Claire Voyant

by Saralee Rosenberg

Viktor shrugged. “I have femily to help take care of. My muther, my father, my brother, hees wife, their one son…”

  “But what about your loyalty to Abe? You just told me he did everything for your family.”

  Viktor touched his heart. “And I never say bed word about heem…may God rest his soul.”

  “I see. And Ben has no idea you leak like a faucet?”

  “He trusts me like hees son. You don’t say nothin’, em I right?”

  “Who, me? Of course not. I don’t even know these people.”

  “Okay, good. Here’s my card. If you ever need to know some-think, Viktor find out for you.”

  “For a slight fee.”

  “It’s the Ameriken way. No? I have a femily to take care of. My muther, my father, my brother, hees wife, their one son…”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I grabbed his card. “I get the picture.”

  As I waited for Viktor to open my door, the meter was still running on the Fabrikants’ dime, so I went for a freebie. “What are the odds on Drew and Marly?” I asked casually. “You think they’ll get married this time?”

  “Ah!” Viktor eyed me. “So you like heem?”

  “No. Of course not. I’m just curious. Because the family is so nuts.”

  He turned to make sure our conversation was private, as the number one rule of dishing dirt was having an exclusive. “I hear heem say he no like the sex…. She no like to go down there.” He pointed to his crotch.

  “Gee. Maybe if it was fifties wrapped in hundreds, she’d dive right in.” Em I right?

  Viktor needed a second to get my humor. “Good one. I like thet. Maybe I tell heem to try.”

  “You do that,” I said, suddenly staring up at my boy/man driver, wondering how I could have missed the fact that he was easily six-three, fair-haired, with ocean-blue eyes, and bulging pecs beneath his perfectly pressed shirt.

  Having served time in L.A.’s menial job land, it shouldn’t have surprised me that I hadn’t noticed him at first. The eternal lament of hired help was that we were practically invisible. Except to horny guests who thought that touching breasts or patting asses were harmless gestures we secretly enjoyed.

  “Maybe one day Viktor take you to dinner.” He pumped his biceps. “Big strong man. Gentle heart. You like thet?”

  “I’m sorry? Oh no. I mean, you’re adorable, of course. But I’m getting engaged soon.” Once again the phantom fiancé strikes. And please, Viktor. Don’t escort me into the building. My luck, they’ll take one look at you and discover the ass they were looking for all along.

  My friend Sydney tells everyone that I’m practically computer-generated in perfection. Five-nine, 110 pounds. Curves in places men love. Natural blonde. Two breasts, both still in their natural habitats. Looked like this since ninth grade. So no one ever believes me when I say that I’m insecure about my looks.

  Not that I didn’t think I turned heads. Why else would Dolce & Gabbana have given me preferential treatment (free clothes) for agreeing to be Exhibit A on the Hollywood party circuit? It was just that after having lived in L.A, I discovered that beauty was a cheap commodity. Absolutely everyone and their colorist were stunning. So no matter how great your body, face, or hair, you were only one chair away from someone making you feel like Sandra Bernhard without makeup.

  It’s why I obsessed on my flaws. The narrowly spaced eyes, the wide-body forehead, and feet the size of a tribal conga leader’s. My biggest fear was that I’d wake up one day, and those would be the only things people noticed about me.

  But the one body part I considered my winning hand was my butt, which was small, tight, and thankfully cellulite-free. Mind you, I worked very hard to keep it looking like a baby’s bottom. I jogged, did Pilates, drank a gallon of water a day, and fried foods never passed my lips.

  So when I walked into Casa de Miro, I wasn’t expecting to feel intimidated. After all, my bottom was top shelf. But after gaping at the lineup of framed glossies on the wall, I had to admit that my puny ass wasn’t in the same league. Whatever made me think I could succeed in this bodacious booty boutique?

  “Claire?” A dark-haired, pretty-in-pink stud greeted me, his just-facialed skin not even scraping my face with the obligatory air kiss. “Hmm. You smell yummy…Dante & Vita?”

  “No. Ben & Jerry’s.”

  “What?” He feigned shock. “A model who eats?”

  “Every Tuesday.” I smacked my lips. “Is it almost time?”

