by Paul Neuhaus
“I’m better looking than she is, wouldn’t you say? I mean if we’re going toe to toe, I’m the sexier option.”
That was probably the heart of it, really. Hailey was an unusually attractive girl. She was used to deference because of it. Me going for a petite, more conventional-looking rival was sticking in my wife’s brainpan like a thorn. “I dunno. Maybe. What does that even mean? Isn’t that a subjective thing?”
Hailey shook her head emphatically. “No, not in this case. You remember my friend Brenda, and my friend Carol, and my friend Darcy, and my friend Leila, and my friend Yolanda?”
“Yeah. Duh. They were are all in our wedding.”
“All of them told me—all of them—for months before we got married—that I was out of your league. ‘You can do way better,’ they said. ‘He’s got weird ears, and he’s got spindly legs.’ And I was like, ‘God, you guys’re so superficial. I don’t care about his weird ears or his spindly legs. I love him; I wanna be with him’, and they were like, ‘Go ahead then. You’ll be looking for a real man inside of six months’.”
Well, that hurt. I’d always been sensitive about my weird ears and my spindly legs. I’d caught shit for both throughout high school phys ed. Shower time was hell. I started to speak, but she was at it again before I got my mouth fully open.
“And then there’s all the stuff they didn’t even know about. All the stuff I had to find out on my own. Your cock is crooked. One of your balls is drastically smaller than the other. You’re a strange-looking dude, Jack.”
I raised a finger and said “ah ha!” louder than I should have. “Listen to yourself. Are you actually sitting there, making a case for a guy with weird ears and spindly legs and a crooked cock and one tiny ball? Why would you even do that? You probably can do better.”
“Oh, I can definitely do better.” Our eyes stayed locked a moment, and then Hailey burst out crying. “It’s a tiny ball, but it’s my tiny ball.”
I pushed off the wall. “That’s it,” I said. “That’s all I’m doing. I can’t do any more right now. You go back inside and sleep it off. We’re done for the night.” Without waiting for either her permission or her objection, I continued my progress toward our old apartment.
2 Noah
I got up early the next day, leaving Ava to sleep. I showered and dressed and was in the Jeep before the morning mist had settled. Randall had given me a coupla places to start, so I wasn’t flying blind. It was all Tad Albright related, so I had to play it cool. Albright’s people didn’t know he’d gone missing.
My first stop was at Keith Quisenberry’s. Keith was Tad’s half-brother and sometimes right-hand man. Turns out Tad’s original last name was Quisenberry, too. Not surprising he’d wanna change it. “Quisenberry” doesn’t look good on a marquee. Dunphey told me Keith hadn’t been around when Tad’d gone missing, which was unusual. Probably nothing to worry about since the elder Q might’ve been on an errand. That was his job. Running around doing the things Tad himself couldn’t do—AKA anything at all in the public eye.
Keith had a little house in West L.A. Nothing big, but it was well-maintained and the grounds looked nice. A lot of trees in front and in back. Secluded. I’m sure the place’d come to him through Albright’s largesse. Whatever he was paying Quisenberry, it wasn’t enough for Quisenberry to grab property like that. Los Angeles is one of the most expensive cities in the U.S. I pulled into the drive behind a BMW SUV. Again, probably well out of Keith’s price range. The vehicle was probably bought for the express purpose of driving Tad here, there and everywhere. I got out, realizing that it had started to rain. Not a proper rain. More a lackadaisical spitting. The real Southern California rainy season was still a couple of months away.
I went up the walk and the three steps to the front door and knocked. It was a long time before anyone came. When the door opened, I was surprised it was a pretty girl rather than Keith himself. Then again, I hadn’t asked Randall if Keith had an old lady. “Hi,” I said. “Are you Mrs. Quisenberry?”
The girl, early thirties, long brown hair, barefoot, about five-six, smiled. “As far as I know, there is no Mrs. Quisenberry. Keith and me are just shacked up.”
“Been there many times myself. Hell, I am there now. My name’s Taylor Swift. I was hoping to ask Keith a few questions. Is he here?”
