True Hollywood Lies

by Josie Brown

  “And just what is that supposed to mean?” hissed Sandy.

  “It means that Rex may treat you like a princess,” Freddy intoned knowingly, “but that’s only because he’s one mixed-up queen himself.”

  Ah, so that was the reason for Rex’s stilted career! Now a lot of things made sense. So, Louis had nothing to worry about after all.

  “Those are just vicious rumors,” growled Sandy. “And if people like you keep that up, it will ruin his career.”

  “Well, darling, take it from ‘people like me’: where there is smoke, there is fire. Your boy has hot pants, whether you want to acknowledge it or not. But don’t worry, I ain’t gonna be the one to out him. That old diva of mine, Miss Simone, keeps me too busy to make other people’s lives miserable.”

  “More dumpster-diving?” Sandy asked haughtily.

  “Nah, since she’s landed this gig, she’s cooled off on that—for now, anyway. Thank God the director’s mother had a soft spot for her. All we had to do was have his mama over for tea and – voila! We were in. And hell, it sure is a lot easier pilfering from the studio commissary than the trashcans in some of those fancy Beverly Hills alleyways. Too many patrol cars, you know? Some of them Beverly Hills cops should work a real beat, like South Central.”

  He patted the big tote bag at his feet. I took a peek inside and saw several soda bottles, sandwiches, bags of chips and Saran-wrapped cookies—certainly a cheaper way to eat in Beverly Hills than trotting down to the Ralph’s.

  “Of course, this gig has put an end to our sleeping in, right, Bette?” He cuddled the pug lovingly. “Nowadays we’re up-and-Adam by three, putting on Miss Simone’s face.”

  Now, that was curious. “She doesn’t get that done here, in makeup?”

  “Are you kidding? Only her hairdresser—moi—knows for sure how many scraggly split ends are left on that eggshell she calls a head. Besides, you think these girls know how to fill those moon craters in her face? Miss Simone’s got her own blend of SuperGlue. When I get done with her, even she can pass as one of those pseudo ‘Simone’ drag queens down at the Lounge Theatre.” Freddy licked his lips suggestively. “But enough about us, dear. Tell us a little about you—and that hunk you work for, of course.”

  All eyes locked onto me. Feeling a little uncomfortable—especially after what had transpired that morning in Louis’s bungalow. I stammered, “Well, there’s not much to tell, really. I just started the job last night.”

  Freddy gave a sly grin. “He didn’t waste any time, did he?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, warily. Considering the suggestive innuendos that had been flying around the table, I knew I had to nip any rumors about us in the bud, and fast.

  “Oh, don’t get Freddy wrong, Hannah,” murmured Christy. “He’s just curious—well, since Sam disappeared—”

  “Sam?” Now I was totally confused.

  “Samantha. You know, Louis’s last PA—that is, she was, up until ten days ago.”

  “Oh.” So, Samantha was the mysterious “Sam” who was to be banned from contacting Louis. “No one told me about her.”

  We all sat there in silence. Christy and Sandy exchanged uneasy glances, while Freddy leaned in conspiratorially. “Well, we can certainly help you there.”

  “Now, Freddy—” Christy warned.

  Freddy frowned at Christy. “She has a right to know!”

  “Know what?” I asked, exasperated.

  “You’re right. She does,” admitted Sandy. “And she certainly won’t hear it from him.”

  That was it for me. I stood up. “I don’t have time for this. Louis has an interview with ET during lunch—”

  Christy’s eyes were as big as saucers. “Hannah, as much as I idolize Mary Hart, this is even bigger than her.” She yanked me back down into my chair.

  I felt my heart go into my chest. “Okay, then, out with it,” I hissed at them.

  As I would have suspected, Freddy took the lead.

  “Look, Hannah, we only knew Sam during these past four weeks of filming, right? But we got to know her pretty well, and we PAs have to stick together, understand? That’s because everyone starts off the same way: you know, loving their jobs—well, maybe not loving them; but, okay, admittedly, it’s nice to be sprinkled with a little bit of stardust, know what I mean? But the reality is this: we aren’t treated any better—no, let me restate that—we are treated worse than this ugly mutt here.”

