Trashed

by Alison Gaylin

  This was, Simone had to admit, deeply satisfying.

  “Now . . . now . . . there’s no need to get hysterical,” said Nigel. “Listen . . . listen, love. Perhaps . . . Listen to me! Perhaps we could work something out.”

  In the next three minutes, Nigel had Muzzy agreeing to a sit-down interview between Emerald and the Asteroid reporter of his choice, the topic: the actress’s secret heartbreak over her cheating boyfriend, club impresario Keith Furlong. Parakeets would not be mentioned. But Keith’s “chronic lap-dance addiction” and “a certain underaged beauty” were both fair game.

  “It was a pleasure doing business with you, Muzzy,” Nigel said. “Now get some sleep. You sound terrible.”

  Just after he hit END, Nigel glanced at Elliot. “Thanks for the birds.”

  “That,” said Simone, “really, that was—”

  “Genius,” Elliot said.

  “Right, are we through with the bags, then?”

  “I’m not done with mine,” said Simone.

  “Well then, stop bimbling and complete the job.”

  As Elliot threw the bags of unnewsworthy trash over his shoulders and headed out to the elevators, Simone put her gloves back on and knelt in front of hers. Nigel started out of the room. “Shout if you find anything,” he said from the hallway. “Cocaine paraphernalia, empty bottles of diet pills, Ritalin and/or horse tranquilizer. . . .”

  Simone heard his office door close. She reached in, scooped out a pile of cold sticky rice, and dropped it in the discard bag, then a broken wineglass, an empty bottle of Yves St. Laurent moisturizer, a carton of milk that had gone bad weeks prior. Now that the source of the death stink had been revealed, sorting through the trash was nowhere near as excruciating. I could get used to this, Simone thought. And then her finger hit the slender, sharp object she’d felt earlier, just before Elliot had found the birds. She pulled it out.

  It was a shoe. A silver open-toed dress shoe that had been stained with the sour milk and something else—something a dark rust color that had soaked the back of the upper, then run down the heel in a thick, ugly rivulet. It was blood, Simone knew—crusted blood on a silver stiletto heel with an open toe. No one has found the other open-toed Jimmy Choo stiletto heel. Nia Lawson killed herself, wearing one silver shoe. Simone checked the label. There was more blood spattered across the inside of the shoe, but when she looked at it closely she could make out the name: Jimmy Choo.

  She placed the shoe on the tarp and stared at it, her breath shallow, her pulse beating up into her ears. “Found something,” she said. Her voice was barely a whisper.

  “Put it in the discard bag,” said Nigel.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Simone said. “This is . . . this has to be Nia Lawson’s other shoe.”

  “I don’t care if it is,” he said. “She knocked off more than a month ago, and she couldn’t even move issues back then.”

  “But isn’t it strange that Emerald Deegan would be throwing out the missing shoe?”

  “Perhaps Lawson went to a party at Emerald’s house and left the shoe behind. I don’t rightly give a piss.”

  “There’s blood on it!”

  “That is not blood. That’s . . . some sort of wine sauce.”

  “But, Nigel—”

  “Look. We’ve an exclusive interview with Emerald Deegan. We need material to confront her with during that interview. And a shoe that might have been worn by a has-been slut who’s been dead for two fortnights is not the material I’m looking for.” He took a breath and glared at her. “So unless you can prove to me that Emerald Deegan was snorting coke off of that shoe, or that her boyfriend was fucking that shoe, I would like you to throw it out. Immediately! ”

  Slowly, Simone dropped the shoe in the discard bag.

  “Good. Now off with you. Go home and get some sleep.

  You’ve got an early call tomorrow morning, and they won’t use you if you have dark circles under your eyes.”

  “Huh?” she started to say. But before she made it to the second h, Nigel had left the room.

  Greta was standing over Simone’s pullout bed in a white satin evening gown and heavy rubber gloves. “What are you doing here?” Simone asked.

  Her sister said nothing—just gestured like a game show spokesmodel at the bottom of her gown. Simone sat up and followed the gesture with her gaze.

  Greta was wearing one silver Jimmy Choo.

  “Oh.”

  Greta whispered, “They crush you.”

