by Joan Rivers
An hour later, with Malulu’s help, I’d worked through 179 messages, deflecting requests from news agencies from as far away as Tasmania (where they loved their celebrity gossip) to the little local paper in Manhattan Beach (ditto). This is not the right time to speak about dear Halsey, I texted, e-mailed, and said in a sotto voce rasp, sadly. Perhaps later. No matter how rabid the dogs of the media could get when they were hot after a story, I could handle mad dogs. I calmly wrapped myself in a cloak of dignified silence. I was sweet. I was respectful. I said, “No.” They had never heard of anything like it. All of them calculated the cost of the story upward.
“Fun,” I said to Malulu as I disconnected with the president of CNN-TV.
The doorbell rang, and Malulu ushered in the fourth flower arrangement of the morning, all red roses and white hydrangeas. “Larry King,” Malulu read from the card as she bent over to place the huge vase on the floor next to the fireplace.
“He’s a smart one,” I noted, admiring how the red roses complimented the deep-red velvet love seat in the living room. “His producer had researched the color scheme of my suite. I love him dearly, but here we are sitting on a million-dollar story, and I can’t give away Halsey’s last words for a measly plant?”
“It’s da thought dat counts,” Malulu advised me, not getting my joke. Again.
The doorbell chimed once more, and Malulu rose to answer it. Instead of more sweet-scented bribes, my lovely daughter floated through the door. Killer stood up on my lap and wagged his tail.
“Drew, I thought you were going to go home and lie down.”
“I tried.” She threw herself into the deep down cushions of the cherry-red love seat. She had changed out of her early-morning on-camera dress into a pair of jeans and a thin white sweater. “But how could I sleep?”
“I know what you mean, I’m too amped. And it’s not just the Oscars.” Again, one of the suite’s two phones rang softly in the background. I pointed. “People don’t stop calling.”
Drew nodded. “Same at my house. I tried to turn my phone off, but then I was waiting to hear from Sol Epstein. He finally called me half an hour ago.”
“He did?” I looked up.
“The good news is, he said he’ll work with Burke.”
“He’s a smart lawyer. Good.”
Drew still looked strained. “For now. That’s all Mr. Epstein would commit to.”
“Okay. That’s something.” I always try to stay upbeat. As the kids say, why be a hater? Even though in this case, I had every reason. But I was getting sleepy, and that makes me forgiving.
Drew shook her head. “And then I kept getting calls from Burke. He wants to know if I sold the diamonds. Mr. Epstein needs a retainer check. Ten thousand dollars. Today.”
I had just been drifting off for a second. Not napping, but not fully charged. That last comment snapped me back like a triple espresso. If Burke had somehow contributed to the death of Halsey, even if Sol Epstein could prove it had been an accident, Burke certainly wouldn’t be able to claim he just accidentally walked off with thousands of dollars’ worth of Halsey’s diamonds. How had he come to take them? Had she paid him for drugs using her bra jewels? Had he been tempted by all that flash and easy money and somehow simply ripped them off? No matter, when the police found out Burke took the diamonds, he would be in a new world of trouble, and when they learned he gave the Victoria’s Secret diamonds to Drew after Halsey’s death, and that Drew ran out and sold them for cash…My head spun. Would that make my Drew an accessory to something really awful after the fact?
“No!” I said, then stopped and calmed my voice. “Don’t worry about all that fuss just yet. Let’s stay calm, honey.”
“But Burke’s defense?” she said, almost near tears. And this is a young lady that doesn’t cry.
“It’s only money, sweetie.” Let me tell you, that’s not an easy line to deliver and make believable. But I did it. “Why do you think we work so hard? I’ll pay Sol’s retainer. Leave it to Mama.”
Drew sat up, alert. “You will? Oh, Mom. That’s amazing. I mean, what was I going to do, anyway? I had no idea how I was supposed to sell fifty loose diamonds. I mean, you can’t just list them on eBay, can you?”
Just then Malulu waved a phone receiver at me in her sweet Samoan way. “Mrs. L.”
It wasn’t like her to interrupt. “Not now, Malulu. Take a message. I can’t talk to anyone.”
