by J. S. Carol
The Killing Game
JS Carol
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
13:00-13:30
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Epilogue
Letter from JS Carol
Also by the Author
Copyright
This one’s for Karen,
Tick, tick … BOOM!
Prologue
So, how are you going to play this one?
First you switch off your cell phone, then you take a deep breath and count to ten. Knee-jerk reactions are not your style. You need time to process what you’ve just heard, a moment of quiet reflection before leaping into the hurricane. Once those ten seconds are up you’re going to make two lists, one for the pros, one for the cons. Then you’ll take everything you’ve learned and put it in one column or the other. Inevitably, you will end up with more cons than pros, otherwise you wouldn’t have got the call.
Your clients don’t live in the real world, which is just as well. That one simple fact is the reason you’ve got a convertible Maserati Spyder, a suite of offices up with the clouds, and a condo with views across the valley in one of LA’s more exclusive zip codes. These people believe their own hype. They think they’re gods, but they’re not. Deep down they have the same insecurities and flaws as the rest of us, and, like the rest of us, they screw up occasionally. The big difference is that when they screw up it makes the headlines. This is where you come in. Trying to stop those headlines is an exercise in futility, but you can angle them to your advantage. And that is the Art of Spin.
So, what do you know?
You know this particular client isn’t a regular A-lister, he’s in the A+ category. There’s rich, and there’s Learjet rich, and this client is most definitely Learjet rich. He’s got the leading man looks, the healthy, twinkling smile and a great body. He made his name playing the all-American good guy and has basically rehashed the same role in every movie he’s ever made. However, so long as he keeps packing out those movie theatres, this doesn’t cause the studio bosses a problem.
Mr A+’s whole reputation rests on him being seen as whiter than white. According to the media he doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, doesn’t do drugs or screw around. He eats healthily, exercises regularly and does plenty for charity. He married his high school sweetheart and they have a couple of kids, a boy and a girl. You’ve seen the photos. How could you miss them? There’s the four of them with their perfect teeth, perfect skin and perfect smiles, living their perfect life. There’s even a cute little pooch at Mr A+’s feet to complete the picture. Mr A+ came from nothing and now he’s sitting right up there at the top of the mountain. This is the American Dream made real.
If something looks too good to be true, it is. That’s something you’ve seen time and again in this town. So it comes as no surprise that Mr A+ is currently languishing in a Beverley Hills police cell, nursing a hangover and wondering what the hell he’s doing there. As far as he’s concerned he hasn’t done anything wrong. As far as the law is concerned, he has. This time the law wins big. Being caught in a sleazy motel with a dead hooker and a large bag of cocaine definitely contravenes a law or two.
And you know one more thing. Rather than phone his lawyer, Mr A+ phoned you.
Your clients fall into two broad categories. First up are the quiet ones. They know they’ve royally screwed up and will do anything you say to make the problem go away. Then there are the clients who roar like lions. In the end they’ll do what you tell them, but it takes time and persuasion to help them see the light. Mr A+ is a lion, and then some. Before he can wind himself up into a righteous fury, you tell him to shut up and listen.
Home truth number one: things will get uglier before they get better.
Home truth number two: he’ll lose contracts.
Home truth number three: for the foreseeable future his career will resemble a car wreck.
Judging by the silence on the other end of the line, you’ve got his attention. No mean feat when dealing with an A+. Now he’s listening, you lighten your tone and tell him to hang on in there because things will get better. So long as he plays the long game and doesn’t get suckered into short-term thinking, everything will work out fine. You repeat this a couple of times to make sure it sinks in.
Next, you tell him he has to follow your instructions to the letter. No ifs, no buts. You’re in the driving seat now. You’re calling the shots. Unless he does everything you say, he can kiss his precious career goodbye. The grunt coming from the earpiece indicates that he isn’t convinced. Not a problem. What he thinks is irrelevant.
You let the silence stretch to breaking point, then tell him you want a million dollars, the whole amount up front, the money transferred to your account immediately. His first reaction is to tell you to go to hell. You keep quiet and give him all the time he needs.
‘You’re really that good?’ he asks tentatively.
‘For your sake, you better hope I am.’
By the time you hang up he’s a believer.
Your first call is to the presenter of America’s highest-rating daytime chat show. Not her office, the woman herself. You promise a soul-baring confessional. You promise tears. You promise great TV and a ratings bonanza. She tells you she’d be delighted to do the interview.