  Simone started to reply, but Greta made a sound like a ringing telephone. Then she melted, from the feet on up, into a deep pool on the floor. A pool of blood.

  Simone’s eyes flipped open and she heard her own phone ringing. It was six a.m. When she answered, she heard Nigel’s voice: “TellmeIdidnotwakeyouup.”

  It took her several seconds to escape unconsciousness, to separate his words enough to understand them. “Wha . . .”

  “I told you, you have an early call. You should be on your way to work now.”

  Simone managed to say, “Early call?” but Nigel had already hung up.

  Within fifteen minutes, she had showered, thrown on a reasonably clean T-shirt and a pair of jeans, and raced out of her apartment. She jumped into her Jeep and sped all the way to work, taking Coldwater Canyon like an action hero. At one point she found herself tailgating a Ferrari.

  When she arrived at the Asteroid’s offices, winded from stress and dangerous driving, the words “early call” looping through her brain until they made even less sense than they had in the first place, she found Nigel in the reporters’ room with a slender, fortyish blonde who resembled a soccer mom from a Chevrolet ad. They were watching Today on a small TV plugged into the far wall, the blonde saying, “Didn’t you always used to wish Matt and Katie were doing each other?”

  Nigel said, “You’re a strange woman, Kath.”

  “Seriously, he and Meredith don’t have the same chemistry.”

  Simone cleared her throat.

  “Right.” Nigel flipped off the TV. “Simone, this is Kathy Kinney. Stick with her, you might learn something. ”

  Kathy smiled, stuck out her hand. “Well, I’ve been at it long enough.”

  “Reporting?” said Simone.

  Nigel leveled his eyes at her, and Kathy let out a short, sharp laugh. “Not quite,” she said.

  The correct term, according to Nigel, was “infiltrating. ” In her fifteen years at the Asteroid, Kathy Kinney had infiltrated close to one hundred funerals, three dozen A-list charity benefits, fifty-some-odd weddings, and Fred Savage’s bar mitzvah. She’d clocked more time in Cedars-Sinai’s waiting room than she cared to think about, owned several sets of surgical scrubs, and swore to Simone on a stack of Bibles that she’d assisted in the birth of Julia Roberts’s twins.

  According to Nigel, Kathy was “tabloid gold.” You have a Kathy Kinney—an attractive woman with good sharp ears who can blend in anywhere—you don’t need to pay sources. Kathy’s your source. Kathy’s your “insider, ” your “eyewitness,” your “close pal.”

  The Asteroid, Nigel said, needed more on staff like Kathy—which was the main reason he’d decided to try out Simone, master’s degree or not. “Do whatever this woman says,” he told her. “It’ll be the best journalistic education you ever had.”

  Today’s assignment—the one with the early call—was to pose as extras, infiltrate the Malibu set of Suburban Indiscretions, and find whatever dirt they could on Emerald for use in the exclusive interview.

  “Cake” was how Kathy described it once they left the office. “Cute girl like you could do it blindfolded.” They were on their way to the set—a rented mansion—in Kathy’s pearlescent Audi. “You’re familiar with the cast of characters? ” Kathy said.

  “Kind of,” said Simone. “I’ve watched the show a couple of times.”

  “So you know Emerald plays Cambria.”

  “Yes, with the bracelets.”

  “She wears ’em in re
al life too. And she’s schtupping the gardener.”

  “In real life?”

  “No, honey—on the show. Rico Valdez plays the gardener and he’s gay as a spring frock. What we’re looking for with Emerald is coke. We want to say her cheating boyfriend drove her to drugs.”

  “Who’s the source on that?”

  “Her bony ass is the source.”

  “What about eating disorders?”

  “Nigel’s spy told him the Interloper is running an ‘Emerald is bulimic’ story next week, so we want to steer clear of that. The thing is, though, drugs freak Legal out like you wouldn’t believe, so we need good solid evidence to throw in Em’s face during the interview.”

  “How do we . . .”

  “If there’s any way you can sneak into her trailer, do it. And check out the bathroom.”

  “But . . . that sounds impossible.”

  “Anything is possible,” she said. “Make that your mantra.”

  “Okay.”

  “Far as the rest of the cast goes, there’s Vanessa Cornwall. Plays Georgina.”

  “Cambria’s mother.”