  He nodded down at Bette. “And no matter how much we do for them, they still treat us like second-class citizens, like they are doing us a favor to let us attend to them.”

  He paused. “Well, Sam was the best of the best, you know? They were both from ‘across the pond’ as they say, and they met when he got his first big BBC project there in London. She was a student, but she needed the money, and he was creating a buzz over there and needed someone fast, so she came onboard as his PA. She’d do anything for King Louie, including giving up her friends and family to come over here. And boy, was he demanding! Day in, day out.”

  Freddy took a deep breath. “Oh, that’s not to say that he didn’t throw her a bone every now and then.” He laughed derisively. “In fact, he was quite free with the boners, if you catch my drift, at least where Sam was concerned. She lived for it, don’t get me wrong. Like I said, she’d do anything for the guy. Because she loved him.”

  “Where is all this going, Freddy?”

  “I’m getting there, okay? You see, Sam thought she could fly close to the flame without getting burned. Know what I mean? Like, whenever he was between flavors of the month—and even when he was already hooked up—Sam made herself available to him, although she’d tell herself no strings attached.”

  “I see,” I said softly. “Well, guys, thanks for the warning. But don’t worry. Louis is just a temp job to me, something to do for a few months, to pay the rent, that’s all.”

  Christy sighed and nodded solemnly, as if those words were a distant memory.

  “Yeah, that’s what we all say,” mourned Sandy. “And next week is our ninth anniversary.”

  “You’re not married to Rex, Sandy, so it ain’t exactly an anniversary,” snapped Freddy.

  “Well, I mean what I say.” I rose again and turned to leave. “I’ll be out of here in sixty days, tops. Louis means absolutely nothing to me. I’ve got an important project I’ve got to complete, and I’ll walk away whenever I want.”

  “Whatever,” said Freddy, kindly, knowingly. “Funny, that’s what Sam said, too. She was supposed to complete her last semester of college. But she never did go back to school. Instead she got wrapped up in his life and fell in love with him. Until last week, that is, when he asked her for a favor: double up on him and a buddy. She did it, and she hated herself afterward. You see, all she really wanted was for Louis to love her as much as she loved him. But after that little episode, of course, he wouldn’t. It was all the proof she needed.”

  A buddy.

  Mick?

  I muttered something about checking up on the ET camera crew, waved good-bye, and hurried out as fast as I could.

  Chapter 5: Equilibrium

  A situation when more than one force acts on a body, but because the sum of the forces is zero, no motion results.

  The band booked for Ethan Blount’s premiere after-party at the Viper Room was obnoxiously loud, playing instruments that were horrendously off-key, and singing lyrics that were noticeably obscure.

  That didn’t seem to matter to the crowd, which was primarily made up of studio wonks; the few actual live actors who had starred in Ethan’s latest special-effects-laden abomination; other actors, directors or writers who needed to be out and about hyping their own upcoming projects; all the usual suspects who show up at promotional freebees (a Paris Hilton or two, a couple of Tom Arnolds, a few Survivor contestants, and the last three Bachelors); Ethan’s fan club members who were fluent enough in Klingon to have deciphered the anonymous email, circulated surreptitiously, that had contai
ned the party’s pertinent who-what-where info (hacked from the studio’s promo department’s computer files); and of course, members of the Posse.

  That is, everyone was there but Mick.

  I wondered why and tried to think of a roundabout way to ask Louis if he knew if Mick might show, but then I thought better of that bright idea. After all, Louis hadn’t seemed to notice his buddy’s absence.

  But then again, why would he? Louis was still high on that euphoric rush actors get when they’ve just walked the red carpet—the shrieks from hysterical fans still ringing in his ears, halos from the paparazzi’s camera strobes still burning into his corneas, and the compliments still gushing from the entertainment reporters—on the movie he was currently filming, or the rumored Oscar nomination for Dead End, or what he was wearing (a taupe crewneck Zanone sweater, worn under a dark olive printed paisley suede trench coat by Sean John, along with Spurr jeans, all chosen for him by the stylist he kept on retainer), and most certainly regarding his relationship with Tatiana. (“We’ve heard that there might be wedding bells in your future!”)

