sex.lies.murder.fame.

by Lolita Files

  “Perspective?” Coulter half laughed, half jeered. “Perspective? This guy is everything that’s wrong with America right now. This is why kids are heading down the wrong paths, killing each other and laughing about it…”

  “He still hasn’t said anything,” added Hannity, leaning toward Penn. “Speak up, Mr. Hamilton. Defend yourself. We didn’t bring you on this show to be a mute. Oh wait, you’re not speaking up because you can’t defend yourself. Because what you do is indefensible.”

  “C’mon, Sean,” said Colmes. “He’s not speaking up because you guys aren’t giving him a chance to get in half a word.”

  “Did you sleep with Beryl Unger just so you could get a book deal?” Hannity asked. “What kind of self-respecting man would do that? Don’t you have any pride?”

  “Be careful, Sean,” Cougar said. “You’re making slanderous statements on national television.”

  “Uh-oh,” Hannity laughed. “Now the legal pit bull’s gonna get me!”

  Cougar and Colmes laughed along with him. Penn maintained his impervious smile.

  “Are you a Christian, Mr. Hamilton?” Coulter had thrown her best right hook. She was just inches from Penn’s face.

  “Good question, Ann!” chimed Hannity. “That ought to put things ‘in perspective,’ as Alan said.” He zoomed in on Penn. “Well? Are you a Christian?”

  “Do you believe in God?” Coulter asked.

  She was thisclose to Penn. He could see himself, in all his glory, twin Penns dancing in her pupils. He was the perfect deity. Even in her disapproving eyes, he shone with great light.

  “Well?” she pressed.

  In his head he heard music. His theme song, Wagner’s Träume.

  “Yes,” he said, beholding his reflected self. “Yes. I believe.”

  “I say we all gather out in Times Square beneath his billboard,” Howard Stern joked. “This guy’s a rock star. C’mon! So what, he put some homely editor out of her misery. That’s community service. Long live Penn-fucking-Hamilton. Let’s march on Times Square!”

  “Howarrrrrrrrrrd,” chided Robin Quivers. “Don’t encourage that kind of behavior. People might take you seriously.”

  “Let’s do it!” said Artie Lange.

  “What do you know, Artie?” Baba Booey snarked. “Like you ever marched on anything.”

  “He’s right,” Howard said. “Penn Hamilton’s my freaking hero. Imagine the ass this guy gets. Good-looking kid like him. Posters in Time Square. Secret books about giant pricks. Bumping off editors—”

  “She’s missing, Howard,” Robin said. “You should be saying ‘alleged.’ He’s innocent until proven guilty.”

  “Innocent, my ass. I hope he did it. I’d respect him more. One less skanky publishing leech walking the earth. Besides, it’s about time men started screwing their way to the top. Women have been doing it for years. It’s time for the guys to have a crack at it.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” Artie said.

  “Seriously,” said Howard, “I like this guy. We need to do something to help save his image before the rest of the media tries to run him out on a rail. You see the way he handled Ann Coulter the other day? I love this guy. Let’s party for Penn!”

  “In Times Square?” asked Robin.

  “In Times Square!”

  Thousands of fans gathered in Times Square beneath Penn’s Calvin Klein poster. Several forward-thinking vendors had printed T-shirts with Penn’s picture and the word BOOK and was selling them for ten bucks a pop. The crowd bought them, donned them, and partied on with an assortment of posters inscribed with their credos.

  KEEP PENN FREE!

  PENN HAMILTON IS MY BABY’S DADDY!

  MAKE ME DISAPPEAR!

  PENN IS GOD!

  Riot squads were dispatched. People were teargassed. Arrests were made.

  “He’s the muthafuckin’ man!” a black kid with locks shouted as he was kneed against the ground and handcuffed.

  “So you’re gonna go to jail for a white boy who doesn’t even know you exist,” the arresting officer smirked.

  “Fuck you,” said the kid. “Penn’s an Everyman. If I don’t stand up for him, who’s gonna stand up for me?”

  The next day, J. C. Cougar held a press conference. Penn was at his side.

