by Maggie Marr
The muscle under his left eye twitched. Anxiousness descended upon him. “Can we walk?”
He scooted back his chair and moved to the edge of the patio. He turned and waited. Christina gathered her purse and her coffee. She stood and pushed the chair under the table.
No one walked in LA. Sunset Boulevard on a hazy day was void of pedestrians. Bradford’s stride was loose limbed and slow. He said nothing for the first block, but once they stood before Carney’s he stopped and turned to Christina.
“I need you to take me somewhere,” Bradford said.
Christina squinted. “Where could you need me to take you? You own a fleet of cars.”
Bradford slipped a package of Marlboros from the front pocket of his jeans and slid a cigarette into his mouth. From his other pocket he pulled a gold Zippo lighter with an American eagle emblazoned on the front.
She didn’t remember Bradford ever smoking. But she didn’t remember him quiet or serious, or pensive, or nearly as anxious as he appeared right now.
A tingle flickered across her skin and fear spread through her arms. A fear that something was wrong. A fear that the Bradford she’d known and thought she loved had managed to get himself into something, some sort of trouble for which he needed help.
“Of course,” Christina said. She reached out her hand toward Bradford’s left arm, which hung at his side. “Where? When?”
“Now,” Bradford said. “I need you to take me to Malibu right now.”
Chapter 10
Assistant Prostration
The concurrent distress heaped upon Liam Wadsworth because of his innate embarrassment over the true debauched submission to which he was required to submit, to merely exist, within the realm of what was his admittedly self-imposed Master, grated. Liam hadn’t seen daylight, except through glass, in twenty-seven months. The promise of freedom, the promise of a glorious promotion that included an expense account, was the proverbial carrot that allowed Liam to endure the stick his boss wielded. The idea of promotion propelled Liam through the mind-numbing morass of the answering of phones, the setting of lunches, the scheduling of pedicures, manicures, back exfoliations, and waxes, all of which Liam did with the complete and utter appearance of exterior docility as testament to his complete prostrate position to his liege, mein Bikram Shasta.
Anger seethed within Liam. A deep-burning, ever-increasing anger fought exterior placidity for primacy. “The Big-Ass Man,” or BAM, as Liam had dubbed his dictator, deserved to die. To endure a slow, most horrific, most painful, most torturous death. Liam preferred the notion of shredding BAM’s internal organs through the ingestion of finely crushed glass. BAM’s shit would bleed microscopically into his body cavity through the nicks and cuts left in his intestinal wall, the foul intestinal seepage ever so slowly causing septic blood, insidiously and painfully, to the point where BAM’s intestines were shredded to a flimsy gauze that resembled a porous cheesecloth held against a klieg light. The shards so tiny that BAM would mistake an errant crunch for a piece of pulverized cow bone while he ingested burger upon burger upon burger from In-N-Out.
There would be no salvation for BAM.
Liam’s heart palpitations increased dramatically with his fantasy of mein Shasta suffering such a horrendous and painful demise, but Liam would also settle for shooting the bastard.
“Get me Mike Fox at Worldwide,” bellowed BAM from his desk. His bulbous jowls and florid, puffy face were the result of many-too-many scotches and few-too-few colonics.
Liam’s fingers danced across the phone. He needed not to look up Mike Fox’s number. He was an impeccable assistant. Within two weeks of his employ, Liam had committed to memory the office numbers of the most powerful members of the Entertainment Community, read every script in development at Shasta! Productions plus all scripts in active development at every studio. Finally, finally… Liam had read the books that were under option and in active development at the studios. Books! Multiple books. In Hollywood that was akin to being the finder of the Holy Grail—no one read books—coverage, sure—but to sit and read three hundred plus pages when a 120-page script was a stretch was beyond comprehension.
Upon completion of the voluminous multitude of crap, Liam surmised what BAM missed from his production slate. BAM was rotund with thrillers, he was morbidly obese with comedies, he even had flabs-of-fat full of family fare, but BAM was absent that one screenplay—the piece that could take twenty years or twenty days to get into production—dependent on cast availability and film finance—BAM did not have a showcase piece. Actor candy. Oscar bait. BAM had failed to acquire the Award-Winning, You-Must-Invite-Me-to-Every-Party-in-Town-Because-
My-Film-Just-Got-Nominated screenplay.
