So 5 Minutes Ago (17 page)

I push off from the wall and move into the crowd. Given the hour and the fact that some band is now holding court on the room’s diminutive stage, much of the crowd is dancing. Or at least moving rhythmically. I start to sway and edge into the throbbing sea. But pushing through them is like swimming upstream in a fast-flowing river. It’s useless to fight against it. I flail about for several minutes. Eventually I catch a current and ride it back out, coming to rest at the far end of the bar.

“You want another?” the bartender shouts. I shake my head and shove my empty glass across the counter. I turn and scan the crowd. No sign of Troy. Why didn’t I bring Steven along? He’s so much better at working a crowd than I am and we could have covered much more ground than I’m plowing, or rather not plowing, here by myself. But he had a date. Or dinner with the boys. Or some other West Hollywood thing. Oh, screw it, these are desperate times. I reach in my bag for my phone and turn toward the stairs to find some place where I can make a call to my special teams unit, when I collide with another body being jettisoned from the dancing crowd.

“Sorry,” I say, looking up. G and his hair and with the kind of blurry smile that suggests the birthday boy has been celebrating for a while now.

“Hey, Alex,” he says, his eyes and his smile widening.

“Hey, Doug,” I say, reaching out my hand automatically. And instantly regret it. G grabs it like he’s grasping a rudder. What is it about seeing people socially that you see all the time that you have to reach out and touch them—or worse, kiss them—like they’re long-lost friends?

“Alex,” he says again, giving my arm a tug like he’s trying to reel me in.

“Hey,” I say, pulling my arm back. “I didn’t see you arrive.”

G gives up on my arm but hangs disconcertingly on to my hand. “Not surprising,” he says, nodding at the surging crowd. “It’s impossible to see anything in here.”

“Actually, I’ve seen quite a few people. Your birthday must be more special than I thought.”

“Well, it’s not every day you turn forty.”

And I’m twenty-two. “Still,” I say, finally extricating my hand from his. “I didn’t know you knew so many people so well.” I’m tempted to add “and Nikki,” but think better of it. Only just got out of his doghouse. No reason to go rushing back in.

“Well, you know.” G gives a vague wave. “By the way,” he says abruptly, “I wanted to thank you for your gift.”

“Oh, that was actually everyone’s idea. Someone said you collected Steuben.”

“I meant your personal gift.”

Fuck.
How did I manage in the space of twenty-four hours to forget to ask Steven what he got for G? Charles. Of course. But if anything was on a need-to-know basis, it was this.

“Oh, no thanks necessary,” I say, giving him my own vague wave. Let’s move on, let’s please move on.

“Well, it fits perfectly.”

I smile and nod.

“I’m actually wearing it now.”

“Really?” I swallow hard and smile, picturing the worst. Animal-print satin briefs. An ankle-strap pistol holster. A tiny silver ring for his penis,
which just happens to be pierced.

G smiles back. “See.” He turns his head and pushes his left earlobe forward, where a tiny diamond stud sparkles.

Oh, Jesus Christ. Thatched hair and a pierced ear? Is this guy channeling Harrison Ford or what?

“Great,” I blurt out, relieved, “because some people think diamonds on a man are so five minutes ago.”

G looks confused. “So
what
?”

“So eighties, so yesterday, you know,” I say, recovering fast. “But on you it works.”

I realize I’m sweating. I haven’t gotten anywhere near figuring out this evening. Like why I’m the only DWP agent here and what’s the connection between G and Carla. But given the hour, and G’s well-lubricated party mode, not to mention the three white wines with Coke back that I’ve had, this is about as much of him as I can handle in one stretch. Without a whip and a chair.

“So listen,” I say, nodding toward the stairs. “Don’t let me keep you because I was actually just on my way out.”

“Really?” G says, reaching for my shoulder and turning me back toward the bar. “Because I was hoping we could have a little chat.”

The chat is more like a shakedown. Or it would be if I could hear anything G says. As it is, between the band and the crowd, I’m catching about every third word. “You know, I really can’t hear you, Doug,” I say, waving my hands next to my ears and shrugging. It’s true, but I’m hoping he just lets me go. Lets me get the hell out of here.

No such luck. Maybe he’s too drunk, or maybe he really is not to be denied. “Let’s go outside and grab a cigarette,” he says, or rather screams in my ear.

