Cover Your Assets

by Patricia Smiley

  “Um . . . yeah, I guess so,” I said. “By the way, Pookie said you just worked with Lola Scott. That must have been interesting.”

  Sheila shook her head in disgust. “If that girl doesn’t take better care of her skin, she’s going to look old before she’s thirty.”

  “She must be pretty broken up over Evan Brice’s death.”

  “I think her new boyfriend has done a lot to ease the pain. Jeez, I don’t know what she sees in him. The guy looks like he makes a living fencing stereos, but don’t tell anyone I said that. I have three kitties who expect me home every night.”

  “How long has she known him?”

  “She met him on the set. He was an extra, just like you.”

  Sheila had obviously lived too long in fantasyland, but I didn’t want to break the mood by reminding her that I was only pretending to be an extra.

  “Lola’s not the type who can go without a man,” she went on. “She just doesn’t get it. Sex isn’t everything.”

  “So what’s she up to now?”

  Sheila had drifted into a Zen-like state of dabbing and brushing and lining, so she sounded distracted when she answered. “Advance promo for her new film.”

  “Pookie said she’d just wrapped some motorcycle picture.”

  “Uh-huh. Born to Ride. There’s a big to-do next week in Hollywood—a charity ride-a-thon, I think. She’s also scheduled for a photo shoot at that biker bar at the top of Mulholland. Her people asked me to do makeup, but obviously I’m here, so they got somebody else.”

  I knew the place she was talking about. It was called Clancy’s Cantina. It wasn’t exactly a bar, more like a café.

  “Lola must really like your work.”

  Sheila smiled. “Yeah, she’s already booked me for the Richard Burnett picture. She knows she has to look good, because this could be her big break. I had to juggle a couple of other jobs, but it worked out okay.”

  “Does it make any sense to you that her agent would drop her as a client on the brink of a breakout performance under a director like Burnett?”

  “Honey, I’ve worked in this business long enough to know you can’t figure anybody out, but I’ll tell you one thing: Lola was a bear to work with on that last picture—tense, angry all the time. By the time we wrapped, everybody wanted a break from her. Evan Brice, too, I imagine. He came to visit her on the set a few times. The two of them were always at each other’s throats.”

  “What were they fighting about?”

  “Who knows? Maybe the relationship just stopped being fun, or maybe he decided to cool it for the sake of Lola’s career. If Richard Burnett had known those two were screwing, he’d have never given her that part. He’s the biggest prude in town.”

  That was interesting news. If Burnett would be upset by an affair between his star and her married agent, how would he react to Lola’s porn movie? Burnett certainly created an incentive for both Evan and Lola to keep that video a secret. Again, I wondered why the tape was hidden in Evan’s apartment, and from whom.

  Before I could say anything more, the trailer door flew open. It was Danny again. His face had turned an unhealthy shade of purple, and the pulse in his temple was throbbing.

  “Sheila, get your ass out here—now. Mandy got a caramel stuck on her fang, and the whole fucking denture is lying on the sidewalk. Derek’s ranting and we’re sitting on our asses, sweating away dollars.”

  Sheila winked at me. “Sure, honey, be right there.”

  Danny left, and Sheila quickly threw a few items in a hard cosmetic case. When she was finished, she handed me a mascara wand.

  “You’ll have to do this yourself,” she said.

  “When will you be back?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not sure, but better not hang around waiting, because, you know, Derek and all.”

  As she hurried toward the door I said, “Sheila, wait. When is Lola’s photo shoot?”

  “Some time this week, I think. I didn’t pay much attention. Why?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  There was a look of uncertainty on her face. “Maybe another time, then. I have to go.” Just before she left, she added, “Oh, and thanks for the chat, Tucker. I know you’ll learn to love Bruce. It’ll mean so much to your mom. And who knows? You could end up with a new daddy.”

  My jaw muscles tightened. I wondered if my mother had encouraged Sheila to have this girlie-girl talk with me. If so, I hate that kind of behind-the-scenes influence peddling, but at least it explained Sheila’s willingness to speak with me.

