Just then, a beefy-looking guy in a goatee, black sport jacket, draped in a trio of babes, and with a cell phone pressed to his ear plows up the stairs. Nikki Gans. Hollywood’s official, off-the-books party planner. Well, that explains a lot. The Iranian-born Londoner, or London-born Iranian, or maybe he’s just Israeli, no one seems to know, has become Hollywood’s go-to guy for papering a party. His Rolodex is better than half the agents’ at CAA. The fact that he looks like one of Tony Soprano’s gang doesn’t hurt his chances for rounding up the usual glittery suspects. For the right fee. Of course G would have hired him if he wanted to make a statement with his party.
I press against the wall to let the party-meister and his entourage pass in a veil of cologne. “We just got here,” Nikki is saying into his phone. In his unplaceable foreign accent, he sounds like an arms trader. “No, New Line is next week. We’re going to the Standard after this. What? No, we still have to hook up with the MTV people at Opaline and arrange all that.”
“Nikki,” says one of the babes, plucking at his sleeve. In her skintight satin sheath, hair extensions, and three-inch heels, she looks like an exotic dancer. She probably is an exotic dancer. “Nikki, when are we going to meet Carla Selena?” she says. “Is that tonight?”
Nikki holds up a hand in the air as he keeps walking and talking into his cell. Carla? Nikki might have gotten the Rose McGowan crowd to turn out for G, but there’s no way Carla would show. Not here. Not after she fired Suzanne. Not when there’s not another celeb of her stature in residence. Still, I’m curious. But before I can catch Nikki’s answer, they disappear into the crowd.
I’m just deciding whether I have the energy to follow them, when one of the Biggies comes to rest by my perch.
“Hey, Alex, pretty amazing turnout, don’t you think?”
I slide over to make room. She takes a sip of her martini and scans the crowd. “I mean, I knew my clients were coming but I didn’t know so many others would.”
I make convivial noises—Nikki notwithstanding, at this point she knows more about the inner workings of this party than I do—and let her prattle on.
“I know Nikki helped out, but it must have to do with G having been at Sony,” she says, scoping out the crowd. “I mean, a lot of our clients worked with him at Sony before they joined our agency. And others. Like Carla.”
“Carla? Carla Selena?” I say. This is too much of a coincidence. Paths cross in Hollywood, but I’m stunned at this news. I didn’t know Carla and G had had any dealings. When Carla flounced out of DWP, leaving Suzanne in the lurch just after the merger with BIG, G never said a word. Never tried to step in and mend fences. Acted like it was just Suzanne’s fuck-up.
“Oh yeah,” she says, turning to look at me. “He was the marketing guy on one of her first films. Her first hit film. I think they go way back.”
Going “way back” in Hollywood usually means one of two things. You just met and you need to suck up to the person big-time. Or you met a while ago and you still need to suck up. It’s all part of the Food Chain Rules. Of course, G would want everyone to think he was tight with celebs. It’s why he hired Nikki to stock his birthday party. All publicists want everyone to think they are tight with celebs. But with few exceptions, no one believes it. Clients come and go. Publicists come and go. Shit, careers come and go. If G marketed one of Carla’s films, it didn’t necessarily mean anything. Except that G never mentioned knowing her when she fired the agency. Just let Suzanne twist in the wind.
“Oh, well, I guess that explains it,” I say as casually as I can. But the well has run dry.
“Yeah,” she says, pushing off from the wall. “Well, I’m gonna mingle.”
I decide to hunt down Troy. If he’s not too stoned, I should be able to get something coherent out of him. Normally, on a Saturday night Troy would be home, smoking dope in his unfurnished rental house high above the Strip—his possessions consist largely of what one would use on a camping trip: sleeping bag, dog, SUV, and plenty of weed—followed by a tour of the Strip with the boys until he’s killed enough brain cells and heads back home with the night’s arm candy. Come to think of it, Troy is one of the few celebs who would be at the Viper Room on a Saturday night. Still, he’s the only star I know well in this room and even if he is high, he’s at least got to know who invited him here.
