Money Shot (2 page)

"You can come out now, I'm
at the back entrance," said Nicole.

Desmona Jackson threw off
the wool blanket and took a breath of fresh air like she had been
holding her breath underwater. Nicole opened the car door. They
were safe in the back of the compound. The trees that had once
offered an easy perch to the 'razzi had been cut down.

She climbed out of the
car, felt the world spin, and passed out.

***

"Timmmm…berrrrrrrr!" said
The Vulture as she saw Desmona Jackson teeter like a bowling pin
before collapsing into the arms of her agent. She missed the sound
of the auto-winder from the days of film, but the digital clicks in
quick succession were enough of an aphrodisiac. Her heart was
trying to escape from her chest. She licked her lips as she watched
the scene through the telephoto lens, frame by frame, as Nicole
Wine caught Desmona Jackson and dragged her to a nearby wooden
lounge chair next to the swimming pool.

The Vulture quickly stole
a glance at the other 'razzi. A few had attempted to climb the
trees across the street, but those offered no vantage point of the
back part of the estate.

Amateurs.

They were all too busy
watching for Desmona Jackson to notice a telephone worker with a
camera.

The Vulture smiled at her
superior brainpower and went back to the business at hand. She
continued to fire away grabbing every second of the play as it
unfolded. She filled one memory stick and deftly swapped it out in
a matter of seconds, like a cop adding more bullets to his gun
during a shootout.

She continued shooting
with one hand while she gently tucked the memory stick with the
money shot into a pocket on her vest, Velcroed it shut, and patted
it for good measure.

She saw Desmona Jackson
coming back to life, her head rising up. Nicole Wine sitting down
next to her on the edge the chair, stroking her hair.

Then what she saw turned
The Vulture into Roxanne Rizzo, honest-to-goodness movie fan for
one moment, as Desmona Jackson, poster child for wholesome family
values, lone Tinseltown defender of the Religious Right, grabbed
the breast of her agent and started passionately kissing her on the
lips.

The Vulture's jaw dropped
as she kept her fingers pressed harder on the camera, squeezing the
life out of the button that took pictures, shooting as many images
as it would allow.

Ho-lee shit.

***

The Vulture held back a
laugh as Nigel Hack weaved his way through the tables, keeping his
arms pinned to his sides as if he was afraid to touch anything. She
knew he couldn't stand places like this, his proper British
upbringing taking a big hit as he passed the tourists with fanny
packs wolfing down huge plates of breakfast specials.

He spotted her. She held
up her coffee cup and nodded toward him as if offering a toast.
She'd grabbed the table in the back of the restaurant, not just for
privacy but for the kick of making Nigel walk through the whole
place.

"Slumming again, I see,"
he said in his perfect British accent, as he arrived at her
booth.

She shoved a forkful of
pancakes into her mouth and talked through them. "Have a seat,
Nigel. I'm buying if you're hungry."

He pulled a handkerchief
from his pocket, dusted off the seat, and slid into the booth,
careful to keep his hands in his lap. "I've eaten
already."

A waitress showed up
holding a coffee pot. "Coffee, honey?"

"Nothing, thank you," said
Nigel.

The waitress snapped her
gum, said, "Okay," and disappeared.

"This had better be good,
Roxanne," said Nigel.

"Now Nigel, would I drag
you all the way down here if it wasn't?"

"I don't know. You have a
perverse sense of humor."

She reached into her
satchel, pulled out a manila envelope, and slid it across the
table. She quickly glanced around the restaurant. No one was paying
any attention to them.

Nigel grabbed the
envelope, opened it, and pulled out a half dozen eight-by-ten
glossies. His eyes bugged out and his jaw nearly hit the table.
"Surely not!" he said.

She smiled as his eyes
burned holes in the pictures as he quickly flipped through them,
then put them back into the envelope and slid them back across the
table. "You like?"

"Roxanne, you have outdone
yourself. Exclusive?"

"Absolutely."

"Talked to anyone else
yet?"

"You're the first," she
said, casually pouring more maple syrup over her breakfast. "You've
always been good to me, Nigel. I wanted to give you a chance to
pre-empt before I put it on the market."

"I appreciate that,
Roxanne. How much do you want?"

"How much you
got?"

"Give me a number,
Roxanne."

She shook her head.
"Uh-uh. We're not playing that game. You want these, you gotta
knock my socks off. I'm giving you till the end of business
today."

"How many photos do you
have?"

"Several hundred, but
those are the greatest hits. I would think the Hollywood Grapevine
would love to have one for its cover. And I believe your deadline
is tomorrow, am I right?"

Nigel shook his head.
"Roxanne, you are, without a doubt, the smartest paparazzi I've
ever known."

"Hey, I'm from Jersey. I
know how things work."

"I will have to get back
to you for something of this magnitude."

"I thought you might.
You've got my number. And I'll be here for about the next half
hour. Sure you don't want any stuffed French toast?"

Nigel rolled his eyes.
"I'll be in touch shortly," he said.

He got up and started to
leave. She grabbed him by the arm. "Oh, Nigel?"

"Yes dear?"

"When you come up with a
number, keep this in mind. I would love to work whenever I feel
like it."

***

"Oh my God!"

Desmona heard the panic in
Nicole's voice. She wrapped her thick red bathrobe around her waist
and headed downstairs. She saw Nicole in the foyer, sitting on the
black marble floor, legs sticking straight out.

She was holding a
supermarket tabloid.

And staring into
space.

"Nicole?"

