Secrets of the Hollywood Girls Club

by Maggie Marr

  “Boom Boom,” Kiki called from her bed, “get me Sherman Ross on the line.”

  “Ewww,” Boom Boom said. She curled up her nose as if she were smelling eight-day-old pastrami at Cantor’s. “What for?”

  “Business.”

  “There’s nothing that dirty we’re dealing with now,” Boom Boom said.

  Kiki looked over the top of her black-framed Louis Vuitton glasses at Boom Boom. “Get him and then get out.”

  Boom Boom clicked her tongue in the most disapproving of ways as she dialed. “If you lay down with dogs—.

  “If you lay down with dogs,” Kiki yelled through the pain, “you better make sure that the bitch doesn’t bite.”

  *

  Sherman Ross watched the blonde slide down the pole in front of him. Her tits were huge—fake, but huge. He watched her squat and open her legs before him—a cavernous maw waited to be fed; dollars or dicks, whichever the setting allowed. Sherman Ross was either a celebrity’s worst nightmare or best friend, depending on who paid Sherman’s fee.

  He inserted a twenty under the blonde’s G-string. She mouthed the words thank you and moved across the stage. In Sherman’s opinion, the day was too young to feed strippers money, but this client always wanted to meet at the Spearmint Rhino. And why not? Sherman met clients in worse places. At least this strip club was high-end, unlike the dives in the Valley that seemed to house only strippers over forty.

  The women working Valley clubs wore the vacant stare of dreams lost. If you asked, most told the same story: They’d moved to Los Angeles to be film stars and had turned to porn to pay the bills. Sherman glanced once more at the girl now working the pole. At least at the downtown Rhino the tits were perky.

  The locations his clients set for meetings never surprised Sherman. Clients had flown him to Europe, Asia, the Caribbean. With Sherman’s clientele, money meant nothing. He worked for all the stars; Jack, Tom, Denise, Heather, Ryan, Robert, whether they admitted to his employment or not.

  And the information his clients offered him surprised Sherman. He often found himself holding up his hands to halt the flow of words from their mouths. He didn’t want to be an accessory. He only wanted to provide his clients with the information they required and then deposit his payment. Once Sherman passed along the evidence he’d gathered … well, what the clients chose to do with the material was their business. Sherman believed his success was testament to a simple mantra he had learned while in the military, in a slightly different context: Don’t ask, don’t tell. Well, the mantra plus Sherman’s excellent nose for scandal; he could find any mistress, piece of ass, or Swiss bank account.

  Sherman glanced around the club. The client had scheduled this meeting for 11:30 and according to Sherman’s watch the time was almost 11:45. He had a lunch meeting at one in Beverly Hills. If his client didn’t arrive soon, Sherman would leave and shred the photos. He leaned back in his chair and sipped his freshly squeezed orange juice. He’d worked with this client before, covering up a same-sex scandal for a high-end star. Although they never discussed it, Sherman knew the client ran security for Worldwide. He’d requested pictures of a young actress currently starring in one of Worldwide’s films in a less-than-professional position with her agent. Why? Sherman never asked.

  “Mr. Ross.” A tall man with gray hair sat down across from him. “You’re late, Mr. Montgomery,” Sherman said.

  “My apologies. You have the file, I see.”

  Sherman held the file out and watched as his client glanced at the photos.

  “These are excellent. And the memory card? I assume these are digital.”

  “I have that, too. I’m happy to provide it upon receipt of payment.”

  “Fair enough.” The man reached into his suit jacket pocket and produced an unsealed envelope. “Exactly as you requested.”

  The envelope contained the correct amount in the correct denominations. “Thank you,” he said, pocketing the cash and placing the zip drive on the table.

  “You’re really quite good at this.”

  “Yes,” Sherman replied as he stood. “Yes, I am.”

  “This is part of a larger problem that we’re dealing with.”

  “You have my numbers.”