She crinkled her face and scratched one bare foot with the other. “Your name is Taylor Swift?”
It was my turn to do the face crinkle thing. “I know, I know,” I replied. “For years and years, I was the only Taylor Swift and now there’s another Taylor Swift, and it’s this whole weird thing. She’s made my life more interesting and more tedious at the same time. All the time I’ve gotta tell people I ain’t her when that should be crazy-obvious.”
The girl nodded. “I knew a buy named Beck once. Only he was Beck before he got famous, so I don’t guess that’s the same thing.”
“No. Your guy’s luckier than me.”
“What’re you gonna ask Keith about?”
I sighed. “Well, it’s work-related. Something Keith’ll probably wanna keep on the down-low, so I don’t wanna broadcast too much on his front porch.”
The girl backed up and opened the door wider. “Come in, Taylor Swift. Wait here in the vestibule and I’ll see if Keith wants to talk to you. He hurt his back on a jet ski, so he’s cranky as fuck.”
I came in and she shut the door behind me.
“You want something to drink?”
“Naw. I’m good.”
She turned and padded down the hallway. Nice place. Wood floors. Tasteful, mid-century decor, well-appointed kitchen. Small but cozy. After a moment, I heard raised voices from the back of the house. The girl and a man who had to be Keith. He didn’t wanna come; she didn’t want him to be rude. Finally, the couple emerged from a back bedroom. He was stooped over and moving slow. She was right behind him the whole way. He had to raise his head to look me in the eye. He was obviously in enough pain that he didn’t wanna exchange pleasantries in the foyer. He indicated I should sit in the living room. I took a chair, and he took the couch with his back against one of the armrests and his legs stretched out full-length. I almost felt bad about bothering the guy.
“You’re Keith Quisenberry?” I said. It was a stupid question. Despite his pinched expression and a bruise on his forehead, he looked a lot like his half-brother. Dark hair, blue eyes, good build with more of a paunch than Tad. Of course Tad had the best personal trainers money could buy.
“Of course I’m Keith Quisenberry,” he said. “This is Keith Quisenberry’s house, ain’t it?”
Before I could answer, both of us glanced toward the kitchen when a female voice yelled. “Keith! Be nice!” It was my hostess who’s name I still didn’t know.
Quisenberry looked from the angry brown-haired lass back to me. “Sorry,” he said. “She’s helping me with my anger. Plus, I had a mishap yesterday. At Lake Arrowhead.”
“With a jet ski. I heard.”
The girl came in and gave us each a glass of lemonade. “Here,” she said to me. “I know you said you didn’t want anything, but I was getting him one and it’d’ve been weird not to get you one.”
“Much obliged,” I said.
After she’d put Keith’s glass onto a coaster on the coffee table between us, she disappeared again into the back of the house.
“Nice girl,” I said.
“Callie? Callie’s great. She’s an angel. Sometimes I don’t think I need an angel when a normal girl’d do, but that’s a first world problem.” I started to reply, but he interrupted. “Is that a proper use of that term you think? First world problem?”
I thought about it for a second. “Yeah, I feel like maybe it is. Anyway, I catch your drift.” I took a sip of the lemonade and noticed it was unusually good. Score another point for Callie.
“She says your name is Taylor Swift. You wouldn’t be shitting us, would you?”
I shook my head. “Does that sound like some
thing I’d make up? Like I told your lady, I had Taylor Swift all to myself for most of my life and then suddenly I gotta share. Believe me, I’d be much happier if my name was Phil Moskowitz or something.”
“Why Phil Moskowitz?”
“I dunno. I pulled that out of my ass.”
“Do you have a thing for the Jews?”
I mulled that one over too, then shook my head. “I don’t not like the Jews, but I rarely give them much thought either way.”
He blinked and shook his head. “Sorry. That was a weird tangent. I took a blow to the cabeza, so don’t take it amiss if I get daffy.”
“Deal. So, you were at Lake Arrowhead?”
“I was. Me and Callie.”
“When was the last time you talked to Tad?”
