The Actor's Guide To Adultery

by Rick Copp

  I shot up at the sound of the phone ringing. No. It couldn’t be Amy Jo to pick me up. I had gone over the production schedule five times to make sure I wasn’t shooting today. “Please, God, don’t be Amy Jo!” I thought as I reached across for the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, babe, it’s me,” said a reassuring voice. Charlie.

  “Hey, how was your flight?”

  “Good. We’re downstairs. What room are you in?”

  “Eight-oh-six,” I said.

  “Okay, we’ll be right up.”

  Click. Wait a minute. “We’ll be right up?” Charlie wasn’t alone? Had he gone to his old pal Bowie’s place first to pick him up? Were we going to be the happy threesome sightseeing around South Beach? I felt queasy, and those lingering pangs of guilt only exacerbated my upset stomach.

  I threw on a black and white Creeps sweatshirt that Larry had handed out to the cast and crew on the first day of production, and slipped on a pair of gray sweatpants just as there was a knock on the door. When I opened it, Charlie stood there beaming, and then enveloped me in a big bear hug.

  “Man, it’s good to see you,” he said, squeezing so hard I thought my bones would crack. He let up on his grip and then kissed me gently on the lips. Maybe there was something to that whole “absence makes the heart grow fonder” theory.

  “Surprise!”

  It wasn’t Bowie. The voice was decidedly more feminine. And more direct than a bulldozer. It could be only one person.

  “Laurette!” I said, with as much fake enthusiasm as I could muster. This was not good. The jig was up for Juan Carlos. With his multiple affairs the talk of the set, it was only a matter of time before Laurette got wind of them.

  She pushed her way into the room, inspecting the décor. “What a dump.”

  “Maybe you can get a suite or something that has better furniture,” I said.

  “Oh, please, I’m not staying here. I’m a couple of doors down at the Delano. Five stars. Very chic. Somebody saw George Clooney in the lobby checking in about a half hour before I did.” It would only be a matter of time before Laurette befriended the entire staff and would know Clooney’s room number.

  Laurette plopped down on the bed, her purse in her lap. “I’ll have Juan Carlos’s things moved over. What room is he in? I want to surprise him.”

  Bad idea. Very, very bad. “I don’t know,” I lied. “But I’m sure he’s already left for the set. I think he had an early call.”

  “Well, let’s all drive over there. I want to see my husband,” Laurette said.

  Charlie noticed my visible hesitation. So did Laurette.

  “What?” she said. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “I think . . .” I wanted to spill everything. Dominique. Viveca. The young stud at the Sand Drift Motel. Possible mob ties. But I froze up.

  “Come on, Jarrod,” she said, clutching her purse tightly. “I can take it.”

  “Juan Carlos has gotten himself in some trouble. A dangerous guy named Javier Martinez wants to see him dead.”

  “Do you know how many people in Hollywood want to see me dead?” Laurette said.

  “Martinez makes Tony Soprano look like Mr. Rogers. And his daughter is Dominique.”

  “The actress? The one from the wedding? The one who . . . ?”

  I nodded.

  Laurette’s eyes brimmed with tears. Charlie put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

  “And that’s not all. There are more. Another actress in the movie. An older woman . . . and . . .” I really hated divulging all the sordid details. Laurette was so strong, but she sat on the bed, speechless and shaking. “And there’s somebody else. A . . . a man . . .”

  Laurette slapped her hands over her face and cried. I dashed over and threw my arms around her. Charlie’s hand remained on her shoulder.

  “I’m so sorry, honey,” he said.

  Laurette hunched over, sobbing, and said, “I don’t believe it . . . I just don’t believe it . . .”

  “I know, I know . . .” I said.

  “He told me I was the only older woman he’s ever been attracted to. He made me feel so special.”

  “Laurette,” I said softly, “didn’t you hear what I said? He’s also been sleeping with a man.”

  Wiping away her tears, she sniffled and said, “Oh, please. Half my boyfriends have been bisexual. You have to expect that when you date actors. But an older woman? That’s such a betrayal!”

  Laurette stood up, threw the strap of her purse across her shoulder, and marched for the door. “Come on, we’re going over to the set right now to confront him.”

