by Carl Hiaasen
"No way!" Ann bounced off the bed, scattering the newspaper. "Do not even go there."
"Take it easy. We'll do it in henna," Cherry's mom said. "I got the name of a Pakistani lady in the Gables who's supposed to be amazing. You can scrub it off as soon as this nonsense is over."
"But I don't want that gross thing on my neck," Ann protested. "People are gonna think it's an infected hickey."
The door of the hotel room opened and a tall man entered holding a key card. He approached Janet Bunterman and grumbled something about breakfast. Ann DeLusia wasn't listening; she was gawking at the man's face. It was the worst chemical peel she'd ever seen.
Cherry's mother said, "Annie, this is Chemo. He's the new bodyguard."
"Hullo," said Ann, her voice barely above a whisper.
The man leaned over. "The fuck are you starin' at?"
"I'm sorry, guy, but ... I mean, holy shit."
Janet Bunterman broke in: "Annie, please."
"No offense, but somebody did that to me? I'd get a lawyer."
Chemo blinked coldly. "I took care of it a different way."
"What's the deal with your arm?" Ann asked.
He turned to Cherry's mother and said, "Don't tell me she's part of this goddamned circus, too."
"Annie is my daughter's, uh, stand-in. Sometimes you'll be accompanying her in public, as if she were Cherry. It's a little game we have to play to deal with the media."
Chemo grunted. "I smell another raise."
As soon as the man went downstairs, Ann asked Janet Bunterman what planet he was from.
"Maury hired the monster. We had no choice."
"What does Cherry say?"
"Cherry's not happy. She had her heart set on an African-American martial-arts master, because she thinks that's what Britney's got--although I don't believe it's true. I think Britney's main guy is from Fiji." Janet Bunterman seemed to be talking to the coffee cup. "So now Cherry's locked herself in the bathroom. Do you have your little black dress?"
"Why?" Ann asked warily. "It's at the bottom of the swamp, with the rest of my stuff."
Cherry's mother looked puzzled.
"The car crash, remember?" Ann said.
"Oh, right. Well, then, you should go to Bal Harbour this afternoon and get some new clothes, after your trip to the Pakistani. The Olsens are giving a major party tonight at Pubes--it would look good for Cherry to show up."
"But she'll be busy."
Janet Bunterman nodded. "Getting fitted for her act, God willing. This designer charges something like three grand a day, and he's such a pain. But Maury says he did Celine's show in Vegas."
Ann DeLusia wasn't opposed to the idea of a new dress, even though no one would see her in it except the paparazzi outside the club and the wait staff inside. Maybe someday she'd actually get to hang out at one of these events and have a few laughs, instead of being hidden away in a back room until it was time to split.
"Is he coming along, too--the new bodyguard?" Ann asked.
Cherry's mother sighed. "Don't piss him off, okay? He's not like Lev."
"No sense of humor, huh?"
"Zero. I mean, look at the man."
Ann said, "So, what's that big thingie on his arm?"
Janet Bunterman told her.
"Wow." Ann found herself intrigued by the concept.
"I don't know what Maury was thinking," Cherry's mother muttered.
Ann suspected that the man named Chemo had a colorful story to tell. "I'm gonna ask him to show it to me," she said mischievously, "that crazy rig."
"Only if you want a new haircut," warned Janet Bunterman. From her wallet she removed five one-hundred-dollar bills and counted them out. "Here--and don't forget to save the receipts."
With a doubtful smile, Ann eyed the money. "So I guess I'm not shopping at Tory Burch."
"Lord, you're worse than my daughter."
"Not even close," Ann sang out, and went to call for a cab.
Bang Abbott parked on the street, two blocks from the hotel. He had armed himself with a secondhand Pentax, which he'd bought at an all-night pawnshop in Hialeah. The camera was digital and the motor drive still worked, so what the hell. With any luck he'd soon recover his Nikons, and more.
Although he hadn't slept since arriving in Florida, he didn't feel tired. This was typical of stalkers, although Bang Abbott would never acknowledge that was what he'd become. He left the camera in the car and scouted the lobby, where he spotted the scrawny bellman and pulled him outside.
"She's here, bro! Room 602. I called chu like five times, why the fuck chu don't call me back?" the bellman whined.
