“Jahne’s sick!” Dean said, and she felt a wash of gratitude that he had noticed. Then Brewster had his coat off, around her shoulders, and his arms made a safe circle for her. She closed her eyes, and he murmured something, and she kept her head down on his shoulder, and somehow they got out of the theater and into a car and there was the noise of sirens, and lights flashing from the police cars, or cameras, she couldn’t tell which, and then there was darkness.
Brewster stayed with her round the clock for the next two days. They were at the Beverly Wilshire, and in a corner suite. The house had been thought too dangerous, until the truth about the assassin became clear. Brewster talked to her and read to her, but mostly she napped. He kept the TV off and allowed her no calls or newspapers, but on the second day he told her all about Lila. Jahne listened, in shock and amazement, and cried.
“A man? She was transsexual?”
“No, not medically. She was still intact. Probably impotent. Asexual.”
She began to cry again. “It’s all so sad.” He held her hand until she fell asleep. Jahne felt she could sleep for a month.
Brewster didn’t let her up out of bed except for trips to the bathroom. He called Room Service, let her speak to Sharleen, but he kept everyone else at bay. It was a relief.
Finally, she pushed herself up in bed and managed a smile. “You’re a wonderful doctor,” she said.
He shook his head. “No, I’m a wonderful nurse. So are you, for that matter.”
Jahne thought back to how long ago it was since she’d been a nurse. It felt like decades.
“Are you feeling better?”
“Much better. I still can’t believe it, but I’m okay. Really.”
“Well, there’s someone who wants to see you. He’s been camped outside in the hallway for two days. I didn’t feel comfortable about sending him away.”
“Sam?” she asked, and felt herself blush. Brewster nodded.
“Do you want to see him, or should I send him away?”
Jahne sighed. “I already sent him away once. I better see him. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s your life, Jahne. You don’t have to apologize. You don’t owe me anything.” He turned and went to the door.
I must look like shit, Jahne thought, and then got angry at herself. Oh, God, who cared about looks? Sam? Well, he didn’t matter to her anymore.
She looked up. Sam had silently entered the bedroom.
“You’re all right? I couldn’t believe it. I had to see you. You’re all right?” She nodded. Sam approached the side of the bed. “God, when I saw the murder on TV, I realized that it would kill me if anything happened to you. Mary Jane, I…I don’t know what you need to hear to come back to me, I don’t know what you want me to say, but I know that there is no one, absolutely no one on earth that I want to marry except you.”
“Marry?” She was speechless. “Marry you? I never want to see you again.”
“Oh, I know you felt that way before Birth hit as big as it did. But surely now you see that it was necessary to…”
“Are you crazy?” she asked him. “Have you gone completely crazy?”
“Listen, we’ve both done things we aren’t proud of. But it’s not too late…”
“That’s where you are two hundred and ten percent wrong. It’s years too late,” she told him.
“Jahne, everything you said, every word, was true. I’ve been doing some thinking. Some real thinking. And I know what I want now. I want you. No one but you. Let’s forget everything else.” He took her hand. “Life’s too short to waste.”
She looked at him. What had she loved about him? His looks? His selfishness? His easy, shallow style? His facile wit? How shallow had she been to care about this man?
“You’re right,” she said at last. “Life is too short to waste. That’s why I won’t spend another minute with you.”
It wasn’t until the third day that Brewster let Jahne watch the news herself. There was a special segment of Entertainment Tonight that focused on the shooting. Jahne watched clips of herself and Lila and Sharleen arriving for the Emmy awards, then she saw the close-ups of them in the audience. It was macabre. Who would want to watch this awfulness play out? Why was the audience tuned in? To watch the death of an idol? A false idol? Poor, poor Lila. It made Jahne sick. Literally sick to her stomach. “Well, as a doctor, I’ll give you the remedy that my mother always suggested,” Brewster smiled. Then he called Room Service.
She was drinking from a glass of plain old ginger ale when she saw, for the first time, the apprehension of the gunman. And there, on the screen, was a close-up of Neil Morelli.