  Pretty boy clapped. “I do love a beautiful girl with a sense of humor…. Pablo Casale, Mr. de Miro’s personal assistant.” He kissed my hand.

  “Yes. Hi. We spoke on the phone. I apologize for being so late. Is he pissed at me? You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had—”

  “Calm down, darling. Pablo just moved a few things around on the schedule, and voilà, time for Claire…. And may I say, he is so looking forward to meeting you.”

  “He is?” I looked around to see if anyone was eavesdropping. “Do you mind if I ask why?”

  “Are you serious? You only tried to save the life of one of his favorite people.”

  “I’m sorry? He knows—knew—Mr. Fabrikant?”

  “Knew him?” Pablo gasped. “He’s been sitting in his office bawling like a baby since we heard the story on the news this morning.”

  “What story?”

  “About you and the plane ride, and how you tried to revive him with your bare hands.”

  “Are you kidding me? They said that on the news? Why?”

  “Oh right. You’re not from here…. Well, because everyone adored Abe. And now, my darling bubeleh, it looks like you’re going to be a little local celeb.”

  “Oh no no no no. I swear. I’m just your basic Good Samaritan…. Why is everyone making such a huge fucking deal over this, pardon my French? I mean, he was a nice guy and all, but it’s not like he tried to save the world.”

  “Actually, he was a hero to Jews everywhere.”

  “Why?” I started to sweat. “Did he invent the cure for indigestion?”

  “No, silly. He gave away his millions to save the lives of Jewish activists in Russia, Germany, Spain, Portugal, Argentina…”

  “Really? He never said a word about that.” Or anything else, for that matter.

  “Then he’d bring the families to Florida, help them settle in, start their lives over…. So down here he’s like the Messiah.”

  “He certainly was an amazing man.” Dear God, Yom Kippur is four months from now. Got any other days of atonement that start a little sooner? Love, Claire.

  “Let Raphael tell you the story of how Abe managed to smuggle the entire de Miro clan out of Buenos Aires right before they were taken away in the middle of the night by—”

  “Wait, wait, wait. Raphael is Jewish?”

  “Of course, darling.”

  “But his name sounds Hispanic or Cuban, or, I don’t know…something Latin.”

  “Didn’t Mommy and Daddy ever send you to Sunday school?” Pablo sighed. “Jews descended from everywhere. Not just Brooklyn. Raphael comes from a long line of those Marranos. The secret Jews who pretended to be Christian so they didn’t get their heads chopped off…the artist Miro, even Rita Moreno. Oh, and Fidel Castro.”

  “No way. Castro is a Jew, too?”

  “They think on his mother’s side…. Anyway, back in the late forties, the de Miros left Lisbon for Buenos Aires, then Raphael’s father and uncles got into deep shit with Eva Peron—”

  “Oooh. I remember her. The one with the shoe fetish.”

  “Sorry. Incorrecto.” Pablo made an annoying buzzer sound. “That was Imelda Marcos.”

  “Right. Of course. The heiress to Neiman Marcos.”

  He blinked. “You are joking, right?”

  “Absolutely.” Not. “Just having a little fun…trying to collect myself. I’m actually not feeling that great. I think I’m going to puke.”

  “Oh no. No puking. No, no, no. We have a strict policy now. No more two-finger girls�
��”

  “Would you stop? I’m not bulimic. I’m in shock. I’m sad.” I feel like flypaper for freaks.

  “Well, of course you are.” He hugged me. “What was Pablo thinking? Let me make you a Bloody Mary. Or how about—”

  “Telling me the truth. Will Raphael love my ass?”

  “Oh dear.” He took a deep breath. “Well, it’s just my opinion. I mean, don’t get me wrong. You’re a knockout. Good posture. Excellent skin tone. But, like, where were you ten years ago?”

  “So basically you’re telling me this is going to be a waste of time?”

  “Well, no. We do occasionally get requests for older—”

  “Pablo!” a man’s voice bellowed from beyond.

  “Coming, Raphael,” Pablo singsonged. “You know what? Let’s just go in there and do it.”

  “How do I look?” I chewed at my pinky nail. “Got any last-minute advice?”

