My Lucky Star (18 page)

“Yes. Definite signs of hubris.”

“Should we have someone in Retribution attend to him?”

The Showbiz God frowned pensively, then gazed down at the salon where Maddie, thanks to the hints I’d dropped, was “persuading”
Claire and me to regale her guests with one of our witty show tunes. The God winced, then nodded decisively.

“Find out who handled Mike Ovitz. Put him on it.”

I
N RETROSPECT IT’S EASY TO SEE
that it was not very shrewd of me to mock the LA district attorney. DAs, I knew, are notoriously proud, prickly sorts who
do not appreciate snide comments directed at them in public cocktail lounges by saucy homosexuals. It’s just that Stephen,
who’d never liked the man, was already twitting him and we’d been getting on so fabulously (me and Stephen that is, not me
and the DA) that the tactful silence I’d maintained at the outset of their skirmish began to strike me as unsupportive. Wussy
even. What, I asked myself, would D’Artagnan do if Aramis encountered some surly adversary in a tavern and swordplay ensued?
Would he let out a manly
“En garde!”
and leap into the fray, or would he just sit on the sidelines gazing sheepishly into his Cosmopolitan? The former surely.

The problem, as I’d learn to my regret, is that DAs remember these things. They hold grudges. And this one, a Mr. Rusty Grimes,
was renowned even among the fiercest of his brethren for the ruthlessness with which he pursued his vendettas.

Given the vast energy Rusty would subsequently devote to our downfall and destruction, it would be nice to at least be able
to report that he was the most formidable foe to emerge in the course of my saga This was not, alas, the case. He was not
even the most formidable foe to emerge in the course of that evening. For no sooner had Rusty slithered offstage than there
sprang from the wings an altogether higher form of fend, one whose cold-blooded cunning, treachery, and ruthlessness would
make Rusty seem by comparison like some gruff yet lovable curmudgeon, such as William Demarest endearingly portrayed in the
films of Preston Sturges.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. “Foreshadowing,” we screenwriters call it—cutting away to the bloodshot eye peering up through
the sewer grate so as to assure the more bloodthirsty in the house that gruesome doings await. Having done so, permit me please
to digress briefly about the events preceding the dark moment when Fate popped its head into our Nemeses’ dressing rooms and
yelled, “Places!” To be honest, I’m in no great hurry to usher them onstage.

Once there, you see, they never leave.

I
HAVE OFTEN AND
masochistically dwelled on the fact that the whole debacle might have been averted if, on the day before my date with Stephen,
Gilbert had gotten home ten seconds later than he did. An extra traffic light might have saved us, or a longer line at the
grocery. But no, he sauntered in precisely in time to hear the incoming message.

“Philip, this is Ashley in Sonia Powers’s office. Just confirming your dinner tomorrow with Sonia, Stephen, and Diana. Eight
o’clock at Vici.”

“What was that?” he demanded suspiciously.

“Search me. She must have meant to call someone else.”

“Then why’d she say ‘Philip’?”

I replied that mine was not an uncommon name and that they might well be dining with the actor Philip Seymour Hoffman, Philip
Roth, or the composer Philip Glass. Gilbert found this improbable.

“You fucking little weasel! You’re having dinner with Stephen and Diana and you weren’t even going to
tell
me?”

“Calm down! It’s about the book, okay? They just want an update.”

“Well, I’m coming!”

“Why? You’ve never even met Lily.”

“Who cares? The whole ghostwriter thing was my idea.”

“No it wasn’t!”

“I can’t believe you tried to squeeze me out of this! After all I went through to get us this job!”

“You retyped
Casablanca!
”

“Do you know how
long
that took?!”

I protested a bit more but I knew it was useless. Nothing would persuade Gilbert to pass up a chance to be seen on the town
with the Malenfants, and, as he knew when and where we were dining, he would be killed or be there. It was at least some consolation
that he assumed, like the others, that we weren’t meeting till eight. He knew nothing of my earlier rendezvous with Stephen,
nor would he.

I
HADN’T FORGOTTEN MY
promise to Stephen to ascertain how much
plastique
Lily and Monty were planning to affix to his closet door. On the morning of our dinner I arrived in Los Feliz bright and
early, determined to Learn All.

