by Alan Russell
Company turned out to be Estelle Steinberg. Estelle was five feet tall, and small like a pit bull. Her hair was dyed a shade of red not found on any living organism, the same shade of red she used on her lips. Her face had been lifted so many times Graham doubted whether she could smile, but apparently that wasn’t a hindrance in her line of work.
“You,” she said, as if identifying a contagious disease. “Take off your coat, unbutton your shirt, drop your pants, and kick off your shoes.”
Graham faked umbrage: “But we hardly know one another.”
“I know all about you. You’re a fucking paparazzi.”
“Paparazzo. ‘Paparazzi’ is the plural.”
“You’re a fucking parasite no matter how you say it, and you are not going to get anywhere near Lanie until you prove you’re not carrying a camera.”
Graham sighed, then removed his sport coat and handed it to Estelle. She ran her hands through it, then dropped the blazer to the ground. “Keep going.”
He emptied his pockets, pulled his shirt from his pants, and unbuttoned it. Then he did a full turn for her, displaying his hands to her like a magician, showing there was nothing in them.
“Shoes and shirt off and drop your pants.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I know about those spy cameras and miniature recorders.”
“I promise you that I’m not carrying a camera or a recorder.”
Estelle shook her head. What was once her face tried to look amused. “Think of me as Missouri. Show me.”
Graham would have bet that Estelle had never been within a thousand miles of Missouri, but he could see there was no compromise in her challenge. He kicked off his shoes and took off his shirt, but even that wasn’t good enough.
“Drop ’em,” said Estelle, signaling his pants.
“If the camera’s in my pants, how exactly do I go about snapping pictures? Do I just keep casually raising and lowering my fly?”
“You could be hiding a camera in your pants and pull it out later. So either drop them or leave.”
Graham reluctantly reached for his belt, loosened it, then lowered his trousers to the ground. Estelle stared at his boxers, but stopped short of frisking him. Graham pulled his pants back up.
“What happened to your face?” she asked.
“I walked into something.”
“More like you put your nose where it didn’t belong.”
“According to your definition, that would probably be anywhere.”
“You’re damn right about that. Were you taking pictures here last night? If you were, that’s fucking illegal. The California courts aren’t allowing that kind of invasion of privacy.”
“I’m here to talk to Lanie, not to you.”
“My job is to protect Lanie from people like you.”
“In that case, she would be dead.”
“I haven’t told Lanie about you because she’s been napping, but she is under the misguided impression that you are some kind of puritan—”
“Pilgrim.”
“Whatever. She thinks you’re the Salvation Army. She doesn’t yet know you are one of those pricks that jumps out from behind bushes and thinks life should be one never-ending episode of Candid Camera.”
“I saved her life.”
“You want a reward? That can be arranged. It comes with strings, though.”
“What strings?”
“A confidentiality contract that includes all aspects of last night, including any photos you might have taken.”
“How much?”
“As much as your scandal sheets would pay you. This is predicated on your not having talked to anyone yet.”
“I haven’t.”
“We got a deal then?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“You think about doing it any other way and our lawyers will drag you through the mud for years.”
Graham never did well with threats. “The mud bath goes both ways. I doubt you’d want Lanie subjected to the same.”
Estelle shook her head in disgust. “I forgot that wallowing in the mud would appeal to you.”
“As fun as all this has been, I’d like to talk to Lanie now.”
“You’ll talk to the both of us.”
“That isn’t what we agreed upon.”
“Our agreement was voided when I learned what you do for a living.”
“I have no intention of keeping my work a secret from Lanie.”
“Good. I’ll be there when you tell her.”
Graham could see it was fruitless to argue further. He waited on Estelle while she called over on an intercom and announced that she would be taking Mr. Wells to the guest cottage. Then, without looking back to see if he was coming, she opened the door to the backyard and walked outside. Graham followed her down a pathway lined with birds-of-paradise.
The so-called guest cottage was a self-contained house on the northeast side of the property. Most guests probably never wanted to leave. The cottage had its own spa and gardens, and a private deck that looked out to the ocean. As Graham walked inside, he saw that it was a good spot to hold a controlled interview. There were no personal mementos of Lanie’s, nothing to allow insights into her life. But that still didn’t stop Graham from doing an inventory of the living room.
Estelle didn’t trust his snooping. “Sit,” she said, pointing to a chair.
Instead of taking a seat in the chair, Graham chose to sit down on the sofa. That left Estelle with the choice of sitting next to him, or taking the chair and leaving Lanie in his near proximity. She was spared that decision by the entrance of Lanie.
“Hello,” she said, standing tentatively at the entryway. Lanie was dressed simply, in jeans and a white sweater, and was wearing no makeup. Still, she was Lanie Byrne. Some stars the camera loves, but offstage they blend in with the woodwork. Lanie was that rarity, even more beautiful off camera. She was pale, but not as pale as she had been the last time Graham had seen her. Lanie raised her eyes and looked at Graham. He could tell that she wondered what had happened to his face, but didn’t ask. She was still vulnerable. He had seen her at her most exposed. Her cheeks reddened, and she averted her eyes to a wrapped package she was holding. Not an actor’s blush, Graham knew, but the real thing.