  After Sheila left, I sat in the makeup chair for a few minutes, trying to figure out why Lola Scott, who could have her pick of the litter, would choose a loser for a boyfriend. Maybe, as Sheila had implied, the guy was good in bed and that was enough. Or maybe Lola suffered from repetition compulsion when it came to making bad decisions.

  After I’d waded through all the rationalizations, justifications, and speculations for even caring about the answer to that question, the truth came down to this: The one thing I hated worse than being manipulated by my mother was giving up. I had to know the truth. I’d set out to find Lola Scott, and I wasn’t going to cave in until I found her, even if all I netted from the effort was a free makeover.

  I grabbed a mirror to see what Sheila had done to my face. The good news: My bruise was almost completely camouflaged. The bad news: I looked like Toulouse-Lautrec’s date for the Moulin Rouge. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to transform myself back into boring Tucker, so I quickly applied mascara as instructed and removed the towel from around my neck. When I was sure no one was watching, I ran down the steps of the trailer and headed for the car.

  At the moment, my only path to Lola Scott was through one of the public relations events Sheila had mentioned. The ride-a-thon was a week away, which was too long to wait. That left only the photo shoot. I considered trying to wheedle the date and time out of Lola’s new agent, but even if I’d known who it was, the tactic was iffy at best. On the other hand, somebody at Clancy’s might have some information and might be more than delighted to share it with the new and improved Moulin Rouge Tucker.

  As I checked for directions in my Thomas Guide, the inch-thick L.A. County map book for the directionally impaired, an ominous warning flashed through my head: Good makeup does not a convincing motorcycle mama make. Quickly, I swept my concerns into a back corner of my mind, started the engine, and headed toward Clancy’s Cantina.

  -14-

  forty-five minutes after leaving Sheila’s makeup trailer, I was making my way through the Santa Monica Mountains on the narrow, winding Mulholland Highway. I put the Boxster through its paces, racing past sheer cliffs and around blind curves, slowing only to dodge rock slides that had spilled onto the road.

  I hadn’t been in this area since high school, when a friend and I had set out on a mission to find real bikers after renting a video of The Wild One. In the intervening years, the area had become less boondocks and more Beverly Hills in the mountains. Old horse ranches and trailer parks now mingled with luxury homes, and professional landscaping intruded on native pine, sage, and chaparral. Pretty soon, along with the Extreme Fire Danger and Horse X-ing signs, Caltrans would be posting signs for another danger: urban sprawl.

  A distant hum quickly grew to a roar. I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw a motorcycle bent to the road, rounding the corner in defiance of gravity. The driver, who wore a helmet that looked like a turtle’s shell, nodded his appreciation when I slowed the car so he could safely pass. Moments later, three more bikes came from behind me and roared up the hill. Clancy’s had to be close by.

  At the crest of the next rise, the café came into view, along with at least 150 immaculately groomed motorcycles standing handlebar-to-handlebar in the hard-packed dirt parking lot. There were the requisite Harleys, both production and chopped, but also some Suzukis and Ducatis. The riders milling around outside were an eclectic group, from tattooed and pierced outlaw types to computer nerds
faking a sick day.

  There was no room for my car, so I drove up the road about a quarter mile and parked on the narrow gravel shoulder near a sign that read, “No Stopping Any Time.” I walked back toward the café, accompanied by a persistent fly buzzing around my face, obviously intrigued by the mix of aromas from Sheila Mayhew’s cosmetics bag.

  Clancy’s Cantina was a shit-kicking kind of place with distressed-wood siding, a front porch, and a hitching post that looked authentic. A rusty miner’s cart was parked near the entrance. Next to it stood a mountain of a guy somewhere in his forties. He wore jeans and a black leather jacket over a T-shirt that sported a picture of a skull on the front. His stringy brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail and harnessed with a leather thong at his massive neck. A scruffy Fu Manchu mustache partially obscured the lower half of his face but not enough to hide pleasantly symmetrical features. That face, coupled with a spare tire around his waist, gave him the look of a former high school football jock gone to seed. The fat roll was still Schwinn-size, but if he didn’t switch to lite beer soon, it would be moving into Harley territory before you could say ‘Jenny Craig.’ He continued smoking his cigarette, drinking his beer, and watching me without expression as I walked past him on my way to the front door.

