Hollywood Strip

by Shamron Moore

  “Thanks, guys. Have a good day.” She stepped out of the room just as Daniel called her back.

  “By the way,” he said, “are you comfortable with nudity?”

  “Totally.”

  “Good. Tom wants me to make sure. Some girls say they’re fine then change their mind at the last minute. If we bring you back, he’ll want to do a body check on camera.”

  “No problem. I was born naked.”

  “We’ll be in touch.”

  Confused, she walked to her car. Perhaps they liked her read after all. Guessing what casting directors were looking for was so difficult. Maybe they’d end up going with a blonde, someone shorter, taller, fatter, paler, darker, blander. For all she knew, maybe they wanted a limping, one-eyed freak with buckteeth and a third nipple who suffered from Tourette’s. One thing was crystal clear to her about the casting process: it was impossible for her to tell what the powers-that-be had in mind, so she may as well be herself. She had done her best; onward to the next project.

  Starr Modeling and Talent hadn’t called her in weeks. Had they forgotten about her? Their roster of talent was large and it was easy to get lost in the shuffle. She dialed their number and the receptionist patched her through to Doug Starr.

  “Hey, girlie, I was just about to call you,” Doug said. Funny, she thought—he always said the same thing whenever she called. His agency had first opened during the late 1980s, inconveniently located in Long Beach, but convenient for Doug, only five minutes from his house. His clients weren’t at the top of the totem pole but the gigs he booked for his talent were steady—commercials, liquor ads, lingerie catalogs, swimsuit calendars, and the occasional part in film and television. Typical of a C-list agency. If a company was in need of spiky-haired beefcake or Rapunzel-tressed, globular-breasted women, Doug was the man to see.

  “I beat you to it,” Callie said. “Any auditions for me, Doug?”

  “Actually, something better. I just got off the phone with the owner of this skin-care line—you’ve probably heard of it, Skyn by Symone. It’s kind of last-minute, but they’re doing a trade show in Vegas this weekend and want to book two of my girls, one of them being you. A grand for two days. What do you say?”

  “I say hell-to-the-yes, book me.”

  “You got it. They’ll have a booth set up for you. Just look pretty, ask passersby if they’d like to try their creams. Einstein shit like that,” he said.

  “Hmm, that sounds pretty heavy, I don’t know if I can handle that, Doug. Who else did they book?” Callie merged onto the 101, homeward bound.

  “Gabrielle Manx. You two will be sharing a hotel room. I’ll call you when I know specifics regarding your flight and whatnot. In the meantime, I’ll call them back to confirm you. Thanks, sweetheart.”

  “Ditto, talk with you later.” How about that: Las Vegas. She had never visited but had always wanted to. Not that she was a gambler. Blackjack, occasionally. Two fewer days she had to be at Harry’s, too. Adam, her manager, had a crush on her and getting out of work at the last minute wouldn’t be a problem. She searched the radio for a Sinatra or Elvis tune—something to put her in the Sin City spirit—before stumbling on “Keep It Sexy” on 102.7. She swooned when Evan sang the familiar lines: Keep it steady / Keep it sexy / Girl, I got it bad for you / Can’t you see I’m mad for you.… Damn you, Bedroom Eyes. As if she needed to be reminded of that luscious beast; she’d thought of nothing but him since leaving his mansion a couple of hours ago. Her cell beeped—a new text. Perhaps it was from Evan—she’d left her number on a Post-it next to his bed.

  Hey mama—can you pick me up? Westmount by Santa Monica. xoxo

  Callie was a mile from 1778 Orchid Avenue—hardly close to Candice. Other than a 6 P.M. shift at Harry’s, though, she didn’t have anything going on; there was plenty of time to drive to West Hollywood.

  Santa Monica Boulevard was a disaster; construction made traffic drip like molasses. Candice sat curbside and her appearance was startling; bags hung from her crepey eyes, red blotches splattered her porcelain skin, and stringy hair fell on her shoulders like tumbleweeds. She was clothed in the previous evening’s cocktail dress. A loaf of month-old pumpernickel would have looked fresher.

  “I haven’t been to bed yet,” said Candice in response to Callie’s quizzical look.

  “I gathered. What happened?”