  “But, Laurette, he’s shooting today. We can’t disrupt the production.”

  “Movies come and go, Jarrod. This is my life we’re talking about.”

  I glanced over at Charlie to garner some support, but he just shrugged. We both knew there was no stopping Laurette once she’d made up her mind.

  When we arrived on the set, we were greeted by complete pandemonium. Juan Carlos was a no-show, and nobody knew where he was. The entire day had been structured around him, and now with him AWOL, Larry had nothing to shoot. As Juan Carlos’s manager, Laurette was instantly embroiled in the controversy, and had to kick into her business mode in order to deal with the crisis. The production company was threatening to sue for the cost of the lost day, and Laurette was on the horn to her team of lawyers back in LA, keeping them apprised of the situation.

  I was worried that Javier had made good on his promise to wipe Juan Carlos off the face of the earth. And deep down, I wasn’t too distraught over it. But with Juan Carlos gone, any hopes of finding Austin Teboe’s killer would probably disappear with him.

  Charlie and I went to Juan Carlos’s trailer to see if we could drum up any clues as to his whereabouts. It was locked up tight. I told Charlie to wait by the door while I fetched the keys from a production assistant. As I rounded the back of the trailer, I ran smack into a giant of a man, in a familiar plaid hunting jacket and wearing an Elmer Fudd mask over his broad face. I stood before him, paralyzed, my mouth open.

  The big guy flipped the mask up. A kind face with an eager smile was underneath. And it didn’t belong to Wendell Butterworth.

  “Hi, I’m Eddie. I’ll be playing the killer.”

  A rush of relief washed over me as I stuck my hand out and shook his. “Nice to meet you, Eddie.”

  My cell phone rang. I excused myself from Eddie, pulled it out of my pocket, and flipped it open. “Yeah?” I said impatiently, my eyes scanning the campground set for anyone who would have a key to Juan Carlos’s dressing room trailer.

  “Jarrod, it’s Bowie. I think you better meet me.”

  “Why?” I said.

  “It’s Juan Carlos.”

  “Is he . . . dead?”

  “No,” Bowie said, his voice low and serious. “But I think you better see this for yourself. Can you meet me at the houseboat in twenty minutes?”

  “Sure,” I said and hung up. I grabbed Amy Jo as she scuttled past me. We were both in our matching Creeps sweatshirts.

  “Amy Jo, I need to get into Juan Carlos’s trailer.”

  She looked at me blankly. “I can’t let you in there. It’s against the rules.”

  “Look, he’s missing and we’re all going to lose our jobs if we don’t find him. The best way to do that is to search his dressing room for some answers.”

  She stared me down defiantly. After all, I was the loser who slept late and almost got her fired. But the set was a madhouse because of Juan Carlos’s disappearance, and if I did manage to find him, she’d be a hero for helping me get inside his trailer. She pulled it off her bulky ring of keys and handed it to me.

  “Don’t lose it,” she said.

  “Thanks,” I said and ran back to find Charlie.

  I searched around the set but didn’t spot him. I asked around but nobody could tell me where he was. He was probably looking for Juan Carlos somewhere in the woods. Bowie was w
aiting, and it seemed important, and I had to make a quick decision.

  So against my better judgment, after scanning the set one more time and not seeing my boyfriend, I hustled off to meet Bowie, the hot Navy Seal.

  Chapter 23

  I knew if I had found Charlie and told him where I was going, it would open a floodgate of questions. And right now I had my hands full enough already with Austin Teboe’s murder, Juan Carlos’s extramarital escapades, and psycho Wendell Butterworth’s sudden appearance in Miami. As I drove the Taurus through heavy midday traffic toward the boat slip housing Bowie’s home, I knew it was only a matter of time before I would have to deal with the inevitable reunion between just old friends Charlie Peters and Bowie Lassiter.

  When I reached the QE3, Bowie was waiting for me out front. He was decked out in a tight black tank top, khaki shorts, and a pair of sandals. A cheap pair of sunglasses shaded his eyes from the oppressive glare of the sun. I jumped out, and before I could even open my mouth to speak, he waved at me to follow and said, “Boat’s ready. Let’s go.”