"Somebody stole my goddamn phone," Bang Abbott said. And the numbers of all my sources, he thought bitterly. The cameras were replaceable, but losing the BlackBerry was a major hassle. He hoped Cherry Pye hadn't lost it, or thrown it away.
"She's up there now," the bellman whispered. "I heard the concierge calling for a locksmith."
"For Christ's sake. Is she toasted again?"
The bellman said he'd try to find out. Bang Abbott gave him fifty bucks and the number of his new cell, another pawnshop bargain.
"Let me know when she's on the move," the photographer said. "There's another hundred in it for you--and tell those other monkeys, too." Bang Abbott had gone to an ATM and gotten a fat wad. "I won't be far," he said, pointing down the street.
The rental car was a blue Buick compact. Roomy it was not, especially for a person of Bang Abbott's circumference. The morning air was chilly, so he rolled up the windows and kept the engine running and tried not to think about the sex with Cherry. Soon he had a rubbery hard-on, which he would have tended discreetly if only the snug steering wheel hadn't impeded his frontal access. With design flaws like this, Bang Abbott thought, it's no wonder GM is going tits-up.
He slid his untoned mass to the passenger side and, using a discarded wax wrapper from a Quarter Pounder, took care of Claude Jr. Yet even afterward he couldn't stop wondering about Cherry. Why on earth had she jumped his bones? Like most successful paparazzi, Bang Abbott seldom wrestled with issues of self-esteem; he knew his lowly place in the carnal order. What Cherry had done to him, pleasurable as it might have been, was a breach of natural law, like a butterfly humping a cockroach.
Most men of Bang Abbott's worldliness would have understood the futility of ruminating over the airplane romp, and fondly filed the memory for future fantasies. It was a measure of the photographer's deepening obsession that he was able to twist a frivolously empty act of intercourse into something calculated and diabolical. At times he was close to convincing himself that Cherry had hatched a dark plan, that she was using him in some cynical way.
Bang Abbott reached under the seat to make certain that the pistol was still there--a Colt .38 Special, with a plastic shoulder holster and three bullets. He'd gotten it for eighty dollars from the same upright vendor who'd sold him the Pentax. Although it was the first gun he had ever handled, Bang Abbott wasn't nervous. Mechanically the Colt looked simple compared to a camera, and the operative fundamentals were the same: Point and shoot.
Ostensibly he'd gotten the weapon to protect himself from South Florida's well-known criminal element, but in his daydreams he imagined flashing it casually in Cherry's presence. Like countless fools before him, Bang Abbott believed that carrying a firearm would make certain persons take him more seriously.
At half-past nine, the bellman called to say that Cherry's security man was leaving the hotel lobby alone. "What's he look like?" Bang Abbott asked.
"A motherfuckin' ay-leen."
"A what?"
"Chu know--a ay-leen. Like from a UFO."
Bang Abbott chuckled. "So he's got, what, antennas coming out of his head?"
"Chu'll see, bro. He be cruisin' your way."
The photographer shrank low in the Buick and peeked over the dashboard. When Cherry's new bodyguard--and who else could it be?--appeared on the sidewalk, Bang Abbott saw that the bellman hadn't been e
xaggerating. The guy was a geek on stilts.
Bang Abbott waited until the man was a full block past him before squeezing out of the Buick and taking pursuit. Because of his height, and the coral iridescence of his toupee, the bodyguard was easy to follow. On Alton Road he entered an organic diner, where he grabbed a breakfast menu and chose a table away from the window. He said nothing when Bang Abbott boldly sat down across from him.
"You don't know me," the photographer began. "I'm a shooter for the tabloids. Strictly freelance. Your client stole my gear."
The bodyguard didn't glance up from the menu.
"We took a plane ride together, then she bolts with my camera bag. I couldn't fuckin' believe it."
The bodyguard stifled a yawn.
"I'm talkin' about Miss Cherry Pye," Bang Abbott went on, trying not to stare. Up close, the man was a fright show. "Two Nikons and a BlackBerry--I need to get 'em back, the phone especially. And here's what else: I'll pay good money."
Slowly, the man raised his oozy eyes. The sockets appeared to be inflamed, and the hooded lids were mapped with bluish veins. To Bang Abbott he looked like a mutant gecko. And that clunky thing on his arm--was it a cast, or was he packing an Uzi under there?