  The interior of the café featured a small bar, which was separated from the eating area by partition walls and a center hallway. The place looked as if it had been designed by trailer trash with lottery money. Everything that wasn’t draped in crimson velvet was smothered with phony Wanted posters and other Western memorabilia from yon years of yore. I half expected Miss Kitty to greet me at the door with an enthusiastic howdy, which would have been a refreshing change from what you heard in most trendy L.A. restaurants: “Hi, I’m your waiter, but what I really want to do is direct.” It was an old L.A. joke, but there was still some truth to it.

  As it turned out, seating was self-service. The only available booth in the café featured a prime view of a stuffed armadillo in a glass case—an effective enough appetite suppressant that I opted to sit at the bar, which was empty except for three guys drinking together near the back wall. Two were of indeterminate age, but at least forty. The youngest was twenty-something, my height—five-nine or so—and well muscled from years of lifting weights, hopefully not in the yard at San Quentin. He had a mustache and goatee and wore a black leather skullcap over what looked like a shaved head. All of them appeared to be a little rough around the edges. I was willing to bet they all owned weapons and knew how to conceal them. I set my purse on the floor next to the barstool but wrapped the strap around my ankle a couple of times for security. Then I waited.

  The bartender was a woman in her late thirties with frosted hair, cut in a shaggy style that should have been mothballed along with Marvin Geyer’s muumuus. She had on a pair of tight jeans and a sleeveless denim vest that showed she had taken her Biceps of Steel workouts seriously. She was wiping glasses and chatting with the Three Musketeers, but a jukebox playing country and western music was drowning out their words. When she noticed me, she looked annoyed that her high-level meeting had been interrupted. Eventually she sauntered over to take my order: a cup of coffee, which she served in a dented blue metal cup that looked as if it had been bouncing around too long in some drover’s saddlebag.

  “I haven’t been here since high school,” I said.

  Her expression was deadpan, her tone sarcastic. “And yet, we’re still in business. Amazing.”

  I smiled to let her know I hadn’t taken offense. “Anybody ever tell you that you look like Farrah Fawcett?”

  She continued wiping water spots off a pilsner glass. “You’re shitting me, right?”

  I shrugged, ignoring the sarcasm. That comparison ploy usually works as an icebreaker in L.A., but obviously this bartender was in that minuscule percentage of restaurant personnel who weren’t pursuing a career in show biz. The bartender already seemed suspicious, so I couldn’t just come out and say I was looking for Lola Scott. Before I could think of another approach, she said, “Enjoy the java,” and retreated to the end of the bar.

  That was a bad sign for Moulin Rouge Tucker. As I sat there sipping bad coffee and trying to come up with a way to win her over, I felt a blast of hot air detonate on the back of my neck. When the odor finally reached my nose, it registered as multiple beers on an empty stomach, and a three-pack-a-day cigarette habit. I swung around to face the source and nearly flattened my nose on Fu Manchu’s fat roll.

  He placed his empty beer bottle and his forearm on the bar, leaning in close enough for me to hear the rattling wheeze in his chest as he breathed. His proximity was intimidating. I could only hope he wasn’t the type who heard voices in his head telling him to rid the world of tall, thin, heavily made-up women with brown hair and a slightly crooked eyetooth.

  “Hey, pretty lady. You look like you could use some company.”

  My mouth opened, and I prepared to set him straight. He seemed to read my mood, because his expression transitioned from self-satisfaction to self-doubt. It was a subtle change, but I took it as a hopeful sign. Since I’d gotten nowhere with the bartender, I decided to stifle my rebuff.

  “Why not?” I said.

  His body relaxed. He slipped onto the barstool and gestured toward the bartender. “Don’t take nothing Mavis says too personal. She’s got man troubles, and it makes her bitchy.”

  I nodded in sympathy. “Don’t we all.”

  “That’s kinda hard to believe. Good-lookin lady like you.” He paused to study my face. “I don’t remember seeing you around here before.”

