Glamorama

by Bret Easton Ellis

  She starts shrugging, losing interest in me.

  “Hey Jamie, talk to me—what happened, what happened here?”

  “I … watched … that scene … of you at the embassy,” she whispers. “They … lied to you, Victor.” She keeps shuddering and I’m smoothing confetti out of her hair.

  “About what?” I’m asking. “What did they lie about?” My voice is hoarse from screaming and her voice is low, the voice of a ghost, of someone lost in sleep, and from somewhere behind us there’s a faint crashing sound in the wind.

  “Palakon works against the Japanese,” she says in a painful rush. “But he also works … for them.”

  She starts giggling, high, a little girl.

  “What Japanese?” I’m asking.

  “Everything’s … connected … to the Japanese,” she says. “Everything is bought with Japanese … money from … Japanese banks and they … supply everything, Victor.” Dreamily she starts a list, offers it entirely without tone.

  “Plastique … blasting caps … digital timers …”

  “Why Japanese, Jamie?” I ask soothingly, stroking her face.

  “Because … they want your … father elected.”

  Pause. “They want him elected to … what?”

  “Palakon is … also working … against your father,” she whispers. “Did you hear me … Victor?” She tries to laugh. “Your father hired him … but he works against him … too.”

  Wind screams suddenly through the courtyard.

  “He’s also working for … the people who don’t”—something slices through her, she shifts—“want your father elected.”

  “Palakon told me my father hired him, Jamie,” I say.

  “But Palakon has … no affinity … ,” she says in a wavery voice. “I watched … the tape of that scene … at the embassy … and he lied. He knew about my connection … with Bobby … before he sent you. He lied about that.”

  “Jamie, why did Palakon send me?”

  “Your father wanted you … out of the country,” she says. “Palakon did that … but the people who don’t want your father elected … also were in touch with … Palakon and … they had something else in mind.” She sighs. “A proposal …”

  “Like what?” I’m asking loudly, over the wind.

  “A scenario …” Her eyes are drifting, half-closed, but she still manages a shrug.

  “What scenario, Jamie?”

  She’s trying to remember something. “What if you … Victor … got hooked up with a … certain organization … and what if this information … was leaked? How much could Palakon be paid … to take care of that as well? … Either way Palakon couldn’t lose. He set it all up.”

  I wipe away a tear that rolls halfway down her face and the gusting wind causes confetti to swirl wildly everywhere around us.

  “How?” I’m asking.

  “He offered … Palakon offered you to … Bobby. They made a … deal.”

  “What deal? Why?”

  “Palakon”—she swallows thickly—“had promised Bobby … a new face. Bobby wanted a man … so Palakon sent you. It fit perfectly. Your father wanted you gone … and Bobby needed a new face. Palakon put the two together.” She coughs, swallows again. “At first Bobby was mad … when he found out it was you .… Bobby knew who you were … who your father was. He didn’t like it.”

  “I thought Bobby liked using people who were famous,” I say. “I thought celebrities had an instant cover.”

  “Your father …” Jamie’s shaking her head slowly. “It was too much … it made Bobby suspicious. He didn’t like it and that’s when … Bobby was convinced Palakon was working for someone … else.”

  Silence.

  “What happened, Jamie?” I ask slowly.

  “Bobby realized he could … use you to his advantage.”

  “His advantage? How, Jamie?” Panic starts rising.

  “Bobby contacted your—”

  “No, no, no,” I’m saying, grabbing her shoulders.

  “Bobby and your father—”

  “No, Jamie, no.” I’m closing my eyes.

  “Your father and Bobby talked, Victor.”

  “No … no …”

  Everything’s slipping behind me, floating away.

  “The Japanese … were angry at Bobby when he … made a deal with … your dad.” Jamie breathes in. “They just wanted you gone … out of the country … but now they had to protect you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if Bobby … went to the press with … stuff about you … and the things you did with us … it would destroy your father’s chances.” Jamie leans her head back and something passes through her, causing her forehead to crease. “The Japanese … want your father … to win.”

