by Sean Black
"No, that I could deal with. It's the principal."
Eight
LOCK CAUGHT UP with Ty outside the bungalow. "She's freaking out," said Ty.
"Freaking out how?" he asked him.
"One minute she was talking to that chick Paula, all nice and calm. Next thing I know, she saying she's too scared to face the media tomorrow and Paula is telling her that it's in her contract and that she has to do it." Ty lowered his voice. "She's scared. I'm sorry, man, I know you were having some down time but I don't deal well with stuff like this."
Lock clapped Ty on the shoulder. "You mean like emotions?"
"Yeah, all that feelings shit and stuff. Not my area."
"Don't worry. I'll talk to her. Has she had any phone calls from him? Emails? A text?" Lock asked.
That was the problem with the plethora of modern communications. Someone could exit an abusive relationship and yet still be subjected to abuse via a host of other channels. Sure, people could be blocked on Facebook and Twitter but abusive former partners, not to mention anonymous trolls, were often skilled at working around online safeguards. It made Lock wonder why so many kids craved fame when the downside was so vast. Wealthy clients he had worked for knew that, often paying substantial sums to make sure that their names never appeared in the gossip columns. Showbiz was different though. You traded privacy not for fame but for money, but like every trade there was a price on the other end. Once you stepped over that line it was difficult to step back again.
Ty took a moment to consider Lock's question. "I asked but she said she'd already switched cell numbers, and her social media is all handled by her management. She doesn't even look at any of it," Ty said.
"Smart girl," said Lock, "I'll speak to her." He moved past Ty and knocked at the bungalow door. After a while it opened a crack and Paula, the PR woman, peeked out. "Can I come in?" Lock asked her.
She opened the door. He walked in. Summer was perched on the couch, her head in her hands. Her face was a mask of smeared make-up and long tangled red hair. She clasped a mascara-stained tissue clasped in her right hand.
"I'm sorry," she said. "You were supposed to be spending the evening with your fiancee, right?"
"Don't apologize," he said. "You mind if I sit down?"
She scooted along the couch a little. He shot the PR lady his best 'gimme a minute here' look and she disappeared into one of the bedrooms. He sat next to Summer and let the moment settle. There was an end table with a box of lavender-scented tissues. He plucked one out and handed it to her.
"Here," he said, taking the damp tissue she was holding in trade. He threw it across the room at a small trash container next to a desk. It bounced off the edge and fell onto the carpet. He left it where it was.
"You really suck at that," she said.
"Ty's the basketball player," he said. "But I am good at keeping people safe. I promise you nothing's going to happen to you while I'm here."
"And what if it already has?"
Without having to ask, he knew what she was talking about. Abuse and the damage it caused took many forms. Perhaps the deepest and most difficult to heal was psychological. He didn't have to be a shrink to see that Summer's relationship with Jason had wounded her in ways that went way beyond the physical. Over the years he had seen people with amazing physical resilience and mental strength crumble when confronted with situations they found traumatic. When you had one view of how the world worked, only to discover a colder, more hostile reality, the realization could leave its mark. Whether it was watching a child being blow sky high on the streets of Kabul or having someone you loved and trusted try to strangle the life out of you with his bare hands, a shadow was left behind.
"Hey," said Lock. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to. That's rule number one."
She stared at the carpet. "Try telling the studio that."
"The hell with them. You really think they'd go after you for breach of contract under the circumstances?"
"No." The word came in a whisper.
He was getting through to her. Whether she did or didn't do the press in the morning was immaterial to him. What was important was that she understood she wasn't being pressured or guilt-tripped into doing it. The poor kid had likely experienced enough of that to last a lifetime from her ex-boyfriend.
"You don't know what it's like," said Summer. "Everybody sees all this," she swept a hand out, taking in the opulence of the room. "And they think that someone like me can't have any problems." She looked back to Lock. "Do you know what's it like not to be able to trust anybody?"
Lock thought back to his recent sojourn undercover in Pelican Bay Supermax, a place so racially divided and full of intrigue that to even talk to someone with different color skin was tantamount to asking for a death sentence. "I've been in difficult situations before, but no I don't know what it's like to live the life you have."
"My whole life," she said, "I've been judged by people who don't even know me but think they do. As soon as I walked into a casting I was either too short, too tall, too young looking, too old. Then when you do manage to build a career for yourself, it just gets worse. You wake up one day and you're surrounded by people kissing your ass but you know that the only reason they're doing it is because they want something from you. It's tiring, you know. Everything I wear, everything I say. I gain five pounds, and I'm front page of the Enquirer."
Lock didn't say anything. It was good that she was confiding in him. He had to have trust for this to work.
"That was why I liked Jason," she went on. "He'd been through it all. He knew the game. He knew that it was a game. I didn't have to pretend to be someone I wasn't with him." Her eyes began to fill again with tears. "But he wanted something from me too. In the end, he was the same as everyone else."
"So why do it at all? Why not walk away?" he asked, his curiosity genuine.
"Why do you keep doing what you do, Mr. Lock?"