“On the phone,” Malulu said, her voice now a pitch so low I don’t think I’d ever heard her use it before. “It’s the police.”
Drew’s eyes grew wide.
Malulu was fiercely loyal to me, but she was a stickler for rules and the constabulary. She had her work visa laminated and was known to whip it out and show it to meter maids on Rodeo Drive. In fact, she was ridiculously impressed with anyone wearing a uniform. Honestly, I once wore a nurse’s costume in a skit and she began treating me with new respect. In New York, I had to ask her to stop inviting Boy Scouts up to the apartment. Now, with a policeman on the phone, I could see her loyalty was becoming strained. No one wants a Samoan woman who knows Limalama karate to feel the pains of cognitive dissonance, believe me.
“Mom,” Drew said, her eyes darting. “No. What if they’re looking for Burke?”
I waved at Malulu to hang up the phone. Killer, who had been dozing in my lap, stood up and began to growl.
“But, Mrs.,” Malulu said, faltering, her Samoan accent getting stronger as she faced her own dilemma, “what can I say to the mon? He the police!”
“Tell him Mrs. Livingston has had a very long night of work, and I’m resting now. Cannot be disturbed. But I’ll call him…you know the rest.” Really, I had to think of just about everything for everyone or the whole world seemed to fall apart.
Malulu shook her head and muttered to herself, and I took this as an omen that in order not to make a liar out of my Samoan bodyguard, I had better go straight to bed.
“Drew, I can’t stay up one second longer. Would you like to stay here and curl up on the sofa?”
Malulu made whooshing gestures, aiming toward the bedroom, and I followed her general whoosh.
“Can I come with you?” Drew asked.
My daughter was usually the cool one, a sophisticate, a graduate of a top Ivy League college. But for once, she seemed to want to stay close to her mother. I was thrilled.
We both climbed up onto the giant bed in my bedroom, made quite a show of both turning off our cell phones, and then, fully clothed, crawled under the cool Italian linens.
I watched as my daughter closed her eyes, then I laid my cheek on my own smooth pillowcase. “Drew,” I said, enjoying the unexpected closeness of our makeshift sleepover, “everything will turn out fine. Now the only mystery I have yet to solve is where”—I yawned in a dainty way—“the hell is Unja.”
“What did you say?”
I continued dreamily, “Unja. Isn’t it funny that the only man with Halsey’s collapse on-camera from our own best vantage point has sort of disappeared?”
The bed jostled, and I opened my eyes. Drew was sitting straight up. “Do you think Unja’s tape could somehow help Burke? I mean, Burke keeps calling me, Mom. He’s afraid that any second now the police may want to question him. And he’s frantic. A man like Burke is sensitive. He’ll lose it in jail.”
“You never know,” I said, starting to drift off. “Paris hung in there for almost a month.”
“Burke will not be able to cope. If the police find him before we can somehow clear his name, I’m not sure what he might do. At least they don’t know where he is staying right now, thank God. That’s the good thing.”
“Umm,” I mumbled, drifting off into a much deserved siesta when a light tapping was heard at the bedroom door. I felt a slight shift as Killer stood up in bed. A door opened almost noiselessly in my dream.
Drew whispered, trying not to disturb me, “Shh, Mom’s sleeping, Malulu.”
“Sorry to bother you, Miss L,” Malulu whispered to Drew.
“It’s the police, Miss. On the phone. They ask to talk to Mrs. L, and I say she resting. They ask to talk to you, miss, but I say you resting.”
“Very good, Malulu. Thank you,” Drew said, relief in her voice.
I tried not to snore.
“But when they ask me where Mr. Burke is, I just say I don’t know.”
“Of course you don’t,” said Drew as I almost but not entirely snoozed off.
“I just tell them,” said Malulu proudly, “they should go check over at your house, Miss L. I told the detective check and see if Mr. Burke is over there.”
“Mother!”
“Was that not a good thing?” asked Malulu in her stage whisper. “That mon, he is the police!”
“Mother!”
I opened one eye. Naptime was definitely over.
9
Best Plot
Somehow I managed to steal a few hours of sleep that day from the deepening dread that surrounded Halsey’s demise, but only a few. Drew, of course, flew out of my suite so fast her size-2 butt was a blur of dark-rinse blue denim. She couldn’t get back home soon enough.
