Chapter 7—Regina: The Crutch
“Cady!” Regina tried to push her way back toward the curb for a better look at the woman who had arrived in the limousine, but the crowd wouldn't budge.
“Cady, it's me, Regina!” She lifted a crutch and waved it above her head.
The young man who had offered to lead her to the elevator suddenly grabbed her raised crutch.
“Ma'am, I'll have to take this if you don't use it appropriately. Please come with us.”
“You don't understand.” Regina tried to move against the crowd and back to the curb. “I'm here to see Cady Stanton.”
“Yes, ma'am. We all are,” the man said. “Please. The elevator is this way.”
The mascara-woman nodded in vigorous agreement.
“Reverend Stanton. She's my favorite. Do you know she's lost fifty pounds?”
“No, not like these people. I'm Cady's sister,” Regina told the man.
There. She'd revealed herself. She had hoped to avoid this, but it couldn't be helped.
“Yes, ma'am.” The young man secured the rope barrier once again, trying to wave the crowd along. “We're all brothers and sisters in the eyes of the Lord.”
The mascara woman smiled beatifically. The bear still hovered, infuriating with its cartoon-mask smile.
“Cady and I were raised together.” Regina was losing patience. “She was in the foster care system, you see, because of some misunderstanding with the welfare people and a Davy Crockett hat. So my mother took her in. She thought I needed a sister, or my psychiatrist did, so…I really do need both of my crutches, young man.”
Regina reached for her crutch, but the man maintained his grip. She tried to smile, glancing at the nearby television crews. This was going to be tricky. Whatever was going on with Max was only going to be made worse by a media episode.
“Young man,” she said in a low voice. “Please. I really am Reverend Stanton's sister. Her foster sister. We were brought up together. I'm Princess Regina of San Montinaro.”
A big woman behind her laughed.
“Yeah, and I'm Cleopatra, Queen of De-nial.”
“You will give me back my crutch, sir.”
“After the fund raiser, ma'am. You can pick it up at the security desk when the event is over.”
“Fine. That's what I'm here for. The Celebrity Social. But how am I going to get inside without both my crutches?”
“You're a celebrity for the social?” The young man looked skeptical. “May I see your invitation, please, ma'am?”
“My invitation? Of course.” Regina rummaged in her purse, pretending to search for what was not there.
She started to pull out her wallet to show him her passport, but stopped herself. If she made a point of proving her identity in the middle of this crowd, there would be no way to avoid another tabloid scandal. Finally she unearthed the stub from her airline ticket and scribbled on it with her Prada violet eye pencil—something to signal Cady of an emergency without causing panic.
“Caterpillar—I'm here. Please see me. Love, Ringworm.” She handed the note to the man. “Just give this to Reverend Stanton,” she said. “She has my invitation.”
The man gave her a scornful glance and walked off without her note.
Regina balanced on her lone crutch, starting to feel desperate
“No… Please!” She reached for the bear and grabbed its faux-fur shoulder. “You have to give this to Reverend Stanton. It really is important.” She pushed the crumpled ticket into the bear's furry glove and watched the idiotic cartoon mask turn away and follow the security man into the crowd.
Regina balanced on her one crutch, close to tears.
“Don't cry, hon.” It was the Cleopatra woman. “I know what it's like to be down on your luck. You gotta pray and trust the Lord. Here.” The woman pressed something into her hand.
“La Brea Christian Women's Shelter and Sobriety Center,” it said—some sort of flyer advertising a poetry reading by survivors of alien abduction and satanic abuse.
“Ask for Miss Ida Belle.” The woman pointed to an Inglewood address in the corner. “She'll get you some clothes and a bed for the night. You gotta take the pledge, but that's not too bad for a few days, you know?”
Sober Christian Women's clothes. Found in the famous La Brea tar pits along with other dinosaur remains, no doubt. Regina tried to smile politely, but the woman had already been carried on by the crowd.
Pain shot through Regina's good foot as someone stepped on her toe. She stifled a scream as she leaned heavily on her remaining crutch and looked down as Garfield the cat smiled back from her slippered foot. She also saw that her once elegantly long silk skirt had shrunk to wrinkled mid-calf frump-length. She could feel its tight stiffness around her hips and thighs.