  Another gust drowns out a sentence. I lean in closer but she’s turning away. I place my ear to her mouth.

  “Palakon didn’t know … what was in the hat, Victor,” she says. “That was another lie.”

  “Then why did he tell me to bring it?” I ask.

  “Bobby knew what was in the hat .… Bobby told him … to tell you to bring it,” she says. “Bobby needed someone to bring the … Remform over here.”

  Her voice suddenly turns gentle, curious almost. “Palakon didn’t know what was in it … until later … and then he found out and … and …” She trails off. Her eyes open, then close. “The Remform … was supposed to come … to me.”

  “Jamie, hey, look at me,” I whisper loudly. “How did you get into this? Why did Palakon send me to find you?”

  “He knew I was … involved with Bobby. Palakon always knew that, Victor … okay? Palakon thought it would work to his advantage … that you and I knew each other at … Camden.”

  She’s drifting.

  “Jamie, hey, Jamie.” With my hands I gently maneuver her face closer to mine. “Who was Marina Cannon?”

  Her face crumples slightly. “She was on the ship … to warn you, Victor .… You were supposed to go with her.”

  “What happened, Jamie?”

  “Bobby sent people … from New York to watch you … to make sure you would not go to Paris.” She starts crying softly.

  “Are you talking about the Wallaces?” I’m asking. “That English couple?”

  “I don’t know … I don’t know their names. They got back to us and—”

  “The ship stopped, Jamie.”

  “—Palakon also wanted you to go to London.”

  “It stopped, Jamie. The ship stopped. They said there was a distress signal.”

  “I know … I know …”

  “The fucking ship stopped, Jamie,” I’m shouting. “In the middle of the ocean it stopped.”

  “Bobby didn’t want you to go to Paris. He didn’t want you to come to London either … but he definitely didn’t want you to go to Paris.” She smiles secretly to herself.

  “Was it Bobby? Was Bobby on the ship that night?”

  “Victor—”

  “I saw the tattoo,” I shout. “What happened to Marina?”

  “I don’t know,” she mumbles. “I found out after you told me … that night in the hotel … and I confronted Bobby. He wouldn’t say … he just wanted the Remform.”

  “What else did he want?” I ask.

  “He wanted you … dead.”

  I close my eyes, don’t open them for a long time.

  “I don’t know … ,” she says. “Bobby thought … bringing you in was a bad idea … but then he realized he could … frame you.”

  “For Sam Ho’s murder?”

  She just nods. “And once … that happened … other ideas emerged.”

  “What other ideas?”

  “Oh Victor … ,” she sighs. “Victor … it’s all been a setup. Even in New York … that girl who died … that DJ …”

  “Mica?” I ask.

  “Whoever … you went to meet at Fashion Café … for a new DJ. Do you remember?”

  I nod dumbly even though she’s not looking. �
�She was killed the night before … I saw a report.”

  “Oh Jesus oh Jesus.”

  “It was all a setup.”

  “Whose side are you on, Jamie?” I’m asking.

  She smiles and when she smiles her upper lip splits open but there’s no blood.

  “Who do you work for?”

  “It … hardly matters … now.”

  “Who did you work for?” I scream, shaking her.

  “I was working against … Bobby,” she mutters. “To do that, Victor … I had to work for him.”

  I pull back, panting.

  “I worked for the group … Marina worked for … and I worked for the group Bobby worked for … and I worked for Palakon … just like you do—”

  “I don’t work for Palakon.”

  “Yes … you do.” She swallows again with great difficulty. “You have … ever since you met him.” She starts shivering.

  “Jamie, how’s Lauren Hynde involved in all this?” I’m asking. “Look at me—how’s Lauren Hynde involved? She gave me the hat. I’ve seen pictures of her with Bobby.”

  Jamie starts laughing, delirious.

  “You remember Lauren Hynde from Camden, right?” I say. “She knows Bobby. She gave me the hat.” I pull Jamie closer to my face. “They set me up with her, didn’t they?”