16
Jahne said goodbye to Brewster at her front door. The idea of an airport farewell reminded her too much of her last one, with Neil, back in New York. She shivered.
“Are you cold?” Brewster asked, and she smiled at his concern. It should be winter, after the killing frost that had descended upon them all, but Hollywood was heartless, and the air was balmy.
“No. I’m fine. I will be fine.” She stopped. She wasn’t too certain of that, so why lie? “Listen, Brewster, I don’t know how I’m ever going to thank you…”
“Well, I think you just did.” He was looking down at his feet.
“No. You deserve something more than just words.”
“I do need these shoes resoled,” he said, then shrugged at his attempt at a joke. “Hey, this is what friends are for,” he said. And he raised himself on his toes and kissed her, just once, and very gently, on the lips. Then he was gone.
Jahne went back into the house, her lips tingling. She hadn’t kissed anyone since Sam, and it felt good. A tiny bit of the grimness lifted. But then she remembered Lila. Her lips were cold by now. Jahne picked up her cat, settled herself on the sofa, and began to write a list. She had a lot to do.
When the phone rang, she couldn’t decide whether to answer or not. But La Brecque’s security guy did it for her. He stood at the door to the living room and called out to her, “It’s some guy called Sam. You want to take the call?”
Jahne sat, frozen. What in the world did he want now? She shook her head—not at the guard, but at herself. “I’ll take it,” she told him, and reached for the extension beside her.
“Mary Jane? Jahne? Is it you?”
“Yes. It’s me.”
Sam was silent for a moment. “Listen, this is business. I know how you feel about me, but I think we have a lot to talk about. Among other things, I’m just signing a three-picture deal with Paramount. And I want you for the lead in my first film for them.”
Now it was Jahne’s turn to be silent. Hollywood! She almost snorted. It was the town where the devil disguised himself as a producer and offered a three-picture deal. Who was this guy at the other end of the line? Who had she thought he was, and who did he think she was? “Sorry. Homey don’t do that no more,” was all she said.
His voice deepened. She heard the actor bring in the strings. Was he acting, was he crazy, or was he just the most insensitive man in America? “It can be the way it was. I’m working on the script, and it’s good, Jahne. Really good. It’s about a race-car driver who nearly loses the woman he loves because he can’t give up racing.” He paused. She didn’t say a word. “Look, I know it sounds juvenile, but it doesn’t play that way.” He stopped to take a breath. And, for the first time in this amazing conversation, Jahne thought she heard his true voice.
“We could be good together, Jahne,” he said.
Gently, she hung up the phone.
17
They wouldn’t stop playing the goddamn song. Sy Ortis swerved, almost hitting a lamppost as he fumbled for the Blaupunkt radio dial, but it didn’t matter what station he listened to. Since the shooting, they were all playing the Kinks’ tribute to female impersonators. Next that stupid cocksucker Al Yankovic would do a parody actually called “Lila.” But, really, there wasn’t much that could be added to the original.
Not surprisingly, the
Early Artists management offices were going batshit. Sponsors, the press, the studio—all of Hollywood, it seemed, wanted to cash in or cash out on Three for the Road. And that old puta Laura Bitchy had actually had the nerve to call him at home, at night, on his private number, to ask if he had ever seen either Jahne Moore or Lila in the nude.
When Sy Ortis reached Reception, the little fool at the desk had a copy of the Informer lying there, an obvious pastiche photo on the cover with a screaming red headline that said, “The Scandal to End the Road Show.”
“What are you planning to do after you work here?” Sy asked the girl.
“I don’t know,” she said, blinking.
“Too bad, because you don’t work here anymore,” he told her. He grabbed the paper off her desk, then crumpled it and tore it to shreds before he threw it to the ground and walked over it. He slammed through the swinging glass doors on down the hall. His secretary stood waiting. “Any word from Mr. DiGennaro?”
“No. He’s still under sedation. But there was a call from the hospital. There’s been a change in Miss…I mean, Mr. Kyle’s condition.” She paused. “I mean, the fact is, he’s dead.”