Your second call is to the National Enquirer. Half a million dollars s
ecures them exclusive rights to a fuzzy video still of Mr A+ using a plastic straw to administer cocaine to the hooker in an unusual and imaginative way. For your strategy to work, Mr A+ needs to be seen to have hit rock bottom. As with all great tabloid stories, the more spectacular the fall, the better.
Your third call is to a five-star rehab clinic.
Your fourth call is to your pet pap to give him an ETA for Mr A+’s arrival at the clinic. As usual, the split on any photos sold is seventy/thirty, the percentage in your favour.
Once the important calls are out of the way, only then do you call in the lawyers.
Your name is Jody ‘JJ’ Johnson and this is what they pay you the big bucks for.
13:00-13:30
1
JJ dropped her car keys into Victor’s waiting hand and checked the time. Four and a half minutes late was about right for this particular business lunch. Just late enough to come across as the busy professional she was, not so late as to appear rude.
Victor slid into the Maserati, started the engine, then pulled away from the kerb and reversed expertly into a nearby slot. The valet was in his late fifties, an ex-Marine cruising gracefully towards retirement. He doubled as Alfie’s security guard, which basically amounted to keeping the paparazzi out. In all the years JJ had been coming here there had never been any trouble inside the restaurant.
The four feet of sidewalk that separated the road from the entrance was covered with a large plain white canopy to discourage aerial photographs. It also provided shade from the relentless onslaught of the LA sun, a definite advantage on a day like this when the temperature was pushing into the nineties. As usual, Tony Bertollini met her at the door with a kiss for each cheek.
‘JJ, my darling, you look spectacular. There’s something different. No, don’t tell me. It’s your hair, isn’t it?’
Tony was larger than life in every way. He weighed in at close to three hundred pounds, but carried it like it was two hundred. He was in his late fifties, with a full head of neat white hair and permanently flushed cheeks. His blue eyes twinkled with boyish mischief. The camp, affected, high-pitched Italian accent sat just the right side of annoying.
‘It is your hair,’ Tony added. ‘You’ve had highlights put in.’
JJ smiled and shook her head. ‘Tony, my hair’s the same as it was last week. And the week before that. And it’s the same as it’s going to be next week.’
And it was the same. Black and short and not a highlight in sight. Time was too precious to spend worrying about hair. This philosophy carried over into her wardrobe. All her suits were black and tailored to fit, and more or less identical. The uncomfortable truth was that she operated in a man’s world, and she found it easier to do that in pants rather than a dress.
That said, she did own a couple of black dresses for those rare occasions when she needed one, or it worked to her advantage to wear one. Pragmatism was a theme that ran through both her wardrobe and her life. Whatever got the job done. And, anyway, she liked black. It brought out the green in her eyes.
Tony took a sharp, dramatic intake of breath and slapped a meaty hand across his mouth. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve finally come across to the Dark Side and been Botoxed, darling.’
JJ laughed. ‘No, I have not been Botoxed.’
‘Well, whatever it is, you look amazing.’
‘Since you brought it up, you’re definitely looking younger today, Tony. Anything you wish to share?’
‘Only that after all these years of searching, I might finally have found the secret of eternal youth.’
‘And what’s his name?’
Tony answered with a smile, then took her by the elbow and led the way inside. ‘Dan Stone has already arrived,’ he whispered. ‘He’s handsome. And ten minutes early, so he must be keen. And, if the rumours are to be believed, he’s hung like a donkey.’
‘Behave,’ JJ whispered back.
She followed him into the dining room, the parquet flooring creaking underfoot. The walls were a cool, neutral grey, the ceiling a gentle off-white. Large Pollock-inspired paintings hung around the room, dazzling white canvases streaked with bold splashes of colour. The smells drifting through from the kitchen were to die for. There were a number of reasons why Alfie’s was her favourite restaurant, but right there at the top of the list was the food. Chester, the head chef, was either a miracle-worker or he’d sold his soul to the devil.
The restaurant was small and intimate. That and the fact there wasn’t a single window had made it a favourite haunt of the Hollywood elite. The entertainment industry was all about being seen in the right places, and, ironically, sometimes the best way to be seen was by not being seen. From the second Tony welcomed you through the smoked-glass doors, the outside world ceased to exist. The waiting list for a lunch reservation was currently running at six months. The wait for dinner was closer to nine. People tried to queue jump, and invariably failed. Tony was immune to both bribery and flattery. The only person he bent the rules for was JJ.
A few years ago there had been an incident involving a rent boy, and she’d made it go away. She had even waived her fee, which was a first. Tony had pledged his eternal undying gratitude, and she’d told him that she was happy to help. She’d been even happier to accept his offer of a lunchtime table once a week. She had actually been angling for a table once a month.