  Small talk, I thought. This was good. “It’s been a while . . . so, what kind of bike you ridin?”

  A broad smile spread across his face. “Shit, the only kind. A Harley. Screamin Eagle Deuce. I’d take you for a ride, but she’s in the shop.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “Nah, just a scratch or two. Laid her down horsing around. My fault, but it happened on the lot, so Universal’s paying for it. Guess I lucked out.”

  “Universal, as in Studios? Are you a stuntman?”

  “I wish. Maybe I’d a made some money. As it was, I didn’t break even for the two days I took off work.”

  I thought about asking him what he did for a living, but I was probably better off not knowing.

  “What’s the name of the film? Maybe I’ll go see it.”

  “Born to Ride.”

  My jaw tingled. “The new Lola Scott movie?”

  “Yep. That’s the one. Me and half the regulars in here was extras.” A puzzled frown creased his forehead. “The picture’s not even out yet. How come you know about it?”

  I didn’t want to arouse his suspicions, so I lied. “Actually, I’m doing Lola’s makeup for a photo shoot here this week. I dropped by to make sure I could find the place.”

  “No, shit? I’ll be here, too. I just hope my bike is ready by then.”

  Rats! I’d just finessed myself out of a chance to meet Lola Scott. There was no way I could show up now and risk being exposed as a fraud.

  “So, what time is your call?” I said.

  “Seven, but shit, with Friday traffic, I gotta roll out of the sack at four just to make it here on time.”

  “It’s none of my business, but are you Lola’s boyfriend?”

  He laughed. “Hell, no. That’s Jakey. Poor bastard. Lola’s a fine-looking woman, but she’s even bitchier than Mavis. When Lola says jump, Jakey says how high—or else. I saw her thumping on him out front yesterday. Mavis had to break it up.”

  “What set her off?”

  “Shit, man, I don’t know. What sets any woman off?”

  “You couldn’t tell what they were arguing about?”

  He lowered his voice. I leaned in closer. “Jakey was probably just screwing up again. Whatever he did, Lola didn’t like it.”

  “Lola runs the show, huh? Maybe Jakey’s a little starstruck.”

  “Nah, that ain’t it.”

>   “Hey, Bo, you just warming that chair, or you drinking beer?”

  It was Mavis. I’d been so intent on listening to Bo dish dirt on Lola and Jakey, I’d almost forgotten about her. In the interim, a dark cloud of discontent had rolled onto her face.

  “Sure, Mavis,” Bo said. “Set me up again, and while you’re at it, bring a Corona for Lola’s makeup gal here.”

  The atmosphere grew tense as the three guys at the end of the bar turned in unison and stared at me.

  “You talking shit again, Bo?” she said.

  “Nah, Mavis.” He sounded hurt, as though he’d gotten the wrong end of the stick again. “Just keepin’ a pretty lady company, that’s all.”

  Mavis crossed her arms tightly across her chest and turned toward me. “What’s your game, girlfriend?”

  Apparently, I waited too long to answer, because the next thing I heard was the sound of wood scraping against wood as the youngest of her drinking buddies pushed back his barstool and stood. Bo’s body stiffened. The acrid odor of sweat and fear now mingled with the smell of beer and cigarettes.

  Muscle Boy strolled over and sat on the barstool to my left, sandwiching me between him and Bo. He wagged his index finger at me and said, “Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.” On the surface his tone was casual, but underneath there was an undercurrent of menace.

  I tried to keep things light. “You the in-house poet?”

  He smiled. It made me cringe. Then he grabbed my hair at the crown and pulled. I yelped and reached up to pry his hand away.

  “Let go, shithead,” I said. “That hurts.”

  Somewhere behind me furniture toppled. I heard Bo say, “Come on, man. Don’t do that.”

  Muscle Boy ignored him. He jerked my hair again. It hurt, but this time I didn’t cry out. “This is how it is,” he said. “We cleared everybody who’s coming here on Friday, including the makeup gal, and you’re not her. So what are you up to?”

  Here’s what I was up to: the maximum reading on my panic meter.