Liam began to dig. To read. To track upon the most pretentious of tracking boards. Liam searched, scrounged, dug for that diamond of unfound material that would be Liam’s pathway to success, inclusion, promotion!
Liam sought that white whale of a script that could and would land on any star’s poolside patio and said star would have to play the lead, any financier’s yacht and said billionaire would have to write the check, any studio executive’s desk and said well-suited exec would have to give a green light, any producer’s meaty, grubby, over-puffed hand and said rotund producer would have to give their ever-loving, hardworking, indentured-servant-of-an-assistant a promotion simply because of the inherent A-plus quality of the material.
“Worldwide,” Cecily chirped. “Mike Fox’s office.”
“Bikram Shasta for Mike Fox,” Liam chirped back at Mike’s assistant. Liam knew Cecily—they lunched. They kibbitzed. They traded gossip as if it were nuggets of gold. Then, if the gossip was a big enough bit, they passed on the nugget to their respective bosses. How, other than Liam’s bit of gossip from Cecily, did Bikram even know to make this call to Mike Fox?
“I have Mike,” Cecily said into the line.
“Mike on one,” Liam yelled to BAM without even an attempt to keep the rage from his voice.
Liam muted his headset and listened. It was in the listening that he learned. BAM might be an intolerant, ungrateful man, but he had worked in this town and emerged successful through multiple decades. First BAM was an agent at CTA, then a studio head at Galaxy. BAM had been out of favor for nearly a decade due to an unfortunate incident involving BAM’s cock and a mouthy on-set PA. He’d resigned his Presidential status at Galaxy and begun Shasta! Productions.
For eight years, BAM had quietly collected material and waited out his purgatory in South-of-Sunset-East-of-La-Brea hell. Finally rehabilitated within the eyes of the Entertainment Community—having endured the confines of micro-budget indies for half a decade—BAM could again be safely touched with less than a ten-foot pole. BAM was finally, finally, being readmitted into the Hollywood Club. Well that and the influx of Indian money BAM represented plus a collection of indie scripts he’d optioned that had directors attached. Directors who studios wanted to work with, directors who won awards, directors who were finicky and picky and, to the chagrin of their agents, directors who were auteurs and wouldn’t agree to the next Transformers 45 even if the studio threw seven figures at them.
Liam listened while BAM and Mike exchanged the mandatory masturbatory social interaction. Liam waited for BAM to let loose with Cecily’s tidbit, her nugget of gold that had been heaven-sent from her pink pout of a mouth. According to Cecily, Celeste Solange wanted an Oscar. More than wanted—she lusted—she craved—she decreed—that she must have her Oscar. Mike Fox ran the studio that was owned and operated by Mr. Ted Robinoff, the current husband of the estimable Celeste “Cici” Solange—thus if Celeste was on the hunt for the script which would make her an Oscar-winning actress, then Mike Fox most assuredly was too.
Enter the most brilliant of screenplays: Boundless Bound.
The stumbling block had been Jeb Schmaltzer. Celeste Solange wouldn’t take directions to Brentwood from Mr. Schmaltzer, much less instruction on how to inhabit a role. The solution to this
estimable dilemma had recently been found; the writer and formerly attached director of Boundless Bound, one Mr. Jeb Schmaltzer, was currently in a cooler awaiting his delivery to dirt.
“Mike, JP Anderson wants to direct Boundless Bound,” BAM said into the phone.
“Wait, wasn’t that… isn’t that—”
“Jeb Schmaltzer’s film.”
“Bikram, he died five days ago.”
“More like four. So sad. Wife is devastated, but I hear he had a fucking huge life-insurance policy. She’s set. But JP wants to do Boundless Bound and I know you want to work with JP and I also know that Celeste Solange wants to work with JP. The last three actresses in a film JP directed all got Oscars.”
