Manx Murder Tape Found
Gorgeous Gabby Loved Orgies!!!
Minxy Manx’s $50K Nightmare: Her Plastic Surgeon Reveals All
Sexy Actress Faked Her Death!
The headlines sickened Callie almost as much as her friend’s brutal demise. Gary Benson had an inside track and provided Evan and Callie with the details—knowing someone who could separate the truth from the lies was somewhat comforting. Based on her own brief experience with the press, she was well aware how inaccurate the headlines could be, but that didn’t make them any less hurtful. Long-lost acquaintances emerged from Gabby’s past, eager to give interviews to anyone who’d listen—high school chums, her orthodontist and personal trainer, even a self-proclaimed feng shui guru. But it was the press conference held by Dr. Holtsclaw that enraged Callie the most. A day after Gabby’s death, dressed in a sleek suit that perfectly matched his eyes, Dr. Holtsclaw stood on the lawn of his Bel Air home surrounded by microphones and newsmen.
“Gabrielle Manx wasn’t just a patient of mine—she was also a trusted friend,” he began. “As stunning as she was on the outside, she was even lovelier on the inside. She had so much to look forward to—especially the upcoming release of Nympho Cheerleaders Attack!, a film she stars in alongside her best friend, who, coincidentally, is another of my patients. Her tragic and gruesome passing is a reminder of how truly sick people are. As a psychiatrist who not only specializes in treating celebrities but people from all walks of life, I urge you to seek professional help if you think you may suffer from a mental imbalance.” He phoned Callie after his televised performance. “Hey, kiddo. I called in your Wellbutrin refill today. By the way, did you happen to catch me on TV?”
“I did,” Callie said icily.
“What did you think? Wasn’t it great? I even gave your little movie a plug.”
“Who the hell do you think you are? How dare you use me!”
“No, no. You don’t understand—”
“No, you don’t understand. I don’t sell out my friends whether they’re alive or in the morgue. You’re nothing but a licensed Hollywood fame whore and it’s disgusting. And you’re fired, too.”
“Come again? I don’t follow.”
“I’m firing you. Since you have so many celebrity connections, why don’t you ring up the Donald? I’m sure he can explain it to you.” Click.
37
The press pounced on the Gabby–Callie connection. Paparazzi loitered outside Hollywood Tower, the complex she’d recently moved to, and unidentified callers blew her phone up at all hours. How did they gain access to her number? She wanted nothing to do with them. Paul spent half his day fielding interview requests from tabloids and news networks and beseeched her to meet with a publicist. (“You need someone to rein in all this commotion. I’ve had twenty calls from the press this morning alone.”) She took his advice and scheduled an appointment with Kat.
The bedlam was Kat Killian’s wet dream. She had been wedded to the trade of publicity for twenty years; she breathed it, ate it, slept with it. Her deep, wide-set eyes flashed at the mention of both the famous and infamous alike. John Wayne Bobbitt whet her palate as much as any A-list entertainer. “I’m an equal opportunist,” she loved to say. “Fame is fame.” Two dozen framed photographs covered the walls of her Beverly Hills office; Kat backstage at Madison Square Garden with Madonna; Kat beaming next to Ellen DeGeneres at the Emmys; Kat with Wayne Newton at a charity event, her pale, bony arm binding his shoulder … If the woman could mainline the sweat of celebrities, she would.
“Everyone wants you, Callie. Coquette and the movie make you kind of interesting, but throw in the Manx murder association and you’ve got a whole new ball game. People are slobbering with curiosity. It’s a completely whacked, unique situation.” Kat’s voice crackled with excitement.
“The main thing I want to stress is this: I’m not interested in exploiting Gabrielle. Enough people are doing that and I’m not selling out my friend,” Callie said firmly.
“Look, not to sound callous, but you’re running around in your birthday suit with the lead actress who was murdered by the director she was engaged to. You can’t write this stuff! Is it a horrible tragedy? Of course it is, but in terms of timing, it couldn’t be any better. I have clients who’d chop their balls off for this kind of ammo.”
