The exposé was accompanied by a picture of Aleksandra, a heavy, frizzy-haired woman slathered in neon makeup, surrounded by four pretty girls. One of the girls resembled Rachel, but it was the honey-blonde with a protruding chest that caught Callie’s attention. Unquestionably, it was Gabrielle.
“My girls go for twenty thousand dollars for one single night,” Aleksandra, swelling with pride, says in broken English. “Some more, some less. If girl has title, even better. More credits she has, more money she make. Rachel no exception; she make big money when she work for me. Directors, CEOs, you name it. They pay top dollar for my girls, cream of crop, all models and actress. You be shocked how many escort in Los Angeles. City is tough for young girl on her own. Cost lots if you want to live good. And who does not want to live good? If girl is beautiful, there is much, much money to make.”
Callie’s jaw dropped. Gabby was a high-rent hooker? That couldn’t be! She was too sweet, too smart to be a lay-for-pay. But why, then, was she pictured with the madam? She couldn’t have made much from her sporadic acting and modeling gigs. And she never mentioned having another occupation. It would explain the night of the charity gala, too. It was all too coincidental.…
Beep!
Her phone jolted her back to reality. Another text from Evan. Come to my album release party in Bel Air on Oct 1st. I’d love to see you, baby.
Hmmm … what could be the harm in attending a little soiree? By then, she’d be in fine shape. Tyler could accompany her and do her makeup beforehand—he always made her look like a million bucks. She could toy with Evan, play hard to get, and flirt with other men. Hopefully he’d react—although he didn’t come off as the jealous type. He was too collected to display a case of ruffled feathers so easily. If Rachel O’Hooker was there, even better; the girl could use a lesson on the meaning of class. A little friendly competition never hurt a fly.
21
The Mediterranean-style mansion, at twenty thousand square feet, was more hotel than home. Callie had never been to a Bel Air residence and the enormity of wealth was unlike anything she had ever witnessed. The guest list was small—fewer than three hundred people—and security was tight. IDs were required to enter the gated street.
“Gee, do you think they could have built this place a little bigger?” Tyler said. “I’ve never seen so much marble in my life.”
The mansion was crammed with Choo-heeled guests, some famous, all wealthy. A Picasso hung in the dining room, a Basquiat in the master, and a Monet in one of the nine bathrooms. Evan’s new CD thumped from the speakers. Callie and Tyler were admiring a Greek statue when someone wrapped an arm around her hip.
“Glad to see you could make it,” Evan said. He pulled back when Callie stiffened.
“Hey, you. Congratulations on everything,” she said coolly. Was that a look of disappointment on his face? His smile was easygoing but he looked confused by her detachment.
“Thanks. First number one I’ve ever had.”
“How exciting. This place is unbelievable. Who owns it?”
“Byron Bernstein, president of Urban Records. Speaking of exciting, I heard about your movie. That’s fantastic! Gary, my manager, was telling me about it yesterday. He and Tom Johannesburg go way back.”
Tyler cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry, Ty,” she said. “Evan, meet my friend Tyler. Tyler, Evan.”
“Pleasure,” cooed Tyler.
“Likewise. The film sounds like one wild ride and I’m sure you’re more than capable of playing a naughty cheerleader.” Evan’s eyes glinted wickedly.
“The premise of the film is pretty ridiculous, but it is the lead,” Callie said offhandedly. “I couldn’t turn it down. It’s bound to appeal to the average American male, what with all the gore.”
“And don’t forget the tits. This movie’s got more knockers than a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon’s office in spring,” added Tyler.
Evan laughed. “How can you not love that? I’ll definitely check it out. You, by the way, Callie, look gorgeous. Something’s different about you.”
“How so?” She blinked.
“I can’t put my finger on it … did you cut your hair?”
She shook her head.
“Color it, perhaps?”
“Nope. Wrong again.”
“Hmmm … I give up. Not that it’s any of my business. I guess I’m being nosy.”
Tyler giggled and Callie flashed him a look of annoyance. “So, where’s your date this evening?” she said.
“No date whatsoever; I’m flying solo. Plenty of friends and colleagues are here. That’s enough to keep me entertained.”