The sigh from Mike was palpable—Liam could nearly feel the jet of air in his ear. Bikram was a pig. A pig. Every one of his facts was true, but a man had just died—died! Jeb’s demise, according to BAM, opened up a fantastic script that before Jeb’s death had a no-name D-lister attached as director, a first-time director. Now this brilliant piece of material was open, open to the opportunity of attaching a fantastic, everyone-wants-to-work-with-him director. A director like JP Anderson. A director that any A-List actress would slit a throat to work with, to create an Oscar-winning movie with, and to make ton of dough with. A win-win for everyone involved: BAM, the studio, the actress, and the director. Awards, accolades, and currency for everyone involved—everyone but Liam. He leaned forward and settled his chin onto his hand. BAM was a pig. A swarthy, soul-sucking pig. A pig who deserved to die.
Liam had found Boundless Bound and handed the truffle-like delicacy to Bikram. A delicacy upon which BAM was now salivating and chomping. Without a thank-you. Without a “Good Job!” Without even the slightest seductive taunt of the abysmal Associate Producer credit given to former assistants. And most definitely no promotion. Boundless Bound with JP Anderson and Celeste Solange would win awards—garner praise—get big bucks!
Liam had realized when he read the script, slipped to him by an assistant of Jeb’s manager, that to make this film, Shasta! Productions had to find a way to ditch the director. Consider the director ditched because Jeb was dead.
“Has Jessica read the script yet?” Mike asked BAM.
BAM couldn’t lie here, there was no way to pull off a fabrication as Mike Fox was married to Jessica Caulfield-Fox, the manager of one Ms. Celeste Solange, whom Bikram desperately wanted to play the female lead in Boundless Bound. BAM (and Liam too) was convinced that the Academy wanted to give Cici her Oscar—needed to give Cici her Oscar—but had yet to see this beloved Box-Office-Breaker in any role worthy of the Golden Man.
“Spoke to her this morning,” Bikram said and ran his hand over his balding pate. “Had Liam send the script just now.”
“This morning?” Mike asked.
BAM was caught. Liam could hear the skepticism in Mike’s voice. Caught in a lie. But being caught in a lie about a script was much easier than being caught with his cock in a PA’s mouth. BAM had no shame—he either didn’t hear Mike’s tone or simply didn’t care.
“I’ll e-mail you a copy.” BAM chortled. “You and Jessica can read Boundless Bound together.”
“Send over the script. The biggest hurdle is whether Celeste wants to do the film. You’ve got JP and if Cici says yes? Well, we’re in—Celeste Solange is our business.”
Liam’s heart jolted in his chest. He fisted his hand into the air. A rare, oh-so-rare display of excitement. His instincts were right—the gossip had been true—his keen sense of what was a good script, a great director, and a hungry starlet, would make this movie happen. Liam looked through BAM’s office door for some sign, some smile, some little pet of appreciation thrown from BAM to his ever-loyal, slavering assistant. BAM didn’t even smile—didn’t look Liam’s way—instead, he swiveled his bulbous body away from his office door.
Liam pursed his lips together and squinted his eyes. He was the best assistant in Hollywood, but he was stuck. Castrated in his subservience to BAM. Liam grew weary of this anemic existence; soon, he would tolerate it no more. Oh yes. Soon, very soon, if BAM didn’t promote Liam, then BAM too, most certainly deserved to die.
Chapter 11
Silence Can Be Purchased but Serenity Has to Be Earned
Silence. Cici looked past the black marble lap pool in her backyard, the vast expanse of green, interlaced with tiny white pebbles and brilliant emerald-colored hedges, past the hydrangeas, the bougainvilleas, past the topiaries cut into whimsical shapes—rabbits and a mad hatter—past her backyard to where the horizon met the blue of the Pacific. Beauty and silence. Sitting upon the hill, behind the home Ted had built for her in Bel Air underneath a roof of blue, Cici heard nothing. She could almost imagine the silence that encapsulated her belied a serenity throughout her life.
Simply not so.
On this day Kiki Dee, Cici’s publicist, braved the traffic from Beverly Hills to Bel Air and traveled to Cici. Cici was not going in for the mandatory hat, wig, dark glasses, and tinted windows of a limo to try to leave her home. Not today. The parasitic photogs were camped out at the bottom of her street. Each time Bel Air patrol shooed the paps away like flies from shit, moments later they emerged and restacked at the bottom of Cici’s drive. She had watched the little dance on her security cameras over breakfast—well, coffee and a half cup of blueberries. She normally ate, and ate well, but she was on her preproduction diet even without her next script in prep.
