Hollywood Strip

by Shamron Moore

  “Exactly. Geez Louise, I wonder how much longer Gabby’s going to be? Marge told me to have you done by one and it’s two.”

  “I’ll go see what’s going on. My legs are about to fall asleep from sitting.” Callie wandered the halls in search of Marge, the creative director. She located the manly, bespectacled woman snacking at the craft service station.

  “Hey, sugar pop,” said Marge. “Another hour, tops. Have you tried these? Fucking incredible, this Belgian chocolate.” She licked her fingers and reached for another.

  The butterflies flapping in Callie’s stomach made food repellent. Naked shoots—stills or otherwise—caused her anxiety, regardless of the number of times she had disrobed for the camera. “I don’t have much of an appetite.”

  “Go relax, then, take it easy. It won’t be much longer.”

  The animated sounds coming from around the corner intrigued Callie.

  “Amaaaazing! You’ve got it down, Gabby, hold that. Absolute dynamite!”

  She tiptoed to the set.

  Gabrielle was on her back, draped across a beanbag chair like a serpent. Her sun-kissed complexion, dewier than usual, perfectly offset her caramel hair. Dressed in nothing but a pair of knee socks, she effortlessly twisted her sinewy body.

  “Unbelievable! Phenomenal, Gabby,” cooed Hank. “You’re breaking my camera, I tell ya. Breaking it!”

  Gabby bit the tip of her index finger and gazed at the lens with saucy eyes. Tom stood off to the side, bouncing on the balls of his feet and swelling with pride. “She should stick her tits out more, don’t you think, Hank?” he said. On cue, Gabby thrust her breasts out farther. Hank’s flash couldn’t keep up.

  Jealousy sprang through Callie. How was it possible to hold a candle to someone as ravishing and poised as Gabrielle? It was pointless to even try—impossible. The mere thought made her woozy. Gabby was flawless, the kind of woman every red-blooded male lost his marbles over. She probably even oozed sex straining on the toilet. I feel like a Gremlin. Callie braced herself against the wall and tried to silence her panic. Cigarettes. I need a cigarette. No, I don’t. Cigarettes are for losers. She had been nicotine-free since leaving for London and intended to stay that way. She flitted off to the dressing room and chomped a Xanax. Gulp. Thanks, Doc. Wellbutrin had helped her depression—especially since Dr. Holtsclaw increased her dosage to 450 milligrams—but it was Sister Xani who really revved her engine. Within twenty minutes’ time, her ragged nerves were smoothed straight. Combined with alcohol … oh my. She chased Sister with another shot of Dom. What a rockin’ buzz. Heaven. Much better than a bump or two of blow; blow was chintzy and only provoked anxiety. An hour passed and Callie, stretched across the chaise, felt as pliable as Gumby. She forgot about Gabrielle’s unattainable perfection and nodded off.

  * * *

  “This is just what the doctor ordered.” Tyler looked approvingly at his surroundings. “Men, music, and mojitos! My kind of night.”

  A girl with long, jet-black hair boogied up to the bar with her two male companions and ordered a round of drinks. Callie squinted and tried to get a better view; could it be Candice? No. This girl was too thin to be Candice. But her exaggerated gestures and swishy walk were all too familiar.

  “Who on earth are you looking at?” asked Tyler.

  “That girl over there reminds me of Candice, don’t you think?”

  “I can’t make out her face very well, but that’s definitely not Candice’s build. And from what I remember of her—granted I haven’t seen her in a while—she had really thick, wavy hair. That girl’s mane is hanging like a greasy, sopping-wet noodle.”

  “You’re right. But her mannerisms…” Callie’s voice trailed off.

  “I’m going to use the little boys’ room,” Tyler said. “Catch you in a minute.” He traipsed off just as the ebony-haired girl turned into full view. It was Candice. Only it wasn’t the same person Callie remembered. Even in minimal lighting, Candice’s under-eye circles were visible and her lackluster complexion and sunken cheeks were gasp-inducing. Sadness boomed like a cannon through Callie’s heart. In spite of their fallout, she loved her longtime “sister” and dearly missed her fiery spirit, energy, and hyena cackle. All of those intimate talks late at night when neither could sleep … Did Candice feel the same? Or would she be rebuffed? Callie swallowed hard and approached her.