  “That wasn’t … Lauren Hynde, Victor.” Jamie sighs.

  “It was Lauren Hynde,” I say. “It was, Jamie.”

  “You didn’t pay … attention.” She sighs again. “That girl was not Lauren—”

  “Jamie, I know that girl,” I say. “She’s Chloe’s best friend. What are you saying?”

  “That was someone else.” Jamie keeps sighing.

  “No, no, no …” I’m shaking my head adamantly.

  “Lauren Hynde died in … December 1985 … in a car accident … outside Camden, New Hampshire.”

  She leans into me, lowering her voice, almost as if she’s afraid someone is listening, and I’m thinking, She’s just a shell, and something huge and shapeless is flying over us in the darkness, hanging above the courtyard, and a voice says, You all are.

  “I’ve gotta talk to Bobby,” I gasp. “Where’s Bobby?”

  “No, Victor, don’t—”

  “Where did he go, Jamie? Tell me.”

  “He went to—” She gasps, rolls her head back. “He was on his way to …” She trails off.

  “Where is he?” I scream, shaking her.

  “He … went to Hôtel Costes,” she gasps. “To see … Chloe.”

  I stand up and start moaning, the wind stinging my face, and Jamie’s saying “Wait, wait, don’t” and holding on to my arm, gripping it, but I yank it away.

  “Victor …”

  “I’m leaving.” Panic bursts through me, spreading. “What do you want, Jamie?”

  She says something I can’t hear.

  Hurriedly I lean in.

  “What is it?”

  She mumbles something.

  “I can’t hear you, Jamie,” I whisper.

  Her last words as she drifts off: “I’m … not … Jamie Fields,” is all she says.

  And on cue a giant eruption of flies swarm into the courtyard in one massive black cloud.

  4

  I run back to the hotel.

  I burst through the entrance doors and force myself to walk calmly through the lobby and into an elevator.

  Once I reach Chloe’s floor I race down the hallway.

  I start pounding on her door.

  “Chloe? Chloe—are you okay?” I’m calling out, my voice high and girlish. “Open up. Chloe? It’s me.”

  The door opens and Chloe stands there, smiling, wearing a white robe.

  “You changed,” she says, glancing at Bobby’s clothes. “Where’s your stuff?”

  I push past her and shamble into the room, running through the suite, panicked, not knowing what I’d do if I found him here.

  “Who was here?” I’m asking, flinging open the bathroom door.

  “Victor, calm down,” Chloe says.

  “Where is he?” I’m asking, opening a closet door, slamming it shut.

  “Who was here?”

  “Bobby Hughes came over,” she says, shivering, sitting down on a high-back chair in front of a desk where she was writing something in a large spiral notebook. She crosses her legs and stares at me sternly.

  “What did he want?” I ask, calming down.

  “He just wanted to talk.” She shrugs. “He wanted to know where you were—”

  “What did he say?”

  “Victor—”

  “Just answer me, goddamnit. What did he say?”

  “He wanted to talk,” she says, shocked. “He wanted to have some champagne. He brought some by. He said it was to patch things up with you—whatever that means. I said no thank you, of course, and—”

  “Did you really?”

  A long pause. “I just had half a glass.” She sighs. “He wanted me to save it for you. It’s over there in the ice bucket.”

  “And”—I breathe in—“what else?” Relief washes over me so hard that tears blur my vision.

  “Nothing. It was fine. He was celebrating—what, I don’t know.” She pauses, signifying something. “He was sorry he missed you—”

  “Yeah, I bet,” I mutter.

  “Victor, he’s …” She sighs, then decides to go with it. “He’s worried about you.”

  “I don’t care,” I say.

  “I said he’s worried about you,” she exclaims.

  “Where is he?”

  “He had to go,” she says, clutching herself, shivering again.

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know, Victor,” she says. “There was a party somewhere. There was another party somewhere.”

  “What party? Where?” I ask. “It’s very important, Chloe.”

  “I don’t know where he went,” she says. “Listen, we had some champagne, we chatted briefly and then he went off to a party. What’s wrong with you? Why are you so frightened?”

