High Tolerance: A Novel of Sex, Race, Celebrity, Murder... and Marijuana

For Marvin M. Sager, MD

"… for your life to be worth anything you must sooner or later face the possibility of terrible, searing regret. Though you must also manage to avoid it or your life will be ruined.

I believe I have done these two things. Faced down regret. Avoided ruin. And I am still here to tell about it.

—Richard Ford, The Sportswriter

This is a work of fiction. Many of the details, places, characters and events were inspired by real life and by my adventures behind the scenes as a journalist. None of it really happened; none of the people really exist.

Contents

Dedication

Epigraph

PART ONE

Chapter 1 / Don’t Nobody Own Us, Mothafucka

Chapter 2 / What If Some Wacko Has a Gun?

Chapter 3 / The Average Annual Family Income in Mali is $380

Chapter 4 / Niggaz on My Dick

Chapter 5 / The Magneto That Powered Him

Chapter 6 / Boyz in the Hood

Chapter 7 / The Love That Can Have No Name

Chapter 8 / Going the Extra Mile

Chapter 9 / The Nurturing Elbow of the Sectional Sofa

Chapter 10 / Is That a Mag in Your Pocket Or…

PART TWO

Chapter 11 / Learning Again How to Sleep in the Middle of the Bed

Chapter 12 / Soweto South of Pico

Chapter 13 / An Outpost on the Frontier of the Inevitable

Chapter 14 / What They Say About White Women

Chapter 15 / Her Personal Artifacts

Chapter 16 / Without Fear of Reprisal

Chapter 17 / Pencils Down, People

Chapter 18 / Pretty Much All of Them

Chapter 19 / Ready To Go Home, Boys?

Chapter 20 / Two Trained Athletes, Bodies Glistening

Chapter 21 / Big Gato’s Baby Blue Metalflake Impala

Chapter 22 / The Receptive Interval

Chapter 23 / E’erbody on My Dick

Chapter 24 / An Arrow of Certain Knowledge

Chapter 25 / What Do You Think About Me?

Chapter 26 / A Riderless Horse Headed Back to the Barn

PART THREE

Chapter 27 / The Face of Hate

Chapter 28 / The Powerful Pull of This Other Person

Chapter 29 / KISS THIS

Chapter 30 / Dude, Are There Any Tortillas Left?

Chapter 31 / A Stoned-Out-Looking Green Smiley Face

Chapter 32 / Drama Playing Out in Tiny Bird Brains

Chapter 33 / You’re Not the Only Celebrity Who Comes In Here

Chapter 34 / One Last Extra Mile

Chapter 35 / Yukking it Up Like Old Pals

Chapter 36 / If She Knew Me Personally, She’d Like Me

Chapter 37 / The Imperiled Heroine in the Bucket Seat Beside You

Chapter 38 / A Set of Hard, Incontrovertible Facts

Chapter 39 / Maybe Not Such a Good Idea After All

Chapter 40 / The Secret Celebrity Swimmin Hole

Chapter 41 / I Am Not a Fucking Doctor

Chapter 42 / Murder in Malibu!

Chapter 43 / Headed for the Emergency Clinic

Chapter 44 / I Ain’t No Rat

Chapter 45 / Tears Flowing Upward

Chapter 46 / DONUT RETRN CALL THIS #!!!!

Chapter 47 / Maybe Her Pocket Ripped as She Was Being Ejected

Chapter 48 / The Celebrity Use Curve

Chapter 49 / Listening In on History

Chapter 50 / The Next-of-Kin Awaiting Word

EPILOGUE

Chapter 51 / High Tolerance Is Something You Develop Over Time

About the Author

About the Publisher

PART ONE

Don’t Nobody Own Us, Mothafucka

The CEO of Roots American Productions thumbed the remote and the projection screen went dark, leaving the room in pregnant silence.