Keith adjusted himself on the couch and I could tell there was just no way he was going to get comfortable. He reached for his lemonade and winced before giving up. I stood, picked up his glass and handed it to him. He looked grateful. “Callie said this had something to do with work. When did I last talk to Tad? What is today, Friday? Wednesday right before lunch. He gave us the all-clear to head out and have a little vay-cay.”
“You haven’t talked to him? To tell him about the jet ski thing?”
He shook his head and immediately regretted it. “That’s not the way it works between me and him. He tells me any details from his own life he wants to share, and then, if he’s got the time or the presence of mind, he’ll ask me about me. He doesn’t mean to be rude, I don’t think, but it’s his way. He’s been hot shit since he was twenty years old. He doesn’t know what it’s like to move through a real world with real people. Not anymore. If Callie needs to be coaching anyone on good manners, it’s Tad. But don’t take this as me bitching. Tad’s good to us. He bought this house. He bought the car in the driveway. He just looks at life differently than you and me. Plus that kooky religion he’s into. He’s the best recruiting tool they got, so they’re going to tell him he’s the best thing since sliced Jesus. He’s a strange dude, but he’s my brother, you know?”
I didn’t have a brother, but I knew what he meant and I told him so. I found myself liking Keith Quisenberry. “You say he’s a strange dude… Is he strange enough to pick up and leave the studio in the middle of the day? Pick up and leave the studio and not come back?”
Keith’s eyes widened. He tried to sit up but he couldn’t. I didn’t help him with that. My good Samaritanism ends with lemonade. “Why? Are you saying he picked up and left the studio in the middle of the day? Are you saying he didn’t come back? Hasn’t come back?”
I intended to play things close to vest, but I nodded.
“No, he’s not that kinda strange. He takes his job crazy-serious. He may be touched in the head, but he’s got a work ethic you wouldn’t believe. The studios know he’s not only gonna put asses in seats he’s also going to bust his own ass to get it all on the screen.” He took a sip of his drink. “Are you for real saying nobody knows where Tad is right now?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
“Are you with the completion bond people? I know they were having some troubles…’
“I’m not with the completion bond people. Do me a favor: I’ve been a lot straighter with you than I intended to be ‘cause you seem like a square guy. Don’t tell anybody I was here and don’t freak out. Give me a little time. I’m gonna do my best to find your brother.”
“You’re a P.I., aren’t you?”
Again, so much for caginess. I nodded.
Both of us turned at the sound of Callie’s voice. She was standing at the entrance to the hallway. She’d been listening for a while, and neither Keith nor I had noticed. “Taylor Swift’s gonna find Tad for us?”
I nodded. “Taylor Swift’s gonna do her damndest.”
Most of Tad’s family—including his parents and two grown sisters—were still back in Michigan. His half-brother was his only connection to Back East. He had agents, managers and publicity people, but Keith didn’t think they’d be any help in turning up the missing star. Not only was I inclined to agree, I suspected tipping them off would make my job harder—particularly since they’d probably insist on going to the cops (which, though it was probably the smartest play legally, wouldn’t be good for Randall Dunphey). It was Callie’s suggestion I see Scarlett Sonnenfeld—formerly Scarlett Albright. She and Tad were married for a little less than three years, and she was still a semi-fixture in the gossip rags. As keen as I was to stay away from ex-wives of all stripes, I knew I needed to at least touch that base.
Scarlett’s house was much nicer than Keith and Callie’s. Not surprising since lawyers had undoubtedly been involved. It was in the gray area between Century City and Beverly Hills. Not quite a mansion, but not exactly a cracker box either. There was a gate with a call box next to it, but that wasn’t a problem since Callie had called ahead.
There’d been a flap in the media when Tad divorced his wife. Gun to my head, I couldn’t tell you what it was about. Gossip—especially gossip about people I neither know nor care about—makes me break out in hives. I hoped not to get stuck in the weeds with anything tawdry. Best cases scenario, I’d ask the former Mrs. Albright whether she’d seen her ex or if she had any idea where he might be now, and that’d be that.
