Last Stop Slumberland

By Jay Cameron Parker

Hollywood, CA 1954, 

Some rise to the heights of stardom. Some sink into the swamp of obscurity. But they all end up in Slumberland.

Matthew Brooks is just another poor Tinsel Town slob trying to keep a roof over his head and the flask in his pocket loaded. When his estranged sister dies, leaving nothing behind except a locked handbag and the address to a horrific crime scene, Brooks finds himself trapped in a Hitchcockian plot of obsession and murder. Brooks tries to stay one step ahead of a brutal police force, an enthusiastic lynch mob, and a maniac. His spellbinding odyssey twists through the backlot of a major motion picture studio, the dark, dangerous streets of Los Angeles, and a notorious boneyard called Slumberland. A savvy detective and a group of daring women become entangled in the nightmare as they fight to clear Matthews's name.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jay Cameron Parker
• Release date: Apr 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201481452

Jay Cameron Parker

Jay Cameron Parker is a playwright, actor, and director. He lives with his wife in Southern California.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The tire iron clanged loudly when it hit the ground. I absently wiped my hands on my shirt, leaving a dark bloodstain.

A Spanish-style light fixture affixed to the restaurant’s outside wall cast a yellow pall over the parking lot. The big guy was face down on the asphalt. A pool of blood formed around his head. A large switchblade lay on the ground where he dropped it after I whacked him.

Jack Vandamn rubbed his neck where the attacker had throttled him. I was in a drunken fog, and I figured Jack was too. Everything had happened so fast.

Is he going to die? I asked.

I hope so, Jack said, his British voice now hoarse. The maniac was about to kill me! Listen, mate, there’s no sense in getting mixed up in this. Get out of here. When the police arrive, I’ll say I fought him off. He attacked me with that knife, and I fought him off with the tire lever. Off you go!

I don’t know why it sounded like a good idea. I’m not sure if it was a good idea. Jack seemed to know what he was talking about, and I was stunned and drunk. Like a dog following orders, I jumped into my car and started it up.

I’ll call you soon, mate. Don’t worry about me. He slammed the trunk lid of my car closed. Off you go! Cheers!

I sped out of the parking lot, not knowing where I was going or what direction I was headed. I almost sideswiped a Pacific Electric streetcar. I nearly hopped a curb and plowed into a sign advertising the new movie On the Waterfront. The Los Angeles streets were black. Street names unfamiliar. I sped through the city, lost. All the while wondering if I had just killed a guy.

Sure, I had my share of fights, if you call getting beaten up a fight. The best skirmish I ever had was with Leslie the Cowboy the day before, and he got in more punches than I did.

I don’t know how fast I was going. I drove the wrong way on a one-way alley, then through a crazy maze of warehouse buildings.

Lost, panic set in. I kept driving. I’d found myself at a dead-end. I turned back and went straight into another dead end. Nothing made sense. I kept asking myself if I had just killed a man. Fear and dread engulfed me. Empty, black streets. I heard a train whistle and tried to follow it, only to find myself in a vast, deserted field of train tracks and oil rigs.

I drove on, my eyes becoming heavy. I cursed my dead sister.

Then the scream of scraping metal filled my ears, followed by a loud crack when my face hit the steering wheel.

When I opened my eyes, I found myself parked in a residential area—a corner street sign hanging over the hood of my car. I shut off the engine and got out. Blood gushed from my nose.

The lights went on at a house across the street. A door opened, and a dark figure stepped out onto the porch.

Are you all right? Is anybody hurt? a woman’s voice yelled.

I think I broke my nose! I slurred back.

The woman rushed over. She was a heavy-set Black woman in a long, cotton nightgown.

Did you fall asleep at the wheel? she asked.

I got lost. I guess I did.

I squeezed my nose, moving my fingers along the bridge, trying to find a break.

You’ve been drinking, fool! I can smell it on you! she yelled, You’ve been drinking and driving around! Suppose this signpost was a person? You could have killed someone!