Louise let me in, and I knew at once from her pious scowl that Monty had a “student” on the premises. I entered the dining
room and found him breakfasting with a luscious young man in a white T and faded jeans that ft him like a pale blue rash.
In contrast to Monty’s more louche consorts, this one had a sweet farm-boy look, with apple cheeks and tousled blond hair.
He held an
LA Times
and was studying the comics page with the furrow-browed intensity of a Talmudic scholar.

“Lily might take a while to rouse herself this morning. Her old chum Connie’s visiting and they dined quite late, mostly on
olives. This is Buster, Glen. He’s new in town. I’m showing him the ropes and he’s returning the favor.”

Not being accustomed to sadomasochistic ribaldry at the breakfast hour, I just stole a glance at Buster’s cantaloupe biceps
and murmured hello.

“Hey,” said Buster. “S’up?”

“Refurl your tongue, Glen, and help yourself to a scone.”

“Should I, uh, clear out?” asked Buster.

“No need. Glen’s here to see Lily.”

“You a masseur?”

“Coauthor,” I replied evenly.

“My sister’s writing her memoirs and Glen has graciously consented to translate them into English.”

“Your sister doesn’t speak English?”

“No, she speaks it quite well and, may I add, constantly. It’s transferring it to paper that defeats her. If the Mafia wished
to take out a hit on English prose, they could find no more capable an assassin.”

Monty launched into an extended riff on Lily’s failings as a prose stylist, failing to see that literary technique was not
a topic likely to enthrall a boy who found
Marmaduke
a bit of a slog. Buster yawned and, grabbing a scone for the road, made his excuses and left.

“Been to the gym, have we?” said Monty, noting my bag.

“Every morning.”

“Lily tells me you’re a personal trainer.”

“Yes.”

“How personal?” he drawled and I laughed. His lewdness had come to strike me as both comical and quaint like the tiger growls
Bob Hope dispensed indiscriminately to our gals in uniform.

“Not as personal as Buster, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I won’t hear a word against Buster. He doesn’t steal and he looks like his ad. One can ask for no more.”

It occurred to me that Lily’s absence might present an opportunity to pose some questions to him about Stephen that he might
not answer as frankly in her presence.

“Can I ask you something, Monty?” I said, my tone intimate and perhaps a tad flirtatious.

“Anything you like,” he replied with an intrigued smile.

“Your nephew, Stephen—”

“Ah,” sighed Monty. His roguish smile vanished and he rolled his eyes. “You mean is he really gay?”

“How’d you know I was going to ask that?”

“My dear, it is all
anyone
ever asks me about Stephen. Especially the boys. The scoop on my nephew is the holy grail of gay gossip. I usually say ‘Ask
him,
’ smiling all the while to make it clear that I know more than I’m telling, which never fails to make them buy me another
drink. I don’t see why
you’re
asking though. I’ve already told you about the tennis pro and his borrowings from my embarrassingly extensive smut trove.”

I pointed out that this had been many years ago. What had Monty heard lately? Was he still playing for the home team or had
he retired his jersey? Monty glanced enigmatically at his plate for a moment, then said, “Well, this is usually where I go
all coy and suck noisily on the dregs of my Mojito. But, seeing as you’re practically family now — yes, he’s still gay.”

“He’s
told
you?”

“God, no. We’ve barely spoken in years.”

How did he know then, I asked, and Monty, smiling like the elegant woman of the world he was, replied, “Let’s just say we
have mutual friends.”

An actual gasp is, of course, the highest tribute one can pay to a piece of gossip, and the one I let out with now topped
even those Lily had regularly emitted in
Zombie Luau.

“Friends like
Buster?!
”

“Like uncle, like nephew. Of course,” he added, freshening my coffee, “our reasons for choosing the ‘buy-sexual’ route—you
hear the pun —?”

“Yes, of course.”

“— couldn’t be more different. I’m simply bowing to the realities of the sexual marketplace. I like beautifully sculpted young
men and they do not, alas, bestow their favors on dapper gentlemen over sixty unless compensated. For Stephen though, I think
it’s all about fear.”

“Fear of what?”