  “Major lush. We don’t care about that. But if you see her drinking out of the same can of Sprite for a couple hours, you might want to sidle up, offer her a cigarette, and ask her about Emerald’s coke habit.”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “Neither do I, but you should have a pack on you at all times. Marlboro Lights. Everyone wants to bum those.” She gestured at the backseat, where she kept four full cartons of the brand. “Go ahead. Take a couple packs.”

  The back of Simone’s neck was starting to sweat, the hollows of her elbows. She felt as if she should be taking notes—but what would those notes say? She now understood, fully understood, what being “in too deep” was supposed to mean. She had a near-visceral sense of water rushing into her mouth, her nostrils, her eyes.

  “Then there’s Gregory Gunn, who plays Emerald’s husband, Shane. In real life, he’s married to Rain Devine.”

  “Who?”

  “Country singer. Born-again Christian?”

  “Never heard of—”

  “Gregory’s a total trash dick. What you do with him is, you rub up against him in the craft services tent, tell him how much you admire his work.”

  “Kathy . . .”

  “Then you casually mention Emerald’s coke habit. But while you do it, you look at him like you want to eat him for brunch, hold the hollandaise.”

  “Kathy,” said Simone, “I can’t do this.”

  Kathy turned and gazed at Simone. She had Disney princess eyes—deep, velvety blue, with thick, curving lashes.

  Simone said, “It’s not that I think I’m above it. It’s just . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Go on.”

  “I’m not ready. What if I say something idiotic and get us both thrown off the set?”

  “So don’t say anything. Mute works.” Kathy flipped on her blinker and pulled off Pacific Coast Highway. “You can be my baby sister, visiting from Utah. You’ve never done extra work before and you’ve always dreamed of being on TV and you’re intimidated speechless.” She broke into a grin. “Seriously. That works.”

  “So . . . I can just stand there, let you do the talking. And the rubbing.”

  “Sure. But my feeling about you is, mute’s not going to last too long—especially when you find out what a rush it is to pretend you’re someone you’re not. Ever take acting lessons?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you should. You can write ’em off. I study under Lorelei Hoffman—she’s awesome.” Kathy took a narrow private drive up the back end of a cliff, and Simone gazed out the window at burnt-orange rocks dotted with odd, scrubby plants. At first she couldn’t figure out why it all looked so familiar—until she recognized it as the terrain of countless inhospitable planets from the old science-fiction movies she and Greta used to watch, late at night, huddled together on the living room floor with their blankets pulled up to their chins.

  Kathy drove through an open gate and up a long driveway that led to a Tudor mansion with a lawn so green it hurt Simone’s eyes. As they parked next to dozens of other cars, Kathy looked at Simone and patted her hand. “No worries,” she said.

  “Maybe we should just leave,” said Simone.

  “No way,” Kathy said. “I’ll figure something out.”

  They were standing at the periphery of the lawn, watching twenty or so extras of varying age, race, and hair color—all of them dressed for a cocktail party at the White House. Silk shifts, linen suits, luxurious leather shoes, ties and purses adorned with discreet, expensive-looking initials.

  “How can extras afford clothes like that?” said Simone.

  Kathy shrugged her shoulders. That wasn’t the point, which Simone knew. The point was that they were grievously underdressed and, no matter what Kathy figured out, they weren’t going to last here another minute.

  Simone glanced at her fellow infiltrator. Kathy’s baby T-shirt bore an angry monkey with devil horns whose facial expression was marginally happier than her own. “Does anybody here know where the fuck the assistant director is?!” Kathy yelled.

  Simone’s eyes widened. Where the hell did that come from?

  Kathy’s reply seeped out the corner of her mouth: “Trust me.”

  One of the extras—a goateed man wearing chinos and a tie festooned with interlocking Gs—gestured a little nervously at a skinny red-haired guy who was working a walkie-talkie near the bank of trailers. “Uh, the AD’s name is Jeff,” he said.

  “Thank you.” Without pause, Kathy took off toward the AD, shouting, “Jeff! Jeff!” in such a way that made the name sound like an obscenity. Simone followed because she had no other choice, but she could feel at least forty eyes aimed at her back and desperately wished she could melt into her shoes. At this point, she had no doubt—absolutely none—that Kathy Kinney was certifiable. She couldn’t believe she’d actually gotten into a car and let this woman drive it.

