by Ian Bull
Will sighs and looks at the driver, who stands ramrod straight by the open passenger door.
“What’s your name?” Will asks.
“My name is John, Mr. Becker.”
“John, how well do you know the Egyptian Theatre?”
“Like the back of my hand, sir,” he answers.
“I want you to get us to the back entrance without anyone seeing us. There’s a parking lot there. I’ll call security and tell them we’re coming through the back.”
“So no red carpet kiss, right?” I ask.
“We’ll wait for the after party. I’ll bring the photographer inside for five minutes,” Will says. “How’s that for a compromise?”
“And I tell the photographer exactly how to shoot it,” I answer.
“You got it,” Will says, “I’ll call and arrange it all from the car.”
I want to tell him not to make secret plans without consulting me again, but I am still his house guest, so I can’t push him too much.
“Let’s go then,” is all I say.
“Let me turn on the party lights for you,” John says, and he reaches inside the door and flicks a switch, lighting up the back passenger area with flashing LEDs that run along the trim of every window. With the seats facing in, it’s like the VIP room in a disco. Will shakes his head with disgust.
We slide in, and John closes the door. I can’t see him slide into the driver’s seat through the smoked glass in front, but the limo rolls forward and soon we’re headed down the hill toward Hollywood Boulevard.
Will pulls out a bottle of champagne from the fridge and looks for glasses on the narrow bar hugging the side window, but a small bouquet of roses blocks his view.
“The roses are a nice touch, but I can’t find a glass around here,” Will says.
He spots something in the bouquet and stops. “Hey, there’s a note.”
I jump a foot trying to get away from the bouquet. Trishelle hits the electric button and lowers the smoked glass separating us from John in the front seat.
“How did those flowers get in here?”
His eyes widen, and he sputters when he spots them. “I didn’t check the back when I got the car. The privacy glass was up, and the lights were off,” John says.
“Thank you, John,” Trishelle says, then she hits the button and raises the window between us and the front seat. “That’s the last time we can use Allied.”
“Are you sure they’re from him?” asks Will.
I put on my sunglasses and look out the window. “Go ahead, read the note. I know what it says already,” I say.
Will tugs the note off the bouquet and reads:
“Julia…we were together at your start and we’re meant to be together now. Love always, Xander.”
Will slides the note back inside the envelope. “It’s not that threatening. Who’s Xander?” he asks.
“Xander Constantinou,” Trishelle says.
Will’s eyes widen. “I’ve read about him on The Huffington Post. Your stalker is a Greek millionaire?”
“Billionaire,” Trishelle says.
“You’re dodging a billionaire?” Will asks. “If a homeless guy follows you, that’s a stalker, Julia. A billionaire who follows you is just persistent. I say go for it, girl, even if he’s ugly.”
Trishelle jumps in. “He’s actually kind of handsome. Plus he owns estates around the world. He even has his own island.”
I widen my eyes at her and she tones down the gushing.
“But he is a little intense,” she says.
“Scary is more like it,” I say. “I don’t want to see him again. Ever.”
Will pulls a rose from the bouquet and sniffs it.
“Well, I think every billionaire deserves a second chance. He could even steal you away from me. That would be a good story.”
I take off my sunglasses and look directly at Will. “I’m not some prize for two rich men to steal back and forth. That’s why I’m not with him anymore.”
There’s an awkward silence. We all look out our windows.
“I hope you’re not putting me in the same category as him,” Will finally says.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way,” I say.
They actually do share some of the same qualities—talent, ambition and childish narcissism—and I ended up living with each of them. What does that say about me?
“The truth is, we’re supposed to be friends yet you’ve never shared anything about this man with me,” Will says.
“Me either. Even I don’t know everything,” Trishelle says, jumping in.
“Because I’m ashamed that it even happened, okay?”
“We deserve to know, Julia. What if he breaks into my house next and leaves flowers in my kitchen? Or worse?” Will asks.
