Girl About Town

by Adam Shankman

  Lulu really couldn’t take any more, so she hung up, rang the Ambassador’s front desk, and asked them to send the busboy up to Mr. van der Waals’s suite with her address.

  “And . . . action!” Lulu whispered under her breath when she heard the heavy knock at five minutes after seven. Her little makeshift cast of players was ready.

  Clara opened the door and admitted Mr. van der Waals to Lulu’s foyer.

  He looked so ordinary for a monster. Well dressed, of course, of middling height, with the slightest paunch and his hairline beginning to recede in a widow’s peak. But not the sort of man who would beggar thousands to put a few more dollars in his bank account. Not one who would destroy the lives of his son’s best friend and his father and then be indifferent to their tragic deaths.

  Certainly not one who would order a doctor to hook electrodes to his son’s brain and torture him until he was nothing more than a compliant menial.

  But he had done all that and more, both Mugsy and Freddie had assured her. “He said he would lobotomize me if the shock treatments didn’t work,” Freddie had told her. “He’d rather turn his son into a vegetable who could still produce heirs than let me live my own life.” She shuddered, and slipped into her character.

  She was playing Lulu Kelly that night. Not the weak Lucille who had submitted to a mobster’s threats and lied under oath. Not the battered Lulu who had trembled in a police station. She wasn’t poor. She wasn’t meek. She didn’t seek money, or fame, or even security. This Lulu Kelly had only one goal—to be with Freddie.

  If a screenwriter had written the part, she would never have auditioned. A woman who wants nothing more than to be with her man? How shallow, how one-dimensional, how old-fashioned! But she knew what love was now. It was just like in those preposterously romantic movies.

  “What’s all this?” Mr. van der Waals asked as he strode in, standing like he owned the house. “Who are these people? Where is my son?”

  Before she could answer, Vasily rose from his chair and slowly walked very near to Mr. van der Waals. “Fascinating,” he mused aloud, peering uncomfortably close at the tycoon. “I wonder what’s behind all of that marvelous bluster. So much anger and brio. I’d love to know what dark wounds that fantastic bravado is masking. So much delicious entitlement! Absolutely fascinating. Lots to chew on here. Quite a meal . . .” He sank back in his seat to make some notes.

  “Where’s Frederick?” Mr. van der Waals asked again.

  Blake spoke up. “What was Freddie like as a baby?” he asked, cocking his head to one side. “None of the backstory will actually be in the script, but I like to go to the very beginning of things when I play a part. Was he fussy? Did he eat strained prunes? What was his first word? I imagine it was ‘Bub-Bub,’ which was the name of his favorite stuffed elephant. In the backstory I’m creating, of course.”

  “What is all this nonsense?” Mr. van der Waals demanded.

  “How would you characterize your relationship with your mother?” Vasily asked. “I want to gain a firm hold on the source of your greed. Did it arise from loneliness? A feeling of inadequacy?” He leaned forward, studying Mr. van der Waals intensely. “Has money become your mother, Jacob? Or your father? Would you say you were oedipal?”

  Mr. van der Waals sputtered. From a nearby desk, Veronica said, “Oh, never mind about that. It’s not in the script—the page count would balloon far too large if I threw that in. The audience doesn’t care! They just want to see that crazy, savage face leering down at a little old lady as he tears her house deed from her hand. They want to see him kicking blind men’s dogs and knocking kiddies down with his juggernaut of a car. We’re just giving the people what they want, for cripes sake!”

  Mr. van der Waals was speechless.

  “Don’t forget the Shaw case,” David said. The others murmured in agreement. “Those are the scenes that really aced the script for me. Imagine what all of America will say when they’re sitting in a darkened theater, watching him ruin his son’s best friend’s family, see a man die . . . and call his lawyer. Classic American tragedy. Mr. van der Waals, it’s gold, I tell you! I’ve got three studios salivating for this.”

  “And we have our lead actors cast already, sir,” Lulu said quietly. “Blake here will play Freddie, and—”

  “And I will play you,” Vasily interrupted. “God, what a chance for an actor! To play one of the world’s unsung villains! I could be nominated.”

