Flavor of the Month

by Olivia Goldsmith

  “Oh, Jahne! What woman could take a man from you? You’re so gorgeous and so talented and so smart.”

  Jahne just smiled. “I had my ugly-duckling phase,” she said.

  Sharleen nodded, serious. “You’d have had to, because if you’d always been so pretty you’d have no charity for plain girls. Did you have a dumb phase, too?”

  Jahne laughed again. “No, I think I’m having that now,” she told Sharleen.

  “Jahne, it ain’t none of my business, but I just want to tell you that Michael McLain called Lila yesterday.”

  “Lila?”

  “Remember she told Marty she had a date? I think it was with him.”

  “How do you know?” Jahne asked sharply. She felt her stomach go queasy, her hands clammy.

  Sharleen explained what she’d overheard. Jahne did not know what to think. What kind of game was Michael playing? And just how dumb had she been? “I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid,” Sharleen said.

  “So, speaking of stupid, do you think you’ve ruined it with Dean?”

  Sharleen shook her head. “He don’t know. But I feel so bad. Maybe I should tell him. Oh, I don’t know what to do. Dean ain’t smart. Lord, Jahne, he’s way loads dumber than me. But he’s got totally good feelings, you know what I mean? He don’t never do anything mean or bad out of orneriness. Kind of like a hound, you know?”

  Jahne nodded.

  “I’m afraid to tell him, but I hate to be lyin’ to him.”

  “Want my advice?”

  “Well, I most surely do.”

  “Don’t tell, and don’t dwell on it, Sharleen. It wasn’t your fault. Meanwhile, something real weird and real big has happened to us. It’s like Cinderella. One day we were sweeping up the hearth, and the next day we’re princesses. And you don’t always know who’s the prince and who’s the frog.” She thought again of Michael. A real frog. “It’s a lot for anyone to adjust to. So we both went a little crazy. Let’s just forgive ourselves, and promise each other we won’t let it happen again.” She held her hand out to shake.

  “You mean it?” Sharleen asked. Jahne nodded. Sharleen took her hand and shook it enthusiastically. “It’s a deal,” she said. They were both silent for a moment. “You know, Sy Ortis wants me to do a record album.”

  “I didn’t know you could sing.”

  “I cain’t. But he says it will make a lot of money. And he wants me to. Think I should?”

  “Sharleen, I don’t know. If you want to, maybe. Sy Ortis doesn’t want me to take a screen test for a movie, but I’m going to do it tomorrow anyway.”

  “Good for you! You nervous?”

  “A little. Well, a lot, really.”

  “Kin I ask you somethin’ else?”

  Jahne nodded again.

  “Did you mean it when you said you wouldn’t do somethin’ bad to a friend?” She paused, shy. “Do you mean that I was your friend?” she asked.

  “I most surely do,” Jahne said in a perfect imitation of the girl. Sharleen laughed.

  “Hey, we better go,” she said, and gathered up her bag. “I got to go to the recording studio.” She sighed.

  Jahne walked with her to their cars. And then, both tentative, both shy, they hugged each other. But as Sharleen got into her car, Jahne thought of something. “How did Michael get your number?” she called.

  “Mr. Ortis gave it to him.”

  Jahne stood very still. Sy had also set up the first date between her and Michael.

  Sharleen and Dean pulled up into the circular driveway at the recording studio. Before the limousine came to a full stop, the rear door was pulled open by a young woman. “Miss Smith, I’m so happy to finally meet you,” she said, extending her right hand. “It’s such an honor.” The girl was wearing a full cotton skirt, a Mexican blouse, and sandals, which Sharleen thought made her look like a poor Mexican, except this one was blonde and was wearing about ten thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry. “My name is Sandra,” the young girl said. “I’m your personal assistant while you’re here at the recording studio, so, if there is anything I can do for you to make you comfortable, anything, why, you just let me know.”

  Sy Ortis moved between them then, coming out from a dark limo that had been parked beside the entrance. He shooed Sandra back, took Sharleen’s arm, and led her up the steps to the entrance door. Dean bounded up the stairs ahead of them, his tight, faded jeans straining at his rounded buttocks with each step, his black silver-tipped boots making clicking sounds on the concrete steps.