  All of which reaffirmed what he desperately needed to know: that he (and not his pal Ethan) was really the Man of the Evening.

  And as such, he was being fawned over by everyone who was lucky enough to go shoulder-to-shoulder with him, including the many taut, tawny women cosmetically worthy enough to pass through the red velvet rope that held back the huddled masses now elbowing each other off the curb and into oncoming Sunset Boulevard traffic.

  All in all, it was an appropriate celebration for Tales of the Crystal Universe, which, like most of Ethan’s movies, flummoxed the critics with its confusing plot lines and stilted dialogue but dazzled his fans with never-before-seen special effects.

  In an alternate universe—one in which he hadn’t made so much money doing what he loves best, i.e., making techno-blockbusters—Ethan would have been ostracized for being a nerd. This being Los Angeles, however, he was hailed as a Hollywood Power Ranger, one of the chosen few whose innate knowledge of technological wizardry allowed him a paranormal connectivity with the basest (yet most coveted) of all movie audiences: male teens.

  And because he was God in their eyes, he is deemed a deity to the Hollywood studios bosses as well.

  Unfortunately for Ethan (although true to the Power Rangers creed), he was ill fatedly attracted to Sunset Slurpees.

  What is a Sunset Slurpee, you ask? Believe me, you know the type: a woman whose physical beauty is too extreme for her to flourish anywhere else on the planet but here, in Hollyrude.

  When the Sunset Slurpee is not trolling the boulevard that shares her name, she is misinterpreting the latest fashion statement, acting as a guinea pig for pioneering plastic surgeons, and—most importantly for her own survival—perfecting the art of fellatio (hence the second part of her nickname). All of this is done in order to accomplish her one true mission in life: to evolve from a Rodeo Drive shop girl to Arm Charm to Malibu Matron, prior to her thirtieth birthday.

  Like the magnetic field that pulls planets into a sun’s orbit, the Sunset Slurpee is always encircled by battalions of Power Rangers. Choosing carefully among them, she then picks as her consort the Ranger Most Likely to Succeed at the Box Office.

  Teased and lured, the Ranger of choice takes great pains to ignore all obvious differences—mental, emotional, and in most cases theological—that stand between them. The ultimate payoff: because his film has broken all box office sound barriers, he is allowed to sashay down the red carpet with his Sunset Slurpee at his side (in a sliced-and-diced Versace abomination no self-respecting dominatrix would be caught dead in).

  And if the Sunset Slurpee is smart enough to hang in there, as opposed to joining Hugh Hefner’s most current sorority, she and her Power Ranger will eventually seal their commitment in a nuptial extravaganza excessive enough to rate their very own four-page spread in People or, better yet, a special issue of Us Weekly.

  Of course, there is a price the Hollywood Power Ranger pays for flying too close to the sun. Eventually his Sunset Slurpee will lay down the law: On no uncertain terms will he be allowed to talk business when he is around her.

  She sees the town—what insiders call the movie industry—as “the mistress,” and rightly so. However, the Sunset Slurpee will never admit this, most definitely not to herself. Instead, she not so subtly infers to him that his “shoptalk” is akin to an embarrassing illness, like jock itch is now, or homosexuality was in the 1950s: never discussed, let alone flaunted, in pleasant company. This allows her to strike an attitude of annoyed indulgence: it’s all right for him to play with his buddies at the studio, to create fantasies that in turn bring him the prestige and money that they both enjoy (I mean, come on, would they rate that table at the Ivy if he were a top accountant with H&R Block? I think not!) But it is not okay to talk about it in her presence.

  Which was why, I’d soon discover, Ethan practically lived at Louis’s place. There, out of earshot of his own personal slurpee, Ophelia Randolph, he could talk movies to his heart’s content.

  As the band droned on, Ophelia stood there towering over him, a stunning vision in a vintage Pucci mini and four-inch Guiseppe Zanotti strap-wrapped dominatrix sandals, even while sporting a visage of studied boredom. As Louis’s PA, I was deemed too lowly for her to talk to, and that was fine with me. Unfortunately, Ethan eventually let out that I was Leo’s daughter—which of course piqued Ophelia’s interest.