At six foot four and 160 pounds, Thomas Washington Curry was a whippet of a man, wearing his trademark cornrows and diamond-encrusted dental grills. Other than his mother, who called him Tommy, and his banker, who called him Mr. Curry, he was known around the world as Chilly T, a shortened form of his original and somewhat controversial handle, Chilly Tom Neegrow. He’d broken into hip-hop nearly a decade earlier, a former drug dealer and convicted felon who promoted himself as a political rapper—a truth teller who made people uncomfortable, like his heroes Dick Gregory, Gil Scott Heron, Richard Pryor, and Ice Cube. Recently he’d again altered his public moniker, part of the ongoing personal evolution, which these days included yoga, meditation, and a strict vegan diet, according to a recent fawning profile in Jet. Henceforth he was to be known simply as Chill—the brand name he was using for his new line of household furnishings, available exclusively at Target.

He leaned back expansively in his leather chair, put his vintage Jordan sneakers up on the desk, adjusted his shades, the mirrored lenses of which reflected the trio of young Mexican American rappers fidgeting on the suede sofa before him. They called themselves Los Vatos. They were decked out like original gangsters in Pendleton shirts and khaki pants; one of them wore a hair net.

The meeting was being held in a penthouse office atop a newly renovated mixed-use conversion at Sunset Boulevard and Vine Street, at the heart of Hollywood. At the touch of another button, the floor-to-ceiling curtains swept open with a motorized hum, revealing a south-facing panoramic view, stretching from snowcapped mountains to shimmering sea, with forests of skyscrapers dotting the landscape between: Downtown, mid-Wilshire, Century City, Santa Monica. Twenty stories below, tourists plied the Hollywood Walk of Fame, visiting Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, the Hollywood Wax Museum, and Ripley’s Believe it or Not—meanwhile fending off the homeless Goths, tweakers, and other assorted mental cases who haunted the Boulevard of Broken Dreams.

Chill allowed the silence to marinate. He studied the rappers before him, taking measure of their will, meanwhile fingering the carefully sculpted moustache element of his facial hair—the outline of a beard so thin it appeared to have been drawn with mascara. To attend to his elaborate personal grooming needs, he kept a hair stylist and a barber on call 24/7. As part of his general philosophy of promoting economic self-reliance, he didn’t just employ them—he’d helped them open a high-end salon on the first floor of this building. In return, Chill claimed a 10 percent share. Under this same plan, he had interests across the globe; like a one-man NGO, he gave out micro loans wherever he met worthy people in need.

Chill raised his chin slightly, giving him the proud aspect of a king. With his eyes shielded, his dark-chocolate face seemed totally devoid of expression; you could never tell where you stood with him in negotiations. During a meeting, he was liable to read a magazine, chew paper, toss spitballs. He always had a blunt lit; his favorite strain of sativa was called Abusive Kush Private Reserve. He purchased it specially at a marijuana collective called Malibu Green’s Farmacy. There was a limited supply, a secret list of subscribers. Only the most fabulous were included.

Now Chill removed his sunglasses—the slang of the moment was Hater Blockers—a gesture of peace and interest, a move that said, I’m keepin it real.

He leaned forward, ashed the tip of his blunt in a Baccarat candy dish. Then he issued to Los Vatos what the hosts of Entertainment Tonight liked to call his one hundred thousand dollar smile—theater-quality, upper and lower prosthetic dentures crafted of platinum and liberally encrusted with blood-free diamonds, the two incisors cut to resemble vampire fangs. That he could spit his complicated rhymes—his verse was known as much for its humor and erudition as it was for its rawness and filth—while wearing the unwieldy accessory was probably Chill’s most undervalued talent. No one undervalued his ability to produce hit songs and make money. Whatever he did, the market followed. He seemed to know instinctively what to give the peeps, as he liked to call his audience, which by some accounts was nearly 80 percent white and Hispanic—the reason Los Vatos was in the house this afternoon.

The mogul nodded in the direction of the giant screen where they’d just watched Los Vatos’ demo. This some cool shit, he told them. Who own y’all?

Don’t nobody own us, mothafucka.