Speaking to the package, Lanie said, “I wanted to find a way to thank you, Mr. Wells.”
“Graham. I’m Graham.”
They had never been formally introduced. He awkwardly offered his right hand to her, just as she started to hand him the present. Each regrouped, he retracting his hand just as she reached for it. After a second false start, both of them laughed.
When they finally shook hands, she said, “I’m Lanie.”
“Pleased to meet you. I mean—”
“I know what you mean.”
There was that awkwardness of having shared an intimacy together, something much more personal than even sex, that both bonded and embarrassed them. Each carried a mutual shame.
“I brought these,” Graham said, remembering his flowers. “They’re just, uh—”
“They’re beautiful. I am going to go put them in something.”
Lanie went out to the kitchen, found a container, and ran some water. “Open your present,” she yelled.
Graham fumbled with the wrapping, tore it off, then opened the box. He carefully brought out a very old book. The leather cover was from another age, and the bound pages were thick and uneven, more like parchment than paper. Gilded lettering spelled out The Pilgrim’s Progress.
“It’s supposed to be a classic,” said Lanie, returning to the room and taking a seat next to him on the sofa. “I never read it, though.”
“Nor I.”
Graham carefully flipped through some pages, pausing to look at the illustrations. Then h
e closed it, gently, but with finality.
“I can’t take this. It’s too precious. And as I told you, I’m no pilgrim.”
“I know that.”
“What you don’t know is that I am a celebrity photographer.”
“He’s a paparazzi,” Estelle said.
Graham didn’t bother correcting Estelle again. He looked up at Lanie, expecting her to be angry or disgusted, but she didn’t appear to be either. “I suspected it had to be something like that.”
Estelle acted as if Graham wasn’t in the room. “We’re negotiating with him for his silence.”
“I didn’t come here to negotiate,” Graham said to Estelle. “That was your doing. I came to talk with Lanie.”
“What about?” asked Lanie.
“I have some questions I wanted to ask you in private.”
“No way,” said Estelle. “The first two words you should say to this joker are ‘No comment.’ And the second two words are ‘Good-bye.’ His kind twists everything. He’s just fishing for a banner headline for the Enquirer or the Star, or his fifteen minutes on TMZ.”
“What I’m looking for are answers.”
“What do you want to know?”
“For starters, why?”
Estelle answered, “Miss L was practicing for a part. No one gets into character like Lanie. As she is taking on the role of a substance abuser, she needed to get in touch with that character’s state of mind. She very much regrets her accidental overdose.”
Graham shook his head. “I hope you’re not starting to believe that kind of press release, Lanie. Everyone around you might want to sweep all this under the rug and forget it, but they shouldn’t. I saw how serious you were.”
Their eyes met. He tried to keep her looking at him.
“You’re right,” said Estelle. “She was serious. Serious about her acting.”
Graham ignored Estelle and kept looking at Lanie. “Your next role is to play Emily Dickinson, not Janis Joplin.”
“She is considering an interim part,” said Estelle.
Lanie didn’t look comfortable with her publicist’s explanation and chose to change the subject. “Last night you talked about your walk through Spain. Was that just a story?”
He shook his head. “I walked more than five hundred miles.”
“I’ve always dreamed of doing something like that, going on some kind of adventure where no one knows me.”
“It would have to be on another planet.”
“I am afraid you’re right. I could wear a disguise, though. That’s how I often get away from your sort.”
She didn’t say her words to hurt, but just as a fact. Still, they reminded Graham of Paris, and the couple who hadn’t successfully escaped his “sort.”
“Did your long walk change you?” she asked.
Graham shook his head. “At first, it gave me a daily goal of putting one foot in front of the other. At its end, I don’t think I came away with any great insights other than how to tend to some very sore feet.”
Lanie tried to smile at what he said, but it was almost as if Graham could see her front crumbling right in front of him. She wanted a miracle in her life, or short of that, a much-needed dangling carrot to keep her going. He sensed she was despondent, and not only because she had tried committing suicide. Something about her pain resonated within him. It was all too familiar.
Graham said, “You shouldn’t judge by me, though. Others walking the Camino seemed to get lots out of it. I wasn’t there for miracles.”
“Why were you there?”
“Exercise.”
His one-word answer was an obvious lie and put a momentary pall on their conversation. Estelle stepped in, glad for the chance to interrupt their talk. “Lanie, you need to rest. Doctor’s orders.”
“Why is it the more I rest, the more tired I get?”
“You’re probably catching something, dear.”
Or she had caught something, thought Graham, and couldn’t shake it. Or maybe he was just projecting. He needed answers—both of them needed answers.
“You’ve probably noticed the state of my face,” Graham said. “Two men tried to kill me late last night after I left the Grove.”
“Shame they didn’t succeed,” muttered Estelle.