“I didn’t know if you were still with Rachel…,” Callie said.
“Rachel? She’s not even here. Rachel and I are not an item, contrary to all the BS that’s printed. She’s a fun girl—was a fun girl. Up until she started giving these silly interviews and feeding the fire.” He swigged his gin and tonic.
“The tabloids love to exaggerate,” offered Callie.
“Not exaggerate—just flat-out lie. But what am I going to do? The nature of the beast. Excusez-moi—I have to make my rounds. Catch you two in a bit.” Callie followed him with her eyes.
“Oh, boy. Skank’s got it bad,” Tyler said.
“Is it that obvious?”
“You light up like a Christmas tree around him. It couldn’t be any more obvious if you tattooed it across your forehead. Trying to act all cool, like you don’t care. Please, I can read you like a crystal ball.” A waiter moseyed by with a platter of gourmet sliders and Tyler snatched three.
“And here I thought he was tied down with Rachel.”
“The way you were telling it, they were altar-bound any minute. See, didn’t I tell you not to believe all that trash?”
She nodded. “God, Ty, I feel so stupid for reading those gossip columns and even worse for believing it.”
“You’re obsessing. Remember, he’s not looking for a girlfriend. I don’t want you working your vadge up for nothing. He’s definitely a tall glass of water, I’ll give you that. Too bad he doesn’t bat for my team.” He bit into a burger. “Yum. I don’t know what all they put in these things but it’s definitely more than Kobe beef. Must be laced with crack and it’s on a one-way straight to my thighs. So, when is Candice moving out?”
“Supposedly in a few days.”
“That’s good. One less thing you’ll have weighing on your mind. That girl is trouble. I’ve never been a fan.”
“She’s definitely a lot of work.”
“Candice majors, minors, and marinates in drama. She’s too much, even for me, and that’s saying a lot. Relationships shouldn’t be that difficult. Ooh, look—there goes a tray of caviar. And five different kinds, too. Nothing better than that, especially when someone else is footing the bill. Come on, let’s go grab a plate. Who knows when we’ll ever be in a place this grand again.”
22
“You ungrateful, useless bitch. I showed you the ropes and this is the thanks I get?” Gabrielle said. She lay crumpled on the damp, concrete floor of the locker room, her wrists and ankles bound. One side of her head was sliced to reveal brain matter; blood flowed out of the wound, trickling down her neck and chest. Her hair, once immaculately highlighted, hung in thick red clumps. A slashed navy sweater stretched across her breasts like cobwebs and allowed her nipples to poke through the few remaining threads.
“You played me for a fool, Kiki, thinking I’d be your little puppet. Well, guess what? This puppet doesn’t like to be played! Cayden College is about to have one less cunt on campus.” Callie, beads of perspiration rolling off her body, towered over Gabby with a blood-caked knife in hand. She raised the weapon to Gabby’s throat.
“Cut!” Tom said. “I need more blood. Where’s Patrick? More blood, please!”
Patrick, the head of special effects, scurried on set and doused Gabby with red liquid. “More, more, more,” Tom said. “Keep going. Don’t be shy, Pat. I want her
soaked. More on her left breast … now we’re talking. Give the audience what they pay to see. Tits and gore equals higher ticket sales. And what makes everyone happy, Patrick?”
“Dough,” Patrick said, and gave Gabrielle another bloody squirt. “Lots of dough.”
“Lots of dough,” Tom repeated. “Damn fucking straight. No one likes an empty theater.” As crazy as Tom Johannesburg was for women, Diablos, and rare rib-eyes washed down with Blue Label, everything fell a distant second to his love of money. He spent it almost as quickly as he made it and was equally adept at both. The fifty-odd films he had directed and/or produced from 1971 on afforded him homes in Saint Barts, the Pacific Palisades, and South Beach, not to mention maintenance for three ex-wives and five children. The formula for making Tom tick was as simple as it was expensive. “Gabby, baby, how are we doing?”
“Can I get some water? I feel light-headed,” she said.
“Of course. Let’s take five, people.” Tom placed a bottle of water to her lips and watched her gulp away.