“I don’t smoke, but okay,” I say, as he grabs my arm and drags me through the crowd toward the stairs.

Outside there’s the usual madness at the rope line with bouncers and wannabes stacked ten deep and the photographers trolling for their nightly catch. “Here,” G says, propelling me past the crowd to an emptier stretch of the sidewalk. He plucks a pack of Marlboros from his jacket and offers them to me.

“No thanks, I quit,” I say, shaking my head. I can’t believe G smokes. Or is willing to smoke in front of me. Smoking in Hollywood is like masturbation. Everyone might do it, but you would never let anyone see you do it.

“Good for you,” he says, pulling a cigarette from the pack. “I did too. Or I tried to. But hey, if you can’t smoke on your birthday, when can you smoke?”

I don’t say anything. This is G’s party—literally. He can do the talking.

“So,” he says, taking a heavy drag and blowing smoke over my head. “How are you getting on? I mean since the merger.”

How am I getting on? You
know
how I’m getting on. You practically reamed me a new one until I did some fast talking in your office just a few weeks ago. “Uhm, fine. Well. I mean, good. I think we have a few bumps to get past but—”

“So you know, there’s going to be changes,” he says abruptly. “But I’m sure you guessed that. I mean every merger brings additional changes. Some good,” he says, pausing to exhale another plume of smoke. “Some, well, let’s just say some require getting used to.”

I nod silently at my boss, the fire-breathing dragon.

“It’s one of the reasons I wanted to see you here, tonight. To clarify those changes. In person. Away from the office.” He exhales again and smiles.

“Sure,” I say, nodding, instinctively clutching my jacket tighter against the cold, against G.

“Because what I’m about to tell you, not many at the agency know. Or are meant to know.”

“But you’re willing to tell me?” I say, trying to keep my teeth from chattering.

“I am, Alex,” he says dropping the cigarette and stubbing it out with his Gucci loafer. “I am, indeed.”

“Can I ask why?” I say, pulling my jacket even tighter.

“You’re cold,” he says, looping his arm around my shoulders and pulling me back toward the club. “Let’s talk inside.”

It is later. How much later, I have no idea. All I know is that I’ve been to the mountaintop with the devil, who has showed me the vast lands that I can occupy if I bow down and worship him. The details are hazy but the intent couldn’t be clearer. The merger was just the beginning. Restructuring is coming. Cost-cutting. Layoffs. Times are tough. No one will be immune. Certainly not a publicist who allowed her client to become the butt of “Page Six.” Not even Suzanne.

“Suzanne? She’s a partner,” I say, incredulous, pushing away the glass of wine I’ve barely touched but G insisted I order when we worked our way back inside and found a relatively quiet corner at the bar during a break by the band.

“If you say so.”

But there are ways to avoid the pogrom, he says.

“Such as?”

Loyalty. Proofs of commitment. Dedication.

“Such as?”

G smiles. Bad Cop morphs into Good Cop. “Let’s just say that as consolidation occurs, your loyalty to BIG-DWP, whatever its incarnation, will be appreciated. That those who stay the course, who do not, shall we say, question the changes, will find a different financial arrangement at the back end. There will be incentives for those who prove themselves invaluable to the agency.”

“Really,” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets. Of all the things G has said tonight, this is the strangest. Layoffs and buyouts are to be expected. At least in this economic climate. But that he’s willing to dangle actual cash incentives, or even says he is, suggests a whole different ball game. Still, I don’t expect a level playing field and I don’t have to wait long to have my expectations confirmed.

“I mean, this offer is not being made to everyone,” he says, running his finger down the side of my arm. “So I’m glad you made it tonight. It shows aptness of thought. Exactly what I was hoping to see.”

I practically run for the stairs. At the top, I pause and look back. But G has melted into the crowd. The band has retaken the stage and lashes into another number. The crowd surges forward. I turn and head down.

“Hey, Alex.”

Troy. An hour ago, I was desperate to find him. Now, he’s just an impediment to my exit. My escape.

“Hey,” I say. “I’m actually heading out. Let me call you tomorrow.”

“Listen,” he says, ignoring me and pulling me aside. “Do you have a twenty I can borrow?”