“I’ve been thinking about the attack all day. It wasn’t random. They knew I was at your house last night. I can only assume that they’ve been monitoring you as well.
“The men closely resemble one another. I am sure they are brothers. They are built like gorillas and have dark hair and complexions. I’d put them in their late twenties or early thirties. Both have slight accents. Do they sound familiar?”
“You say they tried to kill you?” asked Lanie.
Graham nodded.
She shook her head in disbelief. Then it was her turn to tell an obvious lie. “No, I don’t know them.”
“These men bid me bon voyage off of Mulholland Drive. They also stole the equipment I left behind when I helped you, which makes me believe they’re the ones who called Dr. Burke trying to determine whether you were alive or dead.”
“Didn’t you hear her?” said Estelle. “She doesn’t know them.”
Graham kept his eyes on Lanie’s. “I’d advise you to have your phone and house swept for bugs. It’s possible you’re under some kind of surveillance.”
“Of course she’s under surveillance,” Estelle said. “People like you never let her alone.”
“I’m not talking about paparazzi. I’m talking about something more dangerous.”
Estelle started wagging her finger. “Ask any A-list actor about the dangers your kind pose. That’s why they’re trying to pass laws against your sort. You run cars off the road. You use drones. You lie, cheat, and steal. You make people prisoners in their own houses.”
Graham refused to be sidetracked. “These men aren’t interested in photography. I don’t know what they are interested in, but if they’re the ones who drove you to despair, then you need to get some help.”
“Say nothing, Lanie,” said Estelle. “He’s fishing for you to say something controversial. Or he’s trying to drive his price up through some conspiracy theory.”
“Think about it,” Graham said.
The publicist put her arm around Lanie. “Let’s go, dear.”
“Thank you,” Lanie said to Graham, and then she let herself be walked away.
Graham watched her. He couldn’t explain it, but he knew her hurt like it was his own. It didn’t make sense, of course. Lanie was Hollywood royalty, and he snapped sneak pictures. Besides, he was no bleeding heart. He looked out for himself. But something was tearing Lanie apart enough that she had chosen to stop the pain by trying to kill herself. He knew how much hurt that was. Over the past few years, especially early on after the accident in Paris, Graham had considered suicide. He wasn’t sure if he was stopped by cowardice, or whether he still found reasons to live.
At the doorway, Estelle turned and said to him, “I’ll send someone to see you out. Call me tomorrow morning at nine and I’ll patch in a conference call with the lawyers.”
Graham said nothing. When they left the cottage, he rose and walked to the door and watched them make their way up the path. Lanie was known for her perfect carriage, and a long, graceful neck rivaled only by Audrey Hepburn’s. Her head, always held high, was down. She sneaked a look back, as if feeling his eyes on her, then continued walking. A few moments later she turned around again. This time she said something to Estelle, then hurried down the path back to him. As she came toward him, Graham couldn’t help but feel that for the first time in a long time he had done something right. But Lanie still needed to decide upon life, and he wasn’t at all sure she had made that decision.
Then Lanie was standing in front of him. “You don’t need to worry,” she said.
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“I think I do.”
She didn’t argue, as Graham would have hoped, but only clarified what she meant. “I mean about those two men. I’m sure they didn’t mean to kill you. They only wanted it to look that way. And they’re no threat to me.”
“Who are they?”
“They probably thought they were helping me.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“They’re friends,” she said.
Graham spoke from instinct: “They’re no friends of anyone.”
“I promise you, they meant you no harm.”
“Who are they?” Graham asked again.
“They’re Mossad,” she whispered, then ran back up the path.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
Mossad. As he drove away, Graham kept chewing on the word and its implications. Why would the Israeli secret intelligence service have any dealings with Lanie Byrne? And could she be right? Had his two assailants just meant to put the fear of God into him? Graham wondered if his successful escape had saved his life or endangered it.
Hollywood had attracted more than a few former Mossad agents working as security consultants. At Michael Jackson’s wedding to Lisa Marie Presley, the head of security had been an ex-Mossad agent who seemed to take great pleasure in foiling the paparazzi.
Mossad. Maybe he hadn’t heard Lanie correctly. Graham searched his mind for an alternate interpretation and fell short of finding one. No, he had heard her distinctly. And though she was an actress, he didn’t think she was trying to misdirect him.
Graham pulled out his new phone, and then thought better of it. Maybe they were already onto his new number, and he didn’t want to put his friends in any more potential danger. It took him a quarter of an hour to find a pay phone. When he dialed a number it popcorned a few times, until its call-forwarding hit the mark. When it did, Graham said, “How is your brother Dan?”
“Who spells his name D-O-N,” said Ran Jacobi, an Israeli paparazzo whom Graham sometimes worked with.
It was a stupid joke, but one they both persisted in. Since Ran pronounced his name “Ron,” Graham figured he had to have a brother named Dan who spelled his name Don. Ran had never Americanized the spelling of his name and was constantly having to explain it. Sometimes his attempts to clarify the spelling almost became a “Who’s on First” routine. Wrong Ran, Graham called him.