We both knew why she was in such a blind hurry but didn’t say it out loud. A mother must have some sort of boundaries with her adult child.
When it came to quasi-criminal-aiding-and-abetting behavior, I guess we both instinctively recognized a line that shouldn’t be crossed.
I don’t want to know what sort of feverish calls were being made to alert America’s newly Most Wanted that the jig was up: Malulu had sent the heat straight to Drew’s little crime hideaway in Beverly Hills. If I couldn’t stop my dear deluded daughter from rushing to the bum’s rescue, then, frankly, the less I knew about any of that, the better. If you can’t stop a child from risky behavior, my advice, dear parents, is, avert your eyes.
Before she ran out, Drew begged, “Mom, promise me we’ll help Burke. We’ll be able to clear up any stupid misunderstandings. You know, stop the insanity.” She stepped into her spiky, patent leather Audley of London heels. “Things will be all right. Promise me.”
“Of course,” I croaked, still half-asleep.
“You’re exhausted, Mom,” she said, stopping for just a minute to assess.
“No, no. I’m fine.” I think my eyes may have been stuck shut as I said this, but she chose not to notice. We agreed to meet at ten that night after my dinner with Dr. Bob, then she sped away.
At seven, somewhat rested, showered, and freshly dressed, and feeling a lot more like a real human being than I had in the previous twenty-four hours, I opened the door to my suite.
Dr. Bob, compact, tanned, and natty in a cream-colored suit with an open-neck shirt, stood in the doorway holding a golden Ballotin of Godiva. I suspect he brings me chocolates in the optimistic hope there will be a liposuction in my future, but I am too gracious to point this out.
“Chocolates!” I would be handing these straight to Malulu in the morning.
“Thirty-six piece.” The large assortment. He had spared no expense. “For healing your poor psychic wounds,” Dr. Bob said, concern in his voice, as he entered the suite.
“Sheree will not be joining us tonight?” I inquired of his wife, who had been the benefactress of so many of Dr. Bob’s little ministrations. She was drop-dead gorgeous but always had a little bandage on her somewhere.
“Just recovering from a touch of work,” he said apologetically. “She would have loved to join us, but…” He turned and faced my living room. “Wow. Look at the flowers.”
“That topiary clipped in the shape of a rhinoceros is from Oprah,” I said.
“Impressive.” Dr. Bob smoothed one hand over his tanned bald head and gave me a gleaming-white smile. “They all want you, Max.”
“Yes. Sure. Did they all send flowers and potted rain-forest creatures last year? No, they want the story.”
“Same thing,” he said nonchalantly. In Hollywood, it was hard to tell the difference.
Dr. Bob and I met ten years ago when I needed a little work done. By work, I hope you understand I mean “enhancement.” And by enhancement, I hope you realize I’m talking plastic surgery. It began as a professional consultation: me, the thirty-nine-year-old comedienne ready to begin yet another new phase of my career, this time interviewing celebrities on the red carpet at that long-ago Academy Awards show; Dr. Bob, the same age as me exactly, with a reputation for being the best cosmetic surgeon in Beverly Hills. Only, none of his big-star clients would ever acknowledge they knew him, let alone that they had begged him to lift their sagging derrieres and inflate their deflated bosoms. It seemed I, alone, was the one big name willing to go out in public with my friend Dr. Bob.
Why not? Everyone on earth had seen all of us celebs “before,” so who does anyone think they’re fooling? Look, some of us may not be the biggest beauties out there, but we do have to look presentable. It goes with the profession. A little nip. A little Botox. A little body contouring, arm-lift, breast augmentation, nose job, and full rhytidectomy. Whatever. Sometimes it’s called for, so get a grip. Everyone knows what goes on behind closed surgical-suite doors. So what’s the big secret?
I love the work I’ve had done. And I love Dr. Bob’s company. He knows all the same people I know, likes all the same restaurants, on all the same continents, and he never patronizes me with courtesy laughs. That’s a true friend.
“Well, you must know the story about Halsey’s death is all we’re getting on the news today. Who even cares what won Best Picture? And there is all this pirate video of Halsey lying down on the red carpet with you.”
