We're So Famous Read Free

was
inside
the apartment. Crane was killed around 3 A.M. A mystery bag that everyone knew held a photo album filled with Polaroids of women, the face-out photo a clothed shot with a nude shot tucked behind it, was on the bed, empty of its contents. Most of the pornographic tapes and photos were gone too but a tape of
Saturday Night Fever
Crane had edited for his son remained (Crane edited out all the cursing and questionable scenes). Undeveloped photos were left behind in the makeshift photo lab Crane had set up in his bathroom. Crane didn’t use drugs and drank infrequently, yet there was a six-pack of Coors in the refrigerator and on the kitchen counter a bottle of gin and an opened bottle of Scotch. Sixty cents had fallen out of a pair of white trousers draped over the back of the couch. The Colonel’s walletwas still in the pants. Crane himself was found in the master bedroom in a half-fetal position, his right hand under a pillow. Dried blood was crusted around his head. Fresh blood ran from his nose. On his left thigh were blobs of semen. Daisy turned her back on the door of #132A but I stared at it, imaging the long hall behind it, past the kitchen on the right, the guest bedroom on the left, past the living room, towards the television and video camera against the far wall, towards the master bedroom—like I’d seen it diagrammed in Stella’s notebook. I wondered what the walls knew. Daisy pretended to be interested in the sky and the three of us moved down the sidewalk, away from the secrets kept behind the gold-curtained windows.
    So the next thing that happened was we met Rick, who saw us dancing at Planet Earth, and we thought he was just another perv but he turned out to be this really sweet, sad kind of guy who just wanted to help make us famous. ‘If that’s what you want,’ he said when we told him. ‘I can tell you have your heart set on it.’ Boy, did we. Daisy told him sometimes she fell asleep with her fingers crossed.
    We flat-out asked Rick if he had connections and we appreciated his honesty when he said he didn’t. Rick said he lived in Chicago and only came to Phoenix in the winters to golf and that he’d only been to California once in his entire life. Imagine only ever going to California once in your life. We didn’t see the logic in Rick’s travel pattern. Me and Daisy wanted to be buried in California.
    â€˜Some guys I golf with have a recording studio in their house though,’ Rick said and we got pretty excited.
    Rick’s friends, Elliot and Hunter, lived in one of those two-story tract-type houses on a street where all the houses looked the same and most of the yards were still dirt.
    Elliot and Hunter said they were pleased to meet us. Hunter couldn’t take his eyes off Daisy, who twisted shyly on the carpet in the furnitureless room.
    â€˜Did you bring some songs with you,’ Elliot asked.
    Rick explained the situation, practicing his golf swing with a club from a bag leaning in the corner. He hit imaginary golf balls and watched each one’s flight until it was time to tee up another. ‘These girls need some material,’ he said.
    â€˜Let’s get high and we’ll write some songs,’ Elliot said.
    Me and Daisy thought that was a pretty good idea and Rick went out for Doritos and Mountain Dew while the four of us hunkered down to do some songwriting.
    Maybe because of the equipment or maybe because Elliot and Hunter knew how to produce, our singing didn’t sound all that bad and even though we were fried out of our gourds we managed to each come up with a song. Daisy wrote ‘I’d Kill You if I Thought I Could Get Away with It’ and I wrote one with Elliot called ‘Do Fuck Off,’ a love song.
    Elliot and Hunter kissed us goodbye and promised to make copies that we could send around to record companies. ‘They’re good guys,’ Rick said as we pulled away. Rick had to