  I decided not to ask him where we were going. I figured I’d find out soon enough.

  I padded behind him silently as we circled around to the back of the houseboat, and walked down some metal steps to a small floating dock connected to the slip. Waiting for us was a sleek white 1990 Hydrostream Vegas XT twenty-one foot speedboat. Really cool. Bowie jumped in, turned the ignition, and the boat roared to life. I had barely stepped down inside of it before we were pulling back from the dock and hurtling out to the open sea. Sea spray splashed against my face, and I kept wiping it away to see where we were heading. Just ahead, only a few minutes from South Beach by boat, was the luxurious, world-famous Star Island. Rosie O’Donnell lives there. So does Gloria Estafan. It’s a jetsetter’s paradise boasting expansive, stunning multimillion-dollar homes, with tropical punch-colored flowers and towering palm trees swaying in the soft breeze and white caps from the electric blue-green ocean crashing gently onto the immaculate sandy beige beaches.

  We circled around to the north side of the island until we were about two hundred feet out from a large mansion nestled into the foliage. Much of the property was hidden safely behind the trees and gardens, but wide picture windows gave the inhabitants a magnificent view of the bay.

  Bowie cut the engine, and we floated up and down, riding the curve of the waves.

  “So who lives there?” I asked.

  “Javier Martinez. At least some of the time.”

  “You think Juan Carlos is in there? That maybe Martinez is holding him prisoner?”

  Bowie shook his head. “No. Martinez and his wife are staying at their penthouse in the Delano. Except for a few of the household staff, the place is supposed to be empty. But it’s not.”

  He picked up a pair of binoculars and handed them to me. “Go ahead. Check it out.”

  I peered through the binoculars. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the powerful lenses. I located the picture window on the back of the house and saw Juan Carlos inside, lying flat on a plush white leather couch. He was on his belly, totally nude, his left arm stretched out as his fingers mechanically stroked the fur on an enormous yellow-striped cat curled up on the floor.

  “What’s he doing there? Is he on some kind of suicide mission ? What if someone catches him?”

  “Keep watching,” Bowie said.

  Dominique. He must be there with Dominique. He was still seeing her. Mafia Daddy be damned. I had to admit, the guy had balls.

  I saw a pair of hands slither down over the top of the couch and begin to massage Juan Carlos’s shoulders, moving south down to his lower back and butt. Juan Carlos stopped patting the cat, wriggled happily at the sensuous touch, and smiled.

  I steadied the binoculars. As the hands kneaded deeper into Juan Carlos’s flesh, the mystery masseuse’s face finally lowered into view. It wasn’t Dominique. It wasn’t even a woman.

  I spun around to Bowie. “That’s David Miller, the kid from Vero Beach who Juan Carlos has been sneaking around with!”

  Bowie nodded evenly. “His name’s not Miller. It’s Martinez. That’s Javier Martinez’s son. Dominique’s younger brother.”

  Oh . . . my . . . God.

  I was drawn back to the scene inside the mansion. Looking through the binoculars, I saw Juan Carlos roll over on his back, reach up, and wrap his hands around David Martinez’s neck, pulling him down over the couch on top of him. They laughed playfully, David hoisting himself up just enough to strip off his T-shirt. The two men locked lips, and began devouring each other before sliding off the couch and falling out of my eye line.

  “They’ve been at it all day,” Bowie said.

  “But there are servants around,” I said. “Won’t they see? What’s stopping them from telling their boss what’s going on?”

  “Are you kidding?” Bowie snorted. “Would you want to be the guy who tells a mafia kingpin that his only son is screwing around with another guy? The same guy who broke his daughter’s heart?”

  “I guess there’s that risk of him wanting to kill the messenger,” I said.

  “He’ll want to kill more than the messenger if he finds this out. And everybody in that house knows it.”

  I was awestruck by Juan Carlos’s outright brazenness. He knew Javier Martinez had it out for him, and yet he openly and quite publicly returned to Miami to shoot this movie. He was practically flaunting himself right in front of the mobster’s face. Even using the guy’s own home as a little love pad. Maybe he was just insane. Or maybe he had someone high up in the Miami mafia protecting him. But who? And why?