“What the heil do I care?” barked Sy Ortis. “The bitch—I mean the son of a bitch—was as good as dead anyway.” Christ, he couldn’t breathe! Sy got into his office and began to scrabble through his desk drawers, looking for another aspirator. His chest felt as if it would burst. If he wasn’t careful, he’d wind up in the morgue at Cedars, next to that freak. He tried to count, just to get his breath. As he did, he saw the pile of pink message slips lying beside his multibutton phone. He rifled through them. All clients, soon to be ex-clients, he guessed. Of course, every one of the niños de las putas was calling in to “discuss management issues.” Of course. There was no loyalty, no sense of history, with these children of pigs. They’d be calling Mike Ovitz, CMI and CAA and all the other agents so fast that phone lines would be melting.
Everything was falling apart! Marty was having some kind of breakdown, the Okie blonde was a pervert, Jahne Moore was a surgical trick, and fuckin’ Lila Kyle was a man! Over at the Network, they were going crazy. Les Merchant was threatening to cancel the show. Hyram Flanders was homicidal, and all the other sponsors were bailing out. Christ, he’d be lucky if the merchandisers didn’t sue his ass. Well, they probably would. This would cost him millions!
But it was worse than that! Hollywood was a town built on hype, but it was a town that believed its own. When you were hot you were hot, and when you were not you were frío to the max. Christ! Sy winced. What would those gringo cocksuckers at Morton’s be saying about him this Monday night? He almost writhed in his chair as he thought about it. Their little grins as he walked by their tables, the concealed laughs. Jokes about wetbacks and chicano-ry! Oh, he could hear it all now.
Damage control was necessary. Lots of it, and fast. But wasn’t it too late for the spin doctors? Well, he could salvage Jahne Moore. Birth of a Star was still a hit, a big one. She could eke out another major part. The curiosity factor was high on her. That TV script he’d read last month about the prostitute who adopts the two kids. It could work. Meanwhile, they’d sue the Informer, and that bitch Laura Richie. No, suits took too long and cost too much. He wrinkled his brow and took a prophylactic suck on the aspirator.
He had it! He’d call Hefner. This wasn’t for Christie. He’d go right to the top. A centerfold. And not one of those soft-focus stills from the film. Fresh, hot meat. She’d show them everything. And then they’d put her, quick, into another TV film. The bitch would do what he told her now, if she wanted to survive. This shit worked for Madonna, didn’t it? Then there was the Smith family. Apparently Dean wasn’t the hillbilly’s brother, so they would sue all those tabloids on Sharleen’s behalf, and maybe she could get engaged—or, better yet, married. It should get the church and the Moral Majority assholes off his back. That just left Lila. With her dead, maybe Three for the Road could go on, once Marty snapped out of it. Or even before, with another director. And the Kyle freak would be replaced. After all, finding fresh meat in Hollywood wasn’t hard. Only a week ago, he’d decided to drop Sharleen and Jahne. Now he’d drop Lila and keep the other two. With two of the three in place, the show had a good chance of survival.
So, really, the only problem left was Marty. He was drooling and babbling, all right, but so what? A few weeks at the rest home and he’d be in the pink. And maybe, Sy Ortis thought, maybe even Marty can be replaced. Okay, the ideas, the format, all of it was his, but it was established now. Maybe that kid, the AD from Birth—what was his name? Joel Something. He could do it. After all, what was there to do?
For four more days, days of siege, Sy managed to hold Early Artists and himself together while they were buffeted by the media, by the Industry, and by the Network and sponsors. Every bastard whom he had ever screwed felt it his duty to call in and be counted. Every son-of-a-bitch in the Industry had something smart to say. Well, fuck ’em all. The audience last night for Three for the Road had broken all records. As Sy had promised Hyram Flanders that it would. So now all Sy needed to do was find a way to replace Lila and Marty and keep, as they say, the show on the road.
The phone intercom buzzed. “Miss Moore is here to see you.”
