Evan glared at his brother. ‘Like you date adults,’ he said.
‘I date ’em, don’t marry ’em,’ Brian pointed out. ‘Marriage is for old people who can’t get it up.’
Fortunately, Teena, their script assistant, rushed into the room, speaking into a cellphone. Short and in her thirties, she was an eccentric-looking woman with hair like straw, decorated with various coloured clips and slides, plus a bold blue streak. Her round face was made more so by the addition of huge wire-rimmed glasses, and she had a prominent snub nose.
‘What’s up?’ Evan said, happy for the interruption, because he was not about to get into a discussion about why he was marrying Nicci with his sex-crazed brother. It was none of his business.
‘Everything,’ Teena said, clicking off the phone and rolling her purple-shadowed eyes. ‘Abbey doesn’t care for her new lines. Harry is under the impression that his trailer is smaller than hers. And Chris can’t handle it. He’s apparently gone into a funk. We’d better get over to the location, pronto.’
Abbey Christian–a leggy twenty-two-year-old natural blonde, with a smile that could light up Christmas. Star of their latest movie. Major player. Major coke-head.
Harry Bello-big-deal comedy actor supreme. Rubber-faced and coming up to fifty. Paranoid about getting older and quite certain that Abbey was receiving better treatment than he was.
Chris Fortune. Boy-wonder director. The same age as Abbey and somewhat intimidated by his two stars–even though he’d directed the big sleeper hit of the previous summer.
‘Freakin’ actors,’ Brian grumbled, exhaling smoke. ‘We should be making animated movies.’
‘You finally came up with a decent idea,’ Evan said. ‘No more over-the-top salaries.’
‘Please, guys, let’s move it,’ Teena urged, almost jumping up and down with agitation. ‘Abbey won’t come out of her trailer. Harry’s sulking. And Chris is heading for a panic attack. We must get over there.’
‘Let’s go,’ Brian said, carefully preserving his joint in a Kleenex for later. ‘Nothing like a view of Abbey’s tits to wake me up in the morning.’
‘Remember,’ Evan said ominously, ‘no fucking our star until the movie wraps.’
‘Hey,’ Brian said innocently, ‘I can look, can’t I?’
Lissa Roman went to great lengths to keep her private life private. Which was not easy considering she lived under constant media scrutiny. Danny, her assistant, was a big help. Earlier that day she’d instructed him to hire a car, leave it in the parking lot at Saks, and give her the ticket. He’d done so, no questions asked.
After lunch, she’d had Chuck drop her off at Barneys, instructed him to come back in two hours, walked across to Saks, got into the rented car and driven out to the valley. There was no way she planned to alert Gregg to what was going on, or anyone else for that matter. This was her business, and when Lissa wanted to keep something private, she knew how to do it.
Anyway, she was quite capable of driving to the valley on her own. She didn’t need security, just a pair of dark glasses and a baseball cap to hide her tell-tale platinum hair. Besides, it was an adventure doing something on her own for a change.
She put on talk radio and listened to the various call-ins, which was always a trip, until finally she arrived at the Robbins-Scorsinni offices on Ventura, where she was greeted by a plump, middle-aged Asian assistant in a flowered pant suit. The offices were old and kind of run-down, but Lissa felt quite comfortable. She wasn’t looking for one of those hotshot Hollywood PI agencies that knew everyone’s business. This low-key place suited her fine.
Quincy Robbins, who ran the private investigation/ security agency with his partner, Michael Scorsinni, was a pleasant, reliable man, whom Lissa had used on several other occasions for various matters. His partner and himself were ex-New York detectives, and that made her feel secure. When she’d moved into her house several years ago, she’d hired Quincy to be her chief security adviser. She’d never met his partner, but she knew that his reputation was also stellar.
‘Take a seat, please,’ the Asian woman said, with a gummy smile, revealing a row of uneven teeth. ‘I am Mai Lee. Michael will be with you soon.’
‘I’m not here to see Michael,’ Lissa said, anxious to get this over with. ‘Quincy is expecting me.’
‘Nobody contacted you?’ Mai Lee said, sounding surprised.
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Oh dear,’ Mai Lee said, now highly embarrassed. ‘I think I was supposed to call you.’