Callie squirmed in the stiff, two-thousand-dollar Armani Casa chair. Kat’s point, though crude, was spot-on. The publicity machine was charging ahead full throttle; the Manx–Lambert pictorial was scheduled for mass consumption in May, days after Callie’s twenty-fourth birthday and months ahead of schedule—and NCA! was set to hit theaters the week after that. Both the studio and magazine had no desire to let free promotion go to waste (why not capitalize on that poor girl’s slaughter?), with or without the cooperation of the lone surviving lead actress.
“I understand the twisted irony of it all, Kat. I’m not stupid. But everyone wants to make a buck off Gabby’s death—”
“A much bigger profit than they ever anticipated, no less,” Kat interjected.
“No doubt. I get this business is about making money, but—”
“I can get you on The View and Today, no problem. I’m seriously connected with NBC and CBS. And print, of course—lots of men’s magazines. Not just nudes, you know, but bra-and-panty stuff, too.”
“I want to move away from all that before I get typecast as ‘the nympho bimbo.’ Just the thought is depressing.”
“It’s all in your hands. The sky’s the limit as to how far you want to ride the wave. Reality shows, book deals. Only grant interviews if they pay. CNN doesn’t pay a dime, so don’t bother. I just had a thought—you could start your own line of lingerie and specialize in kinky cheerleader outfits. Ooooh, yes! I like that idea. Leather and rubber uniforms, pom-poms that double as both a whip and a French tickler … We can really spin this into something lucrative. You said Paul Angers is your agent. What kind of offers is he taking?”
“Mostly tabloids. Yesterday I went to Ralph’s and had a pap chase me around, asking what it was like to have sex with a dead blonde with DDDs. It’s sick, the sensationalism of it. The only reasons I posed for Coquette were (a), for the money and (b), because they turned me down the first time. Scoring the cover was the ultimate ‘fuck you.’ But the murder has made it all so high-profile, more than I ever thought possible, I wish I hadn’t been a part of it,” she sputtered, half in frustration, half in anger, all in gloom.
“I can see your point, but it is what it is. You can either take control of it or let it control you.” Kat snatched the beeping cell phone off her desk and texted a reply at sonic speed.
Callie smoothed her ponytail, deep in thought. “What do you charge?”
“Three thousand.”
“Three thousand a year?”
Kat screeched. “I’ll pretend I didn’t just hear that. No, a month. Most of my clients pay five grand and above but I like you and think you have a lot of commercial potential.”
What a deal, Callie thought sarcastically. “I’ll think it over. I have another appointment to get to. Thanks for your time.”
“Pleasure’s all mine. I’ll walk you out.”
An autographed photo of Bedroom Eyes caught Callie’s eye. “How do you know Evan Marquardt?”
“We met at The Tonight Show; he was booked the same day as one of my clients. What a sweetheart. Holy shit! It totally slipped my mind—aren’t you two dating?” Kat pressed the elevator button.
“We’re just friends.” She and Evan had made a pact not to publicly discuss the nature of their relationship.
“That’s the oldest answer in the book—it’s so old, I invented it! Come on, level with me. If you are, that’s fantastic, it’s one more angle we could—”
“Friends, Kat. Friends.” She’d be better off proclaiming their love to The New York Times than confiding in Kat.
Kat stroked her chin with a long, pointed nail. “Let’s pretend I believe you. You can be ‘just f
riends’ and still court the press. Go out together where you know you’ll be photographed—that’s the bare minimum nowadays. Play it coy but definitely play it up. You’re sitting on a gold mine.”
Callie stepped into the elevator. “That’s not really my style.”
“We’ll work on that. Our first day together and I’ll have you rewired. Think about it. You can always change your mind.”
Slam!
The doors banged shut and Callie exhaled. The thought of Kat combing through her private life, looking for every angle to exploit it, was hive-inducing. What a bloodsucker! Callie tried to erase the varmit from her memory. Tyler would be at her apartment in a half hour and she still had to pick up a prescription. A handful of paparazzi loitered in the parking lot when she emerged from the drugstore. She figured they’d been trailing her for some time.
“Hey, Callie, lookin’ good, girl. Watcha got there? Some happy pills?”
“C’mon, when you gonna talk to us? We won’t bite, honest.”
“I bet you’re holdin’ out till the movie comes out, aren’t ya? Waitin’ for a big payday.”