I exhale slowly. He’s right; if I’m living in his house because I’m afraid of Xander, then Will deserves to know.
“Five years ago, Trishelle and I were living in New York. I was trying to make it as an actress and Trishelle was the manager of Le Centrale restaurant, where Xander Constantinou would go all the time. I met him one night and he swept me off my feet. I moved into his place after two weeks.”
“I wish I hadn’t introduced you,” Trishelle says.
“It’s not your fault, I was naive. He said that I should drop my agent and let him handle my career. His first step would be to produce a movie with me as the lead. I only had three years acting experience, but he said that he’d transform me into a star.”
“And you believed him?” Will asks.
“Yes, because he did it. He bought an award-winning script, he hired a director and a top notch line producer and cast actors. We shot half the movie in New York, and the second half was supposed to be shot in the Bahamas.”
“He bankrolled a movie for you?” Will asks. “He must have really loved you.”
“But then he halted the movie,” Trishelle says.
“So that’s when you were living in the Bahamas?” Will asks.
“Yes, I ended up at his estate, waiting for production to start up again, but it never did,” I say. “And when I complained, he’d disappear for weeks.”
“Gone with other women?” Will asks.
“Other women whom he kept in his different homes around the world. Some called themselves singers and he’d produce their albums, some called themselves fashion designers and he’d fund their clothing lines. I was his ‘actress,’ but the movie was his way of toying with me. So I decided to leave.”
“I bet that felt good,” Will says.
“Except I couldn’t. I had no cash or credit cards, he had my passport, and his staff wasn’t about to help me leave,” I say.
“But you got away somehow,” Will says.
“It took an act of God, but I did it,” I say.
“And you made it on your own without him,” Will says.
“Except he’s been pissed ever since,” I say, “or obsessed.”
“Because you’re the one who got away,” Trishelle says.
Will hits the button, opens the window and tosses the bouquet into the street.
“Well, this is our night and he can’t ruin it. You’re in the Becker bubble now.”
He pops the champagne and pours a glass and raises it to Trishelle and me, which makes me feel a little bit more confident.
Trishelle leans in and whispers. “We can still cancel, you know.”
“I promised him,” I whisper back. “And I can’t live my life afraid all the time.”
Chapter 5
Steven Day 1: Thursday Afternoon
I ease my motorcycle between the limos and town cars already backed up on Hollywood Boulevard. They are heading to the Egyptian Theatre; a restored movie palace originally built in the 1920s as an Art Deco version of an Egyptian temple. Two turning klieg lights flank the red carpet leading into the theater, while news crews and photographers cluster behind metal barricades. Black limos are already pulling up and spitting out their
movie stars. I hear the crowd yell, and the late afternoon light blows up brighter as the flashbulbs explode for some arriving celebrity. The Hollywood machine is in full gear.
I see only black cars. I make a right on Las Palmas and head to the back of the theater. A high fence surrounds the rear parking lot. That is where the after party will be. They’ve stretched thick muslin painted with fake hieroglyphics around the inside of the fence to keep the prying commoners from staring at the elite guests who will spill from the theater once the movie ends.
I drive my motorcycle on the sidewalk and stop at the far corner and peek through the fence in a space in the muslin. Caterers arrange fake palm trees around the outside of a white tent in the middle of the asphalt. It will feel just like Egypt until you look down at the fake rug under your feet and remember you’re really in an oil-stained parking lot.
I turn on the walkie-talkie strapped to my belt, slide the earbud under my helmet and stick it in my ear. I find walkie chatter immediately. On channel one, event coordinators argue about the guest list…catering is on two, and security is on three. I click my walkie.
“Security, what’s your twenty? The back parking lot gate is open, do you copy?”
Security guards in dark suits and sunglasses appear around the back gate. Five total—all of them twenty pounds overweight with fake tans. Not too scary. They touch their earbuds.
“Gate is locked. Do you copy on three? Copy?” one guy asks into his walkie.
