Star Island

by Carl Hiaasen

  But beaches weren't Bang Abbott's favorite place to work. Concealment was difficult, and the lighting conditions were often bright and harsh. Worse, beaches were usually hot, and Bang Abbott was miserable in the heat. He perspired in unnatural spumes, soaking rapidly through his shirt, cap, even his pants. The odor didn't bother him so much as the stares; it was impossible to be inconspicuous while dripping like a Nile hippo.

  But a man had to make a living, so here he was, scouting the famous topless stretch of South Beach, near Lummus Park. A woman he'd met in line at a Subway shop had claimed to be a maid at the Clevelander and for twenty bucks she'd informed Bang Abbott that Lindsay Lohan and her latest girlfriend were catching some rays at Fifth Street. He figured what the hell, maybe he could earn some extra coin while awaiting Cherry Pye's next ambulance ride.

  So far, though, Bang Abbott hadn't spied Lindsay's bare breasts among the oiled, upright domes that glistened before him as far as the eye could see. The shore was clotted with male and female gawkers, many of them snapping pictures, so Bang Abbott saw no need for stealth as he plodded along the sand. Eventually he recognized a German supermodel and snapped a dozen shots before her swarthy male companion ran him off. A hundred yards down the beach, the photographer spied a woman who looked like Sienna Miller but turned out to be a licensed respiratory therapist from Louisville whose gym-rat husband had no sense of humor. Bang Abbott was in full flight when his cell phone began ringing. He didn't stop to answer until he made it to Collins Avenue.

  "You want your cameras, or not?" It was Cherry's new bodyguard.

  "Fuck yes. Where are you?" Bang Abbott panted.

  "The hotel. Meet me in the john by the lobby."

  "I'll be there in twenty."

  "And bring the goddamn money, Slim."

  Bang Abbott arrived with the cash and also the pistol, in case he was being set up. When he entered the rest room he saw Chemo standing before one of the mirrors, scrutinizing his feral hairpiece. The camera bag was on the floor.

  "As promised," Chemo said, holding out his hand to be paid.

  "Hang on." Bang Abbott hurriedly dug through the bag and found both Nikons and all the lenses--but no BlackBerry.

  "Where's the damn phone?" he asked.

  "Don't ask me." Chemo's scabrous features arranged themselves into a scowl. "Now gimme the money so I can get outta here."

  "But I need my phone!"

  "Buy a new one."

  "All my numbers, my sources--I'm dead in the water without 'em."

  Chemo shrugged. "My people are waitin' on me upstairs."

  Bang Abbott was infuriated. Why would Cherry return the expensive cameras and keep the BlackBerry? She seemed determined to mess with his head. He counted out four one-hundred-dollar bills and handed them to the bodyguard.

  "You get the other half when I get my fucking phone," he said adventurously.

  "Oh really?" The man called Chemo bolted the rest room door and unzipped his stumped limb, revealing what appeared to be a regulation-sized mechanical weed trimmer. When he turned on the motor, the noise echoed harshly off the tiles.

  Bang Abbott retreated into a stall, where he lifted his sodden shirttail to expose the butt of the Colt revolver in his belt. Chemo seemed amused. With a septic grin, he said, "That's a good one, Slim. Now hand over the rest of my goddamn money."

  The photographer complied. Chemo put away the weed whacker, kicked the camera bag into the stall and slammed the door. "Don't come out for fifteen minutes," he said.

  Bang Abbott stayed for nearly an hour. The toilet seat was a high-end fixture with a generous circumference, and he fit upon it comfortably. Upon inspection, both Nikons appeared to be undamaged, which was a relief, although one was missing its lens cap. When Bang Abbott scrolled through the contents of the memory file, he saw that Cherry had taken a sequence of photographs, apparently in the bathroom of her suite. In the opening frames she was topless except for a white towel draped around her neck. With one hand she was holding the Nikon over her head, aiming into the mirror while making sultry expressions with her sea-green eyes. Bang Abbott assumed the shots were meant to be private self-portraits, and he felt himself becoming aroused.

  Then he advanced to a frame in which she had shed the towel, uncovering a garish tribal tattoo: the face of what appeared to be a yodeling baboon, affixed to a truncated zebra body. In the final shot Cherry was crossing her eyes and sticking out her tongue, and Bang Abbott's lust turned to fury. He thought: The little whore is making fun of me!

