Hollywood Secrets

by Gemma Halliday

  Interesting. I’d had him pegged as more of the Maxim reader.

  I leaned back on the bed, clasping my hands behind my head the way I’d seen Trace do just a moment ago. As I listened to the sound of his shower, I found myself wondering just what other things I didn’t know about Trace.

  * * *

  Once the food arrived and we both indulged in our poison of choice, I opted for a short nap while Trace said he wanted to do a little shopping downstairs. Considering he was still wearing my brother’s tourist shirt, I didn’t blame him. I was just stretching the sleep out of my limbs an hour later when Trace came back.

  His tourist look was definitely history. Now he was dressed in a pair of pointy-toed, black cowboy boots, a chambray shirt, and a white Stetson hat that was an exact copy of the guy at the reception desk.

  I stifled a laugh.

  “Yeehaw, partner.”

  Trace grinned. “You like?”

  “Like is a strong word,” I hedged.

  “My new disguise. I’m a cowboy.”

  “I can see that.” I bit my lip as he did a little twirl for me to inspect the getup from all angles.

  “Well, I’ll say one thing for it. It’s definitely not Hollywood.”

  “Perfect. Now let’s go find Carla.”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later we were back across the street at the Victoria Club. After paying our cover charge, getting our hands stamped with symbols indicating we were over 21, and pushing through the crowd at the bar clogging the entrance, we were treated to our first look at the interior of the club.

  A large dance floor to the right was bathed in strobe lights and packed wall to wall with gyrating bodies. Ahead of us was a scattering of tables and tiered booths angled down to a huge stage, currently vacant. And to the left was a glass and neon bar that spanned the length of the wall, again packed with tourists, local partiers, and the occasional working girl.

  It took all of three seconds before a girl in the crowd (in a skirt short enough to be “working” but with an accent that clearly said she was from out of town) shouted, “Trace Brody?”

  So much for cowboy incognito.

  “My disguise was better,” I whispered to him as he was quickly surrounded by club goers, all shoving Sharpies in his face. He pulled out his “on” face and obliged as I squeezed through the star-struck tourists toward the bar.

  Behind it were two guys busy pouring pink, purple, and green drinks into fancy martini glasses. I hailed the larger of the two as he made his way to our end of the bar.

  “Excuse me!’” I shouted, waving a hand his direction.

  “Can I help you?” he asked, leaning over the bar towards me.

  “We’re looking for a Carla Constantine?” I shouted above the noise.

  Though, apparently not quite above enough as the bartender shouted back, “What?”

  “Carla Constantine!”

  This time he nodded, then pointed to the stage set up in the back. “She’s about to go on.”

  “Thanks!”

  I threaded my way back through the crowd to Trace (still signing autographs – tough life, huh?) and, once he’d appeased the crowd of adoring fans, dragged him to a table near the stage.

  “Our girl’s about to go on,” I told him.

  No sooner had the words left my mouth than a booming voice cut through the canned music.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for the Go-Go-Girls!”

  The crowd complied as one, clapping as instructed as the lights dimmed and shadowy figures took the stage. A rare moment of silence descended on the room before the first strains of the song ”Walk Like an Egyptian” rang out through the room.

  Cheers went up at the same time the lights did, illuminating the band.

  I did a double take.

  On the stage was the Go-Go’s all-girl band circa the 1980s. The same Belinda Carlisle blonde hair, the same pixie-looking brunette on guitar, the same pop sound, tight leggings, and big hair. The only difference between the Victoria Club’s version and the originals is that the real Go-Gos were all girls. These five performers were men. Badly disguised men, if Belinda’s five o’ clock shadow was any indication.

  I felt Trace lean in next to me and whisper in my ear. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Sadly, I didn’t think they were.

  I watched, wondering just which one of these “ladies” had been dating Decker as they walked like Egyptians all over the stage.

  As the first number ended, and they transitioned into a rendition of “Vacation,” I caught the eye of the bartender and mouthed the word, “Carla?”