  “Jackie and I met these two French guys and we ended up partying in their room at the Four Seasons. Oh my God, Cal, it was so much fun, we were all crazy-smashed. Jackie and I went back to her apartment a few hours ago and she passed out. So there I was, stuck without a car.”

  “What happened to your call-back? Didn’t you tell me it was this morning? Buckle up.” Candice strapped the seat belt over her chest. “The call-back, yeah … that shouldn’t be a problem. I called Doug and told him I couldn’t make it and to just reschedule me.”

  “Umm … how do you plan on rescheduling a call-back?”

  “I asked him to call the casting office to see if I could come in tomorrow but we haven’t heard back yet. Please. It can’t be that hard. I’m way too strung out to go in today. Anyway, I’ve auditioned twice for that casting director. What’s her name? Shit, I can’t remember, but she loves me. Tomorrow will work out so much better.”

  “Let me tell you about the night I had, Candy. We had an amazing time. Evan and I—”

  “Can you fill me in on everything later? I’m exhausted and could really use a nap. So tired…” Eyes closed, Candice tilted her seat back and stretched her legs.

  This was the thanks she got for driving to the other side of town?! Candice couldn’t even give the simple courtesy of listening to the fantastic time she had? Callie pressed her lips in silence and vowed never to let a friend—especially one of ten years—take advantage of her again.

  10

  Callie panted as she lugged her suitcase and oversized duffel bag up three flights of stairs. The Vegas Motor Inn’s elevator was out of order and she was wearing high-heeled ankle boots. Room 320, where are you? Of course; the very last door at the end of the open hallway. Figures. She flung the door open and tripped over a stiletto.

  “I’m so sorry!” said a young woman. She dashed across the room and snatched her shoe off the floor. “Here, let me help you with your things.”

  “Thanks,” Callie said, and turned her duffel over to the tall blonde.

  “I nearly died, too. I always over-pack, and hauled three suitcases up here. I’m Gabrielle, by the way. Gabby, for short.”

  “Very nice to meet you. I’m Callie. You’d think Skyn by Symone would put us up in a nicer place, wouldn’t you?”

  “You certainly would. I got here an hour ago and called Doug to see if there was anything that could be done, but no such luck. Supposedly everything is sold out because of all the conventions going on.” She placed the worn nylon sack next to her Louis Vuitton suitcase.

  Callie flopped on one of the stiff queen-size beds. “It’s probably because they don’t want to fork over extra money. It’s Vegas; how can everything be sold out?”

  Gabrielle gestured toward the room and laughed good-naturedly. “Well, obviously, not everything is.”

  The Vegas Motor Inn held the stench of mothballs and looked like it was straight out of an amateur porno from the 1970s. Dark, braided carpeting; dingy floral bedspreads at least thirty years old; a rotary-dial telephone situated on a sad, weary desk. Callie was thankful her roommate was a good sport. Most women as beautiful as Gabrielle were cantankerous snoots or prima donnas. And she was more mature than the girls she’d met on castings; she guessed Gabby to be in her upper twenties.

  “Want to do a little gambling? It’s my first time in Sin City and I definitely don’t want to stay cooped up in this dump,” Callie said.

  “Ooh, a virgin, are we? When I was married I lived here for four years. I know it like the back of my hand. I’ll be your tour guide, come with me.” Gabrielle pulled Callie to her feet and looped their arms t
ogether.

  The girls hailed a taxi and rode it to the Hard Rock—Gabrielle had a few friends who worked there. Callie was stunned by the crowd’s appearance—everyone was dressed in double-extra-large T-shirts and flimsy cotton shorts. Fanny packs sprouted from their blubbery bellies. Where were the Cavalli gowns, the wrists and necks swathed in jewels, the elaborate updos? Not a single pair of Choos or Blahniks could be spotted. Even pedicured feet were scarce. What a disappointment!

  “You know, I expected people to be much more glamorous and about two hundred pounds thinner. Like Sharon Stone in Casino.” Callie coughed as they passed a row of Winston-puffing senior citizens at the slot machines.

  Gabrielle giggled. “That’s cute, hon, but you’ve watched too many movies. In Vegas, they rope ’em in with four-pound hot dogs that cost a buck. Cheap food and a big jackpot, that’s the allure. There are tons of upscale places, though, way more than when I lived here.”