I really didn’t have that much to drink.

Can you back the car up? Does the car still work?

I don’t know.

I stared blankly at the car. The front half was sitting on the curb. The bumper had plowed against the street sign's pole, causing the rod's top half to bow over the car with the sign resting on the roof.

Well, get inside and see. Or are you too drunk to do that?

She was shaking her head, and the look on her face read immense disappointment.

I can do that. I climbed back into the car and started it up. By the way, where the hell am I?

You’re underneath a street sign, fool! Now, back up and pull into my driveway before the police get here and drag your white butt to jail!

The porch light went on at a house a few yards away. A man stepped out.

What’s going on, Aunt Lucy?

Oh, Nothing. Just this young man acting stupid. I’ve got it taken care of. She looked at me and pointed to her driveway. Get going! Before you wake up the whole neighborhood!

I backed the car up. The street sign screamed across the roof of my car. The front of the vehicle landed hard as it rolled off the curb. I drove slowly into the woman’s driveway. Looking in the rearview mirror, I could see her waddling behind the car.

Keep going! Drive it all the way to the back!

I slowly drove the car down the long driveway, along the side of the craftsman-style house, to the front of the garage and shut it off.

My nose, numb and throbbing, was incapable of taking in air. I breathed through my mouth. Blood ran over my lips, down my chin, and onto my shirt.

She followed the car and waited for me at the back door.

Come on. Come on in, so you can clean yourself up.

I got out of the car and walked over to her in a daze.

Listen, thank you for trying to help me. But – I, still drunk, found myself at a loss for words.

But, what? Get inside! She opened the screen door and stepped inside the house. Come on.

I followed her in. A round wringer washing machine sat on the back porch.

Take that nasty, blood-soaked shirt off and lay it on the washer. It’s nothing but trash now. She grabbed two clean rags off the shelf over the machine and handed me one. Press this against your nose so you don’t get blood all over.

I did what I was told then followed her into the kitchen. She turned on the light and pointed at a chair at the table.

Sit down there, she commanded.

I did. The woman went to the sink and ran the water. The kitchen was mustard colored with white trim, incredibly tidy, and clean. I thought about the dump I lived in.

So this was how the other half lived.

I watched her. The cotton nightgown she was wearing was white with a pattern of lavender flowers. Her body was small yet round. The back of her head was a mass of curly black hair peppered with grey.

Nice place you have here, I said.

She shut the water off and turned around. She had a large ceramic bowl full of water and a clean rag in her hands. She placed the bowl on the table and wrung the wet rag.

Let me see.

She pushed my hand away from my nose and dabbed it with the warm, wet rag. She wasn’t gentle about it, and it hurt like hell.

Does that hurt? she asked.

Yes, ma’am.

Good. It should hurt. I hope you remember this pain the next time you get behind the wheel drunk. She stopped rubbing and dabbing for a moment and peered at my nose. Right here.

She grabbed the bridge of my nose forcefully with one hand and the top of my head with the other. She pushed her thumb against my nose, and a loud snap echoed through my head.

There! she said triumphantly.

A gust of wind and a sharp bolt of pain shot through my head.

It wasn’t broken. She laughed. Just pushed out of shape.

She wrang the bloody rag in the water bowl and returned it to my face. It was warm and soothing. She washed the blood from my face, neck, and hands.

Thank you, I said.

You’re very welcome. The bleeding should stop soon; just keep pressing on it, she said.

She moved the bowl back to the sink and emptied out the water.

It’s very nice of you to help me. I live in Pasadena. Is that far from here?

You really are lost. She turned to me and laughed. It doesn’t matter how far you are from Pasadena tonight. You’re stuck here until you sober up. Are you hungry?

No, ma’am. I just had dinner.

She put her hands on her hips and looked down at me.

What time was that?

Around seven.

That was six hours ago.

Is it really that late?

Mmm-hmmm. It’s a little after one in the morning. What’s your name?

Matthew.

Named after Matthew. A disciple of Jesus. And acting like a fool.