  “You’re to die for.” He fluffed my hair. “But I do have an eensy-weensie suggestion.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Our last office manager ran out of here Friday threatening to kill herself. Third girl in six months. Now, in case he offers you the job, don’t take a dime less than thirty.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I’m not a nine-to-fiver. In fact, lately I’ve been very busy with my film work.”

  “So the reason you flew all the way down here was because…”

  “My whole life I’ve dreamed of showing off my ass to millions of moviegoers?”

  “Oh, pish tish, Claire. Your last screen credit was two years ago, it was that awful remake of Deliverance, and you didn’t even get an upgrade from a U5.”

  “Fine. So I had under five lines. But the director said I was damn convincing as a townie…. Jeez! I can’t believe you checked me out.”

  “God bless Google.” He winked. “The better to see you with, my dear.”

  I looked away. How embarrassing to be caught in a lie, although compared to the doozies I’d already told today, this was nothing. Still, I didn’t appreciate my in-the-Dumpster career being scrutinized by Pink Pablo over here. How qualified did I have to be to pull down my thong?

  “Never scrunch the forehead, darling. It invites Mr. Wrinkle…. Anyway, I knew Sharon Stone and Sandra Bullock back in their B-movie-queen years. They spent all day on their feet waiting tables, and Lord knows what they had to do on their backs…so it’s not like I don’t get the whole struggling-actress thing.”

  “You know what, Pablo? I appreciate the pep talk. I do. But frankly, you know shit.”

  “I was merely trying to point out—”

  “That what? That it’s okay to judge me because I’ve had a run of bad luck? Because I refuse to do porn, or cable films where the director yells, ‘Open wide,’ and he’s not talking about my mouth? Believe me, you wouldn’t be so quick to condemn if you knew what it was like to be almost thirty and not remember the last time someone gave you a goddamn break!

  “You have no idea what it’s like to put yourself out there year after year, literally hang your heart and soul out to dry, only to be overlooked, underpaid, stood up, felt up, compromised, criticized, lied to, shit on, laughed at, disregarded, denigrated, shunned, stunned, fondled, fooled…and believe it or not, I’m one of the smart ones.

  “In high school I was in National Honors Society. Did you find that out on the Internet? I have a degree in theater, I’ve tested amazing for three sitcom pilots, I’ve done a dozen commercials, modeled since I’m fourteen. I’m funny, I’m beautiful. So I don’t need to stand here and listen to some flaming fag who is never going to be anything more than a lover’s gofer tell me that my time is up and I should go home until it’s time to be wheeled out for the Old-Timers’ Game.”

  Pablo bowed his head. His lower lip trembled.

  “Oh my God.” I burst into tears. “I am so sorry, Pablo. I swear I didn’t mean to say that. I was having a hormonal meltdown…. My meds wore off….”

  Pablo wouldn’t even look at me. Apparently I wasn’t finished groveling.

  “It’s been the most awful day…. I’m still so crazed from what happened to me on the plane…. Such a dear, sweet man, and then boom, there’s a dead guy on my lap…. And you have no idea how nervous I was to meet Raphael. And did I mention how depressed I’ve been since moving back home? Every morning I wake up in my old room and think, this has to be a nightmare ’cause they never even bothered to buy a new mattress, so every night I’m sleeping in a ditch. And the bedspread is still the same crappy one my mother bought at Alexander’s, which I knew, even as a kid, came from the clearance bin…. And I think, how did this happen to me, Claire Greene…most likely to be a huge star? Washed up at twenty-nine.”

  Pablo dabbed his brow with his pinky, miraculously regaining his composure. “What can I tell you, hon? Some days are real mood-crappers.”

  “More like some years are real mood-crappers. But that is no reason to pick on a nice person like yourself…. Please forgive me, okay? Otherwise, I swear, I’ll march right over to the nearest Baskin-Robbins and buy the biggy size banana split with the hot fudge.”

  “Let’s just drop it, okay?” He faked a smile. “I get where you’re coming from. I was merely trying to give you a heads-up. Raphael is a very sensitive man who doesn’t take well to people going batshit on him.”

  “Me go batshit?” I laughed. “Never! But tell me this. And I’m asking only out of curiosity. Why can’t he keep the help?”