  The cowboy hat Sy Ortis had given Sharleen just this morning sat forward on her head like a hen on a fence post, casting a shadow across her eyes. It was uncomfortable, but Mr. Ortis had insisted she wear it.

  Sharleen felt at home in her faded jeans and a man’s unironed white shirt, tied in a knot beneath her breasts, but the cowboy hat felt awkward on her head, so now, thinking of what Jahne had said, she took it off and carried it in her hand by the string. Hell, she hadn’t worn one back in Texas. Why start now. Her feet in the new boots felt as cramped as a muskrat in a rabbit’s hole, but she tried not to let the discomfort show. The whole outfit had been Sy’s idea. “These people are used to working with all the C&W greats. Hal King has personally produced Crystal Gayle, Roy Acuff, and all the hit albums of the New Ozark Boys. He’ll be more confident if he sees you’re for real, Sharleen. Let him see your Texan side. It’ll help set the mood for the recording session.” Even though Sharleen knew there was no other side to her but the Texan side, as Sy called it, she decided to go along with his idea. So far, he’d been right about the endorsements and the other business deals he had arranged. And she sure didn’t know cactus juice from cattle piss when it came to business contracts. So she smiled gratefully at Sandra and followed Mr. Ortis.

  Sharleen felt a little nervous about bringing Dean, but she couldn’t always leave him back home alone. It wasn’t right. But she hoped he’d be—as Jahne had cautioned her—“discreet.”

  The glass door swung open as they reached it. A short, barrel-chested man stepped out and spoke in a deep drawl. “Why, howdy, young lady. I been wanting to meet you since the first day I set eyes on you on my television set. My name’s Hal King,” he said, and extended a huge paw of a hand, which Sharleen took and released quickly.

  “And you must be Dean, Sharleen’s friend. Any friend of Sharleen’s is a friend of mine,” he said, and shook Dean’s hand vigorously.

  Sy Ortis didn’t wait. “Is there someplace where she can freshen up? It’s been a long trip.”

  Hal jumped back and reopened the doors. “Why, of course! What could I have been thinking of?” he said. He turned to Sandra, who had scampered in just as the doors were closing. “Sandra, you take Miss Smith to the star’s suite, and see that she gets everything she needs. Curtis,” he said to a young man who had been standing by, “why don’t you show Dean around a bit. Make sure he sees the recording studio Miss Smith will be using, and show him around the electronics board.”

  As if Dean would know the difference between a mike and an amp! Not that Sharleen knew much more. She nervously watched as Dean walked away. Then she and Mr. Ortis followed Hal King down the corridor of offices, the doors open onto each, secretaries peeking out, trying to catch a glimpse of Sharleen as she passed by. They finally came to a thick steel door, over which a sign said “Recording Studio. Do not enter when red light is on.” Hal pushed it forward, and beckoned for them to follow. He opened another door, on the right, and Sharleen was immediately transported to someone’s living room. The only indication that it was a recording studio was the four huge audio speakers placed expertly around the room at ceiling level.

  “I hope you like it, Miss Smith,” Sandra said in a reverential whisper.

  “Oh, of course I do. It’s real cozy.” Sharleen turned to Mr. Ortis. “I’d like a few minutes to rest and have a cola first; is that okay with you, Mr. King?”

  “It would be more than all right. But you must do me the favor of cal
ling me Hal. Everyone else does.” He turned the door handle and said over his shoulder, “Just buzz me on the intercom on the phone when you’re ready. Now, you just take your time. Sandra, anything Miss Smith wants,” he added, and opened the door.

  “Hal,” Sharleen called out, “call me Sharleen, would you? And would you kindly send in Dean as soon as he’s finished with his tour?”

  When she and Mr. Ortis were alone, Sharleen sat down and struggled out of her cowboy boots. “I swear, my feet haven’t hurt this bad since I walked home from school barefoot on the gravel road when I was a kid. Now, don’t you ask me to put these on again, Mr. Ortis, ’cause I ain’t going to do it.” She massaged her feet in silence for a moment. Why had she ever agreed to do this? Despite the voice lessons, Sharleen knew she couldn’t sing. Not one song through without flatting.