I must look like I haven’t heard him because Troy repeats his request. “I thought I had more cash, but I need to get my car out of the valet.”

I’ve done many things as a publicist. Lied, paid bills, wiped up vomit, and just two minutes ago, I listened politely to Sherman describe his coming march through Georgia. But I have never been hit up for cash. Troy makes, what, eight million times what I make but I’m the one with cash. I check my purse. I have exactly $20. “I have a twenty,” I say, fishing the bill from my bag. “Why don’t I get change at the bar and—”

“You’re the best,” he says, grabbing the twenty and planting a kiss on my cheek. “Put it on my tab. And let’s definitely talk this week.”

Yeah. Definitely.

I turn and head on down out of the club and into the street, squinting as I emerge in the light. It’s very late. Even the strip clubs and tattoo parlors are closed, the coffee shops not yet open. There’s just a few desolate souls still waiting by the rope line. Even the photographers have melted away. I look east. The sun will be up soon.

“ATM?” I say to one of the valets. He holds up two fingers and nods up the street.

“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll be back.”

I turn and head out toward Doheny and the far end of the Strip and beyond that, the vast green lawns of Beverly Hills. Beyond that, the ocean. If I walked as far as I could walk, I would walk into the gray-green sea.

I keep walking. The noise from the club fades. The street is deserted as a Hopper painting. A dry riverbed. The cold wind off the desert is blowing harder now. Trash scuttles against the curb. I pull my jacket tighter and keep walking, west toward the ocean and the still-black sky.

13 All Rise

                  Like all important real estate, the thing about the Beverly Hills courthouse is location, location, location. The otherwise unremarkable three-story building is on a leafy block of Burton Way, which puts it within hailing distance of the L’Ermitage and Four Seasons hotels so you can escape to a decent place for lunch. Or if you’re not into eating, like most of Hollywood, you can buzz over to Barneys or Burberrys, valet to save time, and spend your court-appointed break shopping. Or have your eyebrows waxed at Anastasia, the Martha Stewart of Hollywood’s eyebrow industry.

That’s if you’re on jury duty. Which hardly anybody ever is out here, civic duty not being high on the list of desirable activities. If you’re appearing in court, well, that’s a whole other ball game, with its own set of issues. Like limo or private car? Marc Jacobs or Earl Jeans? Guilty or not guilty?

By the day of his pretrial hearing, Troy has made his choices. Or rather Peg has made them. In consultation with his lawyer and a psychic. Troy would drive himself, dress like a cowboy in his Sunday best—nobody would buy him Marc Jacobs anyway—and plead not guilty. Which everyone knows really means
“I’m only stalling until the judge dismisses or you cave because your pockets aren’t as deep as mine or I just write a check and you go away.”

The morning of his hearing, I’m still not sure which of the not-guilty scenarios Troy is banking on. It’s been more than a week since I’ve seen him at G’s party and for one reason and another—it doesn’t take many with Troy—I wound up confirming all our arrangements, including my riding shotgun with him to the courthouse, for the hearing via Peg.

“So what’s your plan here?” I say as we pull up to the courthouse parking garage. I glance over at the defendant. At least he looks choirboy innocent in his jeans, boots, blazer, and tie. I’d have to remember to get the name of that psychic from Peg. Get a few wardrobe tips and the outlook for my own future.

Ever since I went to the mountaintop with Beelzebub at the Viper Club, I’ve tried to put the whole conversation with G out of my mind and not mention it. Not to anyone. I mean, half of Hollywood operates like that, on threats and sexual favors. Shit, more than half. And life somehow goes on. Besides, it was probably mostly bluff on G’s part anyway. I mean, how can Suzanne just leave? She owns half the agency. And now Charles is becoming a senior partner or whatever he’ll be and I’m in good with him. Or I was the last time I saw him. Besides, it’s not as if I don’t have enough to worry about. Like exactly what my relationship with Charles is. I mean, besides our million phone calls—all good but still just phone calls—since he left more than a week ago. And then there’s the clients to deal with. An endless chain of worry beads. Especially Troy. The cowboy defendant.

“My plan?” Troy says, lowering the smoked-glass window of his SUV and reaching down to take the ticket from the bored-looking attendant.