She scurried past the cameras and jumped in her Mustang, head held high and jaw clenched. Ugh. Illiterate trash. No wonder Fellini named them after mosquitoes. What bottom-feeders. They tailed her as she cruised home. She dashed inside her building as quickly as possible, minutes before Tyler arrived.
“Did you know there are paparazzi outside your complex?” he asked as he rushed over to the window and whipped off his Carreras.
Callie rolled her eyes and plopped on the sofa. “Don’t even get me started. They’re pests. What do they want from me? I don’t get it. I have nothing to say to them.”
“You butter their bread, Cal. That’s how it works. Scandal puts food on their table. Most of Hollywood would give their left titty for this attention. I know I would.”
“Not me. I have nothing to say to them. They want to get me going, egging me on, asking the dumbest questions. As far as I’m concerned, they can shove it.”
“Skank, let’s be honest—this case reads juicier than Jackie Collins. Hot women, murder, money, sex … It’s human nature to want to know more about Gabby and that bastard Tom. Especially for folks who have no life. Remember how bored we used to be back in Michigan? Imagine what that’s like twenty-four/seven. Saps with nothing better to do than stuff their faces with frozen pizza and watch the boob tube. They want to read about all the spice their sad selves lack.”
“I know. But count me out of this circus. I just left a meeting with the piranha of all publicists and she couldn’t be any happier. She’s foaming at the mouth and wants to take it all the way to the bank. Poor Gabby. I guess she didn’t value herself much. She sold herself short and now the press is raking her over the coals. She’s the victim in this mess but you’d never know it, would you? It’s all backwards.”
“It sure is. But it will quiet down. It’s probably wise to distance yourself from the hoopla so it doesn’t overshadow everything you do from here on out. Here, let’s smoke a bowl.” He pulled a pipe out of his messenger bag and fired up. “Everything she ever did is getting dug up, all the filth. If the press finds out she swallowed an Ex-Lax the night she died, it’ll make the front page. She seemed like a really nice person, too. Sure, she had her demons, but who doesn’t?”
“Can we change the subject?”
“Fine by me. Your apartment is really cute, practically a mansion compared to your old studio. And the dining room table goes well with all of the curved archways and moldings.”
“Supposedly this unit once belonged to Humphrey Bogart. It obviously needs more decoration but it’s coming together. A little knickknack here, a lick of paint there…”
“Rome wasn’t built in a day,” Tyler chirped.
“Speaking of which, Candice and her boyfriend get back from Europe tonight. We’re having a heart-to-heart soon.”
“Candice? Lord. She’s fucked you before and she’ll do it again. That bitch is sneaky like that.”
“She’s not in a good place, Ty. When we ran into her at the Abbey, she looked so sickly, it broke my heart.”
“She sure did—a hemorrhoidal ass looked better than her. But it’s not your fault and there’s no reason for getting sucked down her spiral. She did this to herself. You can’t change her—Candice has to do that for herself. Loyalty is your strong suit, skank, but also your weakness.” Tyler’s insight often belied his twenty-six years.
Callie shrugged. “She needs me and I can’t turn my back on her. And she apologized.…”
“Just watch out, girl. You have enough on your plate without a so-called friend taking advantage of you again.”
“Let’s just relax and forget the bullshit.” She toked on the pipe and propped her feet on the coffee table. Ahhhh … For the first time in eight days, the tautness in her shoulders dissipated and her mind lacked constipation. Hooray for modern medicine.
38
“Ooh, get a load of these.” Candice scooped up a pair of patent platforms from the display table. “Come to me, my sweet.”
“Don’t you have a similar pair?” Callie said.
Candice’s face fell. “One can never have enough. Where’s the saleslady? The help is never around when you need them. Excuse me, ma’am, do you work here? No? Well, who does, then? Earth to customer service! Can a customer get some goddamn help around here?” The size of her pupils rivaled that of the moon.
“Be nice,” said Callie. “I’m sure someone will be around in a minute. Why are you so on-edge?”
“Because of Jon,” she huffed. “It’s all his fault. We’ve been fighting nonstop and it’s wearing me thin. He bitches, ‘you spend too much money, you don’t stay home enough, you party too much.’ Blah, blah, blah. Spare me, Dad. Excuse me that I’m young and hot and like to have a good time! The first and last time I ever date a guy twenty years older than me, I’ll tell you that. They’re way too controlling. It really chaps my ass. And he’s gotten so cheap lately. I saw this sick Fendi coat while we were in Milan and you’d think I asked for keys to a new Maybach.”
