CoverBoys & Curses

by Lala Corriere

  Sterling hesitated, then reached into her pocket. “I’m sorry. I just don’t know what to do with these.”

  Payton’s keys to her house. We’d never been instructed how to return them.

  “I’ll hold on to them. Maybe call her mom,” I said. I walked inside, pulled out the box we had taken from Payton’s home and placed them inside.

  “I shouldn’t have dumped them on you.”

  “Why not?”

  “The new surroundings are great, Lauren, but they won’t heal what’s inside of you. You’ve had a lot of loss in your life, this much I know is true. Maybe you should consider some professional counseling.”

  I heaved back onto the chair. “Seems like a popular notion these days.”

  “I’m the worst one to offer advice, but I think you need to get hold of your priorities, and it doesn’t seem like it should be business. And just so you know, we’re your family. Me and Carly.

  “You’re all I have left in the world.”

  And I’d fear for my life if only I were them.

  Chapter Twenty

  Celebrations

  DR. HARLAN COAL COULD always shake off the flu-like symptoms his body endured after a night at a good baseball game. It was worth it, he thought. A cocaine celebration well deserved. All of his community homes had sold for full asking price. None of his clients, or buyers, or patients, or whatever he decided to call them, had the good sense to haggle over his inflated sales price. Exorbitantly ridiculous, even by Hollywood Hills standards.

  There wasn’t a space unsold for his therapy sessions, either—all booked out months in advance. And he’d be juggling his next book tour after he finalized the deal with his new publisher. Of course the publisher didn’t know that he wasn’t going to sign books in some damn storefront. And in certain states where the threat of his being exposed loomed too large to risk. He’d be holding seminars where attendees would get a free book for the steep price of admission, of course.

  An appointment he anticipated with alacrity dragged on for forty minutes before his patient finally got around to asking him what he wanted to hear. He cleared his throat and excused himself for a moment. In his private bathroom he took a cold washcloth to his face, then breathed. He took a tissue to his nose. A little blood. No big deal. Just a little too much baseball. He studied himself in the mirror, then returned.

  “I’ll squeeze her in, Carly, but only as a favor to you. You know I’d do anything for you. You said her name is Visconti? How do you spell it? And her first name?”

  I ENTERED MY BUILDING through the lobby’s brass and glass doors and crossed to the bank of elevators. The center cab opened and three little elderly ladies decked out in Rodeo Drive hats and matching handbags stopped short their chattiness. All three raised their eyebrows to me as I waited for them to exit the elevator, as if I should have apologized for my intrusion.

  I’d closed on the sale of my building and had bought out all the tenant leases except for one. The cranky geriatric psychiatrist on the tenth floor refused to be bought out of his lease, no matter my offering price for any inconvenience. It made me wonder what the difference was between a geriatric shrink and every other Hollywood mind-guru. I guess I really didn’t want to know the answer. Mostly the doctor kept to himself, and mostly his clients did the same. Still, I felt like I was the outsider.

  Closing my private office door now on the top floor, I willed myself into a capricious state of mind. I’d self-prescribe that for my over analytical mind.

  CoverBoy sales looked promising, given the inclement market. Subscriptions were up seventeen percent over our predictions, and just as Queen Geoff had speculated, we discontinued our discounted launch prices on advertising. There were no complaints from our growing list of advertisers, unless we were out of units to accommodate them.

  I wasn’t going to let Geoff’s constant warnings ruin my day. We had run a story about the model. And we were going to run many more, if the fates would allow. Our articles were provocative. We had the glistening abs thing going, but we did the real stuff in investigative journalistic reporting. Sometimes we got flack. Sometimes we even got hate mail. I was aware this would not change. And I stood firm. We documented every word we printed.

  Even our critics seemed to back off. We had a good format. We conducted concrete interviews. We didn’t sensationalize. We told the truth. Sadly, the truth was often sensationally sickening.

