“Yes.”
“Oh.” He looked disappointed, but he plowed on. “Okay, fine. But did you know this? Barker and Lowel Simonson were seen arguing that morning.”
I leaned in. “Keep talking.”
“They were heard shouting at each other in Barker’s office. Then Lowel told him, ‘I’d watch your back if I were you.’ Pretty incriminating, considering he was stabbed in the back two hours later, huh?”
I had to admit, incriminating was a good word choice. “Where did you hear this?” I asked.
“I can’t divulge my sources.”
“Actually, if I’m going to print this story, you have to divulge. I need to check the facts. I can’t print something uncorroborated.”
He cocked his head at me. “You sure you work for a tabloid?”
I rolled my eyes. “Spill it, pal.”
“Okay, okay, geez. Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”
I sent him a death look.
Luckily, Gary dropped it. “Look, after your visit got me fired, I had a little free time on my hands. So I called up one of the chicks from the show, Sandy, for a little recreational hot-tubbing, if you know what I mean.”
Unfortunately I did. I held up a hand. “No details, please!”
He grinned. “Anyway, we got to talking about Barker, and she told me the production company screwed up her last check. So she was at the offices picking up a reissued one and overheard the argument between Lowel and Barker.”
“And she’s a credible witness?”
“Dude, she’s a dental hygienist. You don’t get much more professional than that.”
I pursed my lips, staring at the little guy. I had to admit, it was a good lead. A great lead, even.
“So, am I hired?” he asked, his smile beaming under his sparse mustache.
“Fine,” I finally said. But before he could celebrate, added, “for today. You can come help me interview Lowel. But that’s as far as I can promise.”
“Deal! Now, what are we having for breakfast?” he asked pushing past me into the kitchen. “I’m starving.”
Chapter Eight
I showered and dressed while Gary cleaned my cupboards out of Captain Crunch and downed the last of my milk. As he toasted my last Pop Tart, I booted up my laptop. According to the Twitter buzz, Lowel was scheduled to shoot a Japanese commercial in Malibu that morning. After a quick call to the production company’s L.A. office, pretending to be a P.A. who had lost her directions to the set, I had Lowel’s exact location dialed in.
I grabbed my purse, notebook, and Gary and I headed for my Bug.
Only Gary took one look at my car and shook his head. “Uh-uh. No way. I’m not getting in that thing!”
I glanced at my car. “Why not?”
“Are you kidding me? It’s a total girl car.”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course. My mistake. Riding in a Bug might make your testicles actually shrink.”
“Look, I got an image to uphold here. I’m the Little Bachelor. I can’t be seen riding around town in that.”
I put my hands on my hips. “So, what do you drive?”
He pointed to a suped-up Ford 150 with hydraulics that lifted the sucker a full five feet off the ground.
I grinned. “Compensation much?”
“Hey, that there is a man’s vehicle.”
“And this here is me leaving to interview our suspect,” I said, turning over the engine. “You coming or not?”
Gary stared at me for a beat. Then he finally pulled open the passenger side door with a, “Fucking hell.”
My thoughts exactly.
* * *
Lowel Simonson was known for being Australian, smug, and the biggest ass on television. His personal talent was coming up with comments that could build a contestant’s hopes higher than the U.S. Bank Tower then shatter them to pieces all within the same breath. “That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. Amazingly bad.” Or “How long have you been taking dancing lessons? Because I think you should sue your dance teachers.”
In college, my friends and I had played the Lowel Simonson Drinking Game, where we’d all gather to watch Stayin’ Alive on Tuesday nights and had to take a shot of tequila every time Lowel said the word “pathetic”. One week I got so drunk, I woke up on the dorm lawn. In my underwear. At 3 am.
As much as America loved to hate Simonson, they loved to tune in and watch him even more. Stayin’ Alive ratings had broken every record that first season, and by season nine the number of people calling in to vote after watching Simonson rip contestants’ dance moves to shreds had been higher than those who voted in the last presidential election. Twice over. I couldn’t tell if that was a sad commentary on our political system, or a hopeful one on the entertainment business.
