by Alan Russell
“Two sets of car remotes?”
“That’s what Lanie wanted.”
Graham mulled that over. “Does Lanie often drive by herself?”
He kept catching Tina with food in her mouth. She nodded. “She’s always driving around in her Tesla. That’s her favorite car. She likes it because it’s all electric. Lanie likes to go easy on the environment.”
“Did either you or Vera ever see Lanie drive the Jaguar?”
Tina seemed to like the nonverbal answers. She shook her head and speared another wonton.
“There was a big fund-raiser for the vice president when he came to town,” said Graham. “Since all of Lanie’s staff was given that day off, do you have any idea how she got to the fund-raiser?”
“Probably through the studio. She could have asked for a limo and driver and they would have provided it.”
Graham made a mental note to check on that. He had a contact at the studio who could find out for him.
“When Lanie asked you and your housemates to vacate the Grove,” said Graham, “did she give you much advance notice?”
“She did for the first weekend. We knew well ahead of time. But not last weekend. That’s why I was so pissed. She only told us the day before.”
The waiter approached them. He was in his early thirties and had a ponytail. His greeting, whenever he came to the table, was Eastern by way of California, a clasping of hands and a slight bow of his head.
“Have you decided on your entrées?” he asked.
While Graham looked in vain at the menu again, Tina ordered. Though he had lived around the world, and sampled food from scores of countries, Graham was in the mood for something uniquely American. “I wonder if you could hold the horseradish teriyaki and radicchio, reconstitute the marinated filet strips, and just give me a New York steak medium rare with a baker.”
Graham got the bow: “Certainly, sir.”
When the waiter left, Graham sighed in relief. “For a moment there, I was afraid it was going to be a scene right out of Five Easy Pieces.”
Tina didn’t understand his reference.
“The movie,” Graham said. “You know, where Nicholson tries to work a side order of wheat toast out of a chicken salad sandwich because of an inflexible menu and system.”
A hint of memory, a vague remembrance, revealed itself on her face.
“I might hate the bullshit process that surrounds them,” said Graham, “but I love nothing more than a good movie.”
A prism of light danced around Graham’s head. He looked up, and had to smile.
“You’ve got a halo,” said Tina.
The lights from the crystal vanished.
“Short-lived,” said Graham.
“So,” said Tina, getting down to her own business, “am I going to get some money from those photos you took?”
Graham nodded. “But I haven’t sold them yet, so I don’t know how much they will bring.”
“Did you get some good shots?”
Graham didn’t look at Tina. He stared instead at the ocean. Though the restaurant had lights shining out to the water, it was still hard to make out what was beyond the sand. From their table the ocean looked more like a great, enveloping shadow than a reassuring vista. Graham knew his own view was tainted. Whenever he looked at the Pacific, he was reminded of his mother’s suicide.
He suddenly realized that Tina was looking at him and expecting an answer. It took him a moment to remember her question.
“The pictures of Lanie came out much fuzzier than I would have liked,” he said.
Without telling her, Graham used Tina as his beard to survey the hotel and schmooze the staff. Hotel employees are typically gregarious sorts, and their mouths get that much more lubricated by generous tipping.
They drank in the hotel’s lounge and learned what room the vice president had stayed in, and how the Secret Service had taken the rooms on either side of Tennesson’s, as well as above and below.
“His arrival was all hush-hush,” the bartender said. “He came in late at night and left early in the morning. I don’t think anyone on the staff even saw him. His limo pulled down into the garage, and I hear the Secret Service hustled him up the stairway to his room on the second floor.”
The bartender’s words, and eyes, were mostly directed at Tina. It never hurts to have a pretty woman at your side.
On the pretense of taking a walk with Tina around the property, Graham was able to chat up the night auditor and the bellman, learning more about the veep’s stay. They strolled around the exterior of the hotel; Tina’s eyes were on the ocean, while Graham was more interested in the layout of the inn and the location of Tennesson’s suite.
They slowly made their way back to the hotel’s courtyard. Tina said, “One of the best things about working for Lanie is that sometimes I travel as part of her entourage, and I get to stay in some wonderful hotels.”
“I suppose that’s one of the perks of my job, too,” Graham said, “though the jet-set spots are usually wasted on me.”
“Why is that?”
“While the rich and famous play, I work. They cavort on the snow and the sand, while I get frostbitten or sunburned.”
“Oh, come on.”
Graham raised his right hand to swear to the truth. “I’ve become a human icicle staking out ski resorts, but the frostbite wasn’t as bad as the sunburn I got covering two big stars staying at a clothing optional resort. I did my ‘when in Rome’ routine, shucking my swimming trunks, and paid the price. I was peeling where no man should ever peel.”
Tina didn’t hide her laugh very well. “I suppose the stars would say you deserved it.”
“I suppose they would.”
“You’re good at blending in, aren’t you?”
“My father was a foreign service officer. That made me a glorified version of an army brat. There was always a new posting, a new country. I learned how to be a chameleon.”