Cici closed her eyes and envisioned herself walking onto the stage at the Dolby Theater amidst her peers and the seat fillers and the fans. She would find her Oscar-winning role. She would. Until the film appeared, she planned to starve herself in the same way she did before every movie. Half cup of blueberries in the morning, lettuce with undressed greens in the afternoon with a side of fresh tuna, and a grilled chicken breast with asparagus at night. No deviations, no changes, no substitutions. Cici always said the studios paid her not to eat.
Cici flipped open Us Weekly to the center and perused the story. She was leaving Ted for Jeb! She’d been caught in an illicit love triangle with her niece! Cici had shot Jeb in a fury over his love for Nikki! Trash. Slander. And more trash. Plus the pictures were horrible.
Disgust raced through Cici.
She tossed the magazine onto the patio table. An array of tabs spread across the glass-top table. Every rag included similar headlines, similar stories, and that awful damn picture. The same grainy shot—or a similar shot—of Cici leaving dead Jeb’s home with her arm around Nikki. Cici’s hair was a mess from having been yanked out of bed, and Nikki’s face was awash with her tears and her fingers pressed against her eyes.
“This is completely out of hand,” Cici said.
“Darling.” Kiki tilted her glass of Chardonnay toward Cici. “I agree.”
Kiki’s daily consumption of wine over the past three years (ever since her horrible falling-out with Terri) had increased at a colossal rate, and yet Kiki still, while pushing sixty-five (ahem, seventy) managed to maintain an ex-dancer’s lithe physique. She maintained her Anna Wintour bob in jet-black and wore black Zelda Kaplan frames.
“This isn’t news,” Cici said.
“Agreed,” Kiki mumbled around a sizeable swig of wine.
“How can they say I’m a suspect or Nikki is a suspect or that I was caught in a love triangle with my niece? My niece! That is disgusting, even by their standards.”
“Disgusting sells magazines, darling.” Kiki set her wineglass onto the table.
Cici’s eyes roamed over what was a much-too-relaxed Kiki Dee. Kiki’s job was to fix this PR nightmare. Her publicist’s nonchalance irritated Cici, drove her absolutely insane.
Heat barrel-rolled through Cici’s chest. Irritation kicked her heart into a cataclysmic gallop. Unkind words raced upward through her throat, and prepared to trip off her tongue.
No, no, no.
Cici closed her eyes, placed her palms together in front of her heart, breathed, and counted to ten—had
n’t her guru Garagamesh said she must catch these moments, these moments of abject anger, before they happened?
Cici focused on her inner calm. She opened her eyes and a soft smile played across her lips. “Kiki,” she said in the warmest of tones, “what exactly are you going to do about these?” Cici waved her hand over the foul weeklies that covered the patio table.
“Well, darling,” Kiki said, “I’m not sure—what exactly do you want me to do?”
Scalding temper boiled through Cici’s veins. She closed her eyes and ran her fingertips between her brows. What did she want Kiki to do? She wanted Kiki to do her job—a job for which Cici paid Kiki close to ten grand a week. “I’d like you to get them to stop. They are printing lies—slander—surely there is a way to make that end.”
Kiki reached for the bottle of wine. “Well”—she cocked her head and a lifted her shoulders in a shrug—“you’d need to call Howard for that. He could write a letter to the publisher, threaten a lawsuit.” Kiki poured more Chardonnay into her glass. “But that’s like poking a stick at a snake.”
“Meaning?”
“You leave that alone,” she said and nodded toward the tabs, “and it’ll pass. Lindsay will run into another tree; Taylor will get knocked up; a Kardashian will get bedded, wedded, or divorced. Then voilà, no more trashy covers for you or Nikki. But you go after the tabs—poke at them—they will continue to make you front cover. With more lies and more salacious fibs. Fibs that are just this side of slander. Plus…” Kiki relaxed back into the patio chair with a full glass of vino. “Darling, they’ll say they have an unnamed source. My God, they’ll ask your dog-walker and pay her big dollars to simply nod her head at their questions.” Kiki slugged back a drink of wine. “Then they’ll call that a source.”
