And everything suddenly fell into place, the whole plan, she could use her sister’s place, Gigi always traveling for her job. Melanie wouldn’t have to figure out how to get past security at the shoot, wouldn’t have to keep finding ways to run into Jason, wouldn’t have to worry about Stevens seeing her in whatever hotel the talent was staying at.
All she’d have to do was figure out how to get Jason to Gigi’s apartment.
CHAPTER 3
The sun fired sharply through a bare window in the makeshift attic bedroom, hitting Lenny squarely in the eyes, a sniper sent by Mother Nature. The heat made Lenny’s eyelids twitch but he refused to surrender, groaning and burying his head in the pillow. Far too early to get up.
He’d have to get a curtain for that damn window.
Sharp voices reverberated from below, loud enough to be heard right through the thin mattress. Lenny pulled the pillow over his head, trying to drown out the noise and the light. After a fruitless few minutes he tossed the pillow on the floor. The alarm clock told him it was almost noon, not early morning at all.
Downstairs, the voices, obviously an argument. His mother, Patty, and her boyfriend, Tom. They had only been living here three months and it was already clear that Patty and Tom could argue about anything at all. This morning it was about replacing the refrigerator. The argument would morph into broader themes, usually involving money, or the lack of it, and then would end up, as it always did, about the move from Los Angeles.
Lenny wasn’t a big fan of Tom, but he could at least sympathize with what the guy was going through. Tom had a cushy job outside of Boston—had being the operative term—before his life had changed rather quickly. Tom’s wife, now ex wife, had found out about Tom’s dalliances on his West Coast business trips, and had given him, but not his house, the heave ho.
Patty had been one of Tom’s dalliances, and she had taken the opportunity to explain to Tom how much better off he was, and didn’t this just give them the chance to spend more time together? Offering housekeeping skills she hadn’t practiced in years—Lenny knew this first hand, since he was still living with her in LA—Patty convinced Tom it would be a great idea if she moved east to be with him.
Tom was happy with the promise of uninterrupted sex, less so when he found out that Lenny was part of the package. He stashed Lenny in the attic, out of sight. Their uneasy peace came crashing down when Tom’s ex found out Tom was shacking up with Patty. The entire divorce suddenly became public and ugly.
Tom’s publicity shy bosses at his company didn’t like that at all, and had added injury by doing their own heave ho. Tom was suddenly homeless, jobless, and with an alimony payment based on income he no longer earned.
Lenny tuned them out. He’d heard it enough times to know what each of them would say next. Patty pushing Tom to get back on his feet, sounding supportive, but Lenny knew she was already calculating how to find another meal ticket, since this one was looking like a bust. She’d screwed up making the move before the divorce was final, gambling, worried that some other woman would take her spot. Lenny didn’t care; his mother would end up on her feet either way, as she always had since his father had left them when he was six. But right now Lenny was trapped. He didn’t make enough money to live on his own, so his mother’s dilemma was his.
His own meager income from his photography career had taken a sudden dive. He wasn’t exactly pulling down the big bucks in LA, but he got by and was always on the cusp of making it into the big time. The move east had squashed all that; he’d had to virtually start over learning how and where to get tips of celebrity sightings.
Luckily they had ended up in Marburg, which had the film festival, and was only an hour from Boston, not exactly the mecca of filmdom, but a large enough city to attract some movie shoots and the occasional TV show.
The location gave Lenny a chance—however slim—that he would appear in the right place at the right time and the next photo would give him enough money to move out.
Lenny pushed himself up and automatically reached over to the nightstand for his cell phone.
Which was not there.
He’d left it downstairs to charge, because the attic didn’t have any plugs. It was also hot and stuffy, since the window didn’t open either. Still groggy, Lenny padded barefoot across the small room, ducking his head to get through the miniature door. Halfway across the adjoining spare room—why couldn’t Tom clean all the shit out so Lenny could use this for a bedroom?—Lenny remembered he was dressed only in his boxers; his mother had given him shit about walking around Tom’s house in just his underwear. Wasn’t this their house now? It’s what he had always done in the morning. He went back to pull on a pair of shorts. He struggled with the button, he’d put on a few pounds, all that beer drinking, hanging around bars, waiting for someone important to show up so he could get a picture.