I push off from the wall and move into the crowd. Given the hour and the fact that some band is now holding court on the room’s diminutive stage, much of the crowd is dancing. Or at least moving rhythmically. I start to sway and edge into the throbbing sea. But pushing through them is like swimming upstream in a fast-flowing river. It’s useless to fight against it. I flail about for several minutes. Eventually I catch a current and ride it back out, coming to rest at the far end of the bar.
“You want another?” the bartender shouts. I shake my head and shove my empty glass across the counter. I turn and scan the crowd. No sign of Troy. Why didn’t I bring Steven along? He’s so much better at working a crowd than I am and we could have covered much more ground than I’m plowing, or rather not plowing, here by myself. But he had a date. Or dinner with the boys. Or some other West Hollywood thing. Oh, screw it, these are desperate times. I reach in my bag for my phone and turn toward the stairs to find some place where I can make a call to my special teams unit, when I collide with another body being jettisoned from the dancing crowd.
“Sorry,” I say, looking up. G and his hair and with the kind of blurry smile that suggests the birthday boy has been celebrating for a while now.
“Hey, Alex,” he says, his eyes and his smile widening.
“Hey, Doug,” I say, reaching out my hand automatically. And instantly regret it. G grabs it like he’s grasping a rudder. What is it about seeing people socially that you see all the time that you have to reach out and touch them—or worse, kiss them—like they’re long-lost friends?
“Alex,” he says again, giving my arm a tug like he’s trying to reel me in.
“Hey,” I say, pulling my arm back. “I didn’t see you arrive.”
G gives up on my arm but hangs disconcertingly on to my hand. “Not surprising,” he says, nodding at the surging crowd. “It’s impossible to see anything in here.”
“Actually, I’ve seen quite a few people. Your birthday must be more special than I thought.”
“Well, it’s not every day you turn forty.”
And I’m twenty-two. “Still,” I say, finally extricating my hand from his. “I didn’t know you knew so many people so well.” I’m tempted to add “and Nikki,” but think better of it. Only just got out of his doghouse. No reason to go rushing back in.
“Well, you know.” G gives a vague wave. “By the way,” he says abruptly, “I wanted to thank you for your gift.”
“Oh, that was actually everyone’s idea. Someone said you collected Steuben.”
“I meant your personal gift.”
Fuck. How did I manage in the space of twenty-four hours to forget to ask Steven what he got for G? Charles. Of course. But if anything was on a need-to-know basis, it was this.
“Oh, no thanks necessary,” I say, giving him my own vague wave. Let’s move on, let’s please move on.
“Well, it fits perfectly.”
I smile and nod.
“I’m actually wearing it now.”
“Really?” I swallow hard and smile, picturing the worst. Animal-print satin briefs. An ankle-strap pistol holster. A tiny silver ring for his penis, which just happens to be pierced.
G smiles back. “See.” He turns his head and pushes his left earlobe forward, where a tiny diamond stud sparkles.
Oh, Jesus Christ. Thatched hair and a pierced ear? Is this guy channeling Harrison Ford or what?
“Great,” I blurt out, relieved, “because some people think diamonds on a man are so five minutes ago.”
G looks confused. “So what?”
“So eighties, so yesterday, you know,” I say, recovering fast. “But on you it works.”
I realize I’m sweating. I haven’t gotten anywhere near figuring out this evening. Like why I’m the only DWP agent here and what’s the connection between G and Carla. But given the hour, and G’s well-lubricated party mode, not to mention the three white wines with Coke back that I’ve had, this is about as much of him as I can handle in one stretch. Without a whip and a chair.
“So listen,” I say, nodding toward the stairs. “Don’t let me keep you because I was actually just on my way out.”
“Really?” G says, reaching for my shoulder and turning me back toward the bar. “Because I was hoping we could have a little chat.”
The chat is more like a shakedown. Or it would be if I could hear anything G says. As it is, between the band and the crowd, I’m catching about every third word. “You know, I really can’t hear you, Doug,” I say, waving my hands next to my ears and shrugging. It’s true, but I’m hoping he just lets me go. Lets me get the hell out of here.
No such luck. Maybe he’s too drunk, or maybe he really is not to be denied. “Let’s go outside and grab a cigarette,” he says, or rather screams in my ear.