I hung my head.

Yes, ma’am.

She sat next to me.

Look me in the eye, Matthew.

I did. I felt like a kid getting ready for a good scolding. There was something about it that gave me calm and a sense of fear at the same time.

You listen to me, she said softly. I had a son, a boy about your age. He is dead. I’m going to tell you how he died. He was walking home from a party, and some drunk fool ran him over in the street. On a night like tonight, some drunk fool ran my son over in the middle of the street and killed him dead. My son Leon lost his life because of a fool like you.

Shame engulfed me.

I’m sorry.

That shirt, covered in blood, sitting on my back porch, that’s a lot of blood for one little white nose.

Yes, Ma’am

I want you to be honest with me. I want you to tell me the truth. Her voice was stern and severe. Did you hurt somebody? Did you hurt somebody tonight?

I didn’t run over anybody, Ma’am.

I want you to call me Aunt Lucy, Matthew. I’m not asking you if you ran over anybody; I’m asking you if you hurt anybody tonight?

Yes, ma’am.

She sat back and took a deep breath. She grabbed my hand and placed it on the table, patting it gently with hers.

Where’s your mother tonight, Matthew?

The question knocked the air out of me. I stammered.

Where’s your Mama right now? she asked again.

My mother’s been dead for seven years, Ma’am.

A young man like you with no mother. Her voice was warm and soothing. What happened to your mother, Matthew? Was she sick?

No, Ma’am. She was killed... She was killed by my father.

Lord, have mercy. The woman hung her head, then lifted it and looked at me. Is your father in prison?

No. My father killed himself after he killed her. He was a very sick man. He came home from the war sick. You know, crazy. It wasn’t his fault. He was sick, and my mother knew he was sick. She did everything she could to help him.

She sounds like a fine woman.

She was a very good woman, Ma’am.

There was a lump in my throat, and I thought I might start crying. I checked the rag I’d been pressing under my nose. The bleeding had stopped, but I kept it close in case I broke a water main.

Your mother is looking down on you right now, Matthew. What do you think she’s thinking?

I tried not to think of such things. Remembering my mother, no matter what the memory, always ended up at the last time I saw her.

She’s probably not very proud of me.

I want you to tell me who you hurt tonight. Tell me, knowing your Mama is looking down on you. I want you to tell me the truth.

I nodded and started shaking. My mouth began to fill with warm saliva.

I was having dinner with a friend, and afterward, in the parking lot, a guy attacked him. A guy started attacking my friend. He had a knife.

My eyes filled with tears. One drop rolled down my face after another.

I hit the guy with a tire iron. I hit him several times in the head, I confessed.

Did you kill him? she asked.

I don’t know. I left. I drove off. My friend told me too. And I got lost and—

I covered my face with the rag, hung my head, and cried.

She patted my head.

It’s all right, Matthew. It’s all right. She lifted my head and looked into my eyes. Nothing will be solved tonight. You’re going to sleep here. Do you understand? I have an extra room, and you’ll sleep here, and we’ll look at this again in the light of day.

I can’t stay here.

You have no place else to go. Even if you do, you can’t get there in your condition. Now, get up and follow me.

She led me down a dark hallway and opened the door to a room at the end. She turned on the light. A single bed covered in a brown, soft cotton bedspread sat in the middle of the room. Baseball and basketball trophies sat atop a mahogany, high-boy dresser. The Catcher in the Rye, Invisible Man, and Native Son sat on a small desk, a mirror hanging on the wall over it. Invisible Man had a blue paper bookmark peeking up from the last few pages.

Aunt Lucy reached under the pillow on the bed and retrieved a pair of cotton pajama bottoms.

These will probably fit you. Try these pajamas.

She placed them on the foot of the bed, went to the dresser, and opened the top drawer. She pulled out a clean, neatly folded white t-shirt and placed it on the pajama bottoms.

There you go. Put them on," she instructed.

I can just sleep in my clothes.