  He pointed to Belinda Carlisle.

  Fabulous.

  Three musical time warps to the eighties later, the band took a break and I made a beeline for Belinda as she teetered off stage in a pair of size-fifteen pumps.

  I tapped him (her?) on the shoulder.

  She (he?) spun around.

  “Um… Carla Constantine?” I asked.

  The person in question nodded, answering in a deep baritone. “In the flesh, honey. Who’s asking?”

  “Uh, my name is Cameron Dakota. I work for the L.A. Informer. And this is Trace.” I gestured behind me to the actor.

  Trace waved from his spot at our table.

  Carla raised two drawn-in eyebrows. “Wow. I’m impressed. Mr. Big Shot himself coming to check out lil’ old me in the show?”

  “Uh, right.” I said, nodding. “We were wondering if we could ask you a couple questions. Do you have a minute?”

  “For Trace Brody? Are you kidding?”

  Carla made straight for the table before I could even respond. She sat down opposite Trace and began shaking one of Trace’s hands in both of her big paws.

  “I am so happy to meet you. I am such a fan of your work. In fact, I almost died when Decker told me he represented you. I mean, that was like, what, one degree of separation between me and the Trace Brody, right?” Carla giggled. “Anyway, I am honored, thrilled, and tickled pink that you’d come see my show.”

  “Sure. You’re welcome,” Trace said. Though the hitch in his voice betrayed the fact that he was not entirely comfortable with the way she was caressing his hand.

  “Uh, listen, Carla…” I paused looking down at his frilly mini-skirt. “Uh, it is Carla, isn’t it?”

  She nodded. Still not taking her eyes off Trace. Still not giving his hand back.

  “Okay. Carla it is. Um, we had a question to ask you. About Decker. You two were dating?” I asked.

  Again she nodded. “We’ve been seeing each other going on six months now.”

  “Right.” Though, his use of the present tense meant he hadn’t yet heard the news about Decker’s demise. I bit my lip. I certainly didn’t want to be the one to break it to him. My people skills where better behind a lens on a good day. I wasn’t entirely sure how to deal with a six-foot-tall cross-dressing crier.

  So I decided to keep with the present tense.

  “I understand you met with him earlier today. At the Sunset Studios. Is that right?”

  She nodded, her wig bobbing up and down. “That’s right. We were discussing an audition I went on last week. It was for a Swiffer commercial. I was playing the messy dad, of all things.”

  I couldn’t help raising an eyebrow.

  Carla shrugged. “What can you do? It was a national commercial. They pay bank! There’s not much we won’t do for the almighty dollar, right? Decker said it just goes to show my range. I’m pretty sure I nailed it. I haven’t heard back from Decker yet, but fingers crossed.” She illustrated by letting of Trace’s hand and crossing her digits.

  Trace looked immeasurably relieved.

  Me? I still didn’t have the heart to tell Carla that I was pretty sure Decker wouldn’t be calling him anytime soon.

  “Did you and Decker discuss anything else today?”

  She narrowed her heavily lined eyes. “Like what?”

  “Well…” I
looked at Trace for help.

  “Did he give you anything for safekeeping?” he asked, clearly out of time for beating around the bush.

  Carla looked from Trace to me and back again. I could see her eyes questioning just how much she should trust us. But I guess celebrity had its advantages, as she finally nodded.

  “Yes. He did.”

  Trace sat up straighter in his seat.

  “A flash drive?”

  Again the nod.

  “Do you still have it?” Trace asked, leaning forward.

  “Why?” Carla asked.

  Good question. Luckily, Trace was used to improvising.

  “It has some information on it that I need.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “A script.”

  “What kind of script?”

  “A secret one.”

  “Huh.”

  “So can we have it?” Trace asked. I could feel him holding his breath as Carla sat back and crossed her arms (covered in pink jelly bracelets) over her well-padded chest, contemplating the two of us. I tried not to look as if Trace’s life might depend on the answer.