  “The New York City Police Department has officially dropped their bogus charges against my client.”

  The crowd was a sea of cheers. The sound of clicking cameras and journalists shouting over one another folded into the din.

  Cougar knew how to wait for the valley of silence. He’d had years of playing a moment for maximum mileage. He smiled and nodded, biding his time.

  One by one, the people stopped crowing.

  “The information they had was shaky, at best. And the lie detector test, which my client, Mr. Penn Hamilton—”

  More crowing from the crowd.

  Cougar raised a hand. The silence was instant.

  “My client submitted freely to the lie detector test. He didn’t have to. It’s inadmissible.”

  More applause, cheers, stamping, clicks.

  “A woman—”

  Stamping.

  “A woman—”

  Clicks.

  Cougar raised his hand.

  “A woman quit her job and walked away from the stresses of her life and profession. Happens every day. People get tired, fed up, take off for quieter parts where they can get some peace, get their heads together. That’s a natural reaction to pressure. You can’t arrest their friends for it.”

  Stamping. Clicking. Clapping. Cheers.

  “This was someone who’d lost both of her parents when she was just a girl. She had no family. She was on two different types of medication, for narcolepsy and obsessive-compulsive disorder. These are things her colleagues didn’t even know. She was under an extreme amount of pressure to succeed. Can you blame her for walking away?”

  “Noooooooooo!” said the people.

  “It’s absurd,” Cougar said. “Human beings have the right to go somewhere else and start over. Penn Hamilton is not a criminal. Beryl Unger was just exercising her right to be free.”

  Cougar stood above the people, the media, the world, looking down upon them with bold authority.

  “That is our basic human right. This is America, after all.”

  A smother of clicks, claps, cheers, and stamping powered the air.

  “Which is why we’re suing Detective Jameson Rex and the New York City Police Department for defamation of character.”

  Cougar looked directly into the nearest television camera, which happened to belong to CNN.

  “And we will win.”

  PENN HAMILTON IS MY BABY’S DADDY, MAKE ME DISAPPEAR, PENN IS GOD, and WWPD? (What Would Penn Do?) T-shirts were flying out of stores. I FUCKED PENN HAMILTON shirts, sold direct from the scandalous website, were the most popular of all.

  He was young.

  Rich.

  Powerful.

  Murderous.

  And free.

  Jameson had flamed out before he could barely get started. Even as a detective in the NYPD, possibly the most powerful police force in the country, he was nothing against the tide of celebrity and fame. All those people in Times Square cheering for Penn. J.C. Cougar’s press conference. And now he was being sued.

  It was scary. What did it all mean?

  He had a lot of time on his hands. He’d been placed on paid administrative leave pending this lawsuit thing. He didn’t know what to do with himself.

  He went out and bought a copy of Book.

  “Have a seat, Shecky.”

  Shecky sat in one of the chairs in front of Kitty Ellerman’s desk. She was impeccably dressed, impeccably pretty. She had been doing everything just right, to the letter. She’d been putting in long hours, making sure every author had everything they needed. She’d been assistant and editor, without being asked. Nothing had suffered from Beryl’s absence. Shecky had made sure of that.


  “How are you today?” Ellerman asked.

  “I’m great, Ms. Ellerman. Everything is just great. Thank you so much for asking.”

  Ellerman smiled.

  “I believe you have the single most upbeat personality I’ve ever seen, Shecky. You never say no, and you never seem to have a bad day.”

  “I believe in being positive about everything I do, Ms. Ellerman. That’s how I was raised.”

  “I like that. It’s very professional.”

  Kitty Ellerman ruffled the papers in front of her, searching for something.

  “Do you know why I called you in here?” she asked.

  “I assumed it’s because you need my assistance. Whatever it is, I’m happy to oblige.”

  Ellerman found what she was looking for. She handed it to Shecky. It was a memo. Shecky took the paper and scanned the page.