  Sharleen sat back with her feet dangling over the padded arm of the sofa, swinging them so the breeze would cool them off. She laughed and slapped her thigh. “Why, if the kids back in high school heard I was going to record a country-and-western album, they would die laughing. I tried out for the glee club, but was hooted out of the room. I never could sing.”

  “All you got to do, Sharleen, is what you did on the set a couple of months ago. Remember the scene Marty was directing you in? You were repairing a broken motorcycle, and he suggested you sing something to yourself while you were making the repairs. Remember that?”

  “Well, sure, but I wasn’t really singing. I was just imitating Patsy Cline.”

  “That’s what you think, kid, but that day the crew went crazy when they heard your voice. That’s where I got the idea for you to record an album.”

  Sharleen looked at him doubtfully. No one had said a word about her singing that day. Was Mr. Ortis telling the truth? “Even though I’m just imitating somebody? It doesn’t seem right to make money just by imitating other people.”

  “Let’s not go through all that again, okay, Sharleen? You say you’re just imitating Loretta and Patsy, but that’s not what’s coming out. Trust me, Sharleen. You got a great voice all its own. Wait until you hear the playbacks today. You’ll know what I mean.”

  The door flung open, and Dean burst into the room, as excited as a kid at a state fair. “Sharleen, I swear, they have every kind of gizmo and gadget out there. I bet Nashville ain’t got nothing better. Curtis showed me all them color-TV screens. He can write music on them, and they can play the music back without any instruments. And Sandra tole me about her job. You know, she’s got to pick all the green M&M’s out of the bowl because they upset Loretta Lynn. No, maybe it was Garth that hates ’em.” He paused, confused.

  Sy looked over at Dean. “Dean, can Sharleen here sing?”

  “Sing? I guess so. Sometimes she sings.”

  “See, Sharleen? Even Dean thinks you can sing.”

  “Oh, but she don’t sound too good,” Dean said.

  “See? Even Dean don’t think I’m any good. Doesn’t that prove anything?”

  “It proves you have another way of making money, Sharleen,” Sy answered. “And you keep saying that’s what you’re looking for.”

  “Right. Okay, I’m ready,” she said, and ran her fingers through her hair.

  When she and Dean got home that night, Sharleen was well and truly exhausted. She had tried all day to sing a few tunes and knew how awful she sounded. She was embarrassed and ashamed, and wished she’d never have to go back there again.

  Then, just as she was about to collapse onto the sofa, the phone rang. She groaned. There was no one—not even Jahne—that she wanted to hear from now. She was just too tuckered out.

  “Sharleen, can you get that? I need to take the dogs out,” Dean shouted.

  “Okay. But I just hope it’s not a crank call.” She reached for the receiver. “Hello,” she said.

  “Hello yourself, young lady. How’s my girl?”

  “Dobe?” Sharleen almost looked at the receiver for confirmation.

  “The one and only, young lady. Dobe Samuels, alive and well. So how are you and Dean?” he asked, his voice sounding friendly and cheerful.

  “Dobe! Dobe, I can hardly believe it.” She struggled to sit up. “Where are you? How did you know how to find me?” Sharleen was beside herself with joy. “We moved since I sent you our last address. And this is an unlisted number.”

  “I got my ways, you should know that by now, young lady.”

  “Can you come on by?”

  She heard his warm laugh. “Not right now. I’m in Oregon.”

  “What are you doing there?” she asked. She wanted to ask him to come to L. A. Lord, it felt so good to hear his voice!

  “I’m working on a deal, honey-chile, and I can’t get away. But, Sharleen, I need to ask you for a favor.”

  Sharleen paused. As fast as it had come, that good feeling ebbed away. She should have known. That was the way it had been going since she started doing the TV shows. Everyone wanted her to do something for them. But very few thought about what she might need. She shrugged off her disappointment. Well, if there was anyone she owed a favor to, she and Dean sure owed one to Dobe Samuels. She’d be happy to do Dobe a favor, she told herself, but, before she could say so, Dobe said, “Now, honey, if you’re too busy, why, old Dobe would understand. I don’t want you taking on too much.”

  “Oh, no, Dobe. It wouldn’t be too much. I’d be happy to do you a good turn.”