Bag lady time. Thank goodness nobody believed her when she said who she was. Imagine if the press got a shot of this ensemble. She had to get to Rodeo Drive to buy something. Immediately. This was not the outfit in which to meet the new, glamorous Cady Stanton and her sexy man-friend. How far was Beverly Hills from here? She must find a taxi. But how was she going to pay? Damn Fabiano.
She opened her purse and took out her wallet, a sweet gift from Max a few short weeks ago, silvered cobra-skin from Cartier with the Saxi-Cadenti crest in diamonds on the platinum clasp. But it contained only San Montinaran dinars and euros. Thank goodness for credit cards. She had to find an ATM.
She tried to move back to the street through the maze of worshipers moving in the opposite direction. But closer to the curb, no barriers ordered the crowd, and a mass of bodies surged around her. A huge man in overalls appeared from nowhere and shoved her against a coven of blue-haired church ladies dressed in matching granny jog-suits and teddy-bear hats.
A roar rose from the crowd.
“Here she comes. Praise the Lord!” A church lady pointed at another arriving limousine.
Regina felt the chain of her Chanel bag cut into her shoulder as the overall man pushed by.
“My wallet!”
A glint of diamond and cobra-skin showed in the man's hand as her crutch gave way beneath her as someone shoved her from behind. She could feel herself falling headlong toward a granny-suit.
She heard a series of high-pitched screams. The world spun with blue hair and tiny teddy bear angels—and then nothing at all.
Chapter 8—Cady: Oasis
To Cady, the interior of the bronze-colored stretch Lincoln town car was a place outside of time; an oasis in the asphalt desert of the L.A. freeway system. With hand-tooled Moroccan leather seats, silk pillows and hand-woven window shades, it felt like the tent of some nomadic desert monarch of long ago.
For the moment Cady was happy simply to rest and breathe. During the last month of frenzied activity, she'd been working at the most exhausting pace she'd endured since she was a kid in her first awful foster home. And at least in the foster home, even though she'd had to put in three hours of sweatshop labor before being allowed to go to school, she'd been able to go to sleep at eight PM lights-out.
In Hollywood, it seemed the only four-letter word that was truly taboo was “rest”.
Cady's weariness was soothed not only by the luxurious car, but by Tyrone himself. She found herself calling him by his childhood name, although to those who surrounded him his proper title seemed to be “Mr. Power, Sir.” As he poured them both glasses of sweet Moroccan mint tea and made easy conversation about family and childhood friends, she felt her mind and body relaxing in spite of herself.
If anyone had asked her at this moment, she would have had to admit she'd rather spend the rest of the day riding around in the car of this godless pornographer than in church with the Reverend Elmo Greeley and his whole cathedral full of Christian celebrities.
If they'd known, her parishioners back in Boston would surely have thought the demons of Hollywood had captured her soul.
But there was nothing of Hollywood phoniness in Mr. Tyrone Power Magee. It wasn't only th
at his manners were impeccable. Cady expected respectful behavior from men, and usually got it—her years of political power and position in the church usually elicited the kind of overly solicitous respect that men grant to grandmothers and nuns.
But Tyrone wasn't treating her like a nun. And he wasn't playing power games. There was no false deference in the way his eyes met hers. He met her as a person secure in his power meets another person of power. He was holding a summit conference; speaking monarch to monarch; holding high court. Tyrone was treating her as an equal.
She had to admit she was basking in it. His precise memories of half-forgotten childhood incidents transported her to a happier, more hopeful time, and reminiscences about crazy neighbors and once-fearsome bullies had her giggling like a kid.
But something made his look darken.
“I was sorry to hear about your brother Sinclair's boy,” he said. “An O.D. has to be one of the hardest ways to lose somebody.”
“And I'm so sorry about Myrna.” Cady hadn't known how to bring up the subject. She didn't even know if he knew. The two couldn't have had much contact. Certainly poor, HIV-infected Myrna had never mentioned that the famous T. Power Magee was her baby brother Tyrone.