  TO: Staff

  FROM: Kitty Ellerman

  SUBJ: Editorial Promotion

  Effective immediately, Shecky Lehman has been promoted to the position of editor. She will assume the author list previously managed by Beryl Unger. Please do your best to assist her during this period of transition.

  Shecky stared at the paper, her eyes glazing over. Her heart pumped in slow-mo, beat-beat, beat-beat.

  “You’re making me an editor, Ms. Ellerman?” she asked, choking on the words.

  “You deserve it, Shecky. We’ve all been impressed by your excellent work ethic. You’ve got a great career ahead of you. It may as well start now.”

  Tears coursed over Shecky’s lovely cheeks.

  “Ms. Ellerman, thank you. This is a dream.”

  “Congratulations, Shecky,” Kitty said, standing. “Make me proud.”

  Shecky stood, reaching across the desk for her boss’s hand.

  “I will, Ms. Ellerman. You’ll never regret this. I’ll never let you down. I give you my word!”

  Penn was among the first of her authors to wish her well. He did it in person, unannounced.

  Shecky was in her new office, Beryl’s old space, getting settled in. She had her back to the door as she hung her college diploma on the wall.

  “People still do that?” Penn asked, standing in the doorway.

  Shecky breathed in silently. She hated surprises. But he was her author now. She must always be gracious. Yes. Always be gracious. She turned toward him.

  “Hello, Penn. Did we have a meeting scheduled?”

  “No,” he said, sauntering in and taking a seat. “I came by to congratulate you. It’s good to see management’s paying attention around here. I didn’t know who I’d get assigned to. I’m glad that it’s you.”

  Shecky could feel his blue eyes course hotly over her body. She was appropriately clothed in a camel-colored pantsuit that flattered her figure but was very professional. Penn’s eyes traveled over her bosom then made their way up, back to her face.

  What was that, she thought, an appraisal? He was smiling now, so she supposed he approved. How ridiculous. He’d never behaved like this before. He’d always been so formal, especially whenever Beryl was around. But now that he was officially her author, he acted as though that gave him a license to flirt.

  “Have a seat,” he said, pointing at her chair. “You can hang diplomas later. Let’s talk. I want to get to know you better.”

  Shecky graciously pulled out her chair and sat.

  “I apologize, Penn, I can’t stay for long. I have an editorial meeting in five minutes. I was just taking advantage of the time to organize some of my stuff, but I’m more than happy to schedule an appointment for us to talk. I want to make sure everything is going well for you. Perhaps we can discuss ideas for the next book.”

  Penn sat across from her, staring in silence. Shecky continued to smile, but she was seething on the inside.

  Who does he think he is? Is this eye-contact thing supposed to be turning me on?

  “You’re all about business,” Penn said with a broad grin. He leaned forward, his arms on the desk. “I like that. But all work and no play, Shecky—”

  “I take my work very seriously, Penn. Beryl was an excellent editor with an excellent reputation. I learned a lot from her. I want to make sure that you and the other authors feel just as secure and comfortable with me. It’s important to everyone at Kittell Press that you’re happy here.”

  He was gazing at her with those eyes again and that golden face. Girls fell over themselves just to get a few seconds of a look from him. Shecky didn’t see the big deal. He was just another handsome guy. Yes, he was really handsome. And? She would never let herself fall under the spell of someone’s good looks.

  She glanced at her watch, then pushed back her chair. She stood.

  “I’m so sorry, Penn, but I have to get going. Do you want to schedule a time for us to sit down and talk?” She flipped through a date book on her desk. “I don’t have a permanent assistant just yet, so I’m booking some of my own stuff.”

  She reached for a pen and glanced up at him.

  “How about tomorrow?”

  “How about dinner?” he said, still sitting.

  Shecky’s eyes held his.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “that won’t be possible.”

  “Why not?” he asked. “We could have dinner, see a show, I could bounce some ideas off you. It’ll be fun.”

  “Dinner’s not possible,” she said, her eyes still on his. “But I do have lunch free. Would you like me to put it down?”

  Her pen was poised over the page.

  Penn’s eyes twinkled. He reached over and patted her hand.