  “Are you loco? The man’s a whack job. Brilliant, but completely ferkahct. All day long he screams, he carries on, he can’t ever find what he’s looking for, and it’s always your fault—”

  “Pablo!” The booming voice practically made the windows rattle. “These aren’t the comp cards I wanted. And where the hell are yesterday’s call sheets?”

  “Coming, Raphael.”

  Who would be crazy enough to work for this maniac? I thought. But to be nice, I said, “Wow. He speaks perfect English.”

  “Let me guess.” Pablo rolled his eyes. “You were expecting Ricky Ricardo…. I said his parents were immigrants. But he was born here. Just like you and me.”

  “Pablo! Goddamn it! Get Scorsese on the phone before his masseuse shows up.”

  I grabbed his arm. “Did he just say Scorsese?”

  “Yeah. Marty is a good client of the firm’s. So is Oliver Stone, Ron Howard, Spielberg…”

  “Really?” I swallowed. “How are the benefits?”

  Chapter 6

  I WAS CERTAINLY LEARNING A VALUABLE LESSON. NEVER TRUST A DAY that started out like any other, ’cause faster than you could say “I’m screwed,” your plane of existence could be thrust into a graveyard spiral that left you disoriented and desperate for a view of the horizon line.

  This little epiphany occurred, not on my doomed flight, but while sipping lemonade on a sun-drenched deck overlooking the majestic Biscayne Bay. For given the inane discussion I was having with the great Raphael de Miro, who to my amazement was only slightly older than me, I felt like I was flying through a dark haze without an instrument panel to save me from the crash and burn.

  After he thanked me for being so good to his family’s beloved champion, Abe, and made polite chitchat about my work experiences in L.A., our conversation began to tailspin, and nothing I said could make it fly right.

  Boy Wonder knew I had come all this way to land a body double job, yet he was pressing me on my culinary skills. Was I familiar with Thai cooking? Could I tell the difference between cumin and cilantro? Did I prefer hand chopping to food processors?

  “To be perfectly honest, Mr. De Niro, recipes are like science fiction to me. I get to the end and think, well now that’s never going to happen.”

  “de Miro.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You called me Mr. De Niro. Like Bobby. It’s de Miro.”

  “Oops. Sorry. Typical me. One-track mind. Always thinking about the business.”

  “So you’re saying y
ou don’t enjoy cooking.” His wiry fingers tap-danced on the table.

  “I’m saying my idea of the perfect house is six bathrooms, no kitchen.”

  “Can you at least operate a microwave?” he sniffed.

  “Of course. But my real strength is vending machines.”

  Jeez. Not even a smile. What made him Lord of the Lens? I was expecting a guy ready to be brought to pasture, not someone in his early thirties. A man who towered over his subjects, not came up to their waists. No wonder he was hiding in Miami.

  “Do you know anything about photography?” He spooned out a lemon pit from his glass.

  “I know that I miss Fotomat. Oh, and the disposables just came out in digital.”

  Raphael’s left eye twitched. “Are you familiar with various procedures such as—”

  “All of them…liposuction, chemical peels, quadruple thigh passes…”

  Now he stared at me as if I’d just arrived from planet Zoloft. “I meant are you familiar with basic accounting procedures, word processing programs—”

  “No. But I can IM six people at one time without screwing up a single conversation.”

  “You’re not even remotely qualified for an office management position?”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “I’ll offer you twenty-five thousand to start.”

  “No way. I could spend more than that on shoes.”

  “May I remind you that you have no qualifications?”

  “May I remind you that I came here to do some test shots…and to get rid of this wedgie?”

  Finally a smile. “I admire your chutzpah, Claire. And you obviously know the business. I’m thinking Pablo could teach you the rest.”

  “And I’m thinking, when did I lose control of this go-see? All I wanted to do was make a few bucks modeling, and instead I’m sitting here defending myself because I didn’t train with Emeril.”

  “I won’t lie. You’re a beautiful girl. Stunning, actually. Just not body double material.”

  “Let me guess. I’m too old.”

  “No. Too thin.”

  “Well, now, there’s something you don’t hear at a modeling agency every day. Too thin?”