  “Oh, my God! Callie!” Candice threw her lank arms around Callie’s neck. “What are you doing here? Why haven’t you called me? I’ve missed you so much.”

  “I know. I’ve missed you, too, Candy.”

  “I’m so sorry for everything. You’ve always been good to me and I fucked it all up. I was such a louse, a total douche bag. Things haven’t been going so great lately, Cal.” Tears welled in Candice’s tired, cobalt eyes.

  “No?”

  Candice shook her head and tried to control her trembling lip. “No.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I want to hear about everything.”

  “We were just about to leave to go to Mickey’s. Can we get together soon to talk? Preferably in a place where we can hear each other.”

  “Please, let’s. I have so much to tell you,” said Callie.

  “Same here, girl. God, same here.”

  35

  Paul Angers rolled his chair over to a file cabinet and flipped through Callie’s folder. “Can you get more headshots printed? I’m all out of your close-up, that beauty shot everyone goes crazy over.”

  “Sure thing. Any word from Sandy Gillick’s office about that sitcom?” said Callie.

  “I put in a call to her this morning but she was busy. I’ll call her again at the end of the day. When I spoke with her last week, she said how impressed she was with you but the network was undecided if they were going to go with an unknown or a name. Let’s keep our fingers crossed. On another note, I was thinking that this would be a good time to invest in a publicist, Callie. Even though NCA! isn’t a big-budget extravaganza, it’s bound to get some attention because of Sal Saunders’s huge fan base. Coquette will obviously give you a big push, too, and a publicist could really work with those two credits. Judging from the Polaroids, your shots look unbelievable.”

  “Not too shabby for a kid from the cornfields, huh?”

  “Not in the least. And the ones where you’re straddling Gabrielle—oh, boy. Those are guaranteed to cause a stir.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure it’ll be a hit with the Walmart-shopping soccer moms of America.”

  “Definitely with their husbands, that’s for sure,” Paul snickered. “You had an offer today for a film about a girl who works at a sex shop. She trades places with a vibrator for the day and it’s called—you ready for this—The Bionic Dildo.”

  Callie’s mouth dropped. “Paul, you’re lying!”

  “I kid you not.”

  “See? This is what worries me. Crap like The Bionic Dildo is the best I’m going to get from now on.”

  “Then we’ll keep declining until you’re offered something that deserves you. Remember, there’s no pressure to jump at the first thing that comes your way. I know you don’t want to cruise down T and A Drive forever, but you’ve got a little money in the bank and you’re generating buzz—not exactly a desperate predicament. If this is the best you get when you hit thirty-five, then it’s time to worry.” Paul scribbled on a legal pad. “Here is a number you should call.”

  “Kat Killian,” she read. “I’ve heard of her.”

  “She’s quite abrasive, I’ll warn you, but it clearly works for her because the woman’s been in PR for years. She’s worked with a few clients of mine.”

  “Okay, can you call her for me?” She glanced at the Cartier Roadster adorning her wrist. It was, to date, her biggest splurge, and worth every penny. “Crap. I’m running late, Paul, I’ve got to get going.”

  “Nice watch. A gift from that handsome singer you’re involved with?”

  “Nope. I bought this myself. But, he did get me these.” She an
gled her head and showcased the bling dripping from her lobes.

  “He’s got great taste.”

  “Doesn’t he? I’ll drop off the eight-by-tens by the end of the week, Paul.”

  “Good girl. Hopefully we’ll have some news from Sandy in a few hours.”

  “Fingers crossed! Catch you later.” She scurried out of the office with such vigor, Ursula’s papers fluttered off her desk. Bedroom Eyes was due to land in Van Nuys by private plane any minute. After a monthlong absence! She missed him so much, she could taste the salt from his skin. Little idiosyncrasies tugged at her heartstrings—the way he ran his hand through his hair while deep in thought, back to front; listening to his gentle breathing when she woke in the middle of the night … Just another hour or so … She was combing the aisles at Bristol Farms in search of his favorite Bordeaux when her BlackBerry rang.

  “Hey there, sexy lady,” Evan purred.

  Callie squealed. “Finally! I’ve been thinking about you nonstop. Are you home yet?”