  Instantly, and without a crumb of evidence, he concluded that Cherry had staged the teasing photographs specifically for him, leaving the images filed on his camera with acid mockery. He studied each picture over and over, his anger swelling, and by the time he emerged from the toilet stall he was irrationally, and fatefully, propelled.

  Ann DeLusia was born in Ames, Iowa, and never met her real father. She was raised alone by her mom, a vegan grocer who became a slavering fundamentalist and wed a professional bowler when Ann was a sophomore at Michigan State. In protest Ann dropped out of school and moved to Southern California, where she planned to become a screenwriter until the night she accidentally slept with one. The conversation was even more tedious than the sex, leading Ann to conclude that the golden days of Elaine May and William Goldman were over.

  At a friend's urging she decided to try acting, and because of her looks--which her insipid agent billed as "wholesomely sensual"--she landed nonspeaking parts in TV commercials for an assortment of feminine hygiene products, including a recyclable contraceptive ring. Finally Ann won the role of lawyer Joanne Jefferson in a road production of Rent, and although the pay was disappointing her reviews were good. She had no problem portraying a lesbian, and in light of her rotten experiences with Los Angeles men she began pondering a real-life reorientation.

  Then she met Lawrence, a flutist with a dwindling trust fund and a beach house in San Clemente and a singular talent in the sack. Ann DeLusia grew unaccountably comfortable with Lawrence and found herself overlooking multiple character deficits, such as his habit of showering with his springer spaniels and tipping only 9 percent in restaurants. Every night, before bed, Ann would carefully massage Rogaine foam on her new boyfriend's flapjack-sized bald spot, a gesture that Lawrence's mother asserted was proof of true love.

  After not quite a year, Ann was surprised to find out that her flutist was seeing a woman fifteen years his senior who owned a chain of dry-cleaning shops in Marin County, and would fly him up for orgies and Renaissance fairs. Ann dumped Lawrence on the same day her agency called about an unusual acting opportunity that offered good pay and frequent travel, along with a sworn confidentiality agreement. The "audition" was a ten-minute meeting in the lounge of the Four Seasons with Janet Bunterman, who fingered Ann's blond locks and examined her complexion and inquired about her bust size before sending her out the door. The next morning, Ann got the call. She said yes because she needed the money, and also because she liked the idea of not playing a stage character but rather a whole other woman, one who wouldn't be fooled by priapic show-offs wielding wind instruments.

  Although she wasn't an avid follower of Cherry Pye's career, Ann was aware from tabloid television of the singer's rollicking demons and sketchy reputation. She imagined that working as Cherry's secret double would never be dull--and possibly the closest she'd ever get to living a star's existence.

  "Why?" asked the henna artist, who turned out to be Lebanese, not Pakistani. "Why you do to your body such a thing?"

  Ann DeLusia said it was a long story. The woman peered at the Polaroid of Cherry Pye's tattoo and huffed in disapproval. "What is supposed to be this picture?"

  "A man's face on a zebra. Actually, half a zebra."

  "No, no," objected the henna artist. "It is for you not right."

  "Please, Sasha. I don't have much time."

  "Is a penis, that thing?" The henna artist pointed distastefully. "Penis of zebra?"

  "Possibly,"
Ann conceded.

  "This is sickness, young lady! Let me instead do pretty bamboo moth."

  Ann told her that the disturbing tattoo was needed for a party. "I'll scrub it off first thing tomorrow," she lied.

  The henna artist said, "Salt water and loofah, hokay? Soak for twenty minutes."

  "Gotcha."

  Ann removed her blouse and pinned up her hair and sat down under the lamp. Afterward Cherry's driver took her to Bal Harbour, where she bought a short black dress and pumps at Max Mara. Even though everything was marked down 30 percent, Ann ended up using some of her own cash because Janet Bunterman hadn't given her enough, as usual.

  Upon returning to the Stefano, Ann went straight to her room and scoped out the ink on her neck. Catastrophic, she thought. Thank God it's only South Beach.

  Cherry's mother stopped by and took a look. "She did a nice job, no?"

  "You owe me, big-time," Ann muttered.

  "Yes, well, we made the right move. Cherry's posted a picture on her MySpace page. Now I suppose the whole bloody world knows."