The paparazzo introduced himself and gamely attempted a handshake. The bodyguard responded by baring his teeth, which were discolored and nubby.
"How much?" he asked Bang Abbott.
"What?"
"To get your shit back. How much'll you pay?"
"I dunno. Five hundred?" Bang Abbott said. "But that's only if the crazy bitch hasn't trashed the equipment."
The bodyguard said, "Make it eight, unconditional. Shit's broke, you get it fixed."
"Six fifty."
"Go away, Slim." He went to the counter and returned shortly with a glass of grapefruit juice. "Look at all the fuckin' pulp," he remarked with a frown.
Bang Abbott said, "Okay, eight hundred." He wrote his new cell number on a napkin and passed it to the bodyguard. "The BlackBerry is tangerine-colored. You can't miss it." He had custom-ordered a bright one so he could locate it easily in his cluttered camera bag.
"What's your name, dude?" he asked the bodyguard.
"Chemo."
"Is that, like, French or somethin'?"
"You ever call me 'dude' again, I'll peel your fat head like a goddamn apple." The bodyguard blinked and sipped his juice.
Bang Abbott was determined to make a personal connection. The man wasn't particularly sociable but, unlike Lev, he seemed open to cash incentives. The photographer was thinking ahead to future services beyond the retrieval of his camera bag. Cherry Pye could become his exclusive celebrity property, if Chemo could be bought off.
But the guy was an authentic hardass, possibly even an ex-con, so Bang Abbott knew he must be patient--and extremely careful--with his approach. "What's Cobra Golf?" he inquired innocently, nodding toward the bulky zippered bag on the bodyguard's left arm.
Chemo sniffed the air. "Jesus, what died?"
The photographer pressed on, searching for common ground. "When I was a kid, I fractured my ulna in two places--fell out of a tree house. Had to wear a cast for three months."
"This ain't a cast." Chemo raised his bagged limb.
"Oh," said Bang Abbott. "Man, I'm sorry."
"What for? It wasn't your arm that got ate." With his good one, the bodyguard signaled to a waitress, who came over and took his order: four eggs, sunny-side up, and a stack of multigrain toast.
When the waitress turned to Bang Abbott and asked what he wanted, Chemo cut in: "Don't bring him nuthin. He's hittin' the bricks."
The photographer smiled wanly and stood up. "I guess I am. Give me a call when you find my stuff--"
"That was the deal."
"--then we can meet up ... wherever."
"Right," said Chemo. "You know, they got this slick new invention."
"Oh yeah?"
"Called soap. Maybe you heard of it."
Bang Abbott felt his neck turn hot. "Later," he said, and shuffled out of the restaurant.
* * *
The former Cheryl Bunterman sat on the toilet seat in the bathroom of Suite 602 with her bare feet propped on the paparazzo's camera bag. Her mother was rapping on the other side of the door, warning that the hotel locksmith was on the way.
"Cherry, we can do this the hard way or the easy way."
"It's Cherish. And I'm not comin' out till you fire that disgusting A-hole and get me a black super-karate dude like Britney's."
Janet Bunterman said, "Sweetie, I checked with her people. The bodyguard's from Samoa."
"That bald guy? No way, Mom. He was on the Raiders."
"Samoans play football, too," Cherry's mother pointed out.
"Just get rid of that freak, okay? He scares the pee out of me." Cherry and her molten hangover had been locked in the john for more than an hour. She'd passed the time by toying with the photographer's fruity-colored cell phone, reading his text messages and listening to his voice mails.
"Hey, Mom, guess what? The Olsens are having a thing at Pubes tonight."
"Yes, I know."
"Kanye might be there!"
"Where'd you hear that?" Cherry's mother demanded through the door.
"And David Spade's staying at the Standard--he checked in as 'Bubba Gump.' What else ... Oh, Ellen and Portia canceled their reservations at the Forge.... Uma's having brunch at the News Cafe with some dude in a cowboy hat.... This is so cool."
Janet Bunterman pounded harder. "What are you doing in there?"
"Hush up, Mom!" Cherry Pye was checking a fresh voice mail on the photographer's phone. It was about her--some guy with a squeaky Cuban accent saying she was at the Stefano. He even knew the room number.