“I don’t smoke, but okay,” I say, as he grabs my arm and drags me through the crowd toward the stairs.
Outside there’s the usual madness at the rope line with bouncers and wannabes stacked ten deep and the photographers trolling for their nightly catch. “Here,” G says, propelling me past the crowd to an emptier stretch of the sidewalk. He plucks a pack of Marlboros from his jacket and offers them to me.
“No thanks, I quit,” I say, shaking my head. I can’t believe G smokes. Or is willing to smoke in front of me. Smoking in Hollywood is like masturbation. Everyone might do it, but you would never let anyone see you do it.
“Good for you,” he says, pulling a cigarette from the pack. “I did too. Or I tried to. But hey, if you can’t smoke on your birthday, when can you smoke?”
I don’t say anything. This is G’s party—literally. He can do the talking.
“So,” he says, taking a heavy drag and blowing smoke over my head. “How are you getting on? I mean since the merger.”
How am I getting on? You know how I’m getting on. You practically reamed me a new one until I did some fast talking in your office just a few weeks ago. “Uhm, fine. Well. I mean, good. I think we have a few bumps to get past but—”
“So you know, there’s going to be changes,” he says abruptly. “But I’m sure you guessed that. I mean every merger brings additional changes. Some good,” he says, pausing to exhale another plume of smoke. “Some, well, let’s just say some require getting used to.”
I nod silently at my boss, the fire-breathing dragon.
“It’s one of the reasons I wanted to see you here, tonight. To clarify those changes. In person. Away from the office.” He exhales again and smiles.
“Sure,” I say, nodding, instinctively clutching my jacket tighter against the cold, against G.
“Because what I’m about to tell you, not many at the agency know. Or are meant to know.”
“But you’re willing to tell me?” I say, trying to keep my teeth from chattering.
“I am, Alex,” he says dropping the cigarette and stubbing it out with his Gucci loafer. “I am, indeed.”
“Can I ask why?” I say, pulling my jacket even tighter.
“You’re cold,” he says, looping his arm around my shoulders and pulling me back toward the club. “Let’s talk inside.”
It is later. How much later, I have no idea. All I know is that I’ve been to the mountaintop with the devil, who has showed me the vast lands that I can occupy if I bow down and worship him. The details are hazy but the intent couldn’t be clearer. The merger was just the beginning. Restructuring is coming. Cost-cutting. Layoffs. Times are tough. No one will be immune. Certainly not a publicist who allowed her client to become the butt of “Page Six.” Not even Suzanne.
“Suzanne? She’s a partner,” I say, incredulous, pushing away the glass of wine I’ve barely touched but G insisted I order when we worked our way back inside and found a relatively quiet corner at the bar during a break by the band.
“If you say so.”
But there are ways to avoid the pogrom, he says.
“Such as?”
Loyalty. Proofs of commitment. Dedication.
“Such as?”
G smiles. Bad Cop morphs into Good Cop. “Let’s just say that as consolidation occurs, your loyalty to BIG-DWP, whatever its incarnation, will be appreciated. That those who stay the course, who do not, shall we say, question the changes, will find a different financial arrangement at the back end. There will be incentives for those who prove themselves invaluable to the agency.”
“Really,” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets. Of all the things G has said tonight, this is the strangest. Layoffs and buyouts are to be expected. At least in this economic climate. But that he’s willing to dangle actual cash incentives, or even says he is, suggests a whole different ball game. Still, I don’t expect a level playing field and I don’t have to wait long to have my expectations confirmed.
“I mean, this offer is not being made to everyone,” he says, running his finger down the side of my arm. “So I’m glad you made it tonight. It shows aptness of thought. Exactly what I was hoping to see.”
I practically run for the stairs. At the top, I pause and look back. But G has melted into the crowd. The band has retaken the stage and lashes into another number. The crowd surges forward. I turn and head down.
“Hey, Alex.”
Troy. An hour ago, I was desperate to find him. Now, he’s just an impediment to my exit. My escape.
“Hey,” I say. “I’m actually heading out. Let me call you tomorrow.”
“Listen,” he says, ignoring me and pulling me aside. “Do you have a twenty I can borrow?”