Thanks to his super-stellar ratings, Lowel was not only American’s favorite asshole, he was also an international superstar. And while all A-listers knew that doing commercials for Metamucil and Swiffer products was as taboo as giving an interview to a tabloid, doing commercials for the foreign market was not only kosher but highly lucrative. Hence Lowel’s current gig, pushing Happy Lucky Time toilet bowl cleaner to the tidy citizens of Japan.
Gary and I pulled up to a strip of beach just off the 1, where fifteen white trailers parked around a spot lit up by giant lights, white balloons, and white poster boards. In the center of the scene someone had placed a toilet on the beach, surrounded by a group of five Asian girls dressed in yellow go-go dancer outfits. Dozens of guys moved around them with cables, sound booms and camera tracks, getting the lighting just right to make the toilet sparkle with Happy Lucky Time shine in the California sun.
Normally location shoots were run pretty loosely. People milled around all over the place. However, Lowel Simonson wasn’t your usual commercial actor. Being America’s Asshole mean there were plenty of people with a grudge against the Aussie. And plenty of security in place to prevent said people from getting close to him. I counted at least five guys with Tasers holding down the perimeter of the set.
“Great,” Gary said, spying the security. “How the hell are we supposed to interrogate him now?”
“Interview. Not interrogate.” I cased out the guards. The one farthest from the parking lot was the biggest. He was staring at a seagull with a potato chip wrapper in its mouth. He looked totally bored.
“Fine. How do we get an interview with him?” Gary asked.
“We ask nicely,” I said. I grabbed a tube of lipstick from my bag and applied a fresh layer. Then I opened the top button on my blouse so that my lacy hot-pink bra was just visible beneath,
“Hubba, hubba,” Gary said, eyeing my chest. “You plan to ask very nicely, huh?” He winked at me.
“Quit drooling.” I got out of the car and walked toward Bored Security Guy, Gary a step behind me. When we were close enough that the guard’s attention shifted from the seagull to us, I gave him a little one finger wave. “Hey, there.”
“This is a closed set,” he said, his voice a deep monotone like he’d already said this a hundred times today.
“Right. Totally. I know.” I nodded. “But we’re here to see Lowel Simonson. At his request,” I lied.
The guard narrowed his eyes. “And you are?”
“Allie Quick.”
The guard pulled a walkie talkie from his belt, inquiring of the person on the other end whether there was an Allie Quick on the approved set list. Obviously, there was not. Which he informed me as soon as his talkie crackled to life. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we don’t show an Allie Quick on our list.”
I wrinkled up my forehead, bit my lip, my teeth making a dent in my uber-red lips. “Really? You mean he forgot to call ahead?”
“He?”
“My, um, booking agent.”
“You playing a role in the commercial?”
I giggled. “Well, I’m playing a role for Lowel…” I leaned in close, making sure Bored Security Guard got a good look at my hot-pink l
ace. “… a private one. If you know what I mean.”
He cleared his throat uncomfortably. Clearly he knew what I meant. “So, Mr. Simonson is expecting you?” he asked in a voice I’d swear was an octave higher.
I nodded. “Oh, yes, he is. And he’ll be very disappointed if I don’t show. See, he likes to relax a little before a performance.” I winked at him. “I’m real good at helping guys relax.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.
“So, if you wouldn’t mind just letting us slip on through to his trailer…” I trailed off, making my two fingers do a little walking motion in the air.
The guard thought about this for a moment, then shifted his gaze to Gary.
“Who’s the little guy?”
I glanced down at my assistant. Good question. I pursed my lips. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound… “He’s part of the act.”
The guard’s gaze shifted from me to Gary, back to me, then his two eyebrows headed so far north they almost cleared his hairline. Apparently this was way more info than he wanted about Lowel. He stepped aside, allowing us entry. “Just keep it in private, huh?” he said, giving Gary another over-the-shoulder as we made our way on set.