  Finally she smiled.

  “Okay. Sure. For Trace Brody? Anything.”

  I let out a sigh of relief. I must be a better actress than I thought.

  “Great,” Trace breathed, mirroring my relief.

  “Only I don’t have it.”

  I rolled my eyes. Here we went again with the goose chase thing.

  “I mean,” she clarified, “not on me. It’s at my place.”

  “Where is your place?” Trace asked, his posture rigid.

  “Behind the strip.’

  “Great. Let’s go.”

  “Now?” Carla blinked big, wide eyes at us.

  “If you don’t mind?”

  “Well, I guess I am done with my set…”

  “Excellent. Let’s go!” Trace stood.

  “I’m parked out back,” Carla said. Then she led the way through the crowd of people packed into the club.

  Trace and I followed, threading our way through the crowd that was still dancing, this time to a male version of the material girl doing a solo up on the stage.

  I struggled to keep up with Carla, amazed how agile he was in those high heels. He quickly jogged (yes, jogged. In four-inch heels!) through the crowd toward the back of the club. I saw Trace trying to elbow his way through by my side, all the while keeping his hat pulled low to avoid being mobbed by slightly inebriated tourists. Carla pulled ahead a few people, and I struggled to keep sight of his blonde wig through the masses. It was almost as if she was trying to lose us….

  Oh shit.

  A sinking feeling suddenly took hold in my gut.

  I saw Carla hit the back of the club, then disappear through a door marked with a glowing green “exit” sign.

  “I lost him,” I heard Trace say in my ear, panting as he caught up.

  “There. Out the back door,” I indicated, rushing toward it.

  We pushed our way through the crowd milling at the bar, finally plowing through the exit a mere few seconds after Carla.

  We were in a parking lot off the back of the club. At current it was full of cars ranging from idling limos to beat-up Chevys. I quickly scanned the rows for any sign of Carla. And, considering I was looking for a six foot drag queen, it shouldn’t have been hard to spot him.

  Only I saw nothing.

  I was just about to give up and go back inside when I heard the roar of a motor. Trace must have heard it too, as we both whipped our heads around in unison toward the left. An alley lined with green Dumpsters hugged the side of the building, its width filled with a tall woman in a mini skirt and a Belinda Carlisle wig on a motorcycle. She gunned the engine and race out of the back lot, down the neighboring street.

  Sinking feeling realized.

  “I have a bad feeling we may have been ditched,” Trace said beside me.

  Gee, ya think?

  Chapter Sixteen

  We stared at the spot where the motorcycle had been, its exhaust still hanging in the air. Both of us were silent as it sunk in that our only lead had just taken off.

  “I’m gonna kill him.” Trace clenched his fists at his sides.

  “Never trust a guy dressed as Belinda Carlisle,” I said.

  “I’m gonna tear him limb from pantyhose-clad limb.” And from the way his “gangster movie tough guy face” had slid into place, I kinda believed him.

  We went back into the club and spent the rest of the evening questioning the remaining Go-Go’s. But apparently no one knew specifically where Carla was staying while she was in town for this gig. All we could gather was that she was staying with a friend – either Amy or Annie, depending on who you asked - off the strip.

  In lieu of a better plan, we went back to our room at the Cowboy Cabana.

  I booted up my laptop. If there was any way to find this Carla, the Informer’s databases were it. I typed the name “Amy” in the directory of phone numbers in Vegas. Of course about a million popped up, but I narrowed it down to those living within a mile radius of Las Vegas Boulevard.

  Great. Only half a million left.

  I leaned back on the bed, blowing out a big puff of air.

  Trace, on the other hand, seemed to be wired, pacing back and forth across the hotel floor like he was going to wear a hole in the carpet.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll find it,” I said, amazed at how reassuring my voice sounded despite my lack of real conviction.

  “Right. Sure.” Though he didn’t sound any more convinced than I was.