  "She took a picture of her tatt?"

  Janet Bunterman nodded. "While she was locked in the bathroom. I told the Larks to take it down but they said it had already gone viral. They said for us to stay cool and roll with it."

  "Yeah, let me know how that works out." Ann frowned at the henna replica in the mirror.

  "What they did do, the Larks, they went on the site and cropped Cherry's breasts out of the frame."

  "Absolutely. We wouldn't want her to embarrass herself." Ann stretched out on the bed. Listening to Cherry's mom almost made her appreciate her own.

  Janet Bunterman said, "I wish I knew what was going on in her head."

  "Can't help you there. What time's the prom?"

  "Chemo will come get you at eleven. Did you find a dress?"

  Ann DeLusia laughed. "We'll make a stunning couple, don't you think? Me and Senor Chemo."

  "Don't get cute with him, Annie. He doesn't do cute."

  The costume fittings took several hours, but the designer kept Cherry Pye entertained with anecdotes about famously unbearable divas. As soon as he was gone, Cherry vectored for the minibar, only to discover that all the beer and liquor had been removed. "What the fuck!" she exclaimed.

  Chemo, who was reading a National Geographic, looked up and said, "Doctor's orders."

  "Did you do this?"

  "Keep your goddamn voice down," he told her.

  Never before had Cherry been addressed so rudely by the help. She announced that she was firing Chemo on the spot.

  He said, "I don't work for you, child. I work for Mr. Lykes." Then he went back to his magazine.

  Cherry ran into the bedroom, slamming the door. In the dregs of her handbag she found a single yellow pill, furry with lint, and swallowed it. She had no idea what she was taking; she assumed it was a leftover goody from her night with Tanner Dane Keefe. Speaking of whom, she had texted the actor, like, twenty-five times on the new iPhone her mother had bought to replace the one Cherry had left at Rainbow Bend. Young Tanner hadn't responded, indicating to Cherry that their dreamy relationship had been damaged by the incident at the tattoo parlor. She thought: What if that big waffle-faced freak scared my new boyfriend away?

  When Cherry emerged from the bedroom, she was wearing only a flesh-tone thong and a lace push-up bra. Chemo gave her an amused glance but said nothing. She sat down beside him on the sofa and scissored her legs languidly across the glass coffee table.

  "Can't we be buddies?" she asked.

  "That ain't what they pay me for. Jesus, what's that smell?"

  "Me," Cherry said with a smoky laugh. "I got my own perfume."

  It was called Fizz, a scent hastily formulated during a previous downswing in her career. Fewer than four thousand bottles had been sold, the remaining units now occupying a climate-controlled warehouse in Queens.

  Frowning, Chemo sniffed the air. "Lemme guess--guava rind and horse piss."

  "Real funny. What're you reading, tall dude?"

  "All about penguins. They mate for life."

  Cherry tittered. "How boring is that? I mate for fun."

  She slid closer, pressing against him. Chemo said, "You can't be serious."

  "My last bodyguard, he got his pecker pierced."

  "Big deal. I had mine fiberglassed." He slapped shut the National Geographic and stood up. "Go put on some damn clothes." Her mother was coming soon and it wouldn't look good, the girl sprawling in her underwear beside him.

  Cherry raised one leg and wiggled her toes. "So, boyfriend, there's a hot party at Pubes. Wanna hit it?"

  "You're in lockdown." He went to the minibar and popped open a V-8.

  She said, "Aw, don't be such a d-bag."

  Chemo watched her adjust one of her bra cups to expose a dark crescent of nipple. Maury Lykes had warned that something like this might happen. It was kind of pathetic.

  "I want a picture of us together," Cherry said. "Where's that black bag with the cameras?"

  "What black bag?" Chemo noisily sucked down the vegetable juice. In prison the authorities had rewarded his good behavior by returning his dynamic prosthesis and letting him clear a small garden in the yard behind the kitchen. Over time, Chemo had developed a taste for fresh produce, although not to the exclusion of jerked pork or pot roast.

  "Yo, show me your thing," Cherry said playfully. "The fake arm, I mean."

  It wasn't often that Chemo got to deploy his appliance twice in the same day. "I'll let you see it," he said, "but only if you put on a robe."

  "Cool!"