  Mouths of women and men alike dropped as Gabrielle Manx sashayed through the casino. She was a stunning spectacle. The cleavage spilling from her tank top—DDDs—coupled with forty-inch legs made it impossible not to gawk at least once and often thrice. She feigned indifference but her smile made it clear she relished the commotion.

  The girls played several rounds of blackjack, but after an hour, their wallets were substantially lighter. “They’re really cleaning us out. Would you like to have a drink and just talk?” Gabby asked. They took a seat at the casino’s main bar. “I haven’t been back to Vegas in quite some time. Too many memories.”

  “What happened?” Callie ordered an ice-cold beer.

  “My husband and I lived here when we were married. The best years of my life. We had it all—we were happy and trying to have a baby, had lots of money … and then everything was thrown upside down when he died. So unexpected, too, a total freak accident.”

  “I’m so sorry.…”

  “I wasn’t in very good shape for a while. I guess you can say I’m still a mess because I can’t find relationships that ever last. Justin was an amazing man and I compare every guy I meet to him. No one seems good enough. That’s not too fair, is it?” Gabby’s tigress eyes were distant.

  “When did you move to L.A.?” Callie asked.

  “Six years ago. Justin begged me to get my boobs done as big as possible then what does he do? He high-tails it to heaven. Well, what was I supposed to do with these girls except come to L.A. and bust into the business, so to speak? But I’ve had enough of that town. I’m thirty-two. I want a family. I’d really like to move back to Connecticut, where I’m originally from, and open my own bed-and-breakfast. Just abandon the entertainment business altogether and try something new.”

  As keen as Callie’s imagination was, she couldn’t picture Gabrielle stoking the fire and serving coffee and muffins to visiting Iowans.

  “Do you have a man in your life?” Gabby asked.

  “No, not really. There’s this one guy I kind of like.…” She filled Gabby in on her night with Bedroom Eyes and was animated, giddy.

  “He sounds like a great catch.”

  “I’m not pursuing a relationship,” Callie quickly added. “Too complicated. It’s just a little crush, a little nookie. I don’t want a boyfriend.”

  Gabby grinned. “You lie like a rug. It’s written all over your face. You may call it just a ‘crush,’ but do yourself a favor and be careful. Men in L.A. are all players and they can sense you’re fresh off the boat. Guard your heart at all costs. That’s the problem with me—I’m all heart.” She sighed and reached for her champagne.

  “I probably won’t ever see him again. Besides, it’s not like I can call him since I didn’t get his number.”

  “But did you leave him your number?”

  “Yep, I made sure of that.”

  “He’ll call, all right. Why wouldn’t he? You’re beautiful and seem really sweet. There’s this girl-next-door quality about you and guys love that. Say, would you like to join me for dinner tonight at TAO? We don’t have to stay up late or get crazy—our call time is pretty early tomorrow. My friend is the manager and he’ll comp everything.”

  “Try not to twist my arm. At the rate I just played, I could use a free meal.”

  11

  Callie and Gabrielle sat in folding chairs in front of a large display booth. Skyn by Symone was one of hundreds of companies gathered at the Las Vegas Convention Center. Merchants from around the globe hawked every conceivable beauty product—follicle-smoothing conditioners, body butters that smelled like French patisseries, face masks thick enough to suffocate a small child … Callie handed out packet after packet of samples until her arm went limp. The owner of the company—Symone, of course—stopped by the booth throughout the day to check on sales, but for the most part, the girls were on their own.

  “Hi, ma’am, would you like to give your skin the gift of moisture with Skyn by Symone? For an even forty dollars, you can purchase our best-selling kit that includes cleanser, toner, and anti-aging serum,” Gabrielle told a dour-looking woman. Despite the frigid air-conditioning, the woman panted and fanned herself with a brochure. She appraised Gabrielle warily.

  “Is it gonna give me skin like yours?” she said gruffly.

  “Probably even better than mine,” Gabby said.

  “I need all the help I can get. Okay, give me two. My sister’s got skin like a leper.”

  Callie chuckled as the woman walked off with her purchase. “God, Gabby, you could sell the Brooklyn Bridge to a cockroach.”

  “It’s easy. Just be nice to people and tell them what they want to hear. Simple formula. I’ll be glad to get out of this place soon, though, I’ll tell you that. I should have brought a sweater.” Gabby rubbed her bare shoulders.

  “It’s freezing,” Callie agreed. “Any plans for tonight?”