Downstairs, his mother was smoking a cigarette at the kitchen table. Tom sat morosely drinking his coffee, staring blankly into space, a scattered newspaper in his lap.
“Anybody seen my phone? Ma?”
Patty took a deep drag and blew the smoke out toward the ceiling, a sure sign to Lenny of an imminent lecture. He glanced over at Tom, who picked up the newspaper with a sudden interest, but not before flashing Lenny a glance, as if to say, ‘I wouldn’t if I were you,’ something deep in Tom’s testosterone sharing a warning with the other male.
Lenny picked up on it too late, still focused on trying to skip out before his mother launched into whatever was on her mind, which was obviously not the refrigerator. “Ma, my phone! You seen it?”
Patty stubbed out her cigarette. “You spend way too much time on that phone.”
“Ma, it’s for work. It’s the way I get information about where to shoot. And I need to be available, in case I get a call from a tipster.”
“Tipster? What are you, some kind of public prosecutor? Oh, no, wait, that would mean you actually had a job.”
Lenny wasn’t going to get ensnared by this argument again, he’d been having it with his mother for years. And he knew the comment wasn’t directed at him anyway; it was really meant for Tom. Lenny caught his mother glance over at Tom—she was a good manipulator, but she’d be terrible at poker—but Tom was safely cocooned behind the Marburg Times. Probably, Lenny thought, looking through the help wanteds, if for nothing more than to get Patty off his back.
Patty gave Lenny a little smile, an invitation to join her team, to help her work on Tom. Lenny had learned his skills of manipulation from her, and they both knew it. As well as the fact that they needed Tom, or someone like him.
Unlike most children, Lenny was able to look at his mother with the dispassionate eye of a photographer who knew what people found attractive in a woman. And Patty, though in her late forties, had a lot that men wanted. Raven red hair, oversized, still vibrant eyes, and a pleasant fullness in all the right places—her lips, her breasts, her hips. Guys like Tom, who might still lust after twenty year olds, but who were realistic, loved having a woman like Patty on their arm and in their bed.
Any other child talking about his mother this way would lead to psychologist talk about Oedipal complexes, but to Lenny it was just the hard facts of the superficial laws of attraction. Personally he liked the twenty year olds, and was at the age when he still had the chance to land a few now and then. Which reminded him of Leah, at the restaurant, and even more, of Melanie, although she was more Lenny’s age. And to have any chance with Melanie, he needed his phone.
Lenny shook his head, turning down his mother’s offer to gang up on Tom, and walked out of the kitchen.
Patty, without missing a beat, was already back to working on Tom, her voice following Lenny like a dark shadow. “You have such great skills, hon. You just need to get out of this funk, go on some interviews. You’ll have a real job in no time, we can get a nicer place to live. Come here, let me make you feel better.”
Lenny needed to tune this out more than the argument, so he cl
osed the door to the kitchen before searching the living room for his phone.
He finally found it on the coffee table in the den, sitting under the newspaper, opened to the help wanted section, which obviously Tom hadn’t been reading after all. This was just the sort of twisted way his mother liked to torment him.
There was a sticky note on the phone, a grocery list stuck to two twenties, things Patty wanted him to pick up, too busy herself doing whatever she did all day. She had worked a little in LA, a hostess for a catering company doing fancy parties, but she hadn’t worked at all since the move east.
Lenny shoved the forty bucks in his pocket, crumbled up the list, tossed it in the air, and swung at it with his fist, but missed.
He could still hear his mother cajoling Tom. Fearing that the discussion would move to cringe inducing topics, he went out on the back porch and sat on a creaky lawn chair. It was already humid, sticky even in the relative shade, the webbing of the chair damp on his legs. Lenny was famished but the urge to get connected kept his hunger at bay for a bit.
Only one text, from one of the tipsters he was cultivating, a harder job than he had expected, the whole sub rosa celebrity sighting information business not well established here in Marburg. The tip was cryptic, a possible scenario going down at the Marquee at 7 p.m.