“Well, he had that one boyfriend who ran to the tabloids. After that he got very worried about discretion and hoped he could
buy it. The other advantage of hustlers, of course, is that they’re not, as a class, widely esteemed. If one seeks to expose
you, he must first confess his profession, which hardly enhances his credibility. Stephen figures who’s the public going to
believe—him or some youth whose résumé is rather long on fellatio?”

“So you’ve heard stories about Stephen from your... friends?”

“Scads. There’s Kyle and Justin and what’s his name with the unfortunate piercing...?”

“Recently?”
I asked, agog.

“Not for a year or so. I’m told he had a close call with Kyle and a paparazzo. Threw a scare into him so he’s been a good
boy lately.”

“My poor Stephen!” I thought. How dreadful to think that fear and a paramour’s betrayal had driven him into the loveless arms
of male harlots! On the bright side though he hadn’t had dick in a year, which could only improve my chances.

“Dear God,” I said, my head spinning. “So Lily’s actually putting all this in the book?”

“Good heavens, no! Lily knows nothing about it. You don’t suppose I’d tell her?”

“I don’t know. You seem so close.”

“We are. We get on beautifully. And why? Because I tell her nothing she doesn’t want to know and because, as you’ve surely
noticed, her capacity to ignore the obvious is nothing short of breathtaking. It is the whole secret of her happiness—and
I thank you, Glen, for your chivalrous refusal to tamper with it.”

He laid a gentle hand on my shoulder.

“It’s endeared you to me, Glen. It has. You sit here day after day listening to her spout the most appalling drivel about
her so-called glory days and respond with the most angelic tact. I’ve watched her sit here among her picture albums and make
claims so outrageous the very photographs do spit takes. But you don’t even roll your eyes. It’s positively saintly of you,
Glen, and that’s why I’ve told you what I just have. I lay my family’s dirty linen at your feet as my meager thank-you for
your great kindness.”

As I noted earlier, if you’re going to infiltrate people’s homes and win their trust for the sole purpose of betraying it,
it helps a great deal to dislike them. This is no simple task when they’re two old sweeties who shower you with praise and
beatify you over breakfast. Monty’s tender tribute, coming on the very day I was to sup in the tents of the enemy, made all
the guilt I’d quelled come flooding back, redoubled in strength. So it was no wonder that when Lily finally confided to me
the details of her comeback project, I was powerless to refuse her request for assistance.

We were an hour into the day’s work when her friend Connie, a plump, salty old dame who’d played the gym teacher in
Sorry, Miss Murgatroyd!,
entered the dining room, clutching a well-thumbed manuscript.

“Oh, good,” smiled Lily, “you’ve started it.”

“I’m done, honey. Couldn’t put it down. And may I say you are a goddamned genius!”

“Did you really think so?”

I asked if it was the early chapters of the memoir. Connie said, “No, it’s her screenplay!”

“Screenplay?”

“It’s what I’ve been hinting to you about. I suppose I can tell you now. You’ve certainly proved you can be trusted! It’s
a script I wrote especially for myself.”

“A historical epic,” gushed Connie, “with one helluva great part!”

“Really?” I asked Lily. “Who do you play?”

“Amelia Earhart!”

As Monty had pointed out, I’d grown skilled at politely absorbing statements that would induce involuntary backflips in others,
but I could not restrain a certain widening of the eyes.

“I know what you’re thinking — that I’m too old for it. But I’m not. You see, my story takes place seven whole years
after
her plane disappeared.”

“She survived!” explained Connie. “On a tropical island.”

“But then she’s rescued by Portuguese fishermen. She makes her way to France, only it’s occupied now.”

“By Germans,” Connie added helpfully.

“She meets a dashing young freedom fighter and begins flying secret missions for the resistance while all France wonders who
this daring mystery woman could be! I’m so glad you liked it, Connie! You didn’t find it a bit rough in spots?”

“Well, I wasn’t sure about a few historical things. But I’m sure you can get some help with that.”

On hearing the word “help” I gazed apprehensively at the light-bulb that had just materialized over Lily’s head. Why goodness,
she exclaimed, the perfect critic was sitting right here. Would I be so gallant as to read her little effort and offer my
thoughts?

Though unable to imagine a more gruesome task, I knew that the favor would assuage at least some of my festering guilt. I
said I’d be honored and tucked it in my gym bag, suppressing a shudder as I glanced at the title,
Amelia Flies Again!