You can also sleep in the police station, but you’re not going to. Put those pajamas on like I told you. I’ll be right back.

She left the room, closing the door behind her.

I kicked off my shoes and undressed. I changed into the pajama pants and t-shirt and threw my clothes over a chair in the corner. I sat at the foot of the bed and looked at the heap of clothes on the chair. I heard my mother’s voice telling me to mind my manners when being a guest in someone’s home. I grabbed the clothes, folded them as neatly as possible, and placed them on the chair. I stuffed my socks and my empty flask in one of my shoes and put them underneath the chair.

I considered the small desk and observed more items. A track medal, a picture of Leon in a cap and gown. A photo of Aunt Lucy and Leon, he in a suit, she in a frilly dress, his arm around her.

I thought of my mother, and a sharp ache pierced my stomach like an arrow.

A tap at the door.

Yes, I said.

Aunt Lucy entered the room, an empty metal bucket in one hand and a tall glass of water.

Those fit you perfectly. I knew they would. My son was about the same size as you.

She placed the metal bucket on the floor near the headboard and the water on the nightstand.

If you get sick, just vomit in the bucket. Don’t try to rush to the bathroom. You’ll just end up making a mess. Just lean over and do what you have to do in this bucket. Here is some water for you. Try to sleep now. If you need anything just call on me. I’m right across the hall.

I wanted to ask her about her son. I wanted to thank her for being so kind. But I was too drunk to get it out and decided to wait until the morning. She shut off the lights and shut the door behind her. I got under the covers.

The room smelled warm and safe. I closed my eyes.

Sleep crept over me until a light rocking motion jarred me awake, I tried to ignore it, but it grew more intense with each breath I took. The bed began to spin. I opened my eyes and sat up quickly, and the small, dark room rocked back and forth.

I jumped out of bed, but my legs betrayed me, and I fell back onto the mattress. The room spun. I slid to the floor and grabbed the bucket, placing it in my lap. I hugged it tightly and looked into its cold, grey well.

A technicolor picture of every drink I had that day flashed like a grotesque slide show. The Jack Daniels, the Kessler, the beer, the pale green liquid Margarita. Everything I had consumed that day gushed out of me and into the bucket. My stomach convulsed even when there was nothing left to lose.

When I was empty and the bucket was full, I crawled back into the bed and passed out.

I awoke in the dark room, forgetting where I was. A soft, warm hand was pressed against my head. Aunt Lucy sat on the bed next to me.

Lord, look over your child Matthew, Aunt Lucy whispered. Lord, keep him in your safe hands. Bind the devil, Lord. Bind the devil and keep this young man in your sight, dear God.

I never believed any of that religious mumbo jumbo, but at that moment, I was hoping somebody up there was listening.

CHAPTER TWO

Two days before the attack, I promised myself not another drink, yet Thursday morning around 2, I sat in my apartment with a bottle of Jack Daniels in my trembling hands, desperate to open it. That’s when the phone rang.

The woman’s frail voice on the other end of the line was unrecognizable. She kept saying things like, He killer. You help. Murder me. I kept saying things like, Who the hell is this? What are you talking about? in between drinks until the line went dead.

The subsequent half-hour was spent drinking away the shakes.

I’d forgotten all about the call until three o’clock that afternoon when I got summoned off the set for a personal emergency phone call, as Bub, the foreman, called it, rolling his eyes when he said it. I had no idea what it could be about. I wondered if they had the wrong guy since I have no close connections.  

I ran over to the steno-pool office, not because I was worried. Like I said, I don’t know anybody. I knew if I didn’t hurry back to the soundstage pronto, someone else would be assigned to my post, and I wasn’t about to let that happen.    

The steno-pool office at Olympic Pictures Studio was a large room full of women sitting behind typewriters. The place sounded like a rehearsal hall for tap dancers with no rhythm. The first secretary I approached, who must’ve been the queen since her desk was the largest, held a phone receiver up in the air with one hand and typed with the other.

Is this for me? I asked.