  Mr. van der Waals’s mouth worked in silent fury for a moment. “Do you mean to say you’ve written a screenplay based on . . . me?” Mingled with the fury, Lulu thought she saw a note of pure terror.

  David piped up. “Well, sir, the names will be changed, of course. Heaven knows we don’t want a lawsuit on our hands!” With that they all erupted in laughter, causing the dark red of Mr. van der Waals’s face to deepen further.

  David went on. “But the facts are pulled straight from life, and who it’s based on will be a very open secret. Your son was remarkably candid, and we have a few other sources willing to speak about the ins and outs of your corruption and greed. In Hollywood, these stories are the stuff dreams are made of.”

  “You can’t do this!” Mr. van der Waals shouted, and stepped toward Lulu menacingly. She held her ground.

  “Sure we can,” Veronica called from her corner. “Got half the script written already and studios lining up.”

  She shuffled the pages and handed them to Lulu, who began to read. “Scene opens on a huddled beggar, a little girl holding out an empty cup at the foot of the Pierre. Then the camera climbs, pointing downward, until the little beggar girl is just a speck, all the way up to your balcony, Mr. van der Waals. Tricky shot, some effects like they did in King Kong to be sure, but gosh, it’s powerful imagery. Chock-full of symbolism. Look how far you are above the masses! Look how far you have to fall! We all know what will happen to you after this movie comes out. You’re rich, Mr. van der Waals, but you can’t buy the entire movie business. Not when there are always stories like this to be told. The public loves it.”

  She lowered her voice. “And public opinion is a mighty powerful thing. How many houses will be open to you when the world knows the truth? Oh, no doubt plenty of your friends and business partners are almost as bad as you, but they managed to keep it a secret. You haven’t. How many investors will abandon you? I’m sure you’ll salvage plenty of your fortune—but your name, Mr. van der Waals! That name you are so proud of, that you mean to pass on to Freddie and his children. That name will be tarnished beyond repair. You’ll be the most hated man in the country. What happens to your grand empire then?”

  He ground his teeth together. Then, after a long, bitter pause, he asked, “How much will it take to make this go away?”

  “It never goes away, Mr. van der Waals. It’s your life.” Was that a flash of remorse she saw on his face? If so, it was fleeting. “But I promise you, the only way this movie won’t be made . . . is if you emancipate Freddie.”

  Mr. van der Waals was shaking. She had him.

  Or so she thought.

  He turned on his heel, and she thought he was leaving. But he only opened the door and called out into the hall.

  “It’s time!”

  He turned back to Lulu. “I’m afraid your little ploy won’t work. I would have been happy to pay you off with a few thousand, but you got greedy. Luckily, I made an arrangement for such a contingency. You have a very pretty face, Miss Kelly. For now. Allow me to introduce a gentleman of my acquaintance, one I’ve used to help with some of the, shall we say, rougher business negotiations I’ve had to deal with.”

  In walked Sal Benedetto.

  Lulu suppressed a scream, and Sal looked almost as startled to see her. She felt her knees tremble. But Sal made no move toward her.

  “If you please, Sal, teach this young lady what happens when someone tries to blackmail me,” Mr. van der Waals said.

  Lulu pressed her lips together to keep them from quivering. She w
anted more than anything to run. But she had to be strong and see how this played out. It was the only way she could help Freddie.

  Sal stood regarding Lulu for a long moment, a look of amused respect on his face.

  “Not her,” he said at last. “Deal’s off.”

  “What? You’re paid to take care of problems. Now take care of this!”

  Sal crossed his arms. “If I was you, I’d give the lady what she wants.”

  “Why, you dirty, no good . . . ,” Mr. van der Waals began, but Sal uncrossed his arms, letting his jacket fall open to reveal his gun. Mr. van der Waals backed down.

  “You win,” he snarled. “Freddie can stay or go.” He stalked out to the hall. “But don’t you think for a second that he’ll stick to you, you trashy little—”

  Sal slammed the door in his face. The group erupted into triumphant cheers. All except Lulu.