Lock smiled. Like most people he didn't give too much day to day thought to his choice of profession. You got up. You went to work. You came home.
"I guess that I do this because I enjoy it and it's what I'm good at."
"Same for me with acting. When I'm in rehearsals or on set, I'm all good. It's the other stuff that's hard."
Something occurred to Lock. "I protect people and you act. So go in there tomorrow and act like you're cool with everything. Pretending. That's what your job boils down to, right?"
"I guess."
"So tomorrow let's both do that."
She swallowed. He could see some small measure of composure return to her. She sat up a little straighter. "You'll be with me?"
Lock fixed her with his eyes. "Every step. If he even so much as looks at you the wrong way, I'll really give the reporters something to write about."
Nine
LOCK WALKED OUT of the bungalow to where Ty was standing. "I'm going to take another look at the room they're using tomorrow then I'll be back and you can go rest."
"She okay?"
"For now."
He left Ty and walked down the path to the swimming pool. A scattering of people sat at tables, most of them smokers, refugees from the hotel bar. A couple of movie executive types, suit jackets slung over the back of chairs, shirts unbuttoned, puffed on cigars the size of small torpedoes. At the next table Lock recognized a very famous male actor with old-school matinee idol good looks who was always being pictured with a dazzling array of beautiful women. He was holding hands under the table with another man.
A little further back, safe from the reflection of the pool lights, sat a lone male. He was nursing a whisky and smoking a cigarette, his face shadowed by a hat. He looked up at Lock and smiled.
Lock walked over to the table, and Jason gestured for him to sit down. "What are you doing here?" Lock asked.
Maybe it was the booze, or just what Summer had already seen, but there was a malevolence in Jason's eyes, a bitterness to his expression that had been absent at the
beach house.
"You kicked me out of the place I was staying, remember? I have press here in the morning, and besides," he slurred, lifting his crystal tumbler of Scotch, "the bar here's pretty good. But don't worry, bodyguard, I'm not going to cause any trouble."
Lock kept himself calm and his voice even. Jason was a man spoiling for a fight and Lock rolling around poolside with him would do no one any favors, least of all Summer who had only just gotten herself together and whose bungalow was within earshot of any potential disturbance.
"I didn't think you would," said Lock, getting up.
"You want a drink?" Jason asked, the hatred in his eyes at odds with the drunken grin plastered over his face.
"I'm on duty."
Jason laughed. "Very professional of you."
Lock started to walk away without reply.
"She's a great lay. If you or your buddy get a shot at her, take it," Jason shouted after him, loud enough to draw glances from the other people around the pool.
It would have been the easiest thing in the world for Lock to turn on his heel, walk back to the table, and obliterate the loud-mouthed Aussie. But it would have achieved the square root of zero. For Lock, violence was like a lot like Jason – just a tool.
He kept walking, taking the long way round as he headed back to the bungalow. He pulled Ty one to one side, careful to keep his voice to a whisper.
Ty glared in the direction of the pool as Lock brought him up to speed.
"So what's the play if he shows up?" Ty asked.
"Kick his ass then call the cops," said Lock. "In that order."
Ten
SAVE FOR A couple of gelled lights arranged to make the two stars of the movie look their best in front of the single camera, the room was dark. Lock watched from a position off to one side as a fresh-faced Summer walked into the room with Ty. He was starting to see why she made the big bucks. Even as she took her seat next to a grizzled Jason, who was still clearly suffering the after-effects of last night's one-man whisky party, there was no hint that she was anything other than happy and relaxed.
The two stars were seated in old-fashioned canvas director chairs that had their names on the back. Much to Lock's amusement, the legs of Jason's chair appeared to be three of four inches longer than Summer's. With the cameraman shooting them from the waist up it would make Jason appear to be the taller of two. A huge red and black one-sheet for the movie was positioned directly behind them, the two stars looking brooding and serious as they stared at each other across the poster, no doubt focused on a possible Oscar nomination.
The drill was standard for these types of events. Members of the US and overseas press corps who covered Hollywood and related entertainment news would have fifteen minutes each with the two stars. Five minutes with Jason, five with Summer, and five minutes of joint interview questions. The questions were standard, and so, Lock realized after the first few interviews, were the answers. It was mind numbing to watch.
Jason palmed a couple of painkillers with some coffee as the third joint interview ended. He only spoke to Summer when a reporter was present and lapsed back into a sullen silence when it was just them and the attendant cameraman, PR people, Lock, and Ty. Even if he had wanted a fight, he didn't look like he would be able to summon the energy. Lock was relieved. There were only six more hours to go. After that the only time Summer would have to deal with this douchebag would be a chance encounter at a party or awards ceremony.
As the morning wore on, the questions remained as turgid but the young actress's mood seemed to lift. It was an ordeal but one with an end in sight. They broke for lunch early – around noon – and Summer retreated back to her bungalow, escorted at a discrete distance by both Lock and Ty.
"So far, so good," said Ty.
Even Lock, who for professional reasons always tried to anticipate a worst case scenario, had to agree. "Yup. He seems to have settled down."