  “En route. Meet me at my place in a half hour?”

  “Perfect. I’m right down the street on the Strip.”

  Twenty-two minutes later she folded her body in his arms. He inhaled her scent and cupped his hands around her waist, drawing her close. “You smell so good,” he raved, “like a sugared, buttery peach.”

  “Take your clothes off,” she ordered.

  “So dominant and feisty today. I love that.” He removed the cotton tee from his tanned, chiseled chest. Callie unbuttoned his jeans and, dropping to her knees, devoured him.

  “God, have I ever missed you,” she said, coming up for air.

  He tugged her hair at the crown. “Mmmm, the feeling is mutual. Now, get down on all fours like a good girl.”

  Her moans cut through the air like a machete. “I feel like a new woman,” she sighed after their fervent romp.

  “Good, baby. You felt amazing, just fucking brilliant. I could stay inside you for days. What would you care to do tonight?”

  “As long as I’m with you, I don’t care.”

  He smiled his signature, sexy grin. “I love that about you. Gary’s having a few people over for drinks, really low-key. Why don’t we go to his place?”

  “Cool—mellow sounds perfect. Gabby and I are scheduled for the interview portion of Coquette tomorrow morning at nine and I want to be fresh. I’m going with her afterwards to see her wedding planner.”

  “She’s still going through with it, is she?”

  “Yeah, full throttle. Says she was really pissed off and overreacted and that she never should have involved the cops. I don’t know—I mean if she’s happy…”

  “Gary’s known Tom for years, back when he was married to his first wife, and he’s never heard of any domestic violence issues. No charges, no rumors, nothing. Maybe Gabby has a hotheaded side you don’t know of. Behind closed doors, anything is possible.”

  A dozen people—a middle-aged man and a group of barely twenty-something girls—mingled at Gary Benson’s Los Feliz mansion. The girls eyed Callie with a mixture of awe and scorn and stared at Bedroom Eyes as if he were a walking strip of bacon. She felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. “I better take this call, doll. You know Gary. Make yourself at home.”

  “Callie! Nice seeing you again, babe.” He kissed her cheek and his thick frames brushed against her nose. “I want you to meet Irina. She moved here from Ukraine last week.” A bleached blonde, breasts five cup sizes too large for her wispy frame, stroked his shoulder with her acrylic nails. Her teeth were as crooked as a rickety fence on an abandoned farm. Wow. She should have spent her money on veneers instead of implants.

  “Good to meet you!” Irina gushed in broken English. She twirled her three-foot-long extensions and batted her chunky false lashes. “Is true you have movie coming out?”

  “In a few months, yes,” said Callie.

  “And you going to be in Coquette?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Irina, here, wants to be a model and actress. Imagine that—moving to Los Angeles to break into show business. Novel idea, right?” His beady eyes twinkled as he patted Irina’s perky bottom.

  “What you say? You being bad man?”

  “No, cupcake—not till later. Why don’t you talk to Callie while I fix you a drink. Vodka tonic?”

  “What you having, Callie? I have what you have,” said Irina.

  “Vodka tonic sounds perfect,” said Callie.

  “You got it. Be right back, ladies.”

  Irina fixed her puppy-dog gaze on Callie. “My dream is be in Coquette. Since I was baby! You think I have right look for magazine?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “Really? I meet Yves Rousseau last night at party but was too skeered to speak. I sweat, I clam up, I was so ner-vuss. I did not know how to be. How you think I should be? What advice you have for me?”

  Callie mulled the question before answering, “Just be yourself. You can’t go wrong with that.”

  “Really? I do not know how. Everyone tell me to have blond hair and big boobs. What you think?” She pulled her twins out of her top.

  “Ummm…” Your surgeon shouldn’t have free-poured the silicone; it’s not 1999. “I think it’s definitely the look you were going for.”

  Irina’s dimples popped. “Thank you. I—” She was startled by the blast of the TV. Gary, his round face ashen and panic-stricken, shut off the music and cranked the volume of the flat screen.

  Another peroxide-drenched girl shouted, “Hey, Gary, turn that down, will ya? I wanna hear some of Evan’s music!”

  “Shut up,” Gary snapped. Evan flew to his side.

  “Anything?” asked the singer.