Nicole said
nothing.

"What is it?" She reached
the bottom of the stairs and quickly moved toward Nicole.
"What?"

Nicole handed her the
tabloid, upside down. Desmona flipped it over and the headline on
the Hollywood Grapevine slugged her in the soul.

America's sweetheart out of the closet!

EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS PAGE 2-6

The picture on the front
page screamed at her.

You're out!

She bit her lip and peeled
open the tabloid, wondering if anything would be worse than the
cover shot.

Ten seconds later she
dropped the tabloid. It fluttered to the floor, pages separating,
landing as a photo album that taunted them both. Desmona wrapped
her arms around her waist and looked up at the ceiling. "How did
this happen?"

"Does it matter?" said
Nicole.

"What do we do?" asked
Desmona.

Nicole looked up at her.
"We're out, Des. Can't unring that bell."

"There are always
options."

"Not this time. Jesus,
Des, look at the cover. You're practically giving me a
tonsillectomy." Nicole shook her head. "No, Des, we're gonna have
to live with this one. Your drinking problem is one thing, but
this… the studio…"

Neither woman said
anything for two minutes. Desmona looked at the floor.

The pictures looked back
at her.

Taunting her.

Desmona's anger welled up,
the years of denial for the benefit of seven-year-old children
rushing forth and fueling it like never before. She started
breathing harder, giving oxygen to the raging monster brewing
inside her.

"Get up,
Nicole."

"Just leave me
alone."

"We have work to do. Now
get up and help me save us both."

***

Two weeks later the
Vulture was dead. Or at least on vacation.

Roxanne Rizzo yawned as
the hazelnut crème softly gurgled in her coffee machine. The house
was small, a two bedroom Spanish style stucco, but it was gorgeous,
new, and all she needed. It offered a spectacular view of the
Pacific ocean.

Her new bank account
offered her a lot more.

Freedom.

She could dine on
Hollywood carrion when it suited her.

She'd even said goodbye to
an old friend, almost feeling sad as she crumbled up the cereal box
and looked at the face of the Count for the last time.

Almost.

The coffee machine hissed
like a cat, telling her the java was ready.

She poured a cup into a
giant brown ceramic mug. It was winter and the air was crisp, so
she decided to drink her coffee on the patio that sat on the side
of her new home.

She walked toward the
door, slid it open and walked into the sunlight. It blinded her for
the moment, but the familiar sounds she heard were crystal
clear.

Cameras.

Dozens of them. Firing
away.

Her vision adjusted to the
light and her eyes grew wide as the 'razzi descended.

On her.

What the hell?

A television photog
brought his lens within a foot of her face. "Why did you destroy
Desmona Jackson, Roxanne? What's your agenda?"

"How did you create those
photos?"

"Does the Grapevine want
its money back? How much did you get?"

She put up her hand and
backed up, reaching for the door that was not yet familiar. The
television lights grew even closer and blinded her
again.

"Roxanne Rizzo?" said a
male voice.

"Yeah," she
said.

She felt a strong hand
grab her own and slap a stiff envelope into her hand. "You've been
served. Have a nice day."

She finally found the door
and backed into her house, quickly sliding the door as the 'razzi
and media pounded on it with fists and questions. Her eyes adjusted
to the light again and she opened the envelope.

Desmona Jackson was
suing
her.

Her adrenaline spiked as
she unfolded the document and quickly looked through the legal
jargon for something understandable. One word told her all she
needed to know.

Fake.

The actress was claiming
that Roxanne Rizzo, a/k/a The Vulture, had used highly
sophisticated technology to create the photos that appeared in the
Hollywood Grapevine. That she had single handedly destroyed Desmona
Jackson's career and reputation.

Roxanne heard a commotion
at the front of the house. She peeked out a window and saw a row of
television satellite trucks, liked up with their dishes pointed to
the sky like a row of electronic petunias. Firing up their
generators like they were getting ready for a NASCAR
race.

She dropped the legal
document on the kitchen table and ran to the television, fired the
remote, and got a high-definition close up of her new house on a
52-inch plasma set.

"We just got a brief look
at Roxanne Rizzo," said the blonde anchor fembot. "The paparazzi
accused of faking the now famous lesbian photos of Desmona Jackson
and her longtime agent, Nicole Wine. Now let's go live to the
estate of Miss Jackson."

***

"Good morning," said
Desmona. She paused for a moment, looking out at the hordes of
television cameras and photographers.

And gave them the famous
smile that had charmed millions of children.

"For years you have all
known me primarily by the parts I play. The roles I have chosen
over the years are those I believe have conveyed solid family
values and inspirational themes. I realize that I have become
somewhat of a role model to millions of children, and I take that
honor seriously.

"Recently, as you all
know, I was involved in an incident which was the result of a
reaction to medication. I apologize for those actions and promise
something like that will never happen again, but that is not the
reason I am here today.

"Today, I have filed a
lawsuit against Roxanne Rizzo, a member of the paparazzi who
electronically created the photos that you have all seen on the
cover of the Hollywood Grapevine. I was devastated when I saw these
photos, as was my longtime agent and close friend, Nicole Wine. As
you can imagine, these last few days have been very difficult for
me, Nicole, and all my loyal fans.

"I am not suing the
Grapevine, as they were also unwitting victims in this fraud, and I
am sure they will want to take legal action to recover their
investment in these… photographic creations. While I do not condone
their style of reporting, they are not at fault in this matter.
They are, as I am, a victim of a hoax.