Hot Shot (9 page)

“Felina named you.”

Sloan's tofu shake arrived. She poked at it with the straw, considering. “Okay. So say I've got some information on Dick Mann. Why should I give it to you for free? If it's all that valuable, I could write my own story.”

“You could. But I've got a book contract.”

“Who cares? I'm not saying it's true, and I'm not saying it's not true. She's dead. So is he. And so is this story.” Sloan stood up. “Thanks for the smoothie.”

“Sloan. Sit.”

“I don't let men tell me what to do.”

“So stand up. But hear this. I have Felina, on tape, telling me that not only did you have sex with Dick Mann, but that you sold him out to the tabs. If it comes out that you've been double-dealing your clients to the tabs, every decent agency in town will drop you.”

“You don't know what you're talking about.”

“Get real! You think men pay those agencies thousands of dollars because you're so goddamn good in the sack? They're buying your silence, Sloan. And you've been selling them out. If you want a reason you should talk to me, how about this one: I could ruin your career.”

Her face went hot, and the muscles in her jaw vibrated like a tuning fork. For a moment, I thought she might throw her smoothie in my face.

“Sit down, Sloan. Let's talk.”

She thought about it. And she sat.

*   *   *

“About four years ago this guy who was a reporter for
Celeb
called me one night. On my unlisted phone. He offered me big money. Plus more, if they ran a story.”

“Wait a minute. What do you mean,
if
they ran a story?”

“They weren't looking for a big story. They just wanted to make some new friends.”

“Friends?”

“Friends … It's a term the tabs use for somebody who cooperates with them.”

“You mean they wanted some names for blackmail.”

“Not blackmail. They wouldn't ask for money. But the tabs might use them for access.”

“Access to what?”

“Well—like, Dick was a friend of
Celeb.
They had files on him. So once or twice a year, he'd give them an exclusive interview. He did one on how to keep a happy marriage in Hollywood. When he and Betty adopted their son,
Celeb
got rights to the photos. That's what a friend does. Both sides cooperate and everybody's happy.”

Sloan sighed. “We kept talking, and he said that I could make extra money by feeding him items.”

“On people you slept with?”

“No. I went out to restaurants and clubs a lot. Just for letting him know who was there and who they were with, he'd send me a check.”

That sounded authentic to me. The tabloids had a vast network of stringers in service positions: waiters, hairdressers, bus-boys, valets, shop clerks. If Heather Locklear dropped three thousand dollars on a jogging outfit, somebody, somewhere, would call the tabs.

“About a month later,” she continued, “I was at this restaurant in Malibu with a client, and I saw this movie star out with some woman who wasn't his wife. So I remembered the guy at
Celeb.
I called him, and he sent me a check for a thousand dollars. A thousand dollars for one phone call. And that was how it started.”

“So you started calling him with tidbits on your clients.”

“I
never
did that. You're not listening,” Sloan said, aggrieved. “Just innocent stuff. Public stuff. So-and-so was drunk at such-and-such a party. That kind of thing.”

“The kind of thing that couldn't be traced back to you.”

She shrugged. “I thought it was harmless. Until.”

“Until what?”

“Until Dick died.” She nibbled at her nail, leaving tooth marks in the French manicure. “My contact called and said he had proof that I'd slept with Dick. Once you die, you're not a friend anymore, you know what I mean? Anyway, I told him I didn't want to talk about it.”

“And he threatened you.”

“Not threatened, really. But he let me know he had copies of all the checks they'd sent me over the years. If I didn't cooperate, he'd spread it around that I was a source. Like
you
want to do,” she added pitifully.

I wasn't moved. “They made you into a friend. Isn't that ironic.”

“Whatever. So I went ahead and did the interview. And then
Headline Journal
called. That bastard at
Celeb
sold me out to them, too.”

“What did you expect, Sloan? There's no loyalty with the tabs. If there's a story at stake, you're going to be expendable.”

There was a dot of smoothie on the table, and she dragged her finger through it pensively. “So are you gonna rat me out, too?”

“I doubt it.”