His name was Sleeper. Well-muscled and strikingly handsome, he spoke in an edgy, Cali-Mex sing-song. He had coal-black hair, slicked back from a widow’s peak, and wore a long, cartoonish, Pancho Villa moustache. The way he said mothafucka—you could tell he was deeply offended.

As if programmed to respond to profanity, a pair of large black men, one on either side of the room, rose simultaneously from the stools on which they’d been sitting. Clevon and Eddie had once been members of the Fruit of Islam, the paramilitary wing of the Nation of Islam. In their day, they’d guarded Minister Louis Farrakhan, Johnnie Cochran, even Michael Jackson. Now they guarded Chill. After two seasons on Chill’s reality television show, Chillin with Chill, nearly everyone in American knew Clevon and Eddie. There’d been meetings about a spinoff.

Sleeper had his own backup, Yogi and Roc, sitting on either side of him on the sofa. They’d all seen every episode of Chill’s show. Beneath the bravado, none of them could believe they were actually sitting here in this office.

We chillin wit Chill, ese!

Are those cameras in the ceiling?

I wonder if we’ll be on the show?

They’d driven here from the Oakwood section of Venice, a fifth-generation barrio of shotgun clapboards surrounded by tony rehabs, just blocks from the famous and eclectic boardwalk. The three had grown up together, part of the same cliqua of the Venice Gang, the Lil’ Locos. Since he was young, Sleeper had a reputation for being a Romeo and a hothead. If he liked it, he fucked it. If he wanted it, he charmed it out of you. He’d bullied his way through life with the gall of the beautiful—like a guy at a skate rink who has never before skated but is determined to go fast, he seemed to enjoy being dangerously out of control. When he fell down, there was always somebody willing to pick him up. Usually she was hot.

Chill waved a hand in the air, an informal signal to his bodyguards that said, I got this, no worries. This kid Sleeper was the real deal. The camera loved him. He could spit. He could flow. He could write his own dope rhymes. He could even sing, a dreamy crooner’s falsetto that made for sweet hooks.

So who shot y’alls video? Chill asked.

We did, Sleeper said, still playing hard.

Chill laughed and threw his hand dismissively. "Man, you bullshittin. There was a little bit of hot sauce on the epithet. This professional quality. Where you get the money?"

"Where you get you money?" Sleeper shot back.

Everyone knew the answer to that.

Chill eyeballed the Vatos appraisingly. They were perfect. They already had a look. They had rhymes and tracks, almost enough for a first album, and a unique sound—a mélange of hip-hop, old school R&B, and traditional Mexican mariachi—sort of like Reggaeton meets Usher meets Public Enemy. He would stake his conglomerate empire on it: these little beaners were gonna blow the fuck up. There was a huge crossover potential. Note to self: a vato-style line of clothing? They could push fashion in that direction—Pendletons and khakis and hairnets. They could do motherfuckin zoot suits. Latin Pride. Latina Pride—that’s where all the money was, according to a marketing study he’d commissioned. Latino females, fifteen to forty-six. In market tests the numbers on Sleeper were off the charts—Justin Timberlake numbers.

The only thing the group lacked, really, was a some polish and direction, a little more layering in their songs—something Chill could do himself in the studio in a couple of weeks, tops. He already had ideas. Like a new car he’d been hankering for, he was ready to sign them up and take them for a spin in the studio. He’d even said as much in their earlier phone conversations—the paperwork, a deal, was waiting on the credenza behind him. A check had already been cut. All that remained was the pacification. These idiots were so fresh off the street, they didn’t even know when to start playing nice.

So you tellin me I got me some big time playas up in here? Chill said.

We do what we do, you know what I’m sayin? Sleeper folded his arms across his chest, raised his own chin a notch. Yogi and Roc crossed their arms, too.

"It like dat?" Chill asked, clearly amused.

"It like dat," Sleeper said defiantly.