  “That’s my girl,” Dobe said, his voice friendly as usual again. “Now, this is what I need you to do. There’s a United States Customs auction in three weeks, at the Federal Building in downtown L.A. I need you to go to the auction and place a bid on something for me. I need you to bid on—now, write this down—I need you to bid on Lot Number 604. Can you do that, Sharleen? It starts at nine in the morning, and it will take a while for Lot 604 to come up, but it’s real important to me. Of course, I’ll pay you whatever you spend, but the most you’ll have to bid is fifty dollars. Tops, seventy-five.”

  Sharleen was busily writing on a scrap of paper. Why did Dobe want this? Was it some kind of scam? “Now, wait a minute. What is it I’m bidding on, Dobe? Exactly. Is it them red pills? It’s not drugs or anything like that, is it?”

  “Sharleen, this is one-hundred-percent certified legal. It’s doing business with the federal government, and I don’t mess with them G-men in their mirror sunglasses.”

  “Okay. So, in three weeks, I go to the auction and bid on this lot number. Then what?”

  Dobe outlined the registering and payment methods for buying from a U.S. Customs auction. Then he gave her a number to call him at when she got finished with the auction, so he could arrange for pickup. “Got all that, kid?”

  “Sure, Dobe. You can count on me,” she sighed. “Are we gonna see you again?”

  “I’ll be in town to see you next month, Sharleen. And we’re going to go out for a nice sit-down, you and Dean and me, and you’re going to tell me all about how it feels to be a rich Hollywood star.”

  “Dobe,” she said, in a whisper, “it don’t feel that good. In fact, it feels real lonely.” To her horror, she began to cry.

  “Ah, there, there. Poor little girl. I told you, Sharleen. It ain’t easy being a beautiful woman, especially a rich beautiful woman. But, now, honey, you hold on to them tears for a little while. Dobe’ll be there next month to take care of both of you.”

  “Dobe, I miss you,” she whispered, and wasn’t sure if he’d heard her say it before he’d hung up the phone.

  13

  Pity the poor exposé writer. That’s me, Laura Richie. Because you’re only as good as your last scandalous book. And there aren’t that many scandals to go around. Well, that may not be true: there are plenty of medium-grade, medium-weight, middle-class scandals, but they are not enough to make a best seller. So we are left with the scandals of the legends or the legends of the scandals, and everyone has done those. Between me and Kitty Litter (oh, Reader, you know who I mean), we have covered the wat
erfront. After her books about Ol’ Blue Eyes and Nancy and that poor English dysfunctional family, and mine about Christina Onassis and the Cher book, there wasn’t much left on the grand opera scale. So I was casting about me at this time for a new subject.

  Because, let’s face it: in gossip, people want the best. Sodomy and embezzlement barely raise an eyebrow unless the organs and amounts are the largest ever. And even then, the scandal palls quickly unless it’s someone famous or who is attached to them. A story about a secret transvestite is only kind of sordid and pathetic, unless the guy is dressing up in famous underpants. And with all the stuff going on out there, there isn’t much left that’s shocking anymore. Look at poor Madonna. She has to stoop to photographing herself having sex with a dog to keep in the public eye.

  My publisher was pressuring me. I was deciding between a Woody/Mia tell-all and a Michael McLain unauthorized but I was afraid that Woody was too New York Jewish for a broad appeal. And Michael had been around since the year of the flood. Plus, women were the ones who bought gossip books and they preferred gossip about women. My secretary was pushing for a triple biography of the 3/4 girls. But despite the absolutely massive wave of publicity they’d received, I felt they didn’t have enough history to make more than a quick paperback out of. And I did only quality hardback gossip.

  If only I’d known.

  After Jahne heard Sharleen’s revelation about Michael, and thought about the painful talk with Sharleen that had led up to it, Jahne rehearsed the ways in which she’d tell him off. At best he was a sexaholic who was out of control as well as a liar. At worst, well, it didn’t bear thinking about. Jahne rehearsed in her mind what she would say to him when he called her. The accusations and names came easily. But each time she got rolling she remembered not only how kind he had been to her about her scars, but also how much he now knew. Was it safe to make him an enemy? she wondered.

  It was a question she did not have to answer. Michael McLain never called her again.