‘About what?’ Lissa said, fast losing her patience.
‘Quincy’s laid up at home,’ Mai Lee said, fluttering her hands. ‘He broke his leg.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding?’
‘I’m afraid it’s true.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘A few days ago. But not to worry, Michael took over your case. You’ll be happy with Michael, he is most capable.’
Lissa stood up. ‘I always deal with Quincy,’ she said tightly. ‘This could’ve waited if I’d known he wasn’t available.’
‘My fault,’ Mai Lee said, now taking full responsibility. ‘I was supposed to explain. You see, Quincy didn’t seem to think you would want to wait.’
Lissa wondered how much Mai Lee knew. This was so embarrassing, she could see the headlines now–LISSA ROMAN CATCHES ANOTHER CHEATING HUSBAND.
‘Oh, God!’ She sighed, realizing there was nothing she could do at this late stage. ‘I suppose I’ll have to see Michael. Where is he?’
‘Sorry,’ Mai Lee said apologetically. ‘He’s out of the office right now.’
This was ridiculous. She’d driven all the way out to the valley, and now she was getting a run-around. ‘Are you telling me that you expect me to sit here and wait?’ she said sharply. It wasn’t often she played the star, but one perk of star treatment was never having to wait.
‘He’ll be back soon,’ Mai Lee volunteered. ‘Very soon.’
‘Unbelievable!’ Lissa muttered irritably. ‘I drove over here especially.’
‘There’s plenty of magazines,’ Mai Lee offered soothingly. ‘Why don’t you sit down and relax?’
Why don’t you shove it up your ass? Lissa wanted to say, but she didn’t. That would have been mean and petty, and one thing she was always careful about was preserving a good public image.
I’m nervous, she thought. I’m nervous because even though I know for sure that Gregg’s screwing around, it’s still difficult to deal with. At least Quincy–big, black, comfortable Quincy–would have held her hand and said, ‘Listen, this is something you’re not gonna want to hear, but these are the facts.’
Now she had to hear it from a stranger.
Well, not exactly a stranger, Quincy had often mentioned his partner’s name. ‘My friend, Michael,’ he’d always say. ‘You should’ve seen us when we were detectives together in New York. Michael got shot, nearly bought it. You’ll like him. He’s one of the good guys.’
And yet, over the years, she’d never met him.
She sat down, picked up a magazine and flipped the pages impatiently, until suddenly the door was pushed open and a tall man strode in.
‘Michael,’ Mai Lee said, jumping up, ‘Ms Roman is here.’
He walked right over to her. ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting,’ he said. ‘Quincy insisted I shouldn’t make you wait, but it was unavoidable. I’m really sorry,’ he added, giving her a long, sincere stare.
He had the blackest eyes she’d ever seen, thick jet hair, and dark olive skin–with a two-day stubble. He was handsome, with a dangerous edge–an irresistible combination.
So this is Michael Scorsinni, she thought. Quincy never told me he looked like a movie star–only better.
‘Uh…hi,’ she said, and wondered if this might turn out to be easier than she’d thought.
Chapter Four
‘How’s everything?’ Eric Vernon said, sliding onto a bar stool next to Arliss Shepherd.
Arliss bobbed his
head several times. Eric Vernon made him fidgety, he couldn’t figure out what the man was after. No one kept on buying drinks unless they were after something.
‘Another beer?’ Eric offered.
Arliss bobbed his head again. Rule one. Never turn down a free drink, even though he still had a half-full bottle clutched in his hand.
‘Pattie,’ Eric said, snapping his fingers to attract the attention of a half-clad woman with a lopsided boob job, who toiled behind the scuffed wooden bar. ‘Another bottle for my friend.’ He patted Arliss on the shoulder. ‘Been thinking about you,’ he said.
‘You have?’ Arliss replied, stifling a fast-rising burp.
‘I was remembering that conversation we had the other night.’
Arliss scratched his head. If the conversation wasn’t about tits and ass, he did not retain it.
‘Yes,’ Eric continued, thinking that Arliss Shepherd smelled like a Mexican meal left out in the sun for a week. Putrid. But since he wasn’t about to hire him for his good hygiene, who cared if he stank? ‘I was thinking ’bout how you said you hated your job.’