“Thanks!” I said, waving. “We will.”
Gary giggled next to me.
“What?’ I asked.
“Dude, that was brilliant! A couple of prostitutes. Ha!”
“Hmm. Thanks,” I said, not entirely sure if I should be pleased with the complement.
“Seriously. I never would have thought of that. You are a good reporter, girl.”
I cleared my throat, re-buttoning the top button of my blouse. “That wasn’t exactly reporting,” I mumbled.
“With moves like that, you must make the Informer a fortune. It’s amazing your editor hasn’t hired you an assistant until now.”
I shot him a look. “Just leave the talking to me, okay?”
He put his hands up in a surrender gesture. “I’m a mute.”
I should be so lucky.
“There he is,” I said, pointing to where the actor in question was just emerging from one of the white trailers.
Simonson was average height, though he wore lifts in his shoes to tower over contestants on the show. He had dark hair, dark ominous eyebrows, and a spray tan that was always one shade darker than recommended. He wore his usual uniform of a white T-shirt and a layer of black jeans so form-fitting he had to walk with a sort of straight-legged hobble to the sparkling white toilet in the middle of the beach.
“Simonson’s on the set,” a P.A. announced, prompting grips and cameramen to scatter, putting their last-minute adjustments to their equipment.
Gary and I hung back, watching the director order everyone to “first position” and yell, “Rolling!”
Simonson did a pirouette in the sand then pointed to the toilet and said, “Happy Time Lucky makes the competition look pathetic.” Then the go-go dancers sprang into action, giggling and prancing around him, until the director yelled, “Cut! Back to one!”
We watched the same scene a dozen times before the director was happy with his cut and the grips moved to set the stage for the next scene. The go-go girls lit up cigarettes, the P.A.’s sprang into action, and Lowel hobbled straight-legged to his trailer.
I elbowed Gary in the ribs. “Now’s our chance.”
I made for Lowel, catching up to him just as he hit the door of his trailer. “Lowel Simonson?” I asked.
He paused, hand on the knob, and spun around. “Oy. Who’s askin’?” he asked, his accent markedly thicker than it was on the show as he squinted against the sun at me.
“Allie Quick. I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time?”
“For?”
Good question. “I’m…with a Japanese newspaper. We’re doing a behind-the-scenes of the Happy Lucky Time commercial shoot.”
“I thought it was Happy Time Lucky?”
“Right. Absolutely. May we come in?” I asked, gesturing to his trailer.
He looked from Gary to me then back. “You don’t look Japanese.”
“American correspondent.”
He bit the inside of his cheek. Then nodded. “Yeah, okay. I suppose a minute won’t hurt.”
I did a mental fist-pumping “Yes!” as Gary and I followed Lowel up the two metal steps to the interior of his private trailer.
As we stepped inside, the décor was eerily reminiscent of the Winnebago I’d been forced to spend my eighth-grade summer in. A fold-down table jutted out from one side, a bench seat beside it. A pullout sofa took up one wall of the trailer, while a small kitchenette sat at the back.
Lowel lowered himself slowly (as a concession to his tight pants) onto the sofa, gesturing for Gary and I to do the same. “Please, sit down. Would you like some tea? Cookies? Lemonade?”
Gary and I looked at each other. This was America’s Asshole?
“Uh, no thanks,” I said, passing on refreshments as I took a seat on the edge of his sofa.
“You sure? They delivered a whole bunch of pastries to me fresh this morning. I have raspberry croissants?”
What was the catch? Was this like the tiger offering the wildebeest a salt lick before devouring her?
“Um, no. Thank you.”
“Is it too warm in here?” Lowel asked. “I could turn up the AC?”
“I’m fine. Thanks. Listen, we wanted to ask you a couple questions about Chester Barker.”
“Barker?” Lowle asked. “What does he have to do with Happy Time Lucky?
Good question. “Uh… he’s very big in Japan,” I hedged. “And our readers will be interested in what anyone who knew him personally might have to say about his death.”