  “Nice little scam you have going here, Lu,” Sal said. “I gotta hand it to you. You can lie like a champ. Is he worth it, though?”

  She didn’t answer, but the glow on her face said it all.

  “Heard you’re all square with the law now. Shame. You and me, we could have been something. Might be, still. You never know. We’re both street kids, Lu. That Freddie, he’s just slumming. You know his father is right—he’ll go back where he belongs someday. They always do, baby doll.”

  She still didn’t say anything and didn’t move when he stepped forward and kissed her cheek in a brotherly way.

  “No hurry. I’ll be sticking around Los Angeles for a while. Big things happening here. There’s plenty of time for us. You don’t rush a good thing.” He tipped his hat. “Be seeing you, Lu.”

  When he was gone and the others had finished congratulating her on her success, Lulu sank down on her sofa, looking so radiant, so incandescently happy, that no one noticed the tiny nubbin of fear nestled inside her. Freddie wouldn’t leave her for his old life . . . would he?

  THIRTY-TWO

  Lulu had almost everything she could have dreamed of. Her freedom, her good name, her rising career. Who could ask for more? She looked joyously down at the kaleidoscope of colors in the remains of her Cobb salad. What a world this is, she thought. I can honestly tell my physical culture trainer that all I ate was a salad, but look—bacon!

  But the seemingly bright sky of her life, despite its myriad splendors, had a cloud. One that threatened a deluge of tears. This would be the hardest thing she’d ever done. To have found what she didn’t even realize she’d been looking for and then give it up . . .

  She raised her eyes and let her gaze rest on the handsome boy sitting opposite her in the Brown Derby booth. Outside, it was uncharacteristically stormy, but inside the Derby, it was cozy, alive with chatter and gaiety. Freddie had hardly touched his grenadines of beef in sauce bordelaise, but seemed content to devour her with eyes brimming with love. He smiled and took her hand across the table. Somewhere, a flashbulb flared. Lulu winced.

  “I don’t mind,” Freddie said. “It’s a small price to pay for the pleasure of your company.” He glanced toward the photographer, who had slipped the maître d’ a hefty tip to be allowed to snap pictures of the many actors in the popular restaurant. Despite the veritable Milky Way of stars, the photographer seemed most intent on capturing the notorious Lulu Kelly. Even though she was thoroughly cleared of all charges and the story about Ruby was the national buzz, she was linked to one of Hollywood’s most curious scandals, and the press happily served up her life to Hollywood’s hungry public. “I’ll put up with all kinds of paparazzi to be with you.”

  Lulu took a deep breath and sighed. This wasn’t going to be easy. “About that,” she began, as outside the wind blew harder.

  Freddie, perhaps sensing what was coming, quickly steered her away from what she was about to say. “Did you read the interview Ruby gave? She said she was delirious from pain medication during her initial interview and had confused a nightmare with real life. She said she realizes now that it must have been just an unfortunate accident, and she wants the world to know that she has no hard feelings against whoever made such a terrible mistake.”

  Lulu almost snorted out her sip of ginger ale.

  “Is that the story she’s telling the press? Veronica told me she confessed everything to the police and the studio heads. The police were all for prosecuting her for perjury and criminal mischief at the very least, but the studio convinced them—in their usual way, of course—to let the whole thing drop.”

  “Lux forgives her, then?” Freddie asked.

  “Oh, worse than that! Lux is positively thrilled with Ruby now. Veronica says she’s getting three magazine covers in the next week alone. All dolled up in that frilly bed jacket, looking plaintive and suffering. They have her lined up for a top-billing lead as soon as she’s recovered enough. Some movie about a nun. Can you imagine? If she pulls that baloney off, she should get an Oscar. And rumor has it they’re delaying the casting of House of Mirth with her in mind for the lead. There goes my break.”

  “You’re better at comedy than melodrama anyway, love.” Lulu pouted, and he grinned. “How did she go from criminal to studio darling?” Freddie wanted to know.

  “Easy: She became famous. And stopped just a hair short of being infamous. There’s no harder trick to pull off. It’s an outcome your publicist can’t plan for and all the money in the world can’t buy.”