  Silence.

  “Who was he with, baby?” I ask.

  “He was with a friend,” she says. “Someone who looked like Bruce Rhinebeck but I don’t think it was Bruce.”

  A long pause. I’m just standing in the middle of the suite, my arms at my sides. “Bruce Rhinebeck?”

  “Yeah, it was weird. He kind of looked like Bruce. But something was off about the guy. The hair was different or something.” She grimaces, rubs her stomach. “The guy said his name was Bruce but he didn’t give a last name, so who knows, right?”

  I’m just standing there.

  “This isn’t happening,” I murmur.

  Bruce Rhinebeck is dead.

  “What’s not happening?” she asks, annoyed.

  Bruce Rhinebeck was defusing a bomb in an apartment on Quai de Béthune, and Bruce Rhinebeck is dead.

  “That wasn’t Bruce Rhinebeck, baby.”

  “Well, it looked like Bruce Rhinebeck,” Chloe says. This sounds too harsh and she moves into a gentler mode. “That’s all I’m saying, okay? Victor, just calm down.” She grimaces again.

  I start pulling luggage out of the closet.

  She turns around. “What are you doing?”

  “We’re getting out of here,” I say, throwing the Gucci luggage on the bed. “Now.”

  “Out of where, Victor?” Chloe asks impatiently, shifting around in the chair.

  “Out of Paris,” I say. “We’re going back to New York.”

  “Victor, I have shows tomor—”

  “I don’t care,” I shout. “We’re getting the hell out of here.”

  “Victor, I’m worried about you too,” she says. “Sit down for a minute. I want to talk.”

  “No, no—I don’t want to talk,” I’m saying. “I just want to get out of here.”

  “Stop it,” she says, doubling over. “Just sit down.”

  “Chloe—”

  “I have to use the bathroom,” she says.
“But don’t pack anything. I want to talk to you.”

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “I don’t feel well,” she mutters.

  “Did you eat anything?” I ask, suddenly concerned.

  “No, I just had that champagne.”

  I glance over at the ice bucket, at the bottle of Cristal lodged in it, the empty champagne flute sitting on the desk.

  She gets up from the desk. I watch her.

  She brushes past me.

  I’m staring at the glass and then I’m moving toward it.

  Looking down into the glass, I notice granules of some kind.

  And then I’m looking down at something else.

  On the chair where Chloe was sitting is a huge bloodstain.

  I’m staring at it.

  And then I’m saying, “Chloe?”

  She turns around and says, “Yeah?”

  And I don’t want her to see how scared I suddenly am but then she sees where my gaze is directed.

  She starts breathing harshly. She looks down at herself.

  The entire bottom half of her robe is soaked dark red with blood.

  “Chloe … ,” I say again.

  She staggers over to the bathroom door and grabs the edge of it to balance herself and blood starts running down her legs in thin rivulets and when she lifts up the robe we both can see her underwear soaked with blood and she pulls it off, panicking, and suddenly a huge gush of blood expels itself from beneath the robe, splashing all over the bathroom floor.

  She gasps, a thick noise comes out of her throat and she doubles over, grabbing her stomach, then she screams. Looking surprised and still clutching her stomach, she vomits while staggering backward, collapsing onto the bathroom floor. There are strands of tissue hanging out of her.

  “Chloe,” I scream.

  She starts scrambling across the bathroom floor, leaving a trail, a drag mark of dark red blood.

  I’m crawling with her in the bathroom and she’s making harsh panting sounds, sliding across the tiles toward the bathtub.

  Another spray of blood comes out of her, along with a horrible ripping sound. She raises up a hand, screaming, and I’m holding on to her and I can feel the screams buzzing through her, followed by another squelching, ripping noise.

  In the bathroom I grab the phone and push zero.

  “Help us,” I’m screaming. “Someone’s dying up here. I’m in Chloe Byrnes’ room and you’ve got to send an ambulance. She’s bleeding to death—oh fucking god she’s bleeding to death—”