  CoverBoy ran these stories next to pictorials depicting what women wanted to see. Real men in real situations. Some male models wore extravagantly expensive suits, a few were almost naked and with visible arousals. Our top models were in their twenties, but we filled bountiful pages with men far older, including a seventy-three year old swimmer who wanted us to show all of him. Sukie did a ‘Women of Rylstone’ thing at the last moment, strategically placing a life preserver in front of his family jewels.

  We had plenty of female portraitures, too. Real women. We had one rule that shocked the women’s media world. Sukie did touch-ups and used filters, but no photograph received digital enhancement. No body shop parts, either.

  Our formula worked.

  The hate mail kept coming in. No surprise, this month it came from the top model agencies, their owners and their talent agents. They didn’t like our inference that cocaine diets were a prescribed means to fame on the runway. We didn’t infer, anyway. We reported the facts.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Centre

  CARLY’S NEW HOME looked nothing like her mansion in Bel Air. One fourth of the square footage. Far less opulence. Nothing more than a Mexican kitchen and I knew she loved to cook. I choked back the shock, relieved to see she still surrounded herself with a few personal treasures, including a worn leather chair and a few framed photos. Other than that, the place was a Shaker style of barren.

  I asked Carly to show me her house before my introductory meeting with Dr. Coal. I hoped it would calm me down, but in spite of the lovely grounds, the warm reception, and Carly’s rapturous state of mind in her new home, something didn’t feel right.

  Me. And a shrink. That wasn’t right. It wasn’t a Visconti thing to do.

  “Some of the homes are co-ed. Some are more like bunkhouses,” Carly said. “There are a few families on the south side where the play equipment is. Stuff like that. If there’s any pressure around here it’s in not sharing your home, because they’re all sold and so many people want to live here. I need my privacy. I paid for it.”

  “Privacy? With no locked doors?”

  “You noticed. Ultimately it’s about respect,” Carly added.

  “Respect?”

  “Spatial respect and respect of property. The people want to live here. There’s even a waiting list. It’s hard for me to put into words, Lauren, but they’re like family to me. The family I never had. I have all the privacy I need, but I also take comfort in knowing so many wonderful people live and hang out around here.”

  Carly explained that there were only a couple of locked doors on the entire compound—none in the privately owned homes. Most of the public areas had no doors. Screens here and there stood as the only sentry to protect interiors from critters or inclement weather. As I crossed the grounds toward the building where I would be meeting Dr. Coal, the structure unfolded with open archway after archway. Gateways, Carly called them.

  ARRIVING ON TIME, I wasn’t sure what to do. Knock on the wall? Give out a ‘yoo—hoo’? The inner passages seemed inviting enough. I walked in.

  I’d already endured a series of involved oral interviews from staffers at The Centre. A written questionnaire seemed to be the length of a novella by the time I completed it. Apparently, I was applying for therapy. Apparently, I had passed the test.

  From what I knew of him the barren room personified his platform for both his community and the successful practice he’d created. Polished Santos wood floors gave way to his small wooden desk and chair—quality pieces but in a plain minimalistic style. In lieu of
the traditional therapist’s sofa, a variety of aged dhurrie rugs dominated the floor space and pillows scattered recklessly across the floor. The lighting was natural, enhanced with a few full-spectrum bulbs. A faint and unobtrusive scent of chamomile and cypress lingered. The few notable extravagances were a pair of woodcarvings—lions standing guard over the open space, a large altar framed by white candles, and a most unusual statue on the desk.

  “Go ahead. You can touch it. Almost everyone does. It seems to attract people like a Buddha’s belly,” Dr. Coal said as he entered the room from behind me.

  “It’s one of a kind. The ivory elephant is the symbol of good luck when his trunk is lifted that way. He’s setting sail in the small wooden rowboat, the lowliest form of transportation on the high seas, and he knows he’s a hefty load. That symbolizes faith.”

  I didn’t touch the sacred ivory, but my fingers glossed over the rich detail of the carved stone base. “And the marble?”