  “Let me get back to you on it,” he said.

  “Okay. Sure. Just let me know.”

  She was one thousand percent sweetness.

  Penn stood.

  “It’s going to be fun working with you, Shecky. I can see that already.”

  “I hope so, Penn,” she said, reaching for her notepad and walking toward the door. “We are so excited about you here. I can’t wait to see what you’re going to do next.”

  “Right,” Penn said, watching her sidelong. “It’ll be mind-blowing, you can bet that.”

  “Oh, I’m sure of it,” Shecky said. “You’re such a talented writer.”

  She stood in the doorway, waiting for him to pass. He moved slowly past her, his chest barely, deliberately, grazing hers.

  “See ya,” he said.

  “Good afternoon, Penn.”

  She watched him walk down the hall.

  Cocksucker.

  Who the fuck did he think he was?

  Penn turned when he got to the end of the hallway. He watched Shecky sashay away, her voluminous chestnut hair bouncing against her back.

  She was beautiful today, stunning even, bedecked as she was in her foxy pantsuit. He wasn’t used to women being impervious to his charms, but Shecky hadn’t flinched. She was warmly aloof, all business and shit. He didn’t quite know what to do with that.

  He had time, plenty of time.

  Shecky wasn’t so special. Sure, she was gorgeous, but so what?

  She was just a woman.

  Any woman could be cracked.

  They’d been

  …at the Hotel Plaza Athénée for the past three days.

  Penn had finally moved out of his place and was waiting on his new loft in Tribeca to be completed. She had offered him a place in her home, but he didn’t think that was a good idea. She agreed.

  They’d spend days together in spurts, at least two a week, sometimes three. She had suggested he stay at the Plaza Athénée until his place was done. There was an intimacy there, though still not quite intimate enough, as the paparazzi were constantly at his heels. Privacy came at a premium these days. Now that Penn’s star had arrived, there would never be enough.

  Sharlyn had kept her word. She wasn’t writing. She was taking time off. Finding out that Shecky would be her new editor made it even easier. Spanky had been duly advised to leave her alone until she was ready to resurface again.
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  No matter how sweet the potential deal, she just wanted out of the public eye.

  All she’d done for the past six months, since “the Beryl situation,” was hang with Penn and watch his star soar higher and higher. There’d been no more celebrity parties, no hanging with her celebrity friends. No more cocaine. Well, maybe just a little. And some Dom here and there. Not much. She didn’t even go to parties with Penn anymore.

  She was reconnecting with herself. Funny, when she stopped all the partying and celebrity-moshing, the people of that world stopped calling.

  She had a theory about it. For every celebrity that fell off the scene, there were ten more waiting to take his place. Twenty, if you threw in the reality rabble.

  She didn’t want to be one of those twenty-four-hour-party people.

  She was relieved to have vacated their space.

  She was sitting on the bed with her laptop.

  “What? Are you writing?”

  She chuckled.

  “Nooooo. I’m reading the news on Google.”

  “Google,” he said. “Pretty soon those guys are gonna own the world.”

  “Perhaps. But for now they give me more news than I can handle. That’s good enough for me.”

  Penn was getting dressed for yet another party. First there was dinner with the coheads of GreeneStreet Films, Fisher Stevens and John Penotti. They’d won the rights to Book. Twentieth Century Fox would coproduce and distribute. Penn would be writing the screenplay with author/screenwriter Michael Chabon, the real original Wonder Boy. And Penn was going to star.

  He would be Gregor Balzac.

  He would be the dick. A dick of his own making. It was Gesamtkunstwerk on steroids.

  Fame was a dream.

  After the dinner meeting, he was off to a party at Kos, with Denzel and Lenny, and Fiyah, of course.

  He came over to the side of the bed, grabbed her face, and kissed her hard.

  “Bye, baby,” he said.

  “Bye, sweetie. Have fun. I’ll probably be asleep when you get in.”

  She ordered the chilied ahi tuna and foie gras for dinner, with a crab and celeriac napoleon as an appetizer and the tarragon panna cotta for dessert.