  “Jeff!”

  “What?” Jeff glared at Kathy, and Simone noticed that a dozen or so extras were now standing in a half circle behind her, gawking at the scene as if it were spontaneous performance art.

  Kathy said, “That’s all you have to say to me? ‘What?’ ”

  “Do I know you?”

  “Duh! I’ve only done six episodes with you!”

  “Ummm . . .”

  Kathy scrunched up her face and began rubbing her temples. Was she having a nervous breakdown? Simone contemplated running away without looking back. She could ask one of the gawkers for a ride to the nearest gas station, then call a cab from her cell phone—and while she was at it, an ambulance for Kathy . . .

  . . . who was taking a breath, getting ready to speak again. Simone braced herself.

  But when Kathy’s voice did emerge, it was surprisingly subdued. “Look, Jeff. I’m sorry. . . . It’s just . . . the casting agency told me casual and I drove all the way from Pasadena and, you know. That wouldn’t bother me so much, but my little sister’s here. And she . . .” Kathy’s princess eyes glistened. “She’s only out for a week, and her . . . her goal in life is to be on Suburban Indiscretions , and look at us, Jeff. Just look at us!” She swallowed so hard it was visible, her slender throat sliding up and down with a strange, sad grace.

  The poor thing, Simone thought—even though she knew better. The poor thing.

  “We’re in jeans,” Kathy said.

  Simone noticed more people standing behind the assistant director—actresses in robes and curlers, a thick, smirking cluster of Teamster types, one guy—leaner and more intellectual looking than the teamsters—with an air of authority that made her nervous. When she looked into his eyes, he stared back at her. His eyes were a searing blue, like gas flames. Quickly, she turned away.

  They were drawing an actual crowd, and Kathy was playing it with everything she had. “Our mom is going to kill me, Jeff. She said to me, ‘If you don’t do anything
else, make sure Brittany gets on Suburban Indiscretions! You know how much she loves that show.’ ”

  Brittany?

  Jeff looked at Simone. “Where are you visiting from?”

  She heard herself say, “Utah.”

  He nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Casting meant business casual. Not, uh, casual casual.”

  “Oh, for god’s sake,” said one of the actresses. “Give the poor girls a break!” She wore a plain terry-cloth robe, her black hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. Her face was free of makeup, but Simone would have recognized the bracelets anywhere. Dozens of them on each arm—some silver, some gold, some studded with jewels, clanging against each other like a tambourine whenever she moved.

  Emerald Deegan. In the jingling, jangling flesh.

  Despite the baggy robe, the actress looked about twenty pounds lighter in person, which was truly saying something. She wasn’t just skinny; she was Gandhi thin. Her eyes were huge and sat atop her cheekbones like a split geode on a shelf.

  “You ladies come with me,” Emerald said. “I’ve got tons of cocktail dresses in my trailer. I’ll set you up.”

  As they followed Emerald to her trailer, Kathy gave Simone a discreet wink. What the hell just happened there? Simone thought. She started to say it, too, but she stopped fast when she noticed the man with the gas-flame eyes standing still in the midst of the dispersing group, watching her.

  Emerald’s trailer smelled like a room full of goths—the sweet wet scent of stage makeup mingled with cigarette smoke, hairspray, and a nearly overpowering aroma of patchouli oil.

  “What size do you girls take?” Emerald said.

  “I’m a four if I don’t breathe too deeply,” said Kathy. “My sister’s about a two, right, Brit?”

  Simone nodded, but her attention was elsewhere: Emerald had fashioned an elaborate shrine in the middle of her coffee table—a small alabaster statue of the Virgin Mary next to a jade Buddha, surrounded by bouquets of dried roses, flat stone dishes of herbs, and lighted candles in square glass containers with Hebrew letters on the sides.

  It was an interfaith firetrap. Simone couldn’t take her eyes off it.

  “Those are Kabbalah candles,” Emerald said. “That cream-colored one symbolizes certainty. Then there’s true love, self-respect . . . I can’t remember what the others are supposed to mean.” She ducked into her closet. “Anyway, I think I have a few size twos and fours. They’re a little big on me these days. . . .”