I parked the Jeep behind a black Porsche and walked up the remaining driveway to a red metal door. The home was made of concrete slabs, an architectural style I neither condoned nor understood. To me it looked like someone had turned their house inside out so their unfinished basement faced the street. Hideous if you ask me, but I never claimed to know much of anything.
The lady of the house opened the door after a single knock. I had seen her picture, but she was shorter than I expected. Then again, Albright was, by all accounts, short himself. Hell, most of the celebrities I’ve met are pipsqueaks. Tiny little people with giant heads. (The big heads are key. Big heads, expressive faces. The most famous people in the world look like lollipops. Word of advice: If you’re planning on coming to Tinseltown to live your dream, and you’ve got a normal-sized head, save the bus fare.)
Anyway, Scarlett Albright was about the same height as Ava Amelia but her tits were bigger and so were her head and face. Scarlett herself wasn’t an actress, but you know what they say about birds of a feather. “Mr. Swift?” She held out a long-fingered hand with lacquered nails.
“That’s right,” I said. “Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Albright. Do you still go by Mrs. Albright?”
She held onto my hand and flashed a blinding smile. (Celebrities and the celebrity adjacent often have surplus teeth.) “I sure do. I mean I could go back to Sonnenfeld, but Albright’s a million dollar name. It opens doors.” She stepped aside and motioned me to come in. I did.
“Do you still need it? I expect you accrued enough notoriety from the divorce to keep your face on the tip of everyone’s tongue.”
She shrugged. She was ultra-casual, wearing a pair of red gym shorts and a wife beater with the cover of Radiohead’s O.K. Computer embossed. Her blond hair was in a ponytail. “Maybe so, but not so as I could work every angle. I appreciate options.” She brushed past me again, out of the foyer and into the adjacent living room. Tastefully decorated. High ceilings. Sky lights. A couch and two armchairs facing one of the biggest televisions I’d ever seen. The only curiosity: A four-foot stone gargoyle that looked like Gonzo from the Muppets. I immediately wanted one myself but it was too big and too heavy for my apartment. And probably cost a shit-ton. Scarlett plopped down in one of the chairs and it was clear I was meant to follow. There was a decanter on the coffee table and a tray with tumblers. She picked up the decanter. “Care for a drink?” she said.
“Not while I’m on duty,” I said, sitting.
She nodded and poured herself some whiskey into one of the tumblers. “You’re a cop? Callie wasn’t clear.”
I mulled my options and decided to be straight. “I’m a private detective. I’m looki
ng for your ex-. Although, I guess I should’ve told you to keep it on the down-low before I told you.”
The girl sat back with her drink, putting her bare legs over the arm of the chair. “You’re a private dick and your name’s Taylor Swift and you’re looking for Tad who is missing. Have I got that straight?”
“Accurate,” I conceded. “Let me point out though that I’m snooping around for someone who would prefer no one knew there’s trouble. If there even is trouble. It could be Tad’s not really missing, and everything will be right as rain.”
“Tad’s shooting now, isn’t he?”
I nodded, watching her leave lipstick on the rim of her glass.
“Then he’s missing. You’ve probably heard about his reputation. The part about his work ethic at least is true. He would never leave a studio in the lurch. He’d rather drink poison.”
“A stand-up guy.”
She smirked. “Depends on what you mean.”
I was going to let that go because it sounded not only personal but catty. Again, I’m not one for gossip. I was going to let it go, but I didn’t. “Are you saying Tad Albright has an ED problem?”
She laughed, making bubbles in her whiskey. “No, he doesn’t have an ED problem.”
“Sorry. That was none of my business.”
Scarlett shrugged. “I baited the trap. You went for the cheese.”
“If you say so.” I could tell the conversation could get weird, so I cut to the chase. “Do you have any idea where Tad might be? Any place I could stick my nose? Any known associates who might have more puzzle pieces?”
“Aren’t you going to ask me if I know where he is?”
“Do you know where he is?”
The girl started chewing a piece of ice. She was objectively sexy, but there was something about her that kept my jets cool. Something I couldn’t put my finger on. “No. I have no idea where you can find Tad’s body.” That, apparently, was meant to be comedy because she burst out laughing, spitting a couple of shards of ice back into her glass.