“Good.” She pushed back her chair. “Are we done?”

“Hardly. We haven't even started.” I got out my microcassette. “I know where you're coming from, and now you're going to give me an interview.”

She stared at me, dumbfounded. “Are you telling me that if I don't talk to you, you're … Are you trying to blackmail me?”

“No. I'm trying to get an interview.”

“Well, chuck you, Farley, 'cause I don't have anything to say.”

“Why? Because I'm not gonna cut you a check?”

“No. Because you're scum. I thought you people in the so-called legitimate press were supposed to be so high and mighty. You're a hypocrite. You're no better than Leo Lazarnick.”

“Hey. You don't compare me to Lazarnick, and I won't compare you to a ten-dollar crack whore on Hollywood Boulevard. Got it, lady?”

“Why not? He uses a camera, you use a pen. You both make your living ruining other people's lives.” She stood up, furious. “Go talk to Leo and leave me alone. He knew Felina a lot better than I ever did.”

She wiggled her way out of Smooth Moo, earning a few admiring glances from a table of abdominized dudes near the door.

I took a long slow draught of my P-Nutty Pow.

There are several castes of photographers in Hollywood. At the top are the ones hired by the event organizers, classy types who are indistinguishable from the other guests except for the cameras around their necks. Next are the “pack” photogs, the ones you see on TV standing outside strobing arrivals. Below them are the scumbums. They spy on people with telephoto lenses or ambush their prey, hoping for that angry reaction or raised middle finger that can be sold to the tabs for big bucks. They're at the bottom of the Fuji food chain.

Leo Lazarnick, however, was
sui generis.
His nickname was the Nazi Paparazzi. Scourge of the rich and famous, he hid in Dumpsters at rehab centers and crashed funerals with a micro-camera hidden in his tie. It had made him a fortune. You could say Leo Lazarnick was a well-known Hollywood photographer, sort of, but that would be like describing Jeffrey Dahmer as a well-known Milwaukee gourmet.

How could the Nazi Paparazzi have known Felina Lopez?

6

O
N THE WAY BACK
to the hotel, I reviewed what Sloan had told me. When you hear the phrase “You have to believe me,” it's best to keep an eye on your rear end, because you're about to get hosed. Still, the Felina biography was good background, and Leo Lazarnick was a nice lead. Sloan Baker had served her purpose.

Walking into the lobby of the Beverly Hillshire, I almost collided with three plastic surgery disasters coming out of the restaurant. Their faces had been stretched tighter than Saran wrap. With their identical cotton-candy helmets and identical noses, the old gals looked like a pack of interchangeable Mrs. Potato Heads. And, like Mrs. Potato Head, they derived whatever identity they had from their husbands.

There were three messages on the machine. Somebody had been in to clean the room and leave me a Limoges plate with two perfect chocolates in the center. I munched one, trying to get used to this luxury. It was no use; I'd lived too long as a pauper to feel at home in a hotel that looked like a movie set.

I stretched out on the bed, popping the other chocolate in my mouth, and pushed the playback button on the phone.

“Kieran O'Connor? Vernon Ash.” He didn't sound like a drug dealer. More like a real-estate agent, or one of those motivational speakers on late-night TV. “I got your message. I'd love to talk to you. We could do a phoner if you want, but I'd rather get together in person. There's something I want to talk to you about myself. How about … let's see…” I heard pages rustling. “You want to have dinner at Bar Sinister tomorrow night? Say nine-thirty? Give me a call.”

Interesting. He sounded more eager to get together than I was. The second message clicked in.

“Hi, 's me.” Claudia sounded exhausted. “You got a message yesterday from Jeff Brenner to call him. The mail's just been magazines and bills. Hope everything's okay. I'm whipped. Call me sometime. See ya.”

Beep.

“My name is Betty Mann.”

I sat up.

“I'm not giving any interviews, but I'd like to talk to you. And I don't want to go through my publicist, so jot this number down.” She sounded as tired as Claudia. “That's the phone in my trailer. Set up a time with my assistant, Lesley.”