Lenny had scouted out the place, the only halfway decent club in Marburg. Not that he’d had much luck there, mostly wannabees and a few hasbeens, now and then some suits, maybe scouting out the suburbs of Boston for shooting locations or in town trying to negotiate tax incentives. Still, it was the most likely place to see a celebrity.
He went online, squinting at the phone—he really needed a bigger screen, something else he couldn’t afford—and pulled up the website for the Marquee. The usual fluff, images of celebrities who had been there, most of the pictures all looking like they had been taken at the same events, probably around the time of the film festival or the awards shows.
The club had a Meet the Staff tab, which surprised Lenny, who gave a shit about the staff at a club? It brought up a list of photos, the largest ones showing the owner, an overly dressed little putz, smiling widely in various shots with mid level actors and actresses, all of them sporting that fake smile that Lenny recognized, the celebrity cringingly putting up with the guy who was letting them drink for free. The second largest picture on the site was of a blonde in one of those ridiculous over the shoulder poses, obviously taken by a rube local photographer. Lenny clicked on the image and the woman’s resume popped up, an actress with a few local commercials. Lenny immediately deciphered the code—the owner had convinced the staff they’d get noticed at the club, which got him low cost help. He had sweetened the offer by putting up their resumes and photos on the site—which no one in the trade would ever look at, but the help wouldn’t know that—the owner also probably promising he had connections who could help them. Lenny nodded, it wasn’t a bad idea. The woman with the biggest photo was likely the one the owner was currently banging.
Lenny figured if the Marquee did that, the other business owners in Marburg where actors hung out might have glommed onto the scam, so Lenny pulled up the website of The Café, where he had spotted the two best looking women he had seen in Marburg, Leah and Melanie.
Sure enough, another web page with staff photos. No bios, but last names.
Melanie’s sparkling eyes leapt off the screen, grabbing at him, Lenny feeling a tingle in his crotch, she was that good, probably able to turn her sexy gleam on and off at will. He didn’t even scan the rest of the page for Leah.
Melanie Upton.
Lenny tried the IMDB database, the Linkedin for the acting world. Immediately got a hit, with several entries, including Her Long Comment, an off-Broadway thing that got some decent press, as well as a few non speaking roles and a list of her commercials.
With enough to narrow down an internet search, Lenny found a few images on second tier websites, three or four photos that popped up repeatedly, good shots of Melanie, eyes big and shiny and mischievous, making Lenny suspect she had planted the pictures, maybe giving a little something of herself, or the promise of it, to get the photos online.
One link led to a video that Melanie probably hadn’t wanted circulated, a dark, jerky image, probably from a cell phone. Melanie, maybe a little drunk, in between two guys, good looking in that superficial actor way, fancy haircuts, all black, slightly too tight outfits. One of them appeared to be enjoying being with Melanie, who was showing a lot of very nice leg in a little black dress and strappy heels. Whoever took the video kept zooming in on Melanie’s breasts and legs, Melanie laughing along, preening, showing off a tribal tattoo high on her inner thigh. The other guy, the better looking of the two, seemed a little less sure, keeping just a bit of separation from Melanie. Some kind of asexual, thought Lenny. He wondered what Melanie was doing with him, he didn’t seem her type. But he was the one Melanie kept looking at.
Even a little tipsy—an act?—Melanie looked hot, that same sex appeal Lenny had experienced in the restaurant coming through even in the video. He kept replaying it, advancing frame by frame, freezing on the best parts. Melanie’s sultry smile. Her hand on one of the guys. The sexy tattoo. Lenny wondered if she had more ink even higher up. Lenny shifted in the chair, wincing as the cheap straps dug into his leg. Damn, just a picture of Melanie cut off his circulation. He had to have her.
Lenny studied every image and link very carefully, telling himself it was all for research. In order to be a good photographer you had to get in the head of the celebrity. Figure out what they might do, so you’d be there when it happened. Uncover their weakness. Drugs, sex, whatever. Melanie Upton had a weakness—everyone did. He’d find it and exploit it to get to her.