Callie took a seat off-camera. She had been on set for ten hours but was more exhilarated than exhausted. Portraying Layla was the most fun she’d ever had on the clock.
“If he gets any friendlier, she’s going to be gargling his balls,” hissed Nicole. She sat next to Callie, her pierced upper lip curled in a snarl. “Must be nice being the pet.” Tom’s attentive demeanor left little doubt how he felt for his leading blonde. Gabrielle responded passively to his coddling; she wasn’t overtly friendly but she wasn’t shooing him away, either. But Callie didn’t see how their interaction affected anyone else, and was protective toward her costar.
“Do you even know Gabby?” said Callie. “She’s a really nice girl.”
“Yeah, I bet. She’s so nice, I bet she sucked off the entire production staff. Why would anyone give her one of the leads?”
“Gee, let me think,” Callie quipped. “Maybe because she’s gorgeous and funny and perfect for the part? Just a thought.”
“She’s, like, gross. I mean, just look at her; if one of those titty sacks pop, we’ll all drown to death. Like, for real, that’s enough silicone to flood Staples Center. How can anyone take her seriously?”
“The film is called Nympho Cheerleaders Attack! Why would any of us take it seriously?”
Nicole rolled her eyes and twisted the stud in her lip. “I guess. So, who’s your agent?”
“I’m looking for a new one. You?”
“DNA. I’ve been with them for two years, ever since I moved here from Canada.”
“Any good?”
“They’re not bad but not great. I call them TNA—just another mediocre agency peddling tits and ass. Ever notice how they all go by initials? What, is a name with over, like, three syllables too complicated or something?”
“I need quiet on set!” Tom yelled, and glared at Nicole. She clamped her mouth shut. Will and Wendell huddled in a corner talking in hushed tones to an important-looking tall man with graying hair, and waved at Callie to join them.
“I want you to meet Paul Angers, the owner of PA Talent. We’ve been friends since college. He’s been in this business almost as long as me, but not quite,” Will said.
“I’ve got you beat by ten years, Wilder,” joked Paul. He gave Callie a firm handshake and summed her up with shrewd eyes. “I just checked the dailies. You have some fine comedic chops, young lady. I’m impressed. What other projects would I know you from?”
“This is my first acting gig, not counting a commercial I did back in Detroit. I’ve been in L.A. for four months,” she said.
“Really, now? Interesting. I hail from Kalamazoo. Lots of good Midwestern stock here in L.A. We’re not all farmers, contrary to what everyone here thinks, and you’re definitely not just a pretty face, and I’d know, too. I see more than my share. You can actually act. That’s a rarity. Here’s my card; schedule something with my secretary and we can talk shop. I know you’re busy with the film, but whenever you get a chance—”
“I think tomorrow is clear,” she said.
“Can’t do Friday. I’ll be in meetings all day. Just give Ursula a call and we’ll figure it out. Bring whatever headshots you have, too.”
“Callie, here, nails every scene in one take. All of the girls are very good, but she’s got something extra. Same with Gabby, the blonde,” said Will.
“Blondes are no good to me. All the ripe parts up for grabs are for brunettes, early twenties. Exotic but relatable, like Callie. Keep spinning your magic, young lady, and stay in touch.” Paul and the Wilders walked off together.
She wanted to call Ursula that very second, but there was no way of knowing her filming schedule days in advance. She’d have to wait, and patience wasn’t her strong suit. Chill, she told herself. Paul was interested and that was the important thing. He had seen her footage and knew she was capable; that was one foot in the door. She’d get the other foot in soon enough.
