Chapter Text
“I’m going to be famous! I’m finally going to be fucking famous,” Tracey De Santa sang as she joined the rest of her family for breakfast, the airy dining area warmed by the sunlight pouring through the large, arched Mediterranean windows of their Spanish-style mansion.
“Just as long you weren’t planning doing so with your singing,” Jimmy groaned while still looking at his phone.
Tracey swore at him, and the two siblings started comically sniping at each other. Michael chuckled at them as he set his cup of coffee down. He didn’t mind this level of noise in the house, as long as everyone was in a good mood. And there was actually a fair number of those kinds of days since he started his job as a producer at Richards Majestic about six months ago. If only he had known that gainful employment was the way to get his family and his life together, maybe he would have done it ten years ago.
His family was in an especially good mood today as it was the day of Vinewood’s most anticipated, most glamorous, and most self-absorbed night, the AA Awards. They all had tickets to the ceremony and its biggest after-party by virtue of Michael’s connection to the movie studio. Once Michael told them they were going, it was all they could talk about for months, it seemed. They almost started treating him more nicely too. Almost.
“Last day of these stupid kale smoothies,” Amanda sighed after she forced herself to swallow the thick grassy liquid from her glass. “And then all the champagne I can drink tonight. I can’t wait!”
“I don’t know why you had to go through all that. You look the same...I mean, great as always,” Michael said.
“Because you just bought me the most gorgeous Sebastian Dix gown, my darling husband, and I need to look like a waif model from an Anna Rex ad so that I look good in it.”
“I could have just hooked you up with meth from Trevor, and maybe I would’ve also gotten a little action on the side,” Michael muttered under his breath.
“What was that?” Amanda snapped.
“Nothing,” Michael said quickly, regretfully.
“What did I tell you about those little sarcastic remarks?”
“Sorry. Hard habit to break. I’ll be better.”
Amanda simply smiled. “There were these earrings that I saw at Vangelico that would match that dress. I think I still have time to make a quick run before we have to get on the red carpet tonight. While I’m there, I might as well get a pair for Tracey too.”
Michael sighed in resignation. “Of course, my darling.”
Jimmy’s pale face suddenly turned even paler as he stared at his phone, if that were at all possible. “Oh, shit. Dad. Dad.”
His son’s shock was immediately palpable, even if Michael didn’t know the cause of it yet. “What’s the matter?”
“This Weazel News alert: ‘Richards Majestic producer implicated in murder of Vinewood manager,’” Jimmy read out loud. “‘Actor Colt Mackay has come out with an unsubstantiated rumour that Richards Majestic producer Michael De Santa is responsible for the murder of Vinewood manager Rocco Pelosi and Pelosi’s bodyguard. Pelosi was the agent to so-called stars like Milton McIlroy….’ Blah, blah, blah…. ‘…Richards Majestic is already suffering blows to its reputation since it has been revealed recently that studio founder David Richards and his son, director Solomon, willfully covered up knowledge of the murders of actress Leonora Johnson and actor Isaac Alberts for four decades. A spokesperson for the studio said they will act swiftly in this matter, without due process.’”
Amanda turned to face her husband. “Is it true? Tell me it isn’t true!” With that, denial quickly turned into anger. “You’ve always been a murdering piece of shit! Of course it’s true! You can’t even have a legitimate job without killing someone!”
“It’s not true,” Michael lied uselessly, more out of habit than actually convincing his wife.
Tracey, to her credit, picked up on the article’s implication. “Are you going to lose your job, Dad?”
“Why would Dad lose his job over this?” Jimmy asked. “It’s just some actor saying bullshit. ‘Unsubstantiated rumour,’ it says right here.”
“Cancel culture,” Michael said through tight lips. He had been thinking exactly what Tracey had concluded. Not all hope was lost in the bloodline.
Amanda’s eyes widened in fear. “They can’t do it right away, can they? I mean…it’s the Awards tonight.”
“Who the fuck is Colt Mackay?” Michael mumbled out loud. The name was vaguely familiar, although Michael didn’t have an instant recollection of all the actors in all the shows and movies he had watched.
“Who the fuck cares?” Amanda exclaimed over Tracey and Jimmy loudly arguing about each other’s intelligence. “I need to know that we’re still going on the red carpet tonight! I told everyone back home to watch. All my friends at the country club! Fabien!”