A day or so later Summer would be on a plane, heading for the set of her next movie. Lock and Ty would have banked a hefty sum and the young actress, grateful for Lock's support, both practical and emotional, had already said he and Carrie could stay in the Malibu beach house until they had to return to New York. As close protection jobs went it had been easy money.
After lunch, Jason bounced back into the room. He made a beeline for Lock. Lock guessed that lunch had probably consisted of a couple of lines of cocaine and a couple of beers to settle his stomach.
Jason stuck out his hand. "Listen, mate, I really am sorry about last night. Dunno what got into me. Are we good?"
Lock stared at him with dead eyes until the actor dropped his hand back down by his side. "Okay, mate, I don't blame you for not wanting to shake. No worries."
He skulked back to his seat as Summer came back into the room and took her position. Jason smiled broadly at her. "You look great."
He reached over to touch her knee and from the corner of the room Ty made a noise that sounded to Lock distinctly like a growl.
"Touch her anywhere, little man, and I'll chop your goddamn hand off and feed it to you," said the six foot four former Marine.
The respective PR people started to look flustered. "We have Deadline Hollywood next, so if everyone could settle down," said Jason's PR person.
Jason open-palmed another apology. "Relax, folks, we're all good. I was just being friendly."
"Let's just get this done," said Summer, some of her previous poise evaporating.
The remains of the afternoon dragged for everyone besides Jason who took a bathroom break after an hour, returning even more manic than before. He had presumably refreshed himself with some more Bolivian marching powder. Twice, Lock had to speak to him out of earshot of reporters. Both times Jason apologized. He was clearly testing the boundaries, a toddler trapped in a man's body.
Around five thirty in the afternoon, the final reporter was escorted in. A hyperactive Jason shifted in his chair, animated and cracking jokes. Summer did her best to match his mood but Lock could see her wilting from the stress of the situation. It had been a long day.
Having waxed lyrical about the movie, the reporter asked his final question. "So when are we going to see you two back on screen together?"
Summer was first to answer. "Well, I really enjoyed working with such a talented actor. I guess it all depends on the right project coming up."
The reporter nodded. It had already been explained that questions about their relationship were off-limits and the one or two journalists who had edged in that direction had been very firmly guided back to the movie by the PR handlers.
Jason smiled broadly when it came his turn. He dug into his pocket for his cell phone, and fiddled with the display as he answered the question.
"I don't know, Bob," he said to the reporter. "Summer is a very exciting performer. The public just might be surprised. The world may be seeing us together on screen sooner than everyone thinks."
At this, Summer was up and out of her chair with a hurried, "Sorry, I don't feel well. I think it's the lights," to the reporter as she hightailed it from the room. Lock nodded for Ty to go with her.
Jason looked over at Lock and grinned. Lock stayed in neutral. He knew that Jason wanted a reaction for two reasons. For one, if Lock did hit him, the level of violence would be constrained by the presence of the camera and the other people present. Second, any reaction by Lock would have negative implications for Summer.
What they had now was a grade-A Hollywood asshole conforming to type. It was hardly news and containable. The reporter would be spoken to, that section of the footage, which was being shot on the distributor's dime, would be scrubbed. There would be no story.
"Nice try," Lock said to Jason whose grin had faded as everyone in the room stared at him.
Eleven
LOCK AND TY sat together in the living area of Summer's bungalow. Through the closed bedroom door they could hear her choked sobs. It had taken the best part of an hour for them to work out precisely wh
y the young actress had reacted so violently to Jason's comments.
Ty held up a smartphone, tilting the screen so Lock could see it. It was full-screened to the video player. On the screen was a close up of Summer's face as it had appeared in movie theatres around the world. But this time the image was grainy and badly lit. In the background Lock recognized the master bedroom of Summer's Malibu beach house; the foot of the bed, a dressing table, a mirror that threw back the reflection of Jason holding up a cell phone in one hand and an unwrapped condom in the other.
"You wanna play?" he said.
On screen, Summer smiled at him, pushing herself up the bed and revealing her bare breasts.
"You can kill that," said Lock.
Ty tapped the screen and the image disappeared.
Since One Night in Paris, the homemade sex tape which had catapulted Paris Hilton into the public eye, celebrity sex tapes had become a sad feature of a tawdry cultural landscape where absolutely nothing was sacred. At first they had been leaked to the media, or online, as a way of boosting a celebrity's public profile. But over the past few years, with the growth of camera phones, YouTube, and social networking sites, they had increasingly been used by men seeking to humiliate and even blackmail former partners.
"He emailed it to her?" Lock asked Ty.
Ty nodded. "She had her cell phone switched off during the interview. She switched it back on after she left the room and there it was. Time stamp says he sent it around lunchtime. This was what he was talking about when he started talking shit back there."
Lock chewed at his lip for a second. "Any message?"
"Just some bull about remembering the good times. He was pretty careful about how he worded it," said Ty.
"Yeah, the guy has a real way with words," Lock said, knowing that if Jason had hinted at anything else they could have him arrested for blackmail.
"What we gonna do?" Ty said.
"I'm going to call Carrie," said Lock. "Get her take on this."