“Okay.” Madre de Jesús, he was in no mood for this twat who always had fuckin’ opinions and attitudes. At least today she should be under control. He’d seen them, the Talents, when they first were hit with the realization that what the public giveth it could also take away. Look how humbled Crystal had become. And—he smiled to himself—he liked his Talents humbled; humbled and scared. It made them a lot more respectful. Until, of course, they were panicked, and then they’d turn on their own young and eat them alive.
Jahne Moore would be concerned but not panicked, he figured. She’d probably calmed down from the surprise of Birth, she’d realized by now he was right about it being a hit, and the opportunity to continue on 3/4 with, perhaps, an expanded part would keep her in line. Plus, the Playboy or Penthouse spread he’d just about lined up (with a bonus to him, of course) would silence this plastic-surgery rumor. It was a good strategy. She’d finally appreciate him. Sy put down his respirator, ready to calm an upset and frightened Talent.
Except she didn’t look upset or frightened. She looked beautiful as ever, but also calm. She was wearing a pair of those goddamn jeans with a plain white sweater, but he couldn’t help thinking, for a moment, of what was under it. He smiled, but she didn’t return it. What was wrong with this puta?
“Hello, Sy,” she said, and sat across from him. “I’m here to exercise my option.”
“What option?”
“To drop out of 3/4.”
“What?”
“I’m out, Sy. You put it in the contract. Now I’m using it.”
What the hell was this shit? Sy narrowed his eyes. “I know you have a lot of other offers flowing in. In fact, I’ve read a few properties, possibilities, but let’s not throw up the baby with the bathwater.”
“Out, Sy. Throw out the baby with the bathwater. But never mind. I’m quitting. Quitting 3/4, movies, cosmetics ads, mall openings. I’m out of the business.”
Sy’s secretary stuck her head inside the door, ignored Jahne, and said to Sy, “Your wife’s on the line.”
“Which one?” Sy snapped.
“Sandra.”
“Not which wife! Which line?”
He punched the blinking light the secretary indicated among the bank of other blinking lights. “What?” he shouted. “No! Don’t you DARE GO TO THE CLUB. DON’T SPEAK TO ANYONE. NO. ESPECIALLY NOT ANNE.” Anne was his wife’s friend, married to a reporter on the L.A. Times. “So, be lonesome!” he told her, and hung up. He turned back to the Moore bitch.
“Listen,” he said, as calmly as he could manage. “You’re still upset about Birth. About the violence. The death. You’re overreacting. I understand. You’re sensitive. You’re an artist. But you must look at this as a challenge.
”
“Forget it, Sy. I’m out of here.”
“Jahne. Listen. I have a great idea. A way to show them all. I’ve talked with Guccione. We’ll show them that these rumors are all jealous lies. Exaggerations. We’ll do a layout. Eight pages. Bob says he’ll shoot it himself. And you’ll be gorgeous. Spectacular. Bigger than ever. And you’ll have your choice of parts.”
“Good. I’d like to do Cordelia.”
“What part was that? Did I see that script? What’s the working title?”
“King Lear. We could pick up the option cheap.”
“Very funny. I’ve heard of King Lear. Shakespeare doesn’t play. Except that Mel Gibson vehicle.”
“Hamlet?”
“Whatever. Anyway, Jahne, don’t talk this way. We got a lot invested in you now, and I know this is just a stage you’re going through. Bad publicity hurts. But you’ll get over it. We’ll just counter it with this layout.”
“Show them my goodies?” She laughed and shook her head. “Forget it, Sy.”
“I’m not sure that you understand what I’m trying to say. Listen, everyone out here has had a little cosmetic work. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I realize you might not choose to do this normally. And normally I wouldn’t recommend it. But we’re talking about extreme damage to your career here. And a tastefully done layout in a fine magazine…”
“Sy, Penthouse isn’t a ‘fine magazine,’ and Bob Guccione is the Antichrist.” Jahne paused, and then she smiled at him. “Anyway, it wouldn’t work. The scars are too obvious.”
“The scars? Wait. What are you telling me?” Sy Ortis cried, his hand clenching around the aspirator he clutched. “Are you saying all this bullshit is true?”
Flavor of the Month Page 90