The house suddenly fell silent when a phone started ringing, Michael’s. All eyes turned to him as he answered it.
“De Santa,” he said hoarsely. “…Uh-huh. …Uh-huh. …Okay. …Bye.”
Michael looked around to see his family staring after him. He might as well say it.
“Studio’s terminating my contract. We’ve been uninvited to the AA Awards tonight. Our tickets have been cancelled. They want to distance themselves from me as soon as possible.”
Tracey let out an ear-shattering wail, and Michael had to dodge when she threw a jar of strawberry jam straight at his face. The jar shattered into the wall behind him and left a large red splotch in its wake. There was that famous Townley throwing arm. Her bawling was interrupted with cries of “I hate you! You’re the fucking worst!”
Amanda stared at him, her blue eyes filled with rage. “It was the one good thing you’d actually done for us in your life. And now it’s gone.”
“Can’t you do anything about it? Talk to them or something? Or get us more tickets?” Jimmy pleaded. “I need this for my business!”
“Are you all fucking serious? All you care about right now is going to this awards ceremony? Instead of me possibly getting charged with murder?” Michael exclaimed.
“YES!” three voices chorused at him.
“I’d been hyping this up on my Thirstagram for weeks! You’re such a disappointment! You always have been!” Tracey spat angrily through her tears.
“Hey!” Michael shouted. “Without me, none of you would have even come this close to sniffing Alexandra Saint-Jacques’s augmented ass in the first place. How about one of you do something on your own for once instead of riding my coattails all the time, huh? The only reason I keep disappointing all of you is because I’m the only fucking one doing something with a purpose!”
“Oh, the nerve of the bank robber to lecture us on ‘purpose.’” Amanda rolled her eyes.
“I think this Colt Mackay guy is trying to make the headlines because he just converted to the Epsilon Program. Also says here in the article,” Jimmy said.
The colour drained from Michael’s face as he turned to face his son. “What did you say?”
“Epsilon. That cult across the street. The ones wearing those weird baby blue outfits,” Jimmy said.
Amanda glared at Michael. “Like the one in your closet?”
“That cocksucker actually did it,” Michael groaned, burying his face in his hands. It may not have been Cris Formage’s name in the article, but even a kindergartener could connect the dots. Of all the crimes he had committed, he never expected that the murder of a lowly Liberty City gangster was going to be the one to bite him back.
“Dad? Did you join Epsilon and pissed them off because you left? Just like Luisa Rincon and Jimmy Boston’s ex-wife Colette Fairchild?” Tracey was the expert in Vinewood celebrity news, especially scandals. “Epsilon digs up nasty dirt on those who go against them and airs it out in the public to ruin their reputation. Only with you, they must have found all the bodies you buried.”
“I thought Jimmy Boston was gay,” Amanda said.
“Sure is. I met him,” Michael said, grateful for the brief tangent.
“Who’s Jimmy Boston?” Jimmy asked.
“Old has-been actor. Biggest movie star of the 80s,” Tracey answered, proud of her status as subject matter expert. “The 80s didn’t have much of a choice.”
“You met Jimmy Boston?” Amanda sounded impressed for a moment, and then she snapped out of it. “Michael…what did you do in Epsilon?”
He hesitated before saying anything, but he realized he was actually proud of what he had done. “A few months ago, that time you all moved out, I joined and then took them for two mill…maybe thinned out their security team and helicopter fleet while I was at it. Single-handedly.”
“That’s so cool, Dad!” Jimmy exclaimed, which earned him a slap on the head from his mother.
“What the hell?!” Amanda looked at him in horror. “We didn’t need the money at that point!”
Michael shrugged. “I was bored.”
“Oh my god. What is wrong with you?!” Amanda exclaimed. “I swear, you’re a psychopathic freak that gets off on chaos!”
“What do you know about what gets me off? You lost your expertise on that subject a long time ago,” Michael spat.
“Dad…does Epsilon know everything about you? I mean, the you you. Everything that you’ve done?” Tracey almost looked concerned, but it was more of her desperation to quickly change the subject.
