Famous by Blake Crouch

me out in front of the crowd.”
    “They won’t let you in if they don’t know
you, man. Doesn’t matter how you arrive.”
    “I’m James Jansen. They’ll let me in. Now
drive.”
    He cranks the Hummer and we roll back out
onto Hollywood, do a u-turn at the next light, and head back toward
La Casa, my heart bumping as we pull up beside the crowd to the
front of the line where the white limo stopped just ten minutes
ago.
    The crowd parts. I take a breath, slip on my
shades.
    Then I open the door and step out of the
Hummer, as nervous as I’ve ever been in my entire life. I muster
this sort of irritated scowl on my face, keep my head slightly
down, and walk quickly toward the doormen.
    Let me tell you, the eyes are all on me.
First, because I stepped out of this huge fucking Hummer like I
owned the place, and second, because I think everyone starts to
realize who I am.
    “James!”
    “JJ!”
    “I love you, James Jansen!”
    I try not to smile, but it’s pretty hard when
cute women scream that they love you.
    But I don’t acknowledge them. Sure, if this
were a movie premier, I’d stop and sign autographs and wave and
blow kisses and be altogether charming as hell. But I’m here to
have a good time. I’m taking a chance coming out and mingling with
the commoners, so it’s imperative that I maintain this
nobody-better-fuck-with-me iciness in my face.
    I reach the velvet ropeline, and much to my
dismay, it has not yet been unhooked.
    The three sentinels have turned their
collective attention to me.
    I remove my sunglasses.
    One of the doormen lifts a black notebook off
a podium and beings scanning a page of names.
    I feel hot in my face.
    Cameras are beginning to flash all around
me—paparazzi.
    “Don’t waste your time. I didn’t get on the
list,” I say.
    “Well, that’s a problem,” the doorman with
the book says.
    I look dead into the eyes of the doorman
standing in front of me.
    “You know who I am?”
    He nods. “Yeah, your last movie was a piece
of shit.”
    “Unhook that motherfucking rope.”
    This is one tough, jaded fellow, but fear
flickers in his eyes when I say this. I guess it’s sort of an
unwritten rule that you should never piss off powerful people.
    The doorman with the book comes over to me,
says, “Look, if you aren’t in the book—”
    “I don’t give a shit about your goddamn book.
Bill Flanagan, the owner of La Casa, has been a guest in my home
for numerous parties. I can’t tell you how angry he’d be to find
out I’ve been treated this way.”
    I have no idea who the owner is. First name
that came to mind.
    The rope is unhooked, and I’m ushered,
apologetically, toward the open door. It sort of scares me, because
I don’t know what I would’ve done had that last bit not worked.
    I stop in the threshold and turn back to the
three doormen.
    “Gentlemen,” I say. “You will all be fired
before the end of the night. I promise you that.”
    Then I put on my shades and enter the mayhem
of La Casa.
     
     

Chapter 13
     
    pink purple neon madness * DJ SuperCasanova *
gets a table * observes bodyshots * surveys the joint and expounds
on the philosophy of the hollow generation * walks into the center
of the dance floor * looks up an Asian woman’s dress * the
bachelorette party * Kara * Richard Haneline * gets invited to a
premier party * slow dances to a fast song
     
    La Casa. Wow. I’ve never seen anything like
this. I’m as over-stimulated as I’ve ever been—lights flashing,
spinning, flickering in pink purple neon. It’s all light and motion
and sound.
    I’m standing just inside the doors taking
everything in like I’ve stepped out of a spacecraft onto a new
planet. What strange creatures these are.
    A spectacular redhead charges me $30 and
stamps the back of my hand and I walk into the crowd. From where I
stand, I can see four bars, mirrors behind each one, reflecting the
crowd. I count five spinning disco balls.
    On the second level, it’s more of the