  In any case, Juan Carlos didn’t appear to be the least bit concerned about his safety. At the moment, he was clearly more concerned about how long it would take for him to climax.

  If Dominique found out that Juan Carlos was sleeping with her own brother, she would have been inconsolable. That might have been what brought her out to California. The reason she crashed the wedding at the Hearst Castle. She wanted to confront him with what she knew. Maybe even threaten him. Or threaten to tell her father. But she also wanted him back. So there was also the possibility that she tried to blackmail him. She could have told him she would keep quiet if he dumped her brother and came back to her. But Juan Carlos must have flatly refused. He knew Dominique loved him no matter how badly he treated her, and she would never knowingly put him in any kind of danger. Distraught, she tried drowning herself in the Pacific Ocean.

  It all seemed plausible. But there was one big fat nagging question. What did Austin Teboe have to do with this whole scenario ? Dominique obviously knew him. He worked for her family as a chef for years before he mysteriously quit. Had he and Juan Carlos met earlier than when they both worked at the Nexxt Café? Had they been introduced when Juan Carlos got romantically involved with Dominique? And what was the nature of their relationship? Maybe somehow things went sour between the two of them and Teboe sprung up in California with the intent of causing some kind of harm to Juan Carlos. Dominique found out about it and poisoned him to protect the man she loved. But where would a mafia princess get a lethal hit of monkshead? All I really knew was that Juan Carlos was playing a very dangerous game of Russian roulette, and sooner or later his luck would run out.

  Chapter 24

  Bowie shifted the gear of the Hydrostream Vegas XT, and we cut through the waves heading back toward Biscayne Bay and the dock housing the QE3. As we circled back around Star Island, I spotted another dilapidated boat with its motor off, bobbing up and down in the choppy water. A tanned, chubby fisherman with no shirt and wearing a Miami Dolphins baseball cap sat at the stern, chugging the last gulp from a bottle of Corona. Up front was another man, much heavier, his red flowery Magnum, P.I.–like Hawaiian shirt drenched from sweat. He clutched a Fujifilm digital camera and vigorously snapped pictures of the Martinez compound. I signaled Bowie to pass around in front of the boat so I could get a good look at the photographer. As we roared up and around the
old wooden fishing vessel, the obese man at the bow stumbled back, startled by the sudden appearance of another boat, almost dropping his camera into the surf. It was Rudy Pearson. I ducked down fast, and Bowie powered us past the old barge before he had a chance to recognize me.

  Why was Pearson so single-minded in his determination to dig up dirt on Juan Carlos? And for whom exactly was he working ? Soap Opera Digest or the National Enquirer? Pearson’s hatred for Juan Carlos was palpable, and there was obviously more history between them than either was willing to admit. I doubted Pearson was behind Austin Teboe’s murder simply for the fact that neither acted as if they had ever met when I first saw them on the bus together driving up to the Hearst Castle. Still, my curiosity about this vengeful soap journalist was peaked, and I decided it was time to find out what his role was in the Juan Carlos Show.

  When Bowie and I pulled up to the dock housing the QE3 houseboat, it was going on four o’clock in the afternoon.

  Bowie tied up the Hydrostream to a brass rail, and gently placed a hand on the small of my back. “Want to come inside for a drink?”

  “No, thanks,” I said, forcing a smile. “I better get back to the hotel. Charlie is probably there waiting for me.”

  Bowie raised an eyebrow. “Charlie’s here in South Beach?”

  I nodded, trying to conceal the flicker of guilt that undoubtedly flashed across my face. “I left him behind when you called. He’s not too keen on me playing Mike Hammer.”

  “Well,” Bowie said, swallowing hard. “I’d love to see him while he’s down here . . . if you two have the time.”

  “I’m sure he’ll want to see you too.”

  There was a long silence. Neither of us knew what to say next. The chemistry was crackling. Bowie finally took the lead. “Okay then. I’m going to head back out and keep a watch on the Martinez compound. I’ll let you know if I see anything interesting.”