  Sherman turned to leave, but first he gave the stripper a final glance. She now hung upside down, and he watched as she worked the pole between her legs. Her thigh muscles twitched from the workout. She had a great ass, and Sherman loved a great ass. His mind flashed briefly to a celebrity porn tape he’d recently watched at a party. The footage was so hot it hadn’t even hit the Net—as far as he knew, there was only the one tape, which was now being played by the owner exclusively at parties attended by the $20 million and above club. If the footage ever hit the street, that actress’s career was toast.

  The sunlight bit into Sherman’s eyes as he exited the club. He handed the valet his ticket and pulled down his Armani shades. The valet pulled Sherman’s Porsche 911 to a stop. As Sherman slid behind the wheel, his phone rang. He popped in his Bluetooth headset and pressed on the car’s accelerator.

  “Sherman here.”

  “Mr. Ross, I have Kiki Dee for you.”

  What a coincidence. The last time Sherman had worked with Worldwide, he’d also been working with Kiki. The Brockman affair had concerned both Steven Brockman’s publicist, Kiki, and the studio releasing his film, Worldwide. Just as Steven finished his last film for Worldwide, a sexy young stud started making very loud claims around town and on the Internet about his alleged relationship with Steven on set. Some photos of the young stud in compromising positions with a boy who turned out to be just underage, plus a couple million dollars, finally convinced the little player to shut up. And Steven, his wife, Kathy, their daughter, Sylvan, and Steven’s lover, Billy, went about their Hollywood charade.

  “Put her on.” Sherman pulled into traffic and accelerated.

  “Sherman, my love!” Kiki said.

  “Kiki, my most favorite flack. What can I possibly do for you?” Sherman loved working with Kiki. There was something wonderfully salacious about digging into the muck of celebrities.

  “I can’t really say over the phone, but it is a juicy little lead that I need you to check out for me.”

  “How juicy?” Sherman accelerated onto the 10.

  “Juicy enough that you should cancel whatever you have after lunch and come by the house.”

  “It just so happens that I’ll be in your neighborhood. What about three?”

  “Delightful. I’ll see you then.”

  Rule 7: Play to People’s Fantasies

  Celeste Solange, Actress

  Celeste Solange tilted her pelvis forward and arched her back. She stretched her long, lean leg farther into the Pacific and pointed her toe. She threw her head back, and her signature golden locks, highlighted two days before, sparkled in the Malibu sun. She smiled at the camera.

  The Chanel bikini bit into her ass and her left arm ached from the pressure of lying on her side. She couldn’t feel her feet or her legs from the frigid surf, and there were sand grains between her thighs getting dangerously close to her Brazilian wax job. She’d rolled around in the surf for almost three hours now, and she was ready to stop for the day. Besides, they were losing their light. Cici had smiled at cameras professionally for almost twenty years; at this point she knew lighting. But this photographer, some boy genius from London, would not quit.

  Worldwide wanted a Brigitte Bardot/Sophia Loren look for the photos that would go on the one sheet that the studio would use to advertise Cici’s latest film, California Girl. Cici had one of the few bodies left in Hollywood that could pull off the sexpot look. In a sea of anorexic waifs who looked like preadolescent boys, Celeste Solange was a full-fledged female. Her body had curves that needed guard rails.

  She glanced down the beach at Ted Robinoff, her lover and owner of Worldwide. Ted walked along the beach as he talked into his phone. She wanted him to tell Nathan, the photographer, to finish. C
ici watched Ted furrow his brow and make wide circular motions with his arms. Why is he so riled? Ted usually maintained a cool exterior. He had made his hundreds of millions in real estate and then bought into the film business. He’d purchased the last privately held studio in Hollywood, Worldwide Pictures, and, contrary to speculation, planned to keep the studio private. Ted’s purchase of Worldwide made him the last movie mogul in L.A.

  “Go on then, luv, get a bit more sexy with it,” the UK prodigy, Nathan, called to Cici.

  Cici glared at the photog who was dry on the beach, keeping warm in his down jacket. Get naked, splash in thirty-degree water, and then let’s talk about sexy, Cici thought. You idiot.

  “Just one more,” Nathan said. He crouched on his knees, holding his camera, and crawled forward only a foot from Cici. “Come on now, you little bitch,” he whispered under his breath.