  “Lapis lazuli, actually. The gemstone of powers and hidden energies. And either the artist knew that, or he was just happy to find a blue rock that resembled the ocean waters.” He extended his hand. “You must be Lauren.”

  I expected L.A. opulence, and I definitely expected the good doctor to be dressed in no less that a silk suit and alligator shoes. Tie—optional. Instead he greeted me himself, without a receptionist. Not even a receptionist’s desk. As Carly had told me, there were few doors, not even to mark the entrance. He was dressed in a casual Ralph Lauren beach look, with a white gauze shirt flowing over white cotton drawstring pants, and leather sandals on his feet.

  Aware I might have been staring, I darted my eyes back to the statue. “Very informal.”

  “Does that concern you?”

  “No. Not really.” A breath of fresh air.

  MOON BLADE SLATHERED the counter with a coat of fresh blood. It didn’t matter for now where the blood came from. Insatiable, the copper tang of the blackened pool of liquid would make do to make the evening right.

  The Macarta black-handled Damascus skinner, along with a Springsteel and an assortment of fine daggers, remained tucked away in their sanctuary. Rebuilding energy. Strengthening their pulse.

  Soon. Very soon.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Let’s Begin

  “WE TRY TO MAINTAIN a family atmosphere around here and that goes for both the community homes and our therapy rooms here at The Centre. For those that insist, I have my wall of certificates and pedigrees, somewhere around one of these halls.” He offered an easy laugh. “Do you have your questionnaire completed for me?”

  I understood what he was really asking. If I was going to see him, even one time, I was agreeing to a true commitment. Most specific, the questionnaire made it quite clear that I would be asked to make regular appointments—or sessions, as they called it. When I thought about it, no matter what I claimed or fussed about, time was on my side. I was young, my company was launched and with an excellent and loyal staff, and so what if I had some major personal issues to resolve before I fucked anything else up. One issue. Why did everyone I ever love have to die? To expect that Dr. Coal could help me would be like me expecting a white picket fence with two cats in the yard, and breakfast and bed served by—well, someone handsome.

  I wrestled and cast out any regrets or concerns. I caved into the serenity of Harlan Coal’s office. And by caving, I had won. Twenty minutes hadn’t passed by and to me it was as if Cinderella was there to greet me after I took a spin on the teacup ride at Disneyland. I felt warm, comfortable and safe. Maybe I wasn’t a lost cause and maybe I wasn’t going to need years of therapy.

  Maybe someone would love me, and live.

  “Let’s take a walk,” Coal said, and grabbed his dark sunglasses. He reminded me of someone. A star, perhaps. Only a short time in L.A., and I was already inflicted by the dreaded celebrity-watch disease.

  Coal guided me on a quick tour of his office and compound. The halls boasted slightly rounded angles. To the street-side, the walls were solid and lined with modern art. He corrected me. The paintings were the creations of his younger patients, although he never once used the word patient. He referred to the artists as clients, community members, and even friends.

  On the interior sides, solid banks of windows and glass doors overlooked a triangular shaped courtyard. The mere size of the garden setting surprised me, especially for a plot of land in Hollywood Hills.

  The core of the triangular grounds contained several stone tables with circular seating, a massive barbecue pit, three Jacuzzis, and a sprinkling of colorful children’s play equipment at one end. The play area Carly had already mentioned.

  I stood in the main building that formed the office side of the triangle. Small hacienda-style homes flanked the other two sides of the lawns and gardens. Structured from both stone and stucco and quite similar in design, Dr. Coal explained individuality was for the heart. All were privately owned. One lucky and proud new owner was Carly Posh.

  At the far point of the triangle, directly across from the therapy complex, another structure loomed. Erected of the same stone and stucco, it was the only two story building and much larger than the surrounding homes.

  “That’s my private residence,” he said, as if reading my mind. “Truth is I occupy small living quarters in the front of the building.”