I had not had a chance to watch the news all day. “How did I look?”
“Amazing. Lying down actually draws the skin of the face backward, allowing gravity to give you a lift, did you know that? Makes us all look so much better in bed.”
At least those of us on the bottom. I tucked away that bit of advice.
“But, Max, it will be a frenzy of reporters tonight. Do you want to call room service? You know, eat in? Lie low? Keep away from the press?”
I looked at him as if he were demented. “I am wearing all my best jewelry to stay inside my hotel room? I don’t think so.”
We took Dr. Bob’s Jaguar and had our usual fight over where to eat. He offered Mr. Chow’s for Chinese, but I just gave him a look. Everyone knows Mr. Chow’s is the favorite haunt of Hollywood’s oldest stars, accent on the old. It’s not that I object to Dr. Bob trolling for new clients over a meal, no matter how much he protests he is not looking for sagging jaws among the tables, it’s that I hate the thought that someone might for even a second get the mistaken impression that I fit the age profile of the typical patron.
Dr. Bob then suggested the Ivy, which is, of course, fabulous for lunch, but otherwise, why bother?
I said, “Let’s just go to the Grill,” by which I meant the Grill on the Alley. Not that you could actually find a Dumpster or a bum hanging around the Grill, but it is an alley of metaphoric significance, since it occupies some stratospherically high-rent real estate on a Beverly Hills passageway tucked away behind Rodeo Drive where all the biggest agents in town go “slumming” on their endless expense accounts.
“Perfect,” said Dr. Bob, steering his Jag down Stone Canyon Road.
We settled into a dark leather booth in the clubby interior, fielding comments from the hostess and one of the patrons, who each told me how much they would miss Halsey and offered their support. This is how nice the public is to me most of the time.
It was a joy to be out and about. I noticed the dinner crowd was fairly light on this Monday night, then I got a call from Drew, and we agreed to meet back at my suite in a few hours.
Dr. Bob ordered a Marked Man, a cocktail of Maker’s Mark bourbon and sweet vermouth, for himself, and a blood-orange martini for me. When I began to protest, he shushed me. “Think of the vitamin C, Max.”
“But—”
“Medicinal purposes.”
How can you argue with your doctor?
We had a great, long dinner, Dr. Bob starting with the half-cracked Dungeness Crab and I with the Endive, Spicy Pecans, and Romaine with Gorgonzola Salad, which I insisted they bring only half of an appetizer size and still couldn’t finish. We moved on to our main courses: for me the charbroiled Lake Superior Whitefish, which was really cooked to perfection; while Dr. Bob talked about his planned move to vegetarianism in the near future, then ordered the House Special Prime Filet (bone in), medium rare. As I unwinded with my second blood-orange martini, we caught up on events big and small since the last time I was in town, including what I was going to do about this latest mess with Drew reattaching herself to Burke, and were interrupted only once, by an agent I used to know at CAA, a charming shark who seemed surprisingly interested in what I was doing these days.
“What will you do about this Burke situation?” Dr. Bob asked, as we sat back and read the dessert menu as if it were porn.
“That’s the question, isn’t it?”
“You can’t tell Drew you mistrust him.”
“Of course I can’t. She’ll hate me.”
“Sad but true. Kids.” Dr. Bob had nine-year-old twins and could relate only up to a certain level. When the time comes for him to try to get them into the Harvard-Westlake School with their one measly C+ in pre-algebra, and he has to go begging on hand and knee, then he’ll start to get the true picture. When they both decide they want to become snowboard instructors in Aspen for a few years instead of going to college, then he’ll really begin to understand.
I continued, “If I’m right about Burke’s involvement with Halsey…”
“And I know you’ve got him pegged, Max.”
“Drew will never forgive me for being right.”
We agreed: I couldn’t tell Drew how I really felt, if only to keep peace with my headstrong girl until she could see for herself the incredible depth of the shallowness of Burke Norris.
In frustration, I read about all the delicious desserts I would not be ordering: the New York Cheesecake, the Rice Pudding, the Double Chocolate Layer Cake. All those capital letters. All those calories.