There’s the album cover right there, Chill thought. He looked over at Clevon, thinking, this little motherfucker don’t know when enough is enough. He issued a huge smile; the blood-free diamonds caught the recessed lighting like a disco ball. He addressed Sleeper with all of the passivity and good will a man of his station could possibly be asked to muster.

Listen, yo. I wanna fuck with you guys—if you’ll let me. I think you’re going places. But with the tone y’all got, I’m not sure y’all know what a good deal even look like.

Sleeper issued his own saccharine smile; his teeth needed work. We don’t need nobody to launch us, he said. "We already got our own label. All we lookin for is a mothafucka who can give us some kind of distribution deal. We lookin for a partnership, ese."

"A partnership," Yogi repeated. He was three months younger then Sleeper. They were first cousins on his mom’s side; when they were babies, they’d often shared a crib.

Cause we got other acts comin up behind us, Roc explained.

You know what I’m sayin? Yogi said. He sounded unsure.

Sleeper: "We can deliver. We can be makin hit records, but we can also be bringin in other acts, we can be producin hit records for other artists. We got the hookup to the brownside. It’s an untouched demographic right now and we got the connect, you feel me? Maybe you can give us an umbrella deal, somethin like that. Maybe you got another office in this building—" He wheeled his finger around in the air above him like an old West wagon master, indicating his ultra-plush surroundings, a gesture of unmitigated entitlement that made Chill’s stomach cramp.

You could write it off or whatnot, Sleeper concluded blithely. The suits can work out the numbers. You feel me?

Chill issued a theatrical frown. The tips of his fang-incisors showed in the seam between his meaty lips. "Oh mannnn, he said, shaking his head mournfully. I don’t think nobody gonna give you no deal like that, homeboy."

That not what Fat Sam say, Yogi shot back, maybe a bit prematurely.

"Es la verrrdad," Roc added, rolling the R for emphasis.

Chill remained calm. He was worth in excess of $6 billion. He didn’t need this group or any other. "If you wanna fuck wit Fat Sam, go on across town and piss on his leg. You feelin me?"

Sleeper stood abruptly. It like dat?

It however you want it to be, my brother, Chill said evenly. I was tryin to give you some money today. I was tryin to give you a career. Can’t nobody turn you out like I can. But obviously you have some kind of social disease or whatnot cause you don’t know what the fuck is good for you. You done thrown away your whole future in the space of five minutes.

Sleeper’s handsome face twisted. Why you wanna disrespect me for?

Yogi and Roc rose in sync beside him.

"Disrespect you? Chill said, incredulous. You lucky even to be in this building. I got ten more just like you down in the lobby who are begging to come up here and suck my dick."

Sleeper’s black eyes turned wild. He’d spent a few years in juvvie, where his striking good looks were not an asset. Suck your dick? he repeated. "Suck on this mothafucka."

He pulled back the front of his plaid shirt to reveal a chrome-plated Beretta 9 mm pistol sticking out of the waistband of his kakis.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Clevon and Eddie opened fire—twin Glock 9 mms, stealth black, pulled from the ample folds of their own oversized clothing.

All three members of Los Vatos crumbled to the floor, dead instantly.

Their blood mingled on the ecologically sound bamboo hardwood planks, also available exclusively from Target as part of Chill’s new line of home furnishings.

What If Some Wacko Has a Gun?

Angelika Collette limped across the unfinished concrete floor like a streetwalker who’d lost a shoe in a sketchy getaway.

The studio was darkish and the music was blaring, a monotonous techno trance beat that made you feel spaced out whether or not you were high. The place smelled of fresh paint, hair spray, food service, and roasted coffee, the last courtesy of the authentic Italian barista stationed in the vaulted lobby.

The Robert Rothman Studio had been open for only a few months, part of a gallery conversion project that had reinvigorated Bergamot Station, a former stop on the Red Line Trolley, which ran until the early 1950s from downtown Los Angeles to the Santa Monica Pier. The sun was setting. Workers in blue uniforms streamed in twos and threes out the front gate of the recycling plant across the street, past a colorful mural, a child-like depiction of the life cycle of reclamation.