23
“Ahhhhhhhh!” Callie shrieked. Her eyes darted around the bedroom in search of an exit but she was trapped. Flames engulfed her bed and smoke clogged her lungs. Like kernels over a screaming hot burner, the fire crackled. A scream rose above the inferno; the masculine voice was eerily familiar and wailed like a siren. But where was it coming from? Not only was her vision obscured beyond farther than a foot, but her limbs went limp as well. She listened helplessly, petrified. “Help me, Callie! Help me! I need you.…”
Callie shot up in bed. Her body, drenched in sweat, trembled as though she were a junkie quitting cold turkey. Minutes passed before she realized it had just been a nightmare, she wasn’t in any danger. The sky, though dreary from the morning marine layer, was clear of smoke. She took a huge breath and flopped back on the pillows. It was October 28—her father’s birthday. Strange to think he’d now be a middle-aged man, no longer the youthful, raven-haired father of her childhood. All day she moped in pajamas, teeth grimy and hair uncombed. Why bother changing when she wasn’t needed on set? Wasn’t there a friend who understood death, someone with whom she could share her angst? She dialed Gabrielle’s number.
“I’m just a wreck today, Gabby,” she said between sniffles. “I miss my dad so much. I really wish he was here. He would have been fifty today.”
Gabby was apologetic, her voice soothing as a lozenge. “Believe me, I know grief. Justin’s been gone for only a third of the time your father has but it feels like an eternity.”
“It really does. Funny, it’s the simple stuff I remember so well, even at five years old. Like when he bought me a Mickey Mouse raft and we went over to our neighbor’s pool.”
“It’s always the little things, isn’t it? I miss the way Justin’s lips quivered ever so slightly when he snored. Silly, random things like that. I’ve been on antidepressants for years. Seroquel, Lexapro, Zoloft, you name it.”
“Who’s your therapist?”
“He’s a psychiatrist. Stuart Holtsclaw. He pays house calls, too, and he doesn’t charge an arm and a leg. Why don’t I give you his number?”
Callie jotted his information down and thanked her. “I should be happy right now, shouldn’t I? But sometimes I get into these funks I just can’t shake.”
“We all need help sometimes, it’s only natural. Without your health, mental or physical, you have nothing. Nothing. You’ve never talked to a professional about your father?”
“Never. My mom isn’t a fan of modern medicine. She’s the type who holds it all in and doesn’t like to admit there’s a problem. Like, if you don’t talk about it or acknowledge it, it must not exist. Real healthy, huh?”
“My mother is the same way. But at some point, you have to address the issue at hand. You’re a big girl; you can decide what’s in your best interest.”
“I’m going to give him a call.”
“Do that. On a different note, I’d like your opinion on something totally unrelated.” Gabby suddenly switched her mother-hen tone to that of a small child.
�
�Go ahead, shoot. This subject is too depressing, anyway.”
“Tom really likes me.”
“Gabby, I hate to break it to you, but that’s not exactly a news flash. Astronauts floating in space can see that,” Callie said.
“Well, he’s doing something about it. Tonight is the world premiere of Blow It Up, the action film he directed. It’s expected to be a monster hit and he wants me to be his date. Do you think it would make things on set too awkward? I can just hear the cattiness now; Nicole and the others already think I slept with the entire western hemisphere for the part. Imagine how awful they’ll be when they find this out.”
“Who cares what they think? It’s not your fault you make them insecure. What are you going to do when he tries to crawl up your skirt?” Callie said.
“I thought about that. He’s a nice guy and he’s been very sweet to me.…” Her voice trailed off.
“He also has a history of bedding his actresses, it’s a well-known fact. I sure am glad he hasn’t hit on me yet; he’s so hairy and gross. But if you can tolerate him slobbering over you all night, I bet the premiere will be fun.”
“I think so, too. There will be oodles of press, and I’ll be right there on the director’s arm. I’m thinking a pale pink dress with chandelier earrings. Should I wear my hair up or down?” asked Gabby.
“Definitely down; it’s too pretty to put up. You look great in pastels, too. I’ve never been to a premiere before but it sounds über-glamorous.”
“They’re exciting. I’ve been to several, but never with the director. All right, I have to run. I’ll tell you how everything goes. Definitely give Dr. Holtsclaw a call. He’s quirky, just to warn you, but what doctor isn’t? He’s helped me out a great deal and I doubt you’re half as screwed up as I once was.”
Callie carefully blew her nose—the tip was still numb from surgery—and made an appointment with Dr. Holtsclaw. He couldn’t meet until the following week, but it was better late than never.
24
Hollywood Strip Page 8