Since then they’d become BFFs. JJ loved Tony’s irreverence and the fact that he had a heart the size of the sun. She loved that he could make her laugh so hard that she worried she might actually pee herself. Tony knew plenty of her secrets, and she knew plenty of his. What’s more, she knew that he would never betray her trust. It was good to have someone she could just relax and be herself with. In a place as superficial as Hollywood, a friendship like that was as rare as a unicorn that crapped diamonds.
Usually there were only five tables, three on the upper level and two on the lower, all five spaced far enough apart to allow the guests total privacy. Today there were six. As a special favour to JJ, Tony had squeezed in an extra two-seat table on the lower level. She glanced over at it as she breezed past. The couple sat there were too wrapped up in themselves to notice her. They appeared to be getting on, although it wouldn’t have mattered if they hadn’t been. What did matter was that anyone looking at them saw two kids who were crazy about each other. Tony led the way to her favourite table. It was tucked away in the far corner of the upper level and was perfect for surreptitiously watching the other customers.
Stone stood when he spotted her. He gave her a cold hug, his lips brushing against her cheeks, then sat back down. Everything about the agent screamed look at me. The expensively casual clothes, the large TAG Heuer on his wrist, the diamond pinkie ring. He was in his late forties, but surgery made him appear a decade younger. His eyes were blue, his black hair finished in a widow’s peak, and his fingernails were perfectly manicured. The dimple in his chin was pure Travolta. Stone was both handsome and rich, and anywhere else in the world he would have been a prime catch. But this was LA. Standards were different here. There were plenty of men who were handsome enough to make him look plain, and plenty of those were rich enough to make him look like a pauper.
Tony pulled out a chair and JJ sat. Seconds later, Holly, the head waitress, swooped in, deposited two menus and a vodka and tonic on the table, then swooped off again. It happened so effortlessly that JJ barely noticed. It happened before she even had a chance to flash a plastic smile at Stone.
‘Sorry I’m late, Dan. Traffic was a nightmare. You know how it is.’
‘Tell me about it. You know, I took delivery of a new Ferrari last week. Beautiful car, but what’s the point in being able to do 180 miles an hour when you can’t get up to twenty?’
JJ was only half-listening. While Stone talked, she stole glances over his shoulder, checking out names and faces against the databank in her head. Sorting, categorising, collating. There were people she knew, and a few she didn’t. There were people she wan
ted to know better and people she would prefer to avoid.
Gary Thompson was a prime example of the latter. He was one of the top people over at DreamWorks, a bully and a grade-A asshole. They’d had a run-in a few years ago and ever since she had done her best to avoid him. The movie exec was cutting into a steak at the table nearest to hers. As far as JJ was concerned, that showed what a Neanderthal he was. You have someone like Chester working miracles in the kitchen and you order a steak. It was wrong on every level.
Excluding herself and Stone, there were fifteen customers today. It was the usual lunchtime crowd of actors, directors, producers and agents. There were two pairs, a threesome and two foursomes. The split of male to female was pretty much fifty-fifty.
There was even a face from old Hollywood. Elizabeth Hayward had been a star in the fifties, an era when everything looked golden but was made from the same tin as today. Multiple facelifts had left the ageing actress with skin stretched so tight it glowed, and eyes pinned open in a look of permanent astonishment. She was part of the group of four on the lower level. There was some sort of celebration going on. A birthday party was JJ’s best guess, although she doubted Hayward would be celebrating her real age.
It was sad, but JJ understood why the actress had taken such extreme measures with her appearance. Once upon a time Hayward had been one of the most beautiful women in the world. But time could be cruel, especially to Hollywood actresses. As her looks had faded, the parts had slowly dried up until nobody wanted to hire her. That was why she’d done everything in her power to halt the ageing process, getting increasingly desperate with every passing year.
The depressing reality was that JJ knew more women who’d had surgery than hadn’t. A nip here, a tuck there, a little Botox. Up until now she’d resisted the temptation, but there would come a point when she’d need to get some work done. She was thirty-eight and the years were catching up. There were lines and wrinkles that hadn’t been there six months ago. Lines and wrinkles that could easily be erased.
The problem with plastic surgery was that it was a slippery slope. Where did you draw the line? And it wasn’t just women who succumbed to the lure of the knife. Men were not immune. Take Dan Stone, for example. And he wasn’t alone there. Admittedly, it was easier for men to age in Hollywood, but more and more of them were getting surgery these days.