“You change colors, do you?”
“In a manner of speaking. You would be amazed at how some people never see beyond a change of clothes. When I track a star to a luxury hotel like this one, I’m a regular cast of characters.”
“What do you mean?”
“Depending on the situation, I pose either as staff or guest. Most resorts make it easy. The staff usually wears the same kind of polo shirts they sell in the gift shop. I get close to my target by dressing the part. No one notices the guy picking up the trash or cleaning bird shit off the balconies. If that doesn’t work, I go into guest mode. It’s like hunting: you look for the right game trail, and the best spot for an ambush. If I’m at the pool drinking a mai tai and reading the Wall Street Journal, everyone dismisses me as the vacationing businessman who can’t quite get away from work. They never notice my briefcase with its aperture. That’s how I regularly catch couples at play.”
“Don’t you ever feel bad about deceiving people?”
“Who am I deceiving? I am a businessman, just not the kind they think. Besides, a star and his publicist conspire to put a certain face out to the public, even if it’s not a real face. Sometimes that face has more than a few warts on it. Like the star who has a clothing line that’s produced in sweatshops by little kids, or the country singer who comes across in public as being all God and country, while in private he’s really just a bully who wraps himself in red, white, and blue. There’s one supermodel—you know her, the one who married the pop singer—who refuses to flush after herself. She thinks it’s beneath her. She calls in her assistant right after she finishes and has her do it, and she’s teaching her daughter to do the same thing. In her case, when I shoot her in a less than flattering light, I know that I’m getting the true picture.”
“But not everyone’s guilty. To use your word, you hunt these people. That means you target the innocent as well as the
guilty.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Sometimes your pictures hurt people.”
And sometimes I hurt them just trying to get the picture, he thought, nodding.
Tina shook her head. “I wouldn’t want your job.”
“I’m fond of saying the same thing.”
“Why do you keep doing it?”
“Because I do it very, very well. And I like to beat the odds.”
“What odds are those?”
“Everyone likes to root for the underdog, except when it comes to paparazzi. And we really are the underdogs. Our resources are next to nothing. We have to rely on smarts and perseverance to get the shots.”
“And deception, and lying, and trickery.”
“I’m not justifying those things, but I will say the other side does more than their share of the same. And when you consider we’re going up against the studio, the star machine, the publicist, anyone with a cell phone camera, not to mention all the resources available to television, we really are the underdogs.”
They walked across the tiled courtyard. Tina slowed as they approached a huge, decorative fountain. Nymphs and dolphins gamboled along the well. A passable replica of The Little Mermaid rested on top of the fountain. Water splashed down from her tail.
“Do you have a coin?” asked Tina.
Graham dug out a quarter and handed it to her. She turned her back on the well, closed her eyes, and tossed the coin over her head.
“Your turn to make a wish,” Tina said.
“What more could I wish for than your company?”
Tina seemed pleased at his answer, not recognizing it for the evasion it was. He didn’t want to offer up a wish. He didn’t want to think about once upon a time. Paris had changed his life forever, and he had learned to accept its consequences. To his thinking, contemplating a wish would just be setting himself up for a fall.
“Wherever Lanie goes,” Tina said, “they treat her like royalty. She gets these huge gift baskets, with chocolates, and champagne, and treats of all sorts. Sometimes she just hands them over to us. Tim calls it ‘trickle-down economics,’ but we really score with the goodies.”
They made their way over to a railing overlooking the ocean, and Tina breathed deeply of the sea air. She’d had wine with dinner, and several after-dinner drinks, and was relaxed. As she leaned her elbows on the railing, Graham realized she had the posture of someone who wanted to be held.
For a long moment, he thought about doing just that. Tina had probably thought his taking her to dinner was a prelude to romance. He had probably even encouraged that notion, what with the way he had prattled. Their talk had surprised him. For a little while Graham had forgotten there were people out there who wanted him dead.
Graham hadn’t been in a steady relationship since Paige, another man’s wife. The truth was Paris had done a job on his libido. He had been with a few other women since the accident, but it had felt as if he was just going through the motions with them. Nothing was as he remembered it before the crash, not food, or sex, or life. Nothing. That was his curse. It was hard for him to be passionate about anything anymore.
The light of a half-moon shined down on them. He ran a hand through his hair, and when he did, it looked as if his shadow reached for Tina and touched her freckled arms. But Graham knew taking her in his arms wouldn’t help him escape his shadows. It would probably only bring them home to roost. And besides, he had work to do.
“I am so glad you could join me for dinner,” Graham said. “It’s a shame I have to go out and ask people some questions before they turn into pumpkins.”
His retreat surprised her. “You’re really going to work this late?”
“It’s actually early for my line of work. May I walk you to the valet stand?”
Tina nodded at his offer, though she seemed a little put off at the abrupt end to their evening. Graham did his best to charm her as they walked, and that seemed to mollify her a little, but Tina also came to the late realization that she had been little more than that evening’s camouflage. At the entrance of the hotel, a valet took her ticket.