  “And the rest?” Immediately my face flushed, ashamed I’d been too nosey.

  “The remainder of the building is my private library. It’s our central nervous system. Without it, The Centre wouldn’t exist.”

  He left it at that, and I didn’t dare ask him anymore about it, but I did ask him about the lack of doors and locks.

  “There are doors on the homes, mainly to keep out the elements, but we don’t have locks.”

  “Why?”

  “Privacy and respect go hand in hand. We don’t need locked doors. Not unless you go and give some of your burglar friends this information.”

  “Sorry. I just have a curious nature. And I like to know how things work, and why.”

  We circled our way back to the offices. Coal jumped in front of me and said, “Let me get that for you.” He then pretended to open an imaginary door for me.

  “All of us are here to become better persons, myself included. If that’s the intended personal goal, then it translates to a group goal. We don’t have fear. We don’t have secrets.”

  My mind raced, maybe with my own old fears. “What about doctor-patient confidentiality?”

  “I can’t say that I’ve ever treated anyone that’s committed a heinous ax-murder, Ms. Visconti.”

  He’d called me Lauren earlier. Had I insulted him?

  He continued, “It goes back to our idea of family and community, even if you don’t live here on the grounds, and as you can see only a couple dozen or so people are lucky enough to do so. We all trust one another. And the path.”

  “The path?” I’d asked to quickly. The pitch of my voice rose too high. Vulnerable, and he knows it.

  “The reason you’re here.” His voice remained calm. Paced. Secure.

  I didn’t know that much about his therapy or his path, only that everybody else seemed to think I needed it. He didn’t look like the Beverly Hills shrink I’d envisioned, but he didn’t look like a wild Charlie Manson type, either. Then again, Manson wasn’t too weird for the California sixties. And Ted Bundy was a hunk in the eighties. My mind froze while my stomach became a butterfly on speed.

  “I don’t mean to be rude, Ms. Visconti, but I have many people that need and want my time. They respect it. If you’re uncomfortable with The Centre then perhaps we should say our goodbyes now and not waste each other’s remains of the day.”

  Damn my mouth! Damn my mind and my stomach! “It’s nothing like that”, I blurted out. “I want to be here. I need you to help me sort some things out.”

  “Then let’s begin. Let’s schedule a time to meet for our first session.”

  Chapter Twenty-Thre
e

  Two Moons

  THE SKINNY GIRL DESERVED to die. It was her destiny. For the good of all humanity. Someone had to pay attention.

  Moon Blade held no regrets about slashing the perfectly sculpted lanky body. For one, the model didn’t even put up a fight. She was hopped up on dope, and even if she had thrown a defensive punch Moon Blade would have easily countered it.

  America’s idol. The beautiful. But physically fit? Hell, no. She was a string bean steaming in a cauldron of her chosen poison.

  Moon Blade liked the weapon of choice. No skull cracking. No chicken-shit bullets or too impersonal of poisons. No awkward strangulation.

  The sword suited Moon Blade. And the emerald ring carved from the victim’s finger? What to do with that but something divisively delicious.

  FIVE DAYS LATER Brock Townsend showed up on my doorstep, armed with brilliant coral roses, a supermarket rotisserie chicken, and an exuberant smile that transcended all our past failures at relationship snags, or rips, or broken bones. In fact, he should have been the poster boy for world peace. If there was any indiscretion tainting our past, I forgot.

  After touring him through my new home and introducing him to Teddy, the cat, we ended up in the kitchen. I gathered up the bag of chicken and grabbed a bottle of chardonnay to take out on the deck. Brock rambled around in my kitchen in search of glasses and napkins. His casual gentle-giant presence reminded me I had a friend I could always depend on. A friend who happened to be a major league hunk who slept with my friends, but that was beside the point. At least for the night.

  We attacked the whole chicken like savages on a wild boar. I wiped my greasy fingers so I could pick up my glass of wine without it looking like a two-year old’s sticky fingers had been handling it.