“Copy,” I say. “Thanks, guys.”
The five guards look around as if searching for my voice. I recognize two of them as regulars on Tom Kittredge’s team, which gives me confidence. Tom is a former cop who now runs a security company that handles big Hollywood events, but he’s better at schmoozing celebrities like Will Becker than running actual security. Tom likes to escort the celebrities from their limos himself, steering them by the elbow and putting his palm up in front of the cameras and raising his voice. It’s a personal touch that makes for good drama and gets him in the photos too, which raises his profile. It’s also easy to breach his security; he’s so busy hogging the spotlight he doesn’t notice me getting close with my camera.
I roll back into traffic and dodge the angry commuters zooming through the back streets trying to avoid the congestion on Hollywood Boulevard. I do a zigzag pattern for a few blocks until I see a white limo coming up Las Palmas from Sunset Boulevard.
My plan is working so far. They hate the limo, so they’re coming in the back. Find, follow and isolate, while keeping them unaware of me.
I park my bike in the back of an apartment building on Selma Avenue. I take off my helmet and leather jacket, then tighten the elastic strap on my small Nikon and secure it under my armpit. I open my motorcycle case and pull out my own dark suit jacket and put it on, hiding the camera. This leaves my hands free, but with one tug on the strap I can get the camera up to my eye. I adjust my walkie-talkie on my belt, secure my earbud, and then slide on my own pair of dark glasses.
Now things get serious—sort of. When I did reconnaissance, I had to stay hidden for days at a time in war zones while people hunted for me. That was risky. In Hollywood, I only use a third of my training, never feel in danger, and when a good plan starts kicking in, I get the same feeling as when I’m in the ocean—in the zone with no thinking, worrying or regretting. I’m just taking harmless pictures.
A homeless man pushing an overloaded shopping cart greets me on the sidewalk. Gary is African American, middle-aged, with a patchy beard and dirty skin, wearing thick canvas pants and a padded army jacket. He’s ready for cold weather even though it’s mid-May.
“You’re right on time,” I say.
“Can you spare any change?” he asks.
“Gary, it’s me, Steven. I’m hiring you, remember?” I ask him, and slide a hundred dollar bill into his hand.
“You always look different,” he complains.
He pushes his cart down the street, and I follow him. When we reach the back corner of the Egyptian Theatre parking lot, Gary pulls a thick wool blanket from his shopping cart and tosses it over the top of the fence, covering the barbed wire. I jump into his shopping cart and use the blanket to vault over the fence and land between two catering vans, then unhook Gary’s blanket from the barbed wire and toss it back to him.
“Thanks, Gary,” I whisper, but he’s already rolling away.
A bit of white limo flashes past a gap in the fence. Switching my walkie back to channel three, I stride up to the security guards still gathered at the back gate.
“Becker is in a white limo, gentlemen! Let’s open the gate!” I bark.
The five former halfbacks stiffen when they hear my voice and fall into place.
“Who’s in a white limo again?” one of them asks.
“Mr. Will Becker,” I answer.
They all nod, impressed.
“Where’s Tom, doesn’t he escort all the celebs?” one asks.
“He’s on the red carpet and says to just get the limo inside,” I insist.
One guard opens the gate and waves at the driver to pull in. Once all four wheels are through, the guards pull the gate closed, and the driver gets out and rushes around to open the door. Julia’s brunette girlfriend pops out first and glances around, which means Julia’s inside, since they’re usually together. The other security guys move close to the car and create a gauntlet. Since I’m one of them now, I join their line at the end.
“Where’s Tom?” Julia’s girlfriend asks. “He always escorts us.”
A big blond guy rushes up to the car door. It’s Tom, right on cue.
“I’m here,” he answers, then waves at us. “Tighten the line guys, we’re on.”
The girlfriend waves that it’s safe, and Will Becker and Julia Travers emerge like scared gophers and peek around.