I must look like I haven’t heard him because Troy repeats his request. “I thought I had more cash, but I need to get my car out of the valet.”
I’ve done many things as a publicist. Lied, paid bills, wiped up vomit, and just two minutes ago, I listened politely to Sherman describe his coming march through Georgia. But I have never been hit up for cash. Troy makes, what, eight million times what I make but I’m the one with cash. I check my purse. I have exactly $20. “I have a twenty,” I say, fishing the bill from my bag. “Why don’t I get change at the bar and—”
“You’re the best,” he says, grabbing the twenty and planting a kiss on my cheek. “Put it on my tab. And let’s definitely talk this week.”
Yeah. Definitely.
I turn and head on down out of the club and into the street, squinting as I emerge in the light. It’s very late. Even the strip clubs and tattoo parlors are closed, the coffee shops not yet open. There’s just a few desolate souls still waiting by the rope line. Even the photographers have melted away. I look east. The sun will be up soon.
“ATM?” I say to one of the valets. He holds up two fingers and nods up the street.
“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll be back.”
I turn and head out toward Doheny and the far end of the Strip and beyond that, the vast green lawns of Beverly Hills. Beyond that, the ocean. If I walked as far as I could walk, I would walk into the gray-green sea.
I keep walking. The noise from the club fades. The street is deserted as a Hopper painting. A dry riverbed. The cold wind off the desert is blowing harder now. Trash scuttles against the curb. I pull my jacket tighter and keep walking, west toward the ocean and the still-black sky.
13 All Rise
Like all important real estate, the thing about the Beverly Hills courthouse is location, location, location. The otherwise unremarkable three-story building is on a leafy block of Burton Way, which puts it within hailing distance of the L’Ermitage and Four Seasons hotels so you can escape to a decent place for lunch. Or if you’re not into eating, like most of Hollywood, you can buzz over to Barneys or Burberrys, valet to save time, and spend your court-appointed break
shopping. Or have your eyebrows waxed at Anastasia, the Martha Stewart of Hollywood’s eyebrow industry.
That’s if you’re on jury duty. Which hardly anybody ever is out here, civic duty not being high on the list of desirable activities. If you’re appearing in court, well, that’s a whole other ball game, with its own set of issues. Like limo or private car? Marc Jacobs or Earl Jeans? Guilty or not guilty?
By the day of his pretrial hearing, Troy has made his choices. Or rather Peg has made them. In consultation with his lawyer and a psychic. Troy would drive himself, dress like a cowboy in his Sunday best—nobody would buy him Marc Jacobs anyway—and plead not guilty. Which everyone knows really means “I’m only stalling until the judge dismisses or you cave because your pockets aren’t as deep as mine or I just write a check and you go away.”
The morning of his hearing, I’m still not sure which of the not-guilty scenarios Troy is banking on. It’s been more than a week since I’ve seen him at G’s party and for one reason and another—it doesn’t take many with Troy—I wound up confirming all our arrangements, including my riding shotgun with him to the courthouse, for the hearing via Peg.
“So what’s your plan here?” I say as we pull up to the courthouse parking garage. I glance over at the defendant. At least he looks choirboy innocent in his jeans, boots, blazer, and tie. I’d have to remember to get the name of that psychic from Peg. Get a few wardrobe tips and the outlook for my own future.
Ever since I went to the mountaintop with Beelzebub at the Viper Club, I’ve tried to put the whole conversation with G out of my mind and not mention it. Not to anyone. I mean, half of Hollywood operates like that, on threats and sexual favors. Shit, more than half. And life somehow goes on. Besides, it was probably mostly bluff on G’s part anyway. I mean, how can Suzanne just leave? She owns half the agency. And now Charles is becoming a senior partner or whatever he’ll be and I’m in good with him. Or I was the last time I saw him. Besides, it’s not as if I don’t have enough to worry about. Like exactly what my relationship with Charles is. I mean, besides our million phone calls—all good but still just phone calls—since he left more than a week ago. And then there’s the clients to deal with. An endless chain of worry beads. Especially Troy. The cowboy defendant.
So 5 Minutes Ago Page 17