Are you Mathew Brooks? she answered without taking her eyes off the typed page.

Yeah.

It’s for you.

I took the receiver from her hand and put it up to my ear. The secretary brought her hand down and joined the other in typing without a pause. It was really a marvel to see. 

This is Matt, I said, holding my hand over my free ear.

Mr. Brooks, this is Nurse Ridgeway from White Memorial Hospital. Your sister Shirley is here. She wanted us to call and let you know. If you’d like to see her, I suggest getting here immediately. She hasn’t long to live.

I suddenly realized the midnight caller had been my sister, who I hadn’t heard from in seven years, and a wave of dread swept over me. A guy from an ordinary family might say, Oh, no! My poor sister! and start blubbering. But we were never a typical family. Whatever that is.

White Memorial? That’s the hospital on Brooklyn Avenue, right?

Yes.

All right, I’ll get there as soon as I can. Thanks.

I took the long way back to the soundstage. I was trying to remember the things my sister said during that phone call in the middle of the night. Something about murder. And now, she was in the hospital dying. The nurse hadn’t mentioned murder. But maybe that’s something they spring on you when you get there.

I knew every inch of the studio backlot, all the shortcuts and little places to hide out and take a drink or sleep off a hangover for a few hours without anyone knowing about it. I walked over to a place called Victorian Street, slipped into a Victorian façade dressed as a haunted house, and took a swig from my flask once inside. I did it to clear my head, but that never worked.

I snuck out from the back of the fake building and ended up in Battle Boulevard, which looked like a war-torn city. Realizing how much time had passed since I left my post on the set, I cut through the façade of a bombed-out European church, through a fake train depot, and ended up at the end of Western Street.

What I saw there stopped me.

Dead cowboys were piled on top of each other just outside the saloon. There must have been at least fifteen, some blood-soaked, others missing limbs, one was missing a head.

I saw a make-up girl named Veronica Tripp walking down the deserted dusty street, her make-up case in hand, and I was just about to call out her name when one of the dead cowboys jumped up from the pile and lunged at her. The cowboy made a loud whooping noise, and Veronica let out a shrill scream, dropped her make-up case, and ran.

Suddenly, actors and actresses in western clothes emerged from the building facades on Western Street, laughing hysterically. Veronica stopped running, realizing she’d been the butt of a lousy prank. Humiliated, she returned to retrieve her make-up case, which popped open when it landed and scattered its contents over the dirt road.

Gotcha, again, Babydoll! the stuntman who perpetrated the scare said, stalking toward her. You ready to give me that kiss!

I told you to scram and leave me alone! she said, squatting down and retrieving her things.

She and I made eye contact. She stood and said, No, Matt!

But I was too hot to cool down.

Hey, I said to the cowboy, If I ever catch you....

He turned around, and suddenly, I was flat on my back, my head throbbing.

You want some more of me, Shitbird? the stuntman said, standing over me.

I rolled over, got onto my feet, swung at him, and missed. He countered with a left hook, which landed on the same spot his previous punch lit, and I was on the ground again.

Leave him alone! Veronica demanded.

But, I could see in his eyes he had forgotten about her and the kiss he wanted; he wanted more of me.

Come on, you yellow-bellied varmint! Git on your feet! You wanna tussle, then I’ll give you a tussle!

I rolled over, got onto my feet, and put up my fists.

A group of other cowboys moved in and grabbed the guy.

He ain’t worth it, Leslie, an old cowpoke warned, you don’t need to get into any more trouble. They’ll can you for good.

You better hope I don’t see you outside the studio, Shitbird, Leslie said, pulled away by his pardners.

Leslie, the cowboy, I said lightly.

Leslie broke loose and stormed toward me. Veronica stepped in and became sandwiched between us.

You listen to me, she said, glaring at Leslie, "if you don’t stop bothering me, I’ll clean your clock myself, shitbird!"

He looked hurt, his bottom lip quivered, and his eyes started to tear.

I was just playing, Cutie pie, he