The Café restaurant website boasted that big name producers, agents and talent often frequented the place for lunch or early dinner. Of course Melanie would be sharp enough to get a job at a restaurant that attracted what little Hollywood royalty would be in Marburg. Lenny knew her game.
Gotcha.
Melanie would hang out at the Marquee, he was sure of it. In fact, he was surprised she didn’t work there. Maybe sleeping with the little creepy owner was the cost of the job, and she didn’t want to waste it on him. Either way, Melanie would be part of the nightlife, looking for her break.
Back in the house, Lenny was about to hit the kitchen to find something to eat, but his mother was still at it, and now Tom was talking back, not a good sign. Lenny checked his wallet, barely enough money for lunch, gas, and his tipster.
He ran back up the stairs to shower and change. When he was done, he crept back down the stairs, hoping to sneak out without being heard.
With that annoying maternal psychic sense, his mother called from the kitchen, “Don’t forget the groceries!”
Lenny picked up the wadded list, letting the back door slam behind him.
CHAPTER 4
Lenny stopped at the 7 Eleven, grabbing a slice of pizza, a Monster, and a two packages of Twinkies. The rows of cigarettes behind the counter reminded him of the grocery list, and he asked the clerk for a pack of his mother’s smokes, adding in a few flavored cigarillos, which he found helpful in breaking the ice with women. When it came time to pay Lenny pulled out his wallet, quickly calculating in his head about his share versus his mother’s, decided her tally was higher than his, and so paid for everything with one of her twenties.
He ate at one of the small tables in front of the convenience store, his eyes on his phone, scanning the celebrity sites for any hint of upcoming Boston-based shoots, a tedious process of endlessly following links.
Nothing sounded promising, so he looked at the state’s office of business development website, where bureaucrats bragged about how much tax money they gave away to production companies that weren’t even located in the state, but supposedly benefited the local economy. Sure enough, a page of films and shows supposedly lured by the political geniuses. A few more searches and Lenny had a
list of possible shooting locales.
It took the better part of the afternoon for Lenny to scout them out. Some were so vague as to be useless, no hint of a schedule, or even if the deal was in the bag. Others mentioned Marburg but were too general, the entire shoot probably nothing more than creating a few background clips that would be used over and over to introduce scenes that were actually shot on a studio set out in LA.
Although Lenny didn’t find a single shoot in progress, the time wasn’t totally wasted. He was out of the house, doing something, working his gig. Although the chance of coming across a valuable shot was pretty low, it could never be discounted, so he had his camera gear on the seat close at hand. He was getting a feel for the area, and if he got a tip on a location he’d know how to get there quickly.
He ate dinner a strip mall Wendy’s, staring out at the parking lot to a chain grocery store, reminding him of the grocery list. He reluctantly stopped at the market to gather the rest of what his mother wanted. He’d have to hurry if he was going to be at the Marquee in time to meet his tipster.
Lenny sped up Canterbury Street, glad for once of the big motor in the squishy Cadillac, a car that always seemed to look even more outdated than its age, this one a gift from an ex boyfriend of his mother’s, a veritable pimp mobile. Lenny hated tips that demanded you be somewhere at a specific time because it forced him into a schedule, and he hated schedules, they took away his freedom. Right now he didn’t have a choice, he was desperate for a tip.
In town he passed by The Café; he’d check later to see if Melanie was working. He parked on the street while still several blocks from the Marquee. It was a pain in the ass to walk but he didn’t want anyone to mark his car as paparazzi wheels.
Lenny moved like he was on a military mission, his camera held loosely like a weapon ready to fire, his eyes darting everywhere, always looking for a shot. But the streets were uncommonly quiet, that in between time after work and before the nightlife began. From behind a parked Kia he studied the area in front of the Marquee, looking for any sign of an impending newsworthy event. It was unlikely he’d missed anything. He would wait because he knew about unpredictability, and it wasn’t like he had much else to do. He lit one of his cigarillos to pass the time and so he wouldn’t appear to be loitering. Just a guy outside for a smoke.
Random Revenge (Detective Robert Winter Book 1) Page 4
