moment, "So, Linda, do you have any thoughts about that new romantic comedy series for next season. You understand that it is going to be your baby, and I think it is going to be a smash!"

That got Linda started. She stopped thinking about the night ahead and shifted gears to her first big prize. She began to speak, but Les wasn't really paying attention. He'd gone back to thinking about dominating poor, stupid actors and actresses for his pleasure and satisfaction.

He recalled the time a couple of years before when he forced a new young actor, who deperately wanted a leading role in a film that could make his career, to bring his attractive young wife to a hotel suite in Beverly Hills so that the actor would have to watch as Les banged her. They had a couple of drinks in the bar before adjourning to the rooms and when they had settled in, Les made her strip for him, while her husband sat in a chair and watched. Les had her take off his clothes for him, then he sat down in a chair and told her to suck his cock. She was good, almost as good as Barbara, so he leaned back and closed his eyes just enjoying the sensation. Then he noticed something was a little different. He opened his eyes and found that the actor and his wife were BOTH working on his cock. That had him spurting almost immediately. He'd never known that the actor was bi and that his wife really liked a little kink in their sex life.

Les, smiled to himself. He and the young couple ended up staying there and having an orgy for the entire weekend, living on room service. He screwed them both. Maybe he should give them a call again soon. They indicated that they would love a repeat sometime.

He listened to what Linda had been saying for a minute and asked some questions to make her think that he'd been listening.

"What do you think the budget should be per episode? And do you want to go with a couple of established names, or should we find some new faces and fresh blood? Your budget will be higher with the established names and they could instantly attract a larger viewing audience. But people are also attracted to a cast of good young actors. And the profits (and your share) will be higher if you go the newbies route."

Linda began talking about the plusses and minuses as she saw them, but again, Les wasn't really paying attention.

He figured that another drink and then he would get her to take some 'X' to make the evening go easier for her. A little relaxing in the hot tub on the patio behind the room and then it was going to be a three-hole night for Lucky Lester. And Linda would be doing repeats after tonight to stay in his good graces. He'd probably use his phone to grab some 'candid' shots. She wouldn't want hubby to see those, so a couple hours now and again submitting to Lester the Alpha Dog would definitely be a feature of her future.

He smiled again to himself as he started up the winding road that peaked at Ragged Point.

{?}

By the time I cought up to Les and my wife, his car was already parked in front of one of the stand-alone cottages, at the very south end of the resort. The whole resort was built with a redwood façade to give off the aura of being in the middle of the woods. Once inside, though, it was pure modern.

The hotel itself was shaped like an 'L' with the main lodge and most of the rooms in a three story tall building, and there was a line of these small cottage-like bungalows at a right angle to the main building. Since it was located on a point, the rooms in the main building faced the ocean to the north-west and the cottages faced the ocean to the south-west.

I didn't stop at the gas station/gift shop/hotel complex. Instead I drove past and turned around and found a place on the side of the road to park on the southern end of the resort. I wasn't sticking out or anything: there was a whole line of cars parked on both sides of the road. But it kept me and my car out of the areas covered by any security cameras.

Now that I was here, I was at a bit of a loss. I didn't have a clue of what to do next. I wanted to break up any sort of liasson before it could begin, but just how should I approach it? I wasn't going to wait around and try picking up the pieces afterwards. Should I just to up to the front door of the cottage and knock? And then what?

I decided to do a little recon first.

In the glovebox of my car, I had my Dad's old Smith & Wesson Model 19 .38 Police Special with a four inch barrel. I'd done a lot of target practice with that pistol and with wad cutters I could put them all in the bullseye at 25 yards.

But as much as I might have been tempted, I didn't want to shoot the bastard. All I wanted to do was scare the shit out of that piece of crap, Lester. So I opened the cylinder and pushed back the extractor rod and emptied the rounds into my hand and put them back into the glovebox. Now no 'accidents' could happen.

I stuck the gun into the pocket of my coat. It was cold up there at this time of year and no one would find wearing a coat unusual, so it would work.