A saleswoman approached Candice. “Would you like to try these on?”
“No need. I’ll take a pair in a seven.” She dropped the shoes in the woman’s hand and examined a flashy green sandal. “This color is so you, Cal. It goes great with your hair.”
“How much?”
“Twelve hundred.”
“Um, no,” Callie balked. “They’re more your style.”
“You’re so right. My name may as well be etched on the soles. Good call. Ma’am, I’ll take these, too.”
“Perfect,” said the saleswoman. “I’ll put them up front. My name is Tina if I can get you anything else.”
Callie dangled a pair of black slingbacks. “Tina, may I try these on in an eight, please?”
“Certainly. I’ll be right back.” Tina disappeared to the stock room.
“Yeah, Candy, the service here is just dreadful,” Callie teased.
“Whatever,” Candice snorted. “Not a soul in sight a minute ago. You’d think they’d be better staffed at Saks. Do you need to go to the bathroom?”
“Nah, I went before I got here. Candy, level with me—ever since I picked you up you’ve been fidgety and pissy. And you look awfully tired, too.”
“What are you trying to say, Cal—that I look beat? Just say it and get it out in the open. Go ahead, I can take it.”
Callie hesitated. Candice was a tough cookie, but there was no pleasant way of revealing she resembled a bowl of Alpo warmed over. “I’m worried, that’s all. You’re not yourself. What’s wrong?”
“It’s all the Diet Pepsi I’ve been slamming. I should stay away from caffeine, makes me jittery.”
Callie arched one eyebrow suspiciously.
“I’m fine; don’t worry about me, mama. We’ll talk about things later. Right now I just want to have fun and shop. I’m off to pee, be back in five.”
Callie
sighed as she watched her friend’s high-speed strut. Adderall, coke, meth, diet pills … what was it? With Candice, it could be all of the above. Sure, Callie was occasionally fond of powdering her nose or munching a pill—it was L.A.; who didn’t party? Perhaps it was something innocent—Wellbutrin had originally made her speedy and decreased her appetite.… But, no—that couldn’t be it. The remote look in Candice’s eyes wasn’t from a steady dose of antidepressants. And it certainly wouldn’t be the first time she’d gone off the deep end, either. The summer after graduation, just before Callie entered her senior year of high school, the Boyd family stuck their daughter in a Floridian clinic. One month and twelve thousand dollars later, Candice was back to her familiar antics. To the annoyance of her parents, she had met a boy in rehab and moved with him to Miami. Again, they intervened and threw her in another detox program, this time all the way in the boonies of Alabama for three months. Things were on the upswing when she was accepted to Michigan State. But after a few years boredom set in and then came Coquette and California and Lars.…
Candice returned twenty minutes later. “This place is Hag Central,” she hissed. “I came out of the stall and this old battleax gave me the nastiest look, like I was trying to swipe away her Depends or something. Why can’t people just chill the fuck out?” Her nostrils were wet with a ring of white residue.
“You have a little bit of, um, stuff on you.…” Callie wiped the crusty deposit off Candice’s nose.
“Thanks,” Candice muttered. “Let’s go pay for our stuff.”
Tina processed Callie’s purchase speedily, but when she swiped Candice’s card—once, twice, three times—she said, “I’m sorry, miss, but it’s declined.”
“Impossible, try it again.”
Tina did, without any luck. “Do you have another card?”
“There’s plenty of room on this card,” Candice snapped.
“It won’t go through, Miss Boyd.”
“Hold on, let me call my boyfriend.… Hey, Jon. I’m trying to cash out at Saks and your Visa isn’t working.… What?! What do you mean you canceled it? I’m not in the mood for a joke, this isn’t funny … but I really need these shoes, Jon!… You’re sick of my shit? I’m sick of your shit!… Oh, yeah? That suits me just fine, you jackass. I don’t need your goddamned money!” Candice shuffled through her wallet and threw a different card on the counter. At last, the exchange was complete.
Hollywood Strip Page 14