Parked at the curb in front of the studio was a Lincoln Town Car that had ferried the starlet this morning from her secret new digs in Malibu. As stipulated, it had remained on station throughout the day at the usual hourly rate. Angelika was fifteen when she’d first arrived in Hollywood with her mom, Missy Collette. They’d lived in their car for a time, a Delta 88 appropriated from Missy’s third husband—he’d stayed behind in Portland, Oregon, in the family’s double-wide trailer. Angelika slept in the front seat of the car. Missy took the back. Every morning they’d drive to the public beach near the Santa Monica Pier to shower. They found a button somewhere that said Working Actress and pinned it to the sun visor. We’d rub it for luck when I went to auditions, Angelika would later recall in an interview.

After five years of bit parts and audition CDs, she’d broken into the public consciousness at age twenty with her first movie role, a spot-on performance as a heroin-addicted model in the much-ballyhooed indie film Skag, for which she won an Oscar. From there she’d become such a phenomenon that Time magazine featured her on the cover. With her edgy asymmetrical hairstyles and her six-pack abdomen—a trademark diamond solitaire winking out from the shallow cavern of her navel—Angelika was iconic worldwide.

Now she was twenty-five. Besides the Oscar, she had two double platinum albums waiting to be hung on the wall of her new home office. A third record was due soon, featuring duets with many of the great artists of the day, including Stevie Wonder, Maroon 5, John Mayer, and Snoop Dogg. The producer on the project was the hip-hop impresario known as Chill.

Thanks to the ruthless efforts of the celebrity press... the insatiable maw of twenty-four-hour-a-day cable programming... the dangerously codependent relationships between civilized people and their various electronic screens... and the apparent absence of more creative interests and methods of killing time... people from Des Moines to Dubai knew everything about Angelika’s life—or at least they thought they did.

Every day, in village squares and mall commons, over fence posts, desktops, and cups of Starbucks, Angelika’s career and personal life were discussed and analyzed and gossiped about as if she was an intimate acquaintance, a sister or a relative or a neighbor. Who she was dating, how much money she was making, where she was eating or partying or vacationing, what she was wearing, the terms of her divorce settlement and child custody arrangements... not to mention her occasional practice of going commando, the fleshy evidence of which had been caught on film and auctioned to a wire service for millions of dollars—all of it was open for discussion. Her entire life was an open book. Or so everyone believed.

As she sang in her popular dance hall anthem, U Only Think U Know (Me):

Hashed and rehashed/fried and refried

Served up like a side/hear my side

Let me entertain/then look away

U only think u know (me)

The photos from today’s shoot were to be featured on the cover of Vanity Fair’s annual Hollywood issue. Angelika had a movie upcoming, the postapocalyptic Ozone Jungle II, a budding sci-fi action franchise showcasing her martial arts abilities, a skill set she’d developed to augment her work in more serious films. (As Missy liked to say, Always have something to fall back on besides your keister.)

Angelika had specifically requested this photographer, Rob Rothman. He’d worked with the superstarlet many times before. He knew her body canvas so well that he had this way of making all of her flaws totally disappear: The way her left eye was a little bit smaller and lower. The way her nose curved slightly to the right. The way her shoulder blades stuck out like chicken bones—she could go on and on about her myriad imperfections. Thanks to the digital technology, immediately after each set-up was completed, she was able to view Rothman’s photos on a huge monitor. He even let her delete the ones she didn’t like.

Rothman’s crew had worked for a solid week to build the set, a re-creation of director Peter Black’s haunting cinematic vision for Ozone Jungle II. There were huge faux I-beams and papier mache rubble, trashed appliances, car parts, oil drums, and even some scattered body parts, all of it painted and otherwise theatrically distressed to look authentic. Throughout the day, as the shoot had proceeded, the crew had been increasingly blown away by Angelika’s spontaneous routines and fluid poses—a series of