I started walking up the slope in the grassy area behind the hedges leading up to the row of cottages. I guessed that there was probably an access way for the folks who cleaned up the areas behind the cottages. I was right. I passed a large trash bin and there was a little walk-way. I slowed down as I got closer to the cottage. I could see all the way to the bottom of the cliff and the rocks below from where I was standing. A dim light was on behind the first cottage where I suspected Les and Linda were, so I decided to sneak up a little closer to check out what I could see.

I edged up to the side of the cottage and looked around the corner. The hot tub was bubbling merrily away, and out towards the back of the lot, overlooking the ocean stood Les, an open bottle of booze in his hand. He had walked up to a short — maybe 18" high wall at the back, seperated by about five feet from the edge of the cliff. It wasn't going to prevent an adult from steping over it to look over the edge at the ocean, so I assumed it was just intended to prevent drunks from accidentally going too far.

Les was in one of those hotel supplied white terry robes with matching sandles.

He turned back to towards the door and called out, "Hey! What's going on? Where are you? Hurry up! It can't take you that long to get out of your clothes. I'm waiting out here. Let's get this party on the road!"

There was an answer from the room, but I couldn't make out what was said.

Les, pissed off at the delay, was walking around and finally stopped in front of the wall looking out at the ocean. He lifted the bottle of booze to his lips and took a swig.

With the noise of the hot tub and the crashing of the surf, he didn't hear me as I approached him from behind.

{?}

Linda was still sitting, fully clothed, in the room.

"I don't want to do this and I don't have to. The son-of-a-bitch."

Just then she heard Les going on outside telling her to get the party started or some such nonsense.

She called to him, "I have to wash the makeup off my face first," and then started gently crying.

Les was so sure of himself. He'd parked in front of the cottage before checking in, which told Linda that he'd already arranged this little 'love nest' before he started the whole charade. He went to the front desk and got the key to the unit (it was a real metal key — how old fashioned) and hustled her into the room with their overnight bags. In no time at all, he was out of his clothes walking around the room nude, his cock swinging in front of him while he went to the closet to grab a robe and a towel.

He stopped and turned to Linda. He put his hand under his cock and lifted it so Linda couldn't avoid looking at it.

"Pretty damn impressive, yeah? And it isn't even really hard yet. You're going to love it."

Linda had to admit, it was a bigger than average cock (at least in her limited experience) but it honestly wasn't any bigger than Art's.

As Les walked out to the hot tub (that someone had already turned on to heat even before they arrived,) he saw her still just standing there and over his shoulder ordered her, "I'm going outside. We've got a lot of privacy here. The guy at the desk said none of the other cottages are occupied tonight, so we can start with a little skinny dipping out back, listening to the ocean. Kinda romantic, don't you think?"

Actually, Linda didn't think that ANYTHING about this whole situation was romantic in the least.

She made up her mind.

{?}

Like I said, Les was pretty oblivious to the fact that I was approaching him. There was so much background noise that he certainly didn't hear me coming up the path to the small yard behind his room.

I got closer to him and with each step I was getting more angry — until at the last minute, I didn't say anything to him, instead I took a couple of quick steps and landed a punch in his kidney. I figured that would put him on the defensive for the little conversation we were going to have.

What I hadn't anticipated was that he was going to fall forward right over the wall and on his face in the space between the wall and the cliff. Oh well — I guess that like Bullwinkle I 'didn't know m'own strenth.'

When he recovered enough to stand up and face me, I was amused to see that he still had the bottle of booze waving around in his hand.

I was standing there with my Roscoe out (that's old slang for a pistol, for you who don't watch Jimmy Cagney movies from the 1930's) pointed at him.

His eyes got big and I could see him trying to get a word out of his mouth, but when he spotted the gun, without thinking he took a couple of steps back; an unconcious effort to get away from a threat. And then, without either one of us having said a word, he lost his balance and dropped backwards over the cliff. All that remained was the bottle that he had finally dropped, sitting there in the ice plant on the edge.

"Oh my god!," I thought, "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. I am so fucked!" Here I am standing with a revolver in my hand and, I suspected, a really badly injured or even dead body at the bottom of the cliff. Probably a 200 foot drop.