  As soon as Cherry came out of the bathroom, he unsheathed the weed trimmer. Her eyes widened, which is when Chemo noticed that her pupils were dilated.

  She said, "Holy shit. Turn it on, dude!"

  "Are you high?"

  "Come on, slash away. Please?"

  He touched the starter button and went to work on the wallpaper, an off-ivory damask. Cherry was hopping around like a kangaroo, she was so jazzed. Chemo silenced the device when Janet Bunterman walked in.

  Drily she said, "I'm glad you two are hitting it off."

  "Can I go now?" Chemo asked.

  "You expect me to pay for that wall?"

  "I bet you can swing it," he said.

  "Go where?" Cherry demanded.

  Janet Bunterman said, "Chemo's got a date, sweetie. I'm staying over, to keep you company."

  "He's got a date? Yeah, right." Cherry let the robe fall open, just to give her mother a jolt. "So you know, Mom--the guy's, like, all over me. It's so gross."

  Janet Bunterman thought Cherry was probably lying, but she didn't wish to appear to be taking sides against her own child. Adopting an air of maternal concern, she turned to address Chemo, who seemed unfazed by the sordid accusation.

  "Did something happen here?" she asked.

  With his forefinger Chemo was casually excavating a sore on his chin. He said, "No offense, but I wouldn't bone your daughter with someone else's dick."

  Janet Bunterman reddened, while Cherry angrily cried, "Mom, I want you to fire that awful pervert right this minute!"

  "Everybody just settle down," Janet Bunterman said, as much to calm herself as Cherry. The new bodyguard was outrageously crude, not to mention spooky, but Maury wouldn't cave and Maury was running the show.

  Chemo asked what time it was.

  "Late," said Cherry's mother. "You'd better go."

  He re-cloaked the weed whacker and went next door to his room, where he put on a beret, some wraparound Ray-Bans and a black leather jacket with extra-wide sleeves. Then he took the stairs two flights down and knocked on the door of Room 409, where the woman named Ann had been waiting. Chemo was interested to see that she had a tattoo exactly like Janet Bunterman's spacey daughter, on the same part of her neck. When she noticed him looking, she tried to cover it with a swoop of hair.

  As they waited for the elevator, she asked, "Does my dress look okay?"

  "Okay for
what?"

  Ann had used a tan concealer to cover the scrapes on her legs left over from the car accident. She said, "Never mind. You know the drill, right?"

  Chemo nodded. "I get out first, then you follow while I clear the way. Hang on to the back of my jacket and holler if somebody touches you. We stop for a few seconds at the door, so the assholes out front can get some pictures--"

  She shook her head. "I'm not talking about that. I mean the party. You understand we won't be hanging with Kanye or Justin tonight, due to the fact that I'm not the real Cherry Pye, I'm just a civilian. This is all a dumb act, a PR scam--you're aware of that, right?"

  Chemo said, "Is the question, do I give a fuck? Because the answer's no, long as I get paid."

  After they entered the elevator, he said, "They got us set up in the club manager's office with Chinese takeout and a flat-screen TV. Maybe an hour, then we're back in the car."

  The woman named Ann raised her eyes to the smoked-mirror ceiling and checked her makeup. Chemo saw the resemblance to Janet Bunterman's daughter, although he thought Ann was actually prettier.

  "One of these nights, I'm gonna get up and dance my ass off," she said. "Screw the Buntermans."

  "Some other time," Chemo grunted.

  She smiled ruefully. "Right, it's your first gig. Don't worry, I won't get you in trouble."

  He said, "I never worry."

  As the elevator door opened, Ann put on her shades. She had to walk quickly to keep up with Chemo's long stride, the heels of her new shoes clicking on the buffed terrazzo. A few tourists paused to watch her pass, while a lone paparazzo whom Ann recognized from prior encounters trailed her across the lobby.

  "Nice tatt, Cherry!" he called out. "How about a big smile for your fans?" Ann let him snap a few shots, then she picked up the pace.

  A black Suburban from the limo service was idling in front of the hotel. Chemo opened the back door and helped Ann get seated. At that moment, a bellman crossing in front of the SUV lost his footing and spilled a trolley full of Louis Vuitton suitcases, blocking the driveway. The chauffeur jumped out of the Suburban and began swearing in Creole at the bellman, who swore back in Spanish.