  What? Cici whipped her head around, her eyes flashing with rage, just as Nathan snapped his final shot.

  “That’s it.” Nathan gave Cici a wicked grin. “The flash of passion I needed. All right then.”

  He waved toward his assistant to bring Cici a towel and a robe. Nathan stood, rubbing his legs a bit from resting on his haunches. He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “It’s almost as good in person.”

  A needle pierced her heart. “Excuse me?”

  She grabbed for the towel, and Nathan stepped closer. His boldness surprised her. Most men cowered like whipped puppies when she was enraged. Nathan’s eyes roamed her body as if appraising a purchase. Cici flushed, and she felt herself tingle. A sick twist in her nature, her anger toward a man often aroused her. It was a character trait that had explained her unfuckingbelievable sex life with her ex-husband, Damien Bruckner.

  Cici felt Nathan’s eyes linger on her breasts. He stepped closer, and his lips brushed against her ear. She tilted her head toward him, his breath now hot on her cheek.

  “I said, the filmed version is never as good,” he whispered.

  “To which of my films do you refer?”

  “I don’t think it has a title.” Nathan’s eyes danced with wicked delight. “But I call it Pussy in Paradise.”

  Cici’s heart dropped. She arched her eyebrow and stepped away from Nathan. “You are terribly confused,” she said. She reached for the outstretched robe and wrapped it around her.

  Nathan grinned and shook his head. “No, Ms. Solange. I’m not confused,” he said and backed away to give her a once-over. “In awe, yes. Turned on? Perhaps. But confused? No, I am not that.”

  Cici turned and walked up the beach toward Ted, a pinprick of fear growing wider with each step. How did he know? And how would she tell Ted?

  *

  Cici sat on the plush carpet in her thousand-square-foot custom-built closet, tucked behind a Carolina Herrera gown. She held her phone to her ear, and her stomach churned with panic. She couldn’t shake the dread that crept through her body and caused a light sweat to cover her palms. After the photo shoot, she had arrived home and immediately climbed into bed. Ted hovered in their bedroom, asking if he should call their doctor. Celeste finally feigned sleep until he disappeared downstairs. She knew that he was now occupied with a conference call with one of his film distributors in Tokyo. She clutched the phone tighter to her ear and listened to it ring, anxiously waiting for Howard Abramowitz, her attorney, to pick up on his end.

  Howard had handled Cici’s divorce from Damien Bruckner four years ago. He had also negotiated the settlement that released to her all the video footage Damien had collected of Cici’s sexual trysts with others, footage Cici had forced Damien to give to her in exchange for her keeping quiet about Brie Ellison’s age and sticking to the alimony amount in their prenup. Footage, Cici now feared, Nathan Curtis had somehow viewed.

  “Hello?” Howard answered groggily.

  “Howard!”

  “Cici?”

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  “Cici, it’s twelve-thirty in the morning,” Howard said.

  “We’ve got a huge fucking problem.”

  “Are you in jail?”

  “No.”

  “Hospital?”

  “No.”

  “Have you been abducted?”

  “No.”

  “Then it can wait,” Howard said.

  “No! This cannot wait,” Cici hissed before Howard could hang up the phone. “Do you think I’d call you at twelve-thirty on a Wednesday night if this could wait?”

  “Celeste, you are a very successful woman. And I think there are a number of people who work for you that, yes, you would call at twelve-thirty on a Wednesday night.”

  Damn him. Okay, maybe he was right, but that was before Ted.

  “Howard, I am telling you, this is important,” Cici whispered.

  “Why are you whispering?” Howard asked, seeming more interested.

  “Because I am in the closet.”

  “Metaphorically or literally?”

  “I have a stiletto stuck up my ass, so what do you think?”

  “In this town it could go either way.” Howard laughed at his own joke. “Okay, okay. What’s up?”

  “Somebody has it.”

  Celeste silently waited for Howard’s mind to spin through the possibilities. “No. Celeste. You destroyed it.”

  “Someone made a copy.”

  “Impossible,” Howard said.