When I work on a script, I spend a lot of time with District Attorney's (actually ADAs, most of the time.) I knew how THEY would see what just happened. Son of a bitch.

Their narrative would be something like this: crazied Hollywood writer finds out that his wife is having an affair with her boss. Tracks them down to their sordid den of iniquity, plans to off his rival for his wife's affections; holds him up with the gun and pushes him off the edge of a cliff. Now the gun makes things even worse (even if it was empty), because it shows pre-meditation.

The truth might be that I just committed negligent homicide, but the D.A.s office is going to go for manslaughter, second degree murder or even first degree, premeditated murder. They will charge me with Murder One and 'let' me plea bargain down to second degree or manslaughter.

My life might well be over this minute. Shit. I didn't mean for the jackass to fall down the side of a mountain and onto the rocks. And there was no way that I could have stopped his fall — I wasn't even on the same side of the wall as he was. This could be fifteen-years-to-life in the slammer.

I finally returned to the present. I put the revolver back in my pocket and retreated down the path far enough that I could look down without risking having someone seeing me standing at the edge, hyperventilating and shaking, looking down at the body below.

It wasn't good. Ol' Lester looked more or less like a corpus delicti. The only movement was when the waves were lifting his body up as they came in and dropping him back down when the sea rolled back out. The upper part of his torso was floating in a tidal pool with his arms out of his sides. I was about 99% sure that Les was, what we call in the business, a stiff.

Rather oddly, I thought, Les didn't make a sound when he was falling — or, at least not enough of a sound to be heard over the surf. Not a scream of terror or even of surprise. No one seemed to have noticed anything amiss. My brain went into overtime.

First I quietly snuck back to the cottage and walked into the room. I was going to have to work out our story with my wife (ex-wife to be?) And then start making some quick decisions.

I walked into the room and it was — SURPRISE! — empty! As I looked around for Linda, I heard the Bimmer out in front start up and by the time I could peek out through the curtains, it was pulling out of the resort back on to Hwy 1.

Looking around, I noticed a note left on the writing desk. It was written on a piece of paper from the little portfolio that Linda always carried around with her at work.

"Les,

I can't and won't do what you are demanding of me for a stupid job! I love my husband and my marriage too much to sacrifice them. You tell me that my husband won't know — but at the end of the day that doesn't matter, because I would know. I would be disgusted with myself every morning looking in the mirror.

Not long ago, Art and I spoke about how people in Hollywood are tempted. At the time, I couldn't envision that I would have such a temptation thrown my way. I couldn't believe that you would be playing the role of the tempter. 'What does it profit a man if he gains the whole world but loses his soul,' I told my husband. I almost let my greed for money and the fantasy of becoming one of those over-inflated ego 'Hollywood' movers and shakers take over and turn my life upside down.

You can regard this as my resignation letter, because I could never work for you again. I have no respect left for you — and almost none for myself. The only saving grace is that I said 'NO' before I had submitted to your demands.

As for my husband not knowing — when I get home I am going to confess everything and tell him how I allowed you to lead me down the path that leads to damnation. I don't know if he will keep me, or if he will toss me out into the cold. I pray that he will have mercy on me.

Linda"

I picked up the note and stuck it in my pocket. I would get rid of it later.

What to do, what to do! I'd written all of these complex crime narratives and now when I face the reality of one, I'm sitting here, frozen in place, like an idiot. Maybe this is why so many criminals seem like dunces — because unless you have something really planned out, it's tough to figure out what to do on the fly.

Take a couple of deep breathes, try not to panic (yeah, right!) and consider the situation, I told myself.

The first thing I wanted to do was avoid anything appearing wrong for as long as possible, so I gathered Les' clothes from the floor where he'd left them, folded them and put them in a drawer. Normal, right? Shoes in the closet. I got out his toiletries and using a handcloth to pick things up, I put some of them out on the sink in the bathroom. Pills, comb, toothbrush, deodorent, all arranged to look as if someone expected to use them in the morning.