“It’s Will Becker, I can see him!” a voice shouts from the other side of the fence. The muslin blocks their view, but the fans can peek through where it’s tied to the fence posts.
“And there’s that Stella bitch!” someone else shouts.
A dozen people hold their cameras over the top of the fence and click randomly, hoping to get something worthwhile.
The line of men moves forward. I pull the camera out from under my arm and snap photos of Julia and Will holding hands. He whispers “thank you” in her ear, and he kisses her cheek. Not exactly passionate, but I get ten photos in five seconds, then slide my camera back under my arm. If I leave now I can be over the fence in thirty seconds, but I don’t feel like I have a cover shot. I stay, hoping something else will happen.
Then Julia spots me.
“Hey!” she yells and points, “You’re that photographer!”
Everyone looks at me and freezes.
Julia strides past the line of guards right at me. “You’re not supposed to be here. Give me your camera.”
“Sorry, I’m using it,” I answer and snap three photos of her angry face just before a guard grabs for my camera. I duck his hand and back away.
I glance at Will. In the microsecond that we make eye contact, I raise my eyebrows, what now? We’re both getting paid for this, but this is his show.
“Back off! I’ll handle this guy,” Will shouts, and he puts his hand up at the security team.
Tom and his confused guards freeze in obedience. That’s rule number one: obey the celebrity.
Will runs at me, screaming and kicking kung-fu style.
I snap a few more photos of Will before he attacks me with a weak martial arts move. I get a great photo of his foot coming right at the camera, but when he kicks me in the chest I realize that he is serious. I drop low, plant my hands on the ground, sweep my foot fast and knock his feet out from under him. Will hits the pavement hard, and the fake Persian rug doesn’t do much to soften his landing. He stares up at me while I snap his picture.
“Why the fuck are you here?”
“Larry said you wanted drama,” I reply.
“I to
ld Larry to wait until the after party,” he groans.
“Who’s Larry?” a voice asks. “Does he work for Xander too?”
Who’s Xander? I think to myself. Julia then catches me with a perfect roundhouse kick that slams the camera back into my face and mouth, and a flash of white pain shoots through my skull as my left canine tooth shatters. I taste metal and blood. The tooth is gone for sure.
“Will you guys get his camera, please?’ she shouts at the guards surrounding her.
The guards, frozen in place as if they’ve been watching a movie, come back to reality and rush forward.
I sprint toward the back of the theater, jump and hit the wall with one foot, then grab the bottom of the fire escape and swing my legs up. I hook my heel on the metal ledge, then pull and twist to get over the railing. Glancing down, I’m relieved that none of the security guys can jump that high.
I spit blood and wipe my mouth on my sleeve as I climb the metal staircase. She knows my face. How did that happen? Either she’s phenomenal, or I’m losing my edge.
Voices chatter through my earpiece, interrupting my thoughts.
“Seal all the exits and head up the stairwell. I don’t want him coming down.”
I climb up the last ten rungs and jump down onto the roof. The theater has arching cement buttresses that are unseen from the street which hold up the fake Egyptian facade in front. I dart between them to the front of the building, creep to the edge and peek over.
There’s madness below. Metal barricades hold back a sea of screaming fans, photographers and video cameras. A near empty red carpet cuts through the middle of the pressing humanity where VIPs stroll and pause to be bathed in explosions of white light.
I look behind me. Two guards are already on the roof and running.
I turn and balance my toes on the edge like I’m ready to do a back flip off a diving board, but instead I just step off and grab the lip of the building on my way down. Then I swing my legs out and brace them against two cement columns. The fake carvings stick out enough for me to find spots for my hands and feet, and I climb down into the sea of people.
I push through the crowd and vault over the barricade onto the red carpet, which is the only clear route out of this place. Everyone is screaming and snapping photos of a nearly naked Katy Perry in a sheer dress standing ten feet away, so no one even notices me. I walk back down the carpet and get to the curb just as a black Lincoln Town Car pulls up, so I open the door.