“I visited Myrna when I heard she was sick, but by then the AIDS dementia had set in,” he said. “She didn't know me anymore.”
They shared a moment of silent pain.
“Sinclair, Jr. and Myrna died of the same disease, didn't they?” Cady said finally.
“Which disease would that be? Poverty or racism?”
“Give me a break.” Cady was annoyed now. “Drugs are an equal opportunity destroyer. And our families aren't anywhere near poor. They could have had help from us if they'd asked.”
“If they'd asked,” Tyrone repeated. “But they won't ask. At least not my family. My Gramma hasn't spoken to me since the release of Afro-Blue. She sends my checks back. That's why I wanted to talk to you.”
“What, you want me to tell your grandmother that all the sex in that movie was art?” Cady laughed sharply. Did Tyrone Magee really think a person who'd spent ten years inside the Washington Beltway was going to be taken in this easily? “What about Honyz in the Hood? That movie's got so much art in it, I guess they should show it at the museum.”
“So you have seen my films, Reverend.” Tyrone grinned. “Good for you. I was sure you couldn't have turned into the closed-minded Miss Priss the media make you out to be.”
Cady set down her glass on the ivory-inlaid fold-down table, the mood broken. The man was in the business of seduction. How had she let herself fall for this?
“No. I most certainly have not viewed your pornography, Mr. Magee. And what would I be if I had; an open-minded Miss Priss?”
Tyrone gave such a friendly, honest laugh, that she couldn't help laughing too.
She turned away and pushed the window curtain aside. The shining tower of the Silver Cathedral loomed ahead.
“Thank you for the lift, Mr. Magee,” Cady said, trying not to let her feelings show. “My condolences on the loss of your sister.”
She gathered her purse and briefcase and the bag containing the awful linen pumps that Albert had thrust into her hand as she followed Tyrone out of the Beverly Wilshire. Albert could be so annoying, especially when he was right. He said she'd lose her credibility as a traditionalist if she appeared on national television wearing sneakers with her Valentino suit.
She unlaced her Nikes, aware of Tyrone's unwavering gaze, although she refused to look up and meet his eyes. As far as she was concerned, the conversation was over. Whatever he was building to, she was way too old to be taken in. There was no way Reverend Cady Stanton was going to endorse the woman-degrading exploitation films of Mr. T. Power Magee.
“My God, Cady. There's blood in that shoe. Look. You're bleeding.” Tyrone grabbed one of her sneakers as she tried to stuff her throbbing feet into the pumps. The white sneaker lining was spotted with red.
Tyrone raised her foot gently. He pulled off the pump and studied its two-inch heel.
“Why? Why the hell do you women do this to yourselves?”
“To ourselves? We do it for you, sir. For the almighty male.”
“What male?” Tyrone put something cool and damp on her raw, blistered heel; a towel with some ice from the mini-bar. “I'm five foot seven and a half, girl. You sure as hell ain't doing it for me.”
“The Silver Cathedral, Mr. Power, sir,” said the driver's voice from a concealed speaker, as the limo pulled up to the curb. One of the uniformed bodyguards jumped out to open the limousine door.
Cady didn't know when she'd felt so disappointed to arrive anywhere, or so relieved.
Chapter 9—Cady: The Pearly Gates
Cady peered out the door of Tyrone's limo.
The crowd in the plaza in front of the Cathedral was huge—several thousand people. Audience members were being herded into lines that snaked toward the “Pearly Gates” of the Cathedral entrance, but the media were an unruly mob, pressing toward the curb to ambush arriving celebrities.
So this is what Albert meant when he said Reverend Elmo had “called out the troops.” They did remind her of an invading army. Although she recognized some local and network logos, most of them didn't seem to be the professional news people she knew from being in public office.
Their cocky, disrespectful attitude suggested they were freelancers—the paparazzi.
Cady was not looking forward to this.
“Okay, time to face the music. Give me that, Tyrone.” She reached out for her shoe.
“You've got to be kidding.” He kept his grip on the pump as he turned toward the door and lowered the window.
The bodyguard leaned inside.