  “I saw him a couple of times, at Ago,” she screeched, just slightly louder than the band. “In fact, I think he once picked me up there. Could that be right?”

  “Oh, yeah, no doubt. Then again, you might have allowed him to pick you up anywhere, even the Farmer’s Market, right?”

  To prove she had been correct to ignore me in the first place, she wrapped herself around Ethan like a boa constrictor and pulled him over to the banquette where T was holding court, knowing that, there, both of them would be aptly appreciated.

  She needn’t have bothered. I was about to make my getaway to the observatory, where I could once again be among the only stars that really mattered to me.

  I walked up to Louis, hoping to catch his eye, give him a quick good-bye, and warn him that I would be taking off tomorrow—Saturday—although I’d be available by phone should he need me, and certainly I’d be back at his place on Sunday in time for Malcolm to take us to Van Nuys that afternoon for the New York flight. I also wanted to remind him that, as promised, Malcolm was still waiting outside to deliver him home. Not that he’d have any trouble getting a lift if he wanted one, considering the throng of adoring panting women around him.

  Try as I might, though, I could not get him to see me through all that ordinance-busting cigarette smoke and teased tresses. Finally I just gave up. Seeing Randy standing over to one side enviously eyeing Louis’s action, I weighed the odds that he’d actually do me the favor of giving Louis my message. Perhaps his agent code left him with some sort of fiduciary responsibility to deliver such missives to his clients. My guess is that it did, although I’d also wager that he’d broken it as many as times as he’d seen fit. Still, he was my only alternative.

  “What do you want?” was Randy’s greeting to me. Undeterred by his sullen rudeness, I smiled pleasantly and began, “Well, I was thinking of cutting out, and I was hoping—”

  His eyes narrowed, and his mouth twisted into a knowing smirk. ”Sure, doll, I’ll give you a lift.” He put his hand around my waist and gave me a hard yank, which brought us nose-to-nose, then hissed, “And it will be the ride of your life.”

  It had been a long day, I was bone tired, and I truly didn’t need this kind of grief. At times like this, I thanked God for Leo’s insistence that he teach me the few jujitsu moves he knew, a little something he’d picked up while overseas making two or three low-budget samurai flicks in order to pay off Mr. Tax Man.

  A simple wrist flex lock brought Randy to his knees, squealing like a piggy. I told him I’d
let him on his feet, but only after he promised to pass along my message. Quite meekly he agreed to do that, so I let him loose—and soon regretted it. Still in shock and awe, he started blathering on and on about how he never realized I was into the whole S&M/D&S thing, and how that made me a goddess in his eyes, and would it be too much to hope that I, like he, was also a connoisseur of B&D? If so, as a platinum-card-carrying member of the Threshold Club, he would be delighted—no, he’d be honored!—to sponsor me for the club’s upcoming “Mistress of Madness/Siren of Sadness” contest.

  That idiotic offer was the cherry on the cake of my day.

  I headed for the door.

  I had almost reached it, too, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. Not in the mood for any more of Randy’s games, I stopped short and was steeling myself for another altercation when I heard Mick’s voice say, “Whoa, cowgirl! It’s just little old me. And I promise I’ll get on my knees willingly, if you promise not to hurt me.”

  Turning around, I couldn’t help but cringe. So, he had seen my little altercation with Randy!

  Well, that’s just great. Now he probably thinks I’m some sort of psycho nut job who gets her jollies hurting guys, I thought miserably.

  As if reading my mind, Mick said, “Let me guess. Randy was his usual gentlemanly self and said something totally endearing.”

  I nodded, relieved that he’d seen the situation for what it was. “Yeah, and I’m just too tired to put up with it. Unfortunately, I think my reaction gave him the wrong impression.”

  “I can just imagine. Unfortunately, I once walked in on Randy in his leather chaps and halter. Trust me, something like that is hard to forget.”

  I was relieved that I didn’t have to offer any further explanation.

  “So, you’re not staying?” asked Mick. “Didn’t you come with Louis?”

  “Yep, but he’s a big boy. Malcolm’s on remote, so I’m sure he’ll find his way home one way or another. Which reminds me: I should call a taxi.”

  “Don’t bother. I’ve got my bike right outside. I’ll give you a lift.”