  “Not yet.” Gary flipped through the channels. “It hasn’t hit.”

  Callie tapped Evan’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?” He shifted his eyes. “Come on, Evan, you’re scaring me. What happened?”

  “We just received a call. Something really bad happened.…” He shook his head in disbelief, his face swathed in shock. “There was a murder tonight. Really brutal, a horrible thing…”

  “Someone we know?” she demanded. “Who?” His silence made her heart rate soar. “Who, Evan? Tell me!”

  “Gabrielle Manx.”

  36

  Sleep dodged Callie the nights following Gabby’s death. Even Ambien failed to induce grogginess. Every day brought new details of the murder, each one more horrific than the last.

  Marta, the Guatemalan housekeeper, had arrived at the Johannesburg residence late in the afternoon—usually she was there by 10 A.M. but her son’s doctor appointment held her up. Buzzzz. She rang the doorbell once, twice, three times. No answer. Not a peep. Not even a bark from Bardot and crew. This was peculiar, Marta told the police. She came by every other day and “Miss Gabriella” always greeted her. Her employers were certainly home—she peered through the garage window and saw the familiar white Mercedes and five Ferraris neatly lined up. But why wasn’t anyone answering? Perhaps the side door off the kitchen was open—Gabrielle sometimes left it unlocked. Marta jiggled the door handle. Bingo.

  “Miss Gabriella? Mr. Toe-mahs?” Marta called. Not a peep. The silence was deafening, she remembered—ominous—and the hairs on the back of her neck stood erect. Normally she was greeted by the dogs, but they were nowhere to be seen. She tried to calm herself by taking slow, methodical breaths but the air was stagnant and thick. She made her way up the sprawling staircase. A wail was audible as she reached the top. “Miss Gabriella? Is that you?” The crying became louder as she inched toward the master bedroom. The door was cracked and Marta entered. In a corner next to the four-poster bed was Tom Johannesburg, crumpled on the floor like a smashed paper bag. Normally an imposing figure, he appeared dwarfed—frail even, she thought. His body trembled with sobs.

  “I loved her so much,” he choked.

  “What do you mean, Mr. Toe-mahs? Where is Miss Gabriella?”

  “You don’t understand. She was my an
gel. I loved her so much.…” He rubbed his bloated, flushed face.

  A tumble of dark hair peeked from underneath the bed frame. “At first I did not think it could be her,” Marta explained. “From across the room, the hair looked brunette and Miss Gabriella was very fair. But when I got closer, I could see her hair was dark from all the blood.” Gabrielle’s neck bore a heinous gunshot wound; her lip was swollen and her eyes were closed shut. Marta touched her cold, bare leg—“I do not know what for, I knew she was dead”—before fleeing, screaming in her native tongue until she reached the neighbors’ to call for help. The police didn’t have to coerce a confession from Tom—he flooded them with details, babbling on, often incoherently.

  “I came home late and she started bitching at me,” he jabbered. “I was feeling pretty good; I had a few cocktails in me and didn’t want to deal with any bullshit. She kept busting my balls, accusing me of fucking some other actress. I told her she was crazy. She wouldn’t shut up about it, kept saying ‘I’m no fool, asshole, I know what you’ve been up to.’ She pulled off her ring and pelted me with it so I slapped her. That motherfucking rock cost me more than my goddamned Enzo! And she actually had the fucking nerve to throw it at me! Said she was leaving me and I begged her not to go. Begged. I’m Tom Johannesburg, you understand? I beg for no one. ‘You leave me,’ I said, ‘and I’ll ruin you. You’ll never work in this town again! You can bet your sweet tits you’ll never get one more goddamned role ever.’ But she wouldn’t listen. And then I grabbed my gun from my closet and I guess it went off.…”

  “How many times did you fire your gun, Mr. Johannesburg?” asked the detective.

  “I don’t know. I can’t say—it’s all a haze. I didn’t plan it, you see? I didn’t want any of this to happen. It’s been a nightmare. A colossal, fucked-up nightmare.”

  “Once? Twice? How many times did you shoot Miss Manx?”

  “Maybe a few. I can’t remember. But I’m not a monster! I’m not a fucking monster.…”

  Gabrielle Manx was the biggest story in the country.