  “And it was all thanks to you, in the end,” Freddie pointed out. “No one in the audience will know that she put the bullets in the gun, or practically committed suicide, or that she would have sent an innocent person to prison.”

  “No. All they see is that she suffered, put on a brave face, and rose like a rouged-up phoenix from the ashes and gun smoke. Almost wish I’d thought of it myself.”

  “Lulu!”

  “Oh, I’m kidding, of course. I honestly hope, for Ruby’s sake, that she doesn’t do anything to mess up this chance.”

  “She’s lucky to be alive,” Freddie said. “When people have a brush with death, it usually changes them.”

  Lulu sighed. “Knowing Ruby, it will probably only make her more prickly and arrogant. At least now we can hope she won’t try to throw herself at everyone with money or power . . . though you know what they say about old dogs and new tricks. Maybe she’s bought herself a little dignity with that stupid gamble.”

  “Let’s hope. Say, what are you doing tomorrow?”

  “I’m back on the set.”

  “For Girl About Town? You must be joking.”

  “Can you believe it? Niederman said they’re even using the footage of the shooting and writing it into the plot.”

  “That’s ghastly,” Freddie said, shaking his head.

  “I know. Now I suppose Ruby will probably get top billing for that, too. Niederman says it will likely be the studio’s top-grossing film. Everyone will want to see it out of morbid curiosity.”

  “This business, this town—it’s all crazy,” Freddie said.

  “No. It’s the world that’s crazy,” Lulu said. “If they didn’t want it, we wouldn’t make it.”

  “So that accounts for tomorrow.” Freddie caught her hand as she set down her ginger ale. “What about the rest of your life?” He held her gaze.

  “Freddie, I . . . I can’t.” Outside, lightning blazed through the night sky.

  His face fell, but he held her hand tighter. “What do you mean?”

  “I sold myself once before, Freddie. I can’t do it again.” She pulled her hand away and clenched her fingers together in her lap.

  “Lulu, I’m not . . .”

  “We can’t be together. You were born a millionaire, Freddie. There’s no getting around that. It’s who you are and what you’ll always be, no matter what kind of momentary detour you’ve taken. And all that I’ll really ever be is a kid from the slums, like Sal said.”

  Freddie’s face hardened. “You’re picking Sal over me?”

  Her eyes widened. “You fool. How c
an you ask me that? He wanted to buy me too. He just tried to force the sale. But you, Freddie—oh, you’re the most wonderful man I’ve ever met. The most wonderful person I’ve ever met. But I’ll never be a rich man’s plaything. Now that I know all about your money, even if you say you won’t touch it, everything is different. It sounds crazy, but it was so easy to love a bum who couldn’t give me anything but love. Someone who knew what it was to do without and to be grateful for what was worked for and earned. But I can’t feel that I’m bought and paid for. I can’t . . . I won’t love someone who might feel like he owns me.”

  “I’d never . . . ,” he began, but she interrupted him, tears in her eyes.

  “I wouldn’t be myself,” Lulu said. “I’d just be Freddie van der Waals’s girl. The millionaire’s baby. Or worse, that horrible name your father spit at me. Every time I earned something for myself, the world would say, ‘Sure, of course she got that part. Do you know who she’s dating?’ Oh, I don’t even care what the world would think—I would think it. Freddie, I adore you, but I just can’t.” The tears fell, and she made no effort to hide them.

  A waitress in a short skirt, oblivious to the melodrama unfolding at the table, sailed up and asked pertly if they’d like a little something sweet.

  “No,” Freddie said. “Just the check.”

  She placed it down next to Freddie.

  Very deliberately, he slid it across the table to Lulu.

  “I’m broke, remember. This is on you.” He moved to her side of the booth, put his arm around her, and dabbed her cheeks with his handkerchief. “Everything’s going to be on you, Lulu. At least for a while. I swear I’ll never touch my family’s money again. That life is over, forever. I think I have a job, though. Veronica introduced me to this private eye who’s looking for an assistant. The pay isn’t great, but I might be able to take you out for an ice-cream soda at Schwab’s once a week.”