‘I do,’ Arliss agreed, nodding furiously. ‘I certainly do.’
And who wouldn’t? He was the caretaker of a big old building filled with nothing but rats and roaches and memories of the time it was a flourishing dress company. Why the owners needed a caretaker in a place they’d been threatening to pull down for years, was beyond him. In the meantime, it was his job to keep the transients out and the place protected.
Protected from what? Who knew? Who cared?
He’d fashioned himself a makeshift apartment in the basement, and he didn’t have to answer to anyone–except the snotty-nosed son of the owner, who put in an occasional appearance.
Still, what kind of an existence was it to be shut up in a deserted old building all day and most of the night? Arliss wished for something better, although deep down he knew there wasn’t anything better. He had no qualifications, he could barely read, he was fortunate to have any kind of job at all. However, it certainly didn’t stop him from complaining, which–after several beers too many–he’d obviously been doing to this Eric Vernon character.
Pattie slid a cold bottle of Heineken in front of him while shooting Eric a flirtatious sideways glance. This infuriated Arliss, because he’d been trying to get her to pay attention to him for months.
‘She’ll give ya crabs,’ he muttered to Eric, as Pattie sashayed off.
Eric got it immediately. ‘Not interested,’ he said abruptly.
Why not? Arliss thought. You one of them faggot freaks? Prudently, he kept his thoughts to himself. If Eric Vernon was a fag it was none of his business as long as the man kept on buying. He lifted the cold bottle of beer to his lips. ‘You married?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Eric replied. ‘Are you?’ He asked the question even though he already knew the answer. He knew everything about Arliss Shepherd that needed knowing.
Arliss shook his greasy head. ‘I’m stupid, not soft,’ he said scornfully. ‘Wimmen give a man nothin’ but trouble.’
‘Right,’ Eric agreed, his small, sharp eyes checking out the bar.
‘Course, they’re all right for some things,’ Arliss added, with a lewd wink.
Eric had endured enough small-talk, weeks of it in fact. What he needed now was action. Leaning closer to Arliss, almost recoiling from the stink, he said, ‘How would you like to make some real money?’
Arliss’s narrow face brightened. Real money. Who wouldn’t want to make a score? If he had real money he could buy himself a better life. ‘How’d I do that?’ he asked, trying not to sound too eager.
‘By co-operating on something and keeping your mouth shut.’
‘Somethin’ legal?’ Arliss said suspiciously.
‘If it means big bucks, do you care?’ Eric shot back. He knew Arliss had done time for petty burglary so he would not be averse to criminal activities.
‘How big are the bucks?’ Arliss ventured.
‘Enough to keep everyone happy,’ Eric said, tapping his fingers on the bar. ‘I need to put together a team I can trust.’
‘What kinda team?’
‘I’ve been watching you and your friends. You all seem pretty tight.’
Arliss did not take kindly to the thought that Eric had been spying on them. Davey and Joe, and especially Big Mark, would not like it either. Big Mark could crush this guy’s ass if Arliss gave him the word. Mark was the strong one in the group. He worked as a bouncer at a club on the strip, and according to Mark, not a night passed unless he split some asshole’s lip or broke a nose or two.
‘We’re tight all right,’ Arliss said stiffly. ‘Tight enough not to need any intruders.’
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Eric said quickly, ‘I’m looking for a few guys who can handle themselves in any situation and make big money doing it.’
‘Doin’ what?’ Arliss asked, blinking rapidly.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Eric said, backing off. ‘I sense you’re not interested.’
‘Didn’t say that,’ Arliss growled. ‘If it means big bucks, I could be ready t’ do anythin’.’
‘Anything, huh?’ Eric said, giving him an appraising look.
‘Short of murder,’ Arliss added, with a nervous cackle.
‘And even murder has a price, doesn’t it?’ Eric said mildly.
Arliss nodded, he couldn’t help himself.
It was then that Eric knew he had found the right man.
It never occurred to Eric that he could fail at the scam he was shortly to put into motion. Failure was not a word in his vocabulary. Failure was his past, and he was never revisiting his miserable past.