  Okay, so we’d hit a little dead end. Maybe we needed to go at this whole thing a different way. Maybe instead of complying with the bad guys’ demands, we should be trying to figure out just who these guys were.

  I pulled up a Yahoo! search screen. “What was the name of the car company you said you used the night of the awards show?” I asked.

  Trace rattled it off. “Arrive in Style. In West Hollywood.”

  I typed the name into the search engine box. Two seconds later I had a list of hits and clicked on the first one, taking me to the company’s website. I highlighted the phone number and dialed, putting my phone on speaker so Trace could hear. Four rings in, someone picked up.

  “Arrive in Style car service, how may I help you?” a nasally, female voice inquired on the other end.

  “Hi, my name is Cameron Dakota. I’m Trace Brody’s assistant,” I said, going with my previous lie.

  “How may I help you, Ms. Dakota?”

  “Trace used your car service last Friday for an awards show arrival. I need some information about the car he was driven in.”

  “Okay, just one moment, please,” she said, and I heard the sound of a keyboard clacking in the background. A minute later she came back on the line. “Yes I see that Mr. Brody ordered a car to drop him off in Hollywood outside the Palms Theater. The car was a Lincoln, black, wet bar in the back.”

  “That’s it,” Trace said.

  “Can you tell me who the last person before Trace to use that particular car was?”

  There was a pause on the other end. “I’m sorry, I can’t give out our clients’ names.”

  Right. Of course not. I bit my lip. “What about the driver of the vehicle? Can you tell me who that was?”

  “Certainly.”

  A few more clicks, then she responded with, “Paul Haverston. He’s been with us for years.”

  “Years, huh?” I felt my hopes fading. If he valued his job, the driver wouldn’t be giving out personal client info any easier than the woman on the phone. Still, I had to ask. “Would it be possible for me to speak with Paul?”

  “I’m sorry he’s not available right now. He’s driving another client.” She paused. “Was there a problem with the car?” she asked.

  “No, it was fine,” I reassured her. “We just…” I paused, racking my brain for a good reason Trace might be so inquisitive. “He… could smell someone’s colog
ne lingering in the car. And it was such a great scent that he wanted to know what it was so he could purchase a bottle for himself.”

  Trace raised one eyebrow, a grin spreading across his face.

  “Oh,” the woman on the other end of the phone said. “I see. Well, I wish I could help you, but again, company policy is to protect the privacy of our clients. I’m sure someone of Mr. Brody’s status understands. I mean, for all we know, you could be a member of the paparazzi digging for a juicy story, right?”

  I cleared my throat.

  Trace bit back a grin.

  “Right. Sure. You never know, huh?”

  “Exactly,” she agreed. “But I’ll ask our driver about the scent when he gets back in. Maybe he can shed some light on it for you.”

  “Great. Thanks,” I mumbled.

  “Cologne, huh?” Trace said when I hung up. “Nice call.”

  I blushed, pretty sure it was wrong to be so pleased by his praise over my dishonesty.

  “I hope that wasn’t a comment on my scent,” he said.

  I felt my blush deepen. “No!” I said, a little too loudly. “I mean, no, it’s fine.”

  “Fine? Hmm. Not exactly a rave review.”

  “I mean, it’s nice. Really nice. You smell great.”

  He grinned. “You’re blushing.”

  I ducked my head. “No I’m not.”

  “It’s cute.”

  I crossed to the thermostat on the wall, partly to check if my scorching temperatures were internal or external and partly just to have something to do other than sit there and blush like a dweeb.

  “Unfortunately,” Trace said, apparently oblivious to the sudden heat wave in the room, “your excellent deceptive work doesn’t get us a whole lot closer to the identity of our mystery men.”

  “You know,” I said, thinking out loud as I sat back down on the edge of the bed, “if we couldn’t get the name of the previous clients out of the company, chances are the bad guys couldn’t get your name out of them either.”

  Trace grinned. “The ‘bad guys’?”

  “Well, what do you want to call them?”