“Yeah, I mean are you prepared to go to trial with this guy? If it comes to that? I would ask if your lawyer’s prepared to go to trial, but I take it as a given that lawyers are always prepared to go to trial.”

Troy shoots me a lazy, teasing smile, barely avoiding colliding with a black Mercedes rocketing out of the garage. “You know I’m not supposed to discuss my case.”

I know I should find this amusing. But after all he’s put me through in what, less than a month, the amusement factor of Troy’s good-ole-boy antics has dwindled to a dangerously low level. Dangerous for a publicist who is paid to tolerate those antics.

“Troy, I’m your publicist,” I say, trying to keep my voice ironic and failing miserably. “You’re
supposed
to discuss things with me, then I make sure no one else discusses them. That’s how it works.”

“Hey, easy. I was just kidding,” he says, raising his hands. “Look, you were there. You know I didn’t hit the guy on purpose, that I was going for the camera. How do you think I should plead?”

He’s right on that account. Even high, Troy had the sense to lunge for the camera, not the photographer who apparently hadn’t the sense to get out of the way of a 210-pound former college baseball star who was stoned and very, very pissed off. Still, in my book, no good ever comes from logging time in a courtroom. Not as a defendant. Not as a plaintiff.

“Look, I know you’re not guilty, but I vote for doing whatever it takes to make this go away. Make
him
go away. Pay him, bribe him, have him killed. Just get rid of him. Let’s get back to promoting your career, not your innocence.”

Troy eases into a space, turns off the engine, and turns toward me. “Look, I know you think I’m an asshole—”

Whoa.
It’s okay to think your clients are assholes, but it is
not
okay to have them think that you think that. “Hey, I don’t, and I don’t think I’ve ever said anything to give you that impression,” I say, cutting him off.

Troy shoots me a cut-the-crap look. “My point is, whatever you think of me, I am not a bad guy. Not really.”

He sighs and turns and looks out his window. “I mean, you try being me for a week. Last time I checked I was trying for division play-offs, hoping for a shot with the minors. Next thing I know, I’m on the cover of magazines. Now look where I am,” he says, turning back toward me. “In the bottom of the Beverly Hills courthouse.”

It’s touching and largely true, but I’m not buying this sob story from Troy. Stardom is never that simple. If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that most stars think things just happen to them—because they are talented or beautiful or just
special.
It’s a childlike—and childish—view of the world and it keeps them from developing any sense of responsibility about their own lives. It’s why publicists were invented. And why I’m sitting here riding shotgun with a guy who actually feels sorry for himself.

“Well,” I say, gazing out my own window. “Then we better go in and set the record straight.”

It’s worse than the red carpet inside. Mostly because there
is
no carpet, no rope line. Just a sea of photographers, cameramen, and reporters, who quickly surround us.

“Troy!”

“Troy, over here!”

“Troy, how are you going to plead?”

“Troy, is this just a nonsense suit?”

I can only imagine what Winona went through here during her trial. I take a deep breath, throw a bunch of “no comment”s in the air, loop my arm through Troy’s—the effect is about as intimidating as a kid sister running to keep up with her older brother—and hurry past the guards toward the elevators.

“Troy!”

Tom, Troy’s lawyer, and a second guy in an expensive suit and haircut who I assume is the trial lawyer, are holding an elevator. We dive in, the door slides shut. Safe at first.

The courtroom is less of a zoo; packed, but at least a modicum of decorum exists in here with all the guys with guns standing around. The press pretty much fills the gallery, talking among themselves and craning to get a better look at Troy. At least they can’t shout questions in here. Or, more important, take pictures.

We slide into the defendant’s table according to pay scale: the trial lawyer, Troy, Tom, and then me. While the three of them huddle, I look across the aisle at the opposing team. There’s just two of them: the photographer and his lawyer. Judging by the cut of their suits, I’m guessing the photographer folds sooner rather than later.

I glance back at the gallery and recognize a few faces.
L.A. Times. US.
AP. Ah, the
Star. Access Hollywood.
The usual opinion makers. I turn back. Our team is still huddling, but I already know how this will go. The photographer’s lawyer will stand and speak. Then Tom and Troy will stand and Troy will plead. There’ll be some Q-and-A with the lawyers, the judge will toss out a court date, and we’ll head for the exits, where I’ll spring back into action. I’ve already decided, no matter what happens today, I’m not letting Troy make a statement. No fucking way. Not after all he’s pulled.