Michael was silent for a few seconds to ponder. There was still the issue of the best-selling book his expired therapist had written about him, and he couldn’t quite believe that no one had openly linked him to it yet. Perhaps readers dismissed it as a fairytale, or was that how invisible he was in Los Santos? He figured it was a combination of both. “If they really knew the truth about me, it would be all out in the open…. This sounds like conjecture by them since Pelosi’s death coincided with me starting out at Richards. That’s all Cris-Without-an-H was able to dig up on me, but it’s enough to do its damage. I was under orders by Solomon, by the way.”
“That doesn’t matter!” Amanda yelled. “God, you’re so far up that old fossil’s ass; I can smell his raisin bran-speckled shit on you.”
Michael checked the time on his watch. “I have to go. Studio wants me in their offices to sign the termination papers. I’ll talk to Solomon.”
Amanda took a deep breath and looked at her children. “Kids, I’ll be checking into a penthouse suite tonight and will be staying there indefinitely. You’re welcome to join me. And since we’d already got salon appointments, we might as well crash some viewing parties around town. Trace, it’s just too bad your father can’t introduce you to agents and producers anymore.”
“It’s for the best. That means they won’t be taking advantage of you,” Michael huffed as he walked off before he could hear any more protests.
* * *
“It’s just bad timing, Michael. We can’t afford to have another corpse out in the open,” Solomon said.
“So when they’re your corpses, they’re swept under the rug. But when people find the ones I did under your orders, you’re putting neon lights on my head saying ‘I did it,’” Michael said dryly. “No one’s got any proof I did it. It’s just some cock-sucking attention whore yapping.”
“It honestly doesn’t matter whether you did it or not. It’s the court of public opinion. You know how it is. I have to deflect the bad publicity away from me. I got a lot to lose. It’s my name on the gates. You only got started a few months ago. You don’t have anything to lose.”
The old man was smart enough not to put himself in the same room as Michael, who would have gone right at his throat at that instant. Michael had to negotiate a phone call through the Richards Majestic lawyer, who was watching over his shoulder while Solomon, who finally consented to get it over with, was on speakerphone in the meeting room.
“You know I only did what you asked,” Michael said through gritted teeth. “You hired me because you knew what I can do.”
“I know, Michael. If only you knew all the shady things that go on in Vinewood. It’s a dark, desperate little town. Everyone has their secrets here. You just made the mistake of pissing off someone who had dirt on you.”
“If everyone has their secrets in Vinewood, why am I the one who’s gotta take the fall?”
“This bit on you and Pelosi is making the daytime news rounds, and the media is bringing up Leonora Johnson again. Everyone had already forgotten all about it, but your indiscretion is reminding them of it, right on the day of the AA Awards. People in Vinewood don’t care all right, but you know who does? The movie-goers. Investors. Those people we scam for their money by releasing formulaic dreck with pretty, talentless actors and barely any semblance of a plot. Public opinion of the studio dropped when Peter Dreyfuss’s confession letter addressed to my father came out. RIM stock fell. We can’t have Richards Majestic dragged through the mud again like this. The studio can’t afford any more blowback in its precarious state. It’s much easier to cut you loose to pretend like we’re doing something about this so the stock price doesn’t hit new lows. We really need the money and can’t afford any more losses.”
“What about my family? The awards tonight? Can’t you do anything about that? Pulling us at the last minute is unnecessarily hasty. Quite the overreaction.”
“I can’t. It was the board’s unanimous decision to let you go right away. You know how they’re so coveted. Those tickets have long been resold. Got a lot of money for them. You know we really like money.”
Michael snorted. “More than you actually like making good movies these days, it seems.”
“Lay low for a few years. Take a bit of a vacation, you know? You may still have a shot in Vinewood. Just not at a big studio.”
“Just not at yours.”
“Exactly.”
Michael sighed. “Well, it was a real pleasure working with you, Solomon,” he said in a syrupy tone, although the lawyer in the room with him could see the bitterness on his face.
“Likewise, Michael. You were excellent at your job, which means I hope I never see you again,” Solomon said before he hung up.
The lawyer made a hasty exit as soon as Michael gave his signatures, not wanting to take any chances being alone in a room with him, and hoping security would do its job if need be. He didn’t bother running the papers through his own lawyer as soon as he saw he was getting a generous severance payment. Somehow though, it sat uncomfortably with him.
“It’s not about the money,” he said softly to himself while looking around the empty table. The burning halogen bulbs cast white spots on the black leather chairs like ghostly, incorporeal heads. His own sole voice resonated in the small, cold, hollow room. “It never ever was.”