DYING IN THE SUN.

JON DE BURGH MILLER.

Trailer

It was the City of Angels, and the angels were screaming. Rain, lightning, thunder and wind swept through the valley with such power and such ferocity that those caught in the storm felt as if nature itself was in pain.

On a night like this the streets were deserted. Due to the poor drainage in the valley this sort of weather caused roads to become rivers and cheap houses to flood. These storms didn't hit that often, but when they did... 'We do things big in LA,'

someone once said, and even the weather had a tendency to adopt that attitude. During storms like this, you stayed inside and prayed. But tonight, the storm was the last thing on eighteen-year-old Hannah Wyatt's mind. Tonight, someone else could do the praying.

As she ran blindly through the storm the rain blended in with the tears on Hannah's cheeks. She splashed through the puddles sending water cascading upwards and slid all over the street, several times almost tripping in the deep rivers that were spreading across the roads. But she didn't care about the rain.

Her clothes and shoes were ruined, but she didn't care about them either. She just had to get away.

At last Hannah got to the end of the street and saw a bench overshadowed by a store canopy. She glanced at the road, at the pools of rain spilling over the kerbs, getting deeper and deeper by the second, and realised that she would be too wet to keep running if she didn't find some shelter. She'd stay here until the morning, until the rain cleared. As long as she was far away from Raymond, she'd be OK.

Sitting down on the soaked bench, she tried to ignore the clamp sensation that quickly began to settle into her clothes. She reached into her coat pocket and took out the photo of her and Raymond. Staring at the grinning faces, she realised that it was two months since the picture had been taken. So much had changed since then.

She angrily tore the already soggy photo in two and threw the pieces to the ground. Letting out a long, resigned breath, she put her head in her hands. This was the first time she had been able to sit down since she'd run from Raymond. The first time she had been able to stop and think about what had happened to her. The enormity of her pain hit her like a punch in the stomach.

Five minutes of crying later, Hannah noticed the man in black.

'Pretty wet tonight, huh?' he said, smiling from beneath his panama.

Hannah glanced up at the stranger, making no attempt to hide her curiosity. He was a tall and slender man who held an umbrella steadfastly upwards as if in a gesture of defiance to the tempest above. Most of the details of his features were hidden in the shadows, but she noticed that he had smooth, young-looking skin marked by a small scar across his left cheek.

As if sensing her interest, the man walked over and sat down next to her on the bench. He looked up at the rampaging sky and smiled, revealing a row of sparkling white teeth with a single gold one at the front. The rest of the world was disturbed, but this stranger looked at peace. His features were clearer now, and he smiled at her in a way that she found reassuring. His eyes glowed with compassion and Hannah felt as if he could help ease her pain.

'Don't be afraid,' the man said, 'It will be OK.'

And she believed him.

After a few moments of silence, he spoke again. 'Do you want to talk about it?'

Hannah shook her head. No one wanted to talk about things like this. But she found she talked anyway. Over the next thirty minutes she let it all out to the stranger. She told him how she had met Raymond one night when she was working as a receptionist at the Grand Vine Hotel. How they had got on as if they had known each other for years, and how she had learned that he was not the humble salesman she thought he was, but was actually a movie producer sounding out the hotel for use in his next picture. Hannah told the stranger how Raymond had promised to make her famous, how he had told her that he believed she had everything he was looking for in a lead actress.

He had told her everything she wanted to hear, and she had fallen for every word. She had fallen for him, and she had given him everything he wanted from her in return.

For three months their affair had lasted, until this evening, the day before filming was due to begin on the picture. This afternoon, the men from the studio had come in to prepare the hotel and all the production staff had been assigned their rooms.

Wary that there was still no sign of a contract, Hannah had marched into Raymond's room demanding to know what was going on. She had found him in the arms of Linda Howard, Hollywood's latest hot property, straight from Broadway.

'Did I forget to mention?' Raymond had said. 'We've changed our minds about the casting. Linda has the role now.'

Hannah had thrown a fit at this news, of course, but Raymond had just laughed. 'Sorry baby, these things happen you know.'