Cherry was positively tickled. Balancing on the porcelain lip of the claw-footed tub, she peeped out the window, which offered a partial view of the pool. Sunbathing couples could be seen snuggling heedlessly, indicating to Cherry that no cameramen or video crews were lurking among the cabanas. Maybe they're waiting out front, she thought, near the lobby.
"Cherry, honey?" A man's voice at the door.
"Oh shit," she whispered to herself. Then: "Maury, leave me alone!"
He said, "I'm counting to nine."
She shoved the BlackBerry into the camera bag. "Go away! I've got the runs!"
"Tell me--do you enjoy this pampered life of yours?"
What was that supposed to mean?
She unlocked the door. The promoter came in and closed it behind him. His calm demeanor was intimidating.
"Where's my mom?" Cherry asked.
"Let's see the tatt." Maury Lykes put on his wire-rimmed glasses and skeptically examined her neck. "Yeah, that's gorgeous--and just in time for the Us Weekly cover shot I got lined up for tomorrow."
"Well, I don't care what you say--I totally love this tattoo. It's a zebra-man Axl!"
"Who is ...?"
Cherry knew Maury was testing her.
He said, "Come on. Hundred bucks if you can name the band."
"Blood, Sweat and Roses?"
The promoter removed his glasses and hooked them through an open buttonhole of his polo shirt. "Skantily is your last big shot, honey. You blow this tour, say adios to the good stuff. Because Cherry Pye as a brand is over, understand? Done."
"Awesome!" she cried defiantly. "'Cause from now on I'm gonna be called Cherish."
"How about 'Bankrupt'? You like that name? The Artist Formerly Known as Solvent." Maury Lykes wore a heartless smile. "Because, honey, I'll sue your thong off."
"For what?" Cherry asked in a wounded voice.
"Breach of contract. Misappropriation of funds. Whatever else my sharks come up with." Maury Lykes stood at the mirror and picked a sesame seed out of his teeth. "You skipped out of Malibu rehab, so now it's time for Maury rehab. You're grounded from all parties until further notice," he said. "Rehearsals start next week--I'll e-mail the song tracks from the show so you can start practicing your lege
ndary lip magic. The lyric sheets are on the way."
"So now I'm, like, a prisoner? This is not happening."
"Friend Chemo will accompany you wherever you need to go."
"No, Maury! He's horrible!"
"A nightmare," the promoter agreed. "And don't think you can fellate your way to his heart--he doesn't have the same weaknesses as Lev."
Cherry raised her eyebrows. "You mean he's gay?"
"No, I mean he's cold. Maybe the coldest sonofabitch I ever met."
Janet Bunterman tapped on the bathroom door and asked if everything was all right. Maury Lykes called out, "Just peachy!"
Cherry lowered her voice. "But he knows who I am, right?"
"Chemo? Oh, he couldn't care less." Maury Lykes turned away from the mirror. "Honey, don't take it personal. Middle-aged psychopaths, they don't keep up with the music scene."
It was eating at Cherry, the idea of being seen in public with such an unattractive and possibly unfuckable bodyguard. "So, how'd he find me and Tanner last night?" she asked in a sulk.
Maury Lykes told her that Chemo had called all the beachside limousine companies and pretended to be the young actor's personal pharmacist, late with an urgent delivery. One of the dispatchers remembered a Star Island pickup and radioed the driver, who reported that he was parked outside a tattoo parlor on Washington.
"That's so freaking scummy!" Cherry exclaimed.
"More like brilliant." The promoter kissed her on the chin. "Don't forget what I said--if you fuck up this project, all major fun in your life is over. Be a good girl, we'll make you 'Cherish' on the next album."
She threw her arms around his neck and pulled him extra close. "Don't ever leave me, Maury. You gotta promise."
10
Bang Abbott would never starve. Even with a used Pentax he could always make money.
A few years earlier, a particularly lean streak on the L.A. club circuit had forced him to the beaches of Malibu, where every afternoon he would prowl for sunbathing celebrities. Bang Abbott referred to that summer as his "Cellulite Period," because the tabloids were paying ludicrous sums for close-ups of famous asses, the flabbier the better. He'd made seventeen grand with one sensationally embarrassing photo of Jessica Simpson, and another six thousand for a wide-load sequence of Tom Hanks, who'd put on thirty pounds for a film about Theodore Roosevelt.