“Tragic,” Lowel said, seemingly satisfied with my loose connection. “He was taken from this world too soon.”
“You were close?” I asked.
Lowel shrugged. “I’d been working for the man for nine years. I was as close to him as he let anyone get, I’d say.”
“Then how come you stabbed him?” Gary piped up beside me.
I elbowed him in the ribs.
“Ow! Watch the head!”
Okay, I’d tried to elbow him in the ribs, but he was a bit shorter than I’d aimed for, hitting him somewhere in the temple region instead.
“I’m sorry, stabbed?” Lowel inquired.
“What my assistant meant to say,” I quickly covered, “was that we recently learned Barker was stabbed a week before he was killed.”
Lowel nodded. “Yes, I heard about that.”
“You heard? You mean, you weren’t there at the party when it happened?”
“Yes, I was. What I meant to say was that I didn’t witness the incident firsthand. I was there when paramedics arrived and heard what happened then.”
“So you admit you were at the scene of the crime,” Gary said, pointing a chubby finger Lowel’s way.
I shot him a look. What happened to my mute?
But Lowel just nodded. “I was. As was just about everyone who knew Barker.”
“But not everyone had just been overheard arguing with Barker,” Gary pressed.
“Yes, I’ll admit we argued. But Barker argued with everyone he knew. It’s unfortunate timing that we had a disagreement just before his death, but that’s all it was.”
“What was the disagreement about?” I asked.
“Business.”
“What kind of business?”
Lowel fidgeted. “You sure no one would like a pastry? As I said, they’re quite fresh.”
“No, thank you. Now, that business—”
“I have orange juice to go with it. Fresh-squeezed.”
“I’m fine. But the bus—”
“What about a coffee? I can have someone run to Starbucks for us?”
“Okay, enough with the nice-guy act,” Gary piped up beside me.
Lowel blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You know, the polite-host thing to distract us from questioning you.
I know it’s all an act. ‘Cause on the show, you’re a total ass.”
“Gary!” I hissed. So much for finessing our suspect.
But Lowel broke into a grin and let out a loud bark of laughter. “Oh, aren’t you a card. Look, that’s all for the cameras,” he said. “Damon’s the cool guy, Mitzy’s the nice guy, and I’m the bad guy. It’s just a role. Barker said it gives the show an edge, and I agree, the role’s been very good to me.”
“So you’re a sheep in wolf’s clothing?” I asked.
Lowel grinned again. “I like that. Yes, I suppose I am.”
“You know what? Maybe I will have one of those raspberry croissants then,” Gary said.
I shot him a look.
But Lowel uttered a, “Splendid!” then pulled a tray of pastries from the kitchenette.
“As I was saying…” I said, steering us back to the conversation at hand. “The business you and Barker were arguing about before he died. What was it?”
Lowel passed the pastry tray to Gary then lowered himself onto the sofa again with a sigh. “All right, I might as well tell you. I’m sure it will become public knowledge soon enough anyway. My contract with the show was up, and Barker didn’t want to renew.”
“He was firing you?” I asked, hardly believing it. Lowel was Stayin’ Alive. I couldn’t imagine the show without him.
Lowel cringed. “Firing is such a nasty word. It was more like he was strongly suggesting that I retire.”
“But why?” I asked. “I thought last season had the highest ratings ever.”
Lowel nodded. “It did. Which was a blessing and a curse. Barker said the show needed something new and fresh to stay on top next season. His exact words were that our ‘shtick was getting old.’”
“Meaning, you were getting old,” Gary asked.
Lowel nodded, looking down at his hands. “He didn’t say it in so many words, but yes, that was what he was inferring. Our target demographic is sixteen to twenty-two year olds. Just between you me and the walls, I’ll be turning fifty-one this summer.”
I gave the guy a good look. Now that he mentioned it, I could see the lines on his spray-tanned face and the distinctly gray roots peeking out of his dark hair. I wondered…
Hollywood Confessions Page 9