  “An old friend is taking me out.”

  “Nice. Is he cute?”

  “Umm … no, not really.” Gabrielle examined her French-manicured nails. Given her distracted demeanor, Callie decided not to press for details.

  Seven o’clock marked the end of the girls’ ten-hour shift. Gabrielle rushed to the motel to primp for her date while Callie pondered which show to see that evening. Her phone rang before she could decide. It was Tyler.

  “Didn’t you tell me you’re in Vegas this weekend?” he said.

  “Yeah, I just finished working a long trade show. What about you?”

  “I’m in Vegas, too, last-minute thing. Old Bag Barbara flew me out because she’s attending a red-carpet charity event tonight at the Hilton. What are you up to?”

  “Nothing, unfortunately.”

  “Good—you’re coming with us,” said Tyler. “Barbara’s limo is picking us up at our hotel at eight thirty. Why don’t you meet us there and we can all ride to the party together?”

  “Sounds great. What should I wear?”

  “You’re the only person I know who looks amazing in anything. Wear whatever you like. I swear if you threw on a potato sack, you’d still be one hot bitch. Whatever you do, don’t be late, because Barbara will have a conniption and she’s already on my last nerve. We’re at the Bellagio, by the way.”

  “Awww, you poor baby. Such a tough life you live, Ty.”

  “I know, right? A three-thousand-square-foot suite. Poor me. Better get yourself ready, you big skank. I’ll see you soon.”

  With little time to spare, Callie flew to her motel and threw on the only dress she’d packed—a clingy black number. She pulled her hair in a twist and slicked red lipstick on. A cab dropped her off at the Bellagio an hour later and she was proud of how early she was, for once. Tyler greeted her in the lobby with a big hug.

  “You’re early? Christ, hell really has frozen over. Let’s go up to the room and grab a drink. Just to warn you, Barbara’s been eating Vicodin like chocolate-covered cherries, so disregard anything she says.” They rode the elevator to the top of the building. Tyler’s heavily tattooed arm flung the suite’
s door open. Barbara Hickey sat in the opulent living room playing the grand piano. In a cracked, shrill voice, she sang so loudly, she didn’t hear anyone enter.

  “Barbara!” Tyler screamed. “I want you to meet my friend.”

  Barbara looked up from the keys and smiled broadly. At age sixty-two with countless plastic surgeries, her face was pulled tighter than a drum. Clusters of diamonds covered her well-wrinkled neck and hands. “I’d be delighted to,” she said, and rose from the bench with gallantry. “I’m Barbara Hickey. I’m sure you know me from Son of the Hamptons.”

  “Thank you for inviting me, Barbara,” said Callie.

  “Callie and I met in Michigan. We worked for the same dentist,” Tyler explained.

  “How fabulous. I adore Tyler, I refuse to let anyone else touch my face. He’s magic. I look ten years younger when he’s done with me. Come have a glass of Dom, our car will be here shortly.” She waltzed to the minibar, her ball gown rustling. Barbara knew drama like soap knew suds. She handed Tyler and Callie their drinks. “The gala is at the Hilton. It’s a charity benefiting muscular dystrophy, such a wonderful organization. Marjorie, a dear friend of mine, is chairwoman. Very glam, very froufrou, very exclusive.” She raised her sharp, penciled eyebrows and swilled Dom. “I’ll probably know every battleax in that place and I’m told my fourth and fifth ex-husbands are attending. You two will undoubtedly be the youngest scamps there. Assuming, of course, hubby número cuatro doesn’t bring his wife. Last time I checked, minors weren’t allowed. I own girdles older than that one.” She adjusted the pearl brooch on her bosom.

  “As long as there are plenty of young and available men, I’m sure this soiree will be fantastic,” piped Tyler.

  “Darling, I hate to break it to you, but you’ll be lucky if any man is under sixty,” Barbara said.

  “Damn it. Old queens are never any fun, and what’s more, they don’t die, either—they just move to Silver Lake.”

  Barbara flung her russet head back and cackled. The phone buzzed. “Hello? Yes, this is Mrs. Hickey. Thank you, I’ll be down in a moment. That’s our car, kiddies. Right on time. Tyler, you can touch me up en route. And here, take Mr. Pérignon with us for the road. I never let a good bottle of booze go to waste.” She swayed in her satin pumps.