'I'm sorry,' the stranger apologised, as Hannah's attention snapped back to the present. She still could not believe how much she had told this man. 'I'm sorry I can't do more than just listen.'

'He was going to make me famous, you know?' Hannah cried. 'He promised me! But he betrayed me.'

'Here,' the man said, handing her a blue handkerchief. 'Dry those tears.'

Hannah chuckled, surprised that she could find anything humorous at this moment. 'In this weather,' she mocked, 'what would be the point?'

The man smiled, again, and for a brief moment he had a look on his face that reminded Hannah of how her father used to look when he tucked her in at night, all those years ago.

'I'm so confused,' she confessed. 'I don't know what to do.'

The man paused, clearly trying to decide whether or not to say the words forming in his mouth.

'Do you trust me?' he asked her.

A peculiar request from a stranger, but one that Hannah found scarily easy to answer. 'A little,' she replied. 'I mean, yes, I suppose so.'

'Then let me show you something.'

He reached inside his coat and produced a small hip flask.

He unscrewed the cap from the top of the flask and turned it upside down to use it as a cup. He turned away and Hannah heard the sound of the liquid trickling into the cup. He turned back to Hannah and placed the cup in her hands. She was surprised to find it was warm. Not hot, just pleasantly warm.

Hannah brought the cup closer, thinking it must be soup or coffee or some other comfort drink, then gasped when she saw its contents. It was filled with a bright, golden liquid that sparkled like nothing Hannah had ever seen before. The glow from the drink illuminated her arms and chest. Sparkling orange dust swirled in the steam that rose from the liquid. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

'What is it?' she asked.

The man raised his hand in a gesture that told Hannah to drink from the cup.

'What is it?' she asked again, but she didn't need an answer.

This was hope. Whatever was contained in this cup, the man was offering her something magical, something appealing.

Something a million times better than Raymond's shitty film deal. Hannah raised the cup to her lips, never for a moment questioning the wisdom of taking a drink from a complete stranger.

The warm liquid didn't taste of anything, but as she drank it a pleasant heat spread inside her and she felt a tingling sensation, like tiny sparks of static electricity, dancing down her throat. The moment she swallowed the liquid she became stronger, more confident, and the thought of Raymond and his whore grew further and further from her mind.

She turned to look at the stranger, marvelling at the effect his gift had had on her.

'Oh my... it's amazing! It's wonderful!'

'It likes you,' the man said. 'I can tell. You've acquired a taste for each other very quickly indeed.'

Hannah didn't quite understand what he was saying, so was content just to sit and listen to his words.

'You see Hannah, you don't need to sleep with producers, or take your clothes off for magazines, to be famous. All you need is glamour, poise and perfection. You have all that, you just don't know it. I can help you find those things inside yourself, you know.'

Hannah felt tears welling in her eyes once more, except this time they were tears of joy. 'I know, I know,' she told the man.

'Help me. Show me how.'

'Just drink the rest of that,' he said, pointing to the cup.

'Absorb it into yourself. Accept it, and agree to follow how it makes you feel, what it makes you want to do. Very soon, with very little effort, you'll be loved and wanted the world over.

You'll be famous.'

Hannah finished the drink, wiped her mouth, then handed the cup back to the stranger.

'Very soon,' he promised, 'you'll be a star.'

First Reel

Chapter One.

The colour red dominated the decor of the Sunrise Villa bar.

Red velvet covered its seats, red silk curtains shielded its clientele from the outside world and deep-red European wine flowed freely in the glasses on many of the bar's tables. Given the colour scheme, Robert Chate felt it was a definite irony that this place was used as a meeting point for those groups most concerned with the growing problem of the Red Menace in the city of Los Angeles. The Sunrise Villa was a safe house for American values, for people who knew whom they could trust and for the security and prosperity that were the right of every American, but which the subversives sought so hard to remove.

Chate was here for other reasons tonight though, but the old man pestering him to make a contribution to the ADA just couldn't seem to get this through his booze-addled head.