  “I found out today,” Cici said.

  “Did you see it?”

  “No, but somebody else did.”

  “Who? What did they say?”

  “The photographer from my shoot today. He’s from the UK. Nathan Curtis.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He claims to have seen it.”

  “Are you sure he’s not bluffing?”

  “He called it Pussy in Paradise—sounds like he at least knows that it was mostly filmed at the beach.”

  “Fuck.” Aside from Howard’s heavy breathing, silence was all Cici could hear coming over the phone.

  “Howard?”

  “I’m thinking. Have you told Ted?”

  “You’re my first call.”

  Cici covered her eyes with her hand. This was very bad. The idea of the footage going public made her feel ill.

  “Okay. I know a guy. I want to find out if this is contained.”

  Her career would end. And more important, what about Ted?

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Howard said. “I may need you to come to the office. Are you on a cell or a landline?”

  “Cell.”

  “Neither is safe. But my office is. We just swept it three days ago And don’t panic,” Howard said. “We’ll take care of this. Now go to bed.”

  “Yeah, right,” Cici said. “Like that’s possible.”

  “I’m serious. Plausible deniability is your friend, at least with Ted. If the footage hits the street, you don’t want Ted thinking you knew about this ticking bomb, do you? No, you can’t have known about this. So get off the phone, wash your face, put on some lingerie, and get into bed.”

  “How about sweatpants?”

  “A man can fantasize, can’t he?” Howard asked.

  “Yeah, as long as the fantasy isn’t based on a digital reality.”

  *

  Howard Abramowitz hung up the phone next to his bed. Celeste Solange was one of the world’s biggest stars and his most profitable client. Adrenaline pulsed through his body. If there was a tape, any kind of tape, showing Celeste having sex, all the dollars Celeste made for him and the rest of Hollywood would disappear.

  He put on his glasses. During Damien’s two divorces, Howard saw two different DVDs containing Celeste’s erotic “material.” In preparation for her divorce, Amanda Bruckner, Damien’s first wife, compiled footage of Damien sleeping with Celeste while still married to Amanda. Then Howard found out that Damien himself often filmed his and Celeste’s sexcapades and had compiled all the footage onto a DVD. The footage chronicled a number of encounters between t
he couple, along with some of their multipartner trysts. Damien promised Celeste that the DVD Howard had received from him was the original and that there were no copies. Howard knew Celeste had destroyed the DVD. And according to the settlement—and Damien’s claims—Damien had destroyed the original footage. So where was this DVD coming from?

  Howard rolled over and pulled himself upright, hoping he wouldn’t awaken his wife. She was a chatterbox and would want every sordid detail, none of which Howard felt comfortable sharing. He made his way down to his study, first stopping in the kitchen for a glass of milk.

  Howard knew one person who could determine if the footage was readily available: Sherman Ross. Howard kept Sherman’s number on speed dial. When you were a divorce attorney in Los Angeles with A-list clients, it was paramount that you kept the best private investigator on retainer. Some used Pellicano, but Howard liked Sherman. Besides, Sherman Ross never got caught.

  Pick up, pick up, pick up, Howard thought to himself as he paced his home office. For someone like Sherman, at 1:30 A.M., the night was just getting started.

  *

  Sherman Ross leaned against the bar at Velvet Tokyo. He watched as a gorgeous Latina rubbed her way down the thigh of a very married basketball star. Sherman turned his night-vision camera, built into a disabled cell phone, toward the dirty duo and tossed off a dozen quick photos. Hello, money, he thought. He felt his real cell phone in his pocket vibrate. He pulled it out and checked the number.

  “Hey, Howard, little late for you.”

  “Very. Where are you?”

  “Velvet Tokyo, little surveillance,” Sherman said.

  “I’ve got something for you. Something big.”

  “Big money or big job?”

  “Don’t they go together?”

  “Usually.”

  “And as always—”

  “Discretion is key,” Sherman finished Howard’s sentence.

  “Exactly. Can you come by my office tomorrow? Early?”

  “How early? This gig may take all night.”

  “How’s eleven?”