“After I called you that first time,” Tina said, “I felt bad. On the whole, Lanie’s been a pretty good boss. I didn’t want to see her get embarrassed or anything. I wanted to call the whole thing off, but it was too late. I’m not going to turn down the money from your pictures, but I don’t think you should count on me ever contacting you again. And I would appreciate your not calling to ask me any more questions about Lanie.”
“I understand.”
Tina’s car pulled up to the curb. The valet opened the door, and then closed it behind Tina. Graham tipped him, then leaned his head into the opened window.
“I know I haven’t told you much about those photos I took that night. I can’t give you specifics, but you should know that instead of hurting Lanie, you actually helped her.”
Graham surprised himself, and Tina, by reaching for her left hand and kissing it.
Before leaving the Palms, Graham went on a self-tour down to the parking garage. Valets were supposed to drive all cars in and out, but there was nothing to prevent a guest from driving away other than the valets controlling the keys. Security stood at the entrance to the garage, but not the exit. Angled metal spikes prevented any unwanted traffic, a sure blowout for any tires going the wrong way. Large signs were posted warning of tire damage.
Though he looked for security cameras, Graham didn’t see any. Luxury hotels were famous for splurging on ornamental items, while stinting on security. Flower displays generally ranked higher on budgets than security cameras. Though he tromped around the garage and made his nosing about obvious, Graham didn’t capture the attention of anyone on staff.
It was one in the morning when Graham drove away from the hotel. He was afraid to go to his apartment, and didn’t want to use his credit card to get a hotel room for fear that all of his transactions were being monitored. Graham wished he had arranged to stay at Ran’s for an extra night, but it was too late for that. The backseat of his Edge would have to do for the night. At least he had a blanket, essential equipment for a celebrity photographer.
Graham drove up into the Malibu hills, looking for a spot where he might park undisturbed by traffic, curious residents, or the police. Being homeless wasn’t to his liking. He finally parked on a quiet street a block from an elementary school, then tried to settle into the backseat. Though he was very tired, sleep was slow to come. He kept trying to find the right fit to all that had occurred, but the puzzle still had too many missing pieces.
As was usual when he couldn’t sleep, Graham started thinking of the Lady and LeMoine. He wondered how he would have felt had the victims been ordinary and anonymous people. Would he still be up ruminating, or would he have put the accident well behind him?
Graham tried to think about something else. That never worked, of course. It was like attempting to will a tune out of your head. The more he tried to push it from his thoughts, the louder it played.
He cracked open a window. In the silence, he thought he could just hear the sound of the ocean. It didn’t lull him, but instead added to the chorus of the dead. His mother joined with the others. Graham knew his tiredness didn’t help. Tomorrow, he thought, I’ll try and get a gun. Armed, he could return to his apartment. He was tired of being on the run. Always running from accidents, he thought. That, more than anything, was his Paris legacy. He had fled the scene of the accident, and nothing could erase that from his mind. He had run, but he couldn’t hide, especially from himself.
That had to stop.
He needed to find a way to make his enemies visible. Lanie had some answers, even if she didn’t think she did. He could squeeze her for the information, blackmail her.
Just like they had blackmailed him.
Coercion wasn’t anything new to him, but he knew how
fragile she was. Push her hard enough, and it would be the same thing as yelling “Jump!” to someone on the ledge of a building. Somehow he would have to get her to trust him. Given their adversarial roles, that would all but take a miracle.
He thought about Lanie’s suicide attempt. Maybe someone had pushed her buttons the way Smith and company had pushed his. One of his would-be assassins had called him “Pilgrim.” Lanie knew his two captors. Everything was interrelated somehow. It was possible she had balked at being blackmailed, and had embraced death before dishonor.
No, that didn’t feel right. Lanie’s sickness was similar to his own. He knew that, without knowing how. It was obvious to him, painfully obvious.
You are as sick as your secret, he thought, once again remembering the AA canon.
It kicked in then. He didn’t call it intuition, or sixth sense, or a leap of faith. Sometimes he just knew.
Lanie had been involved with something that had very bad consequences. Whatever it was, suicide had seemed a viable answer.
He wondered if she had somehow caused someone’s death.
Graham had no evidence of that. A shrink would probably call his assumption blatant displacement, a reading of his own feelings of guilt into her pain. But it seemed right to him. He believed, even without any proof, that was their connection.
In a selfish way, he wanted to believe it was so. Misery loves company.
He tried to tear down his theory. It didn’t stand up to any true scrutiny. There was nothing in the way of hard facts to support it. But Graham was still not willing to put it aside.
Eventually, he slept. Usually he was a light sleeper, but not this time. His exhaustion was so complete that he fell into a deep, deep slumber. He dreamed of a phone ringing for the longest time before he finally awakened. Even then he was disoriented, foggy, almost drugged.
It was almost like that time he had awakened on the oil rig in Santa Barbara.
The phone. Graham reached for his cell phone. When he heard who was on the line, he wished he hadn’t.