'Come on, kid,' the man ranted, 'you probably have a young family, yeah? Wife and baby maybe? Think about them. Surely for their sake you want to see the pinkos out as much as anyone?'

'I have no wife,' Chate snapped. 'No children. No family.

I'm twenty-nine and all alone, but doing absolutely fine, thank you for asking. Now if you'll leave me in peace I just want some time to myself and a quiet drink. Good day to you, sir.'

The man shook his head, realising that Chate was a lost cause. 'You wanna watch that attitude of yours, kid. It's people like you the Reds go for. People who won't see the nightmare that's coming before it's too late. This city will go up in smoke soon, and you won't have done jack to help.' With these words of condemnation, he sidled off to harass a bourbon-sipping couple in a corner.

Chate darted into the bathroom, then splashed some water on to his face and into his dark-blond hair. He glanced in the mirror to see if he looked as tired as he felt and saw the well-padded form of Martin Revere, one of LA's most successful racketeers, standing behind him.

'I saw you annoying the locals again, Robert.'

'You're late,' was all Chate could think of to say.

'And you were getting worried,' Revere said, before leading Chate back into the bar area. 'How thoughtful.'

He took a sip from a glass of vodka and lit a cigarette.

'Where is it then?'

Chate took a quick look around to make sure no one was looking, then reached into his jacket and took out a weighty Manila envelope. Revere snatched it from Chate's hands, tore off the top and peered cautiously at its contents. 'Nine hundred, yeah?'

'Course.'

'I want you to take some stuff round to Sarah Freeman tomorrow she's put in for a big load and she's keeping low.

Rumour has it she split on some movie and broke her contract without making repayments. She don't get out much, and don't want attention, so if you're lucky you'll be able to shift me a grand for next time.' Chate could tell from the sneer in Revere's voice that he clearly wasn't happy with the return his peddler had been providing recently.

'You know you've gotta shift more, Robert,' he went on, as if reading Chate's mind. 'I'll give you as much as you can take, but if you don't go out and shift it, I don't get my money, savvy?'

'I don't know,' sighed Chate. 'I try but...' This was it, the moment he had been waiting for. 'Listen Martin, there's something I want to tell you.'

'Yeah?' Revere said, examining his vodka glass for grease smudges.

'It's just that... I want out.' There. Said it.

Maybe Chate was expecting an angry response. Maybe he was expecting an upset response. He wasn't expecting Revere burst out laughing.

'You want out? You, Robert Chate, want out? What is this a wind-up?'

'I'm serious '

'I don't give a monkey's crap if you're serious, you're not going anywhere, pipe that?'

If it had been anyone else, Chate would have launched a hefty punch straight for the guy's jaw, but not with Revere. Out on the streets, out on his turf where he sold dope to businessmen, movie stars and gangsters, Chate had a reputation as a real no-nonsense guy. Eighteen months back a pimp named Barnet had tried to swindle him by siphoning off 10 per cent of a shipment, replacing that 10 per cent with garden soil, then returning it to Chate and demanding a refund because the stuff was impure. Barnet had been found face down in the gutter, choking on his own vomit after having his stomach beaten in with a baseball bat. He lived, but he never snitched Chate to the cops, or ever asked for a refund again. Chate enjoyed his notoriety. He enjoyed the feeling that people were always cautious with, and sometimes scared of, him. He was the cop's son turned bad, the jailbird who'd been paroled on a technicality.

No one messed with his shit.

But at the end of the day none of this mattered because, as much as he was in control of 'his shit', it all belonged to Revere.

'You're such an ungrateful turd,' Revere muttered. 'After all I've done for you...'

'Yeah, Martin, I know the routine. I had nothing when I came out of the Big Q. You gave me a job, a car, clothes, an apartment... And I'm grateful, you know, but it's been two years now.'

'And?'

'And things are different. You know at first it was fun the money, the danger, the biggest goddamn single-finger salute to Charlie a guy could give but now...'

Chate reached into his pocket, pulled out a newspaper cutting and handed it to Revere. 'Natasha Silver, a young actress at United.'

Revere skimmed over the article, reading bits of it out loud.