“Mr. Power, sir?” He looked prepared to wrestle anyone to the ground if Tyrone gave the word.
“For God's sake, Cady. Wear the damned Nikes.” Tyrone turned back to the guard.
“Yes, sir. Mr. Power, sir.” Cady jammed her feet in the sneakers and quickly tied the laces.
Tyrone stepped out of the car and spoke to a couple of young men in suits as the crowd pressed around them.
As Cady stepped out behind him, she heard a roar from the crowd and a mass of humanity surged toward her, cameras at the ready: one-eyed monsters circling like ravening sharks.
The last time she'd seen this kind of predatory celebrity worship was when Regina showed up, swathed in designer black silk and fur, at her mother's funeral, making the memorial to stolid, hardworking Astrid Ingram into a media circus.
Cady had been truly angry at Regina that day—for her cold shallowness, for her disregard for the other mourners, and for what seemed to be a total lack of concern for her mother's memory. But now Cady had a flash of empathy with her royal foster sister. Regina couldn't have controlled those people any more than Cady could control these.
This wasn't the celebrity of power. It was the celebrity of the victim: the virgin about to be tossed into the volcano, the garlanded lamb being led to the altar of a blood-hungry primitive god.
“Hey, Cady, babe! Over here!” Cady recognized a fat, bearded man who had thrust a camera in her face as she stepped out of church last Sunday. “Looking good, girlfriend! Keeping the flab off!”
She darted him an angry look. His camera clicked in her face. Something in the man's face chilled her with real fear.
“Sexy one, Reverend.” He bared his teeth in a broad grin. “That'll put some food on my table.”
Food on the table. Taking pictures of her was this man's livelihood. His bread and butter.
She was, quite literally, his food. No wonder these people seemed like sharks, or swarms of biting insects. They were feeding on her.
Tyrone grabbed her hand.
“These men say there's a handicapped elevator over there.” He pointed to a glass door to the right of the entrance to the parking garage that formed one side of the plaza. “I explained that you have a foot injury. Do you want them to bring a wheelchair
?”
“A wheelchair? Oh, that would make great headlines.”
She turned to the crowd with as broad and energetic a smile as she could manage. She could see the elevator. A couple of actors in Gladly Bear costumes waved at her from the door. She waved back as she kept her smile in place.
Tyrone and his guards seemed to be in deep conference with a church official and another bear. All she wanted was to get away from the oppressing crowd.
“Thanks for the lift, Mr. Magee,” she said with careful politeness. “But I'm not so old and feeble I can't walk a few yards.” She started to push her way toward the garage.
“Wait,” Tyrone said. “There's been a security problem. They say some nut case was planning to attack you with a crutch. They want to escort us to the elevator as a precaution.”
“Us. You're going with me?”
But there was no time for an answer as an ambulance pulled up behind the limo and Tyrone motioned his men to drive it on to the garage. The crowd split as a crew in white carried a middle-aged woman to the ambulance.
Cady wondered if the crutch-wielding “nutcase” had attacked the poor soul.
“A Garfield slipper.” Tyrone said in her ear. “Did you see? That woman on the stretcher was wearing bedroom slippers with Dolce and Gabbana. This is L.A. You can wear anything you want. So don't worry yourself about those sneakers, okay?”
“Okay,” Cady said as they made their way to the elevator between two costumed bears. She couldn't help being grateful to have Tyrone's arm for support as pain shot through her foot.
But as soon as the doors had closed, she was afraid she'd made a mistake letting him come along. His expression had changed.
“Please, Cady. I'm not asking you to like my films. But we do need to talk. I want to start a foundation.”
“A film foundation? What could that possibly have to do with me?”
Cady was only half paying attention to his words as she studied the panel of buttons on the wall. She had no idea whether she wanted “Celestial Chambers”, “Angel Choir”, “Pearly Gates”, “Bear Cave” or “Orchestra”. She had forgotten to ask where the other celebrities were meeting. Being with Tyrone made her forget a lot of things she shouldn't. She pressed the button marked “Pearly Gates.”
Six Pack of Sleuths: Comedy Mysteries Page 82