A
click
and then a canned voice told me I had no more messages. Well, dang. I'd gone from pariah to Mr. Popular all of a sudden.

What could Vernon Ash want to talk about? And Betty Bradford Mann—why would she even consent to an interview, even if it was off the record? And which one should I call back first?

I thought about it a minute and dialed Jeff Brenner.

*   *   *

“Well, it beats your old place in Venice,” Brenner said, looking around the lobby.

“Let's get out of here. It makes me feel like one of the Beverly Hillbillies. The Beverly Hillshirebilly.”

We walked down to Charleville, where Jeff unlocked the passenger door of a new black Lexus. “What happened to the Sentra?” I asked.

“Traded it in.” He looked embarrassed. “Tell me the truth. Is it too Hollywood?”

“Depends. Do you have your name painted on your parking space?”

“No. It just says ‘Writers.'”

“Then it's fine.”

The Lexus had a CD player, which I toyed with as we headed down Wilshire. “So you want to get dinner, or what? I'm in the mood for La Fonda.”

“Karen will be home. I thought we'd cook in,” he said casually.

When was the last time Claudia and I had cooked in? I couldn't remember. I liked Karen, but sometimes it seemed like she was domesticating Brenner to a frightening degree. The two of us hadn't been out for a meal since he and Karen had tied the knot.

Like me, Brenner had been a freelance writer, but his career had soared as mine had soured. Brenner had moved to New York a while back to become an editor at
Aspect,
“the active magazine for today's active man.” In March, right after he and Karen had gotten engaged, a sitcom producer offered Jeff a job as a staff writer, and Jeff moved back to L.A. One month later,
Aspect
folded. Once again, Brenner had landed butter-side-up. It was tempting to think of his life as a series of lucky breaks, but he had set goals and worked toward them with a natural skill and perseverance that completely eluded me. He was one of those people I would have hated if he wasn't my best friend.

We took Wilshire to Ocean and made a right, driving along the bluffs. The sunset sky over the Santa Monica Bay was orange and nail-polish red. I rolled down the window and breathed deeply. Cool salt air, crisp as a potato chip. I was starting to feel the burn from missing a night of sleep.

I rubbed my eyes and asked, “How
is
Karen?”

“Great. We thought we'd barbecue tonight. She's stopping at Pavilions to get some shark steaks.”

“Macaroni and cheese would have been fine. 'Course, you people probably don't even remember what that is.”

“Yeah, it's caviar for breakfast, caviar for lunch, caviar for dinner.”

We stopped at the California incline, which was gridlocked with cars headed home from work and the beach. An ancient van with boogie boards on the top was stalled in the intersection, steam shooting out of its radiator like a teakettle.

“How's Claudia doing on the coffeehouse?”

“Fine. I guess. We don't see each other much.”

“You two getting along okay?”

I stared out the windshield. “Somebody better get a fire extinguisher for that van.”

Jeff, who knew I was an invertebrate in matters Claudia, dropped the subject.

We drove down the incline and picked up the Pacific Coast Highway, traveling parallel to the ocean, with million-dollar beach cottages on our left and the scrubby brown crags of the Palisades on our right.

“So how is it writing jokes for Becky Burke?”

“Becky's okay. She's just a stand-up comic without any personality. Nothing. She's a tabula rasa with a bad nose job.”

“I'll trade you paychecks.”

“It's not that much, Kieran. Really. Especially after taxes. Besides, if they're putting you up at the Beverly Hillshire, things can't be too bad.”

I hadn't told Jeff about the phone call yet. “Well, then, I'll trade you cars. How's your new place?”

It was his turn to be monosyllabic. “It's okay.”

We left the highway at Chautauqua and drove into the Santa Monica Canyon, a woody little enclave of cottages and twisting streets. Two more turns, and we pulled up in front of a Spanish-tiled bungalow with a bay window and a weeping willow in the miniature front yard.

I got out. We were less than a quarter of a mile from the highway, and yet we could have been in the mountains. The street was absolutely silent except for birdsong and the sound of a creek somewhere nearby.