Two months previously he’d been sent to some big movie star’s Bel Air mansion to do some work on her computers–upgrading, Mr Hailey, his boss, had informed him. Usually Mr Hailey took care of all the famous clients, but recently he had been undergoing a punishing course of chemo treatments and was losing his hair, so he’d started sending Eric out on the more high-profile jobs.
Mr Hailey trusted Eric, who was quiet, always on time and did his job well. And then, of course, there were Eric’s forged references attesting to his diligence and honesty. Those references had landed him the job.
How easy it was to clean the slate and start afresh. How simple it was to fool people.
So one fine morning Eric had set off to the movie star’s Bel Air mansion, pressed the buzzer at the bottom of a long, winding driveway, and when the gates opened, had driven up to the house.
He was greeted by her assistant, a gregarious gay man with a halo of curly auburn hair and matching beard. He introduced himself as Danny and led Eric into the office.
‘This is her home office,’ Danny said. ‘Her production offices are at Universal. I work here.’ A conspiratorial wink. ‘Lucky me!’
Eric had no idea who the celebrity was. He didn’t watch TV or go to the movies, and he certainly didn’t buy CDs or attend concerts. The walls of her office–covered in framed posters and photographs–soon clued him in. He recognized her as that slutty blonde who wore revealing outfits and sang controversial sexy songs. He recognized her because the con in the cell next to him had her picture pinned to his wall and had christened her ‘Queen of the Wankers’. Lissa Roman, that was her name.
So here he was in the office of ‘Queen of the Wankers,’ and he didn’t give a damn because Eric didn’t like women, and he liked famous, rich ones even less.
‘Madam is not around today,’ Danny announced.
As if Eric cared. The last thing he needed was to check out some overblown movie star tramp.
‘The princess is working on her new video,’ Danny volunteered. ‘It’ll be amazing as usual.’
‘Mmm…’ Eric said, heading towards the two computers. ‘What needs doing here?’
‘Sometimes Miz Roman enjoys dropping into chat rooms,’ Danny confided. ‘Naturally she uses an alias, but she likes to visit, and right now she’s not getting c
onnected quickly enough, so I was told you could do something.’
‘The phone company has to install a DSL line,’ Eric said gruffly. ‘Then I can fix it so that everything happens faster. After the phone company’s done their work, I’ll come back.’
‘I don’t understand this chat-room obsession some people have,’ Danny said, pursing his lips. ‘Me, I’m bored by them. All those fifty-year-old men pretending to be twelve-year-old boys.’ A sly giggle and a provocative glance. ‘Naughty, naughty!’
Faggot, Eric thought. I don’t want to hear about what you do in your spare time.
‘Ms Roman’s husband wishes to update some of their equipment,’ Danny continued. ‘He was thinking of a new photo scanner, and perhaps the latest flat-screen computer. We’d like suggestions and price quotes.’
Eric nodded, checking out the equipment.
A week later he returned with several new items.
This time Danny greeted him like a long-lost friend. ‘So good to see you again,’ Danny gushed. ‘Has life been treating you well?’
Eric barely nodded, and immediately went to work installing the new equipment, tuning out Danny’s annoying chatter.
Why should some people have everything and he nothing? Oh yes, he had a job, a van, and a small rented one-room apartment, but that was about it. Why couldn’t he enjoy the luxuries that all these rich people seemed to possess? Why couldn’t he be living in a mansion with a swimming pool and several luxury cars in the driveway?
Exactly what had this Lissa Roman bitch done to deserve such recognition anyway? Sung some slutty songs and exhibited her body in a few commercial movies. Any little tramp could do that.
And then Lissa Roman herself put in an appearance. The woman had porcelain skin, white blonde hair, ruby red lips and a welcoming smile which revealed small sharp teeth. ‘I’m so glad you’re doing this,’ she said, in a low throaty voice. ‘Would you like a copy of my latest CD–maybe for your wife or someone?’
‘What?’ he said, frowning.
She looked a little taken aback that he hadn’t jumped.
At that moment it occurred to him that Lissa Roman thought everyone loved her. Well, she was wrong. She was standing in a room with someone who couldn’t give a rat’s ass.
Hollywood Divorces • Hollywood Wives: The New Generation Page 4