Tom breaks from the huddle, leans toward me, and starts writing in his notebook. On TV these conversations look so important, but over his arm, I can see he’s just doodling. “Alex, once we get started, the whole thing will only take about fifteen, twenty minutes tops,” he says, sotto voce. I’m about to ask him, sotto voce, exactly when it’s all going to start when there’s a commotion at the front of the room. The bailiff snaps to attention.

The judge enters. She actually looks pretty good in the robe.

“All rise.”

We rise. And then we sit. And we listen. First to the judge. Then to the photographer’s lawyer. And then to the judge. Then it’s our turn to speak. First the trial lawyer and then Troy, who stands and pleads not guilty.

The judge is leafing through her calendar looking for a trial date, when Troy interrupts her. “Your Honor, may I say something?” Oh God. This isn’t in the game plan. Or is it? I glance over at Tom. I have no idea what Troy’s about to say, and judging by the look on Tom’s face, neither does he. I look at the photographer’s table, where he and his lawyer are talking furiously. Normally, a defendant, even a famous one, doesn’t speak at a preliminary hearing. But the judge lowers her glasses, peers at Troy for a minute, and waves him on. “Proceed, Mr. Madden. But keep it short.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I mean, Your Honor,” Troy plunges in, in his best Midwest twang. “I just wanted to say that in my life, I mean as I have known it—lived it—that I consider myself a smiler.”

Oh God. I squeeze my eyes shut for second. Even when he’s not stoned, Troy can just sound so out there.

The judge continues to peer over her glasses at him. “Mr. Madden, I suggest you get to your point.”

“Yes, ma’am. I mean, Your Honor. Where I come from, we used to say people were either smilers or they weren’t. You know, did they have a good attitude about life and their fellow human beings? And in our family, we were known, famous, even, as smilers. You could ask anybody and they’d tell you Brad Madden and his kids were some of the best folks around.”

“Mr. Madden, that you were a model citizen back in Iowa is immaterial to this court. What’s at issue is your behavior of late.”

“Your Honor, I’m getting to that. But I just wanted to make clear to you, to all of you,” he says, turning to the photographer’s table, “that if there is any place that will wipe the smile off your face, it’s Hollywood. I know because it’s happened to me. And I’ve paid the price for not understanding that. I screwed up. I admit it.”

Troy pauses and sighs and looks down at the table.

“Are you finished, Mr. Madden?” the judge asks.

Troy shakes his head and then looks up. I see something glint on his cheek. I lean forward to get a better look. That son of a bitch. He actually got himself to cry.

“I just want to apologize to everyone here,” Troy goes on, his voice husky now. “I’m sorry if I’ve hurt anyone. But all I’m saying is I’m still learning. Hell, I’m still technically in recovery, so I’m still making amends. But personal pride is all any of us have. In the end. That’s one thing my daddy taught me. So I would just like to say,” he says, turning again to the photographer, “that maybe the world would be a little better place if we all respected each other more. As people. As people who make mistakes. And who need time and space to undo those mistakes.”

Troy sits down and abruptly stands back up. “And thank you. Thank you, Your Honor, for letting me speak. To say my piece.”

Troy sits back down and stares into his lap. That speech is bullshit, but you have to give him credit. He might not be a great actor, but Troy
is
an actor. And he knows how to pull focus. I look back at the photographer. He’s glaring at Troy. He knows he doesn’t stand a chance. Not here. Not in front of an audience. Not in front of a jury. Not in the tabs. There’s another flurry of standing and speaking by the lawyers. Finally it ends. Our team breaks into smiles. In exchange for dropping the charges against him, Troy agrees to attend an anger-management course—shit, they hold them at his rehab center—and make a donation to the charity of the plaintiff’s choice. Safe at home. With barely a scratch.

We have about three minutes to make the elevators before they let the press go. The four of us stride down the hall. Like the credit sequence on
Law & Order
except I have to dogtrot to keep up. I sidle in next to Troy and remind him that he is not talking to the press. Even if he is the day’s winner. I tell him to head for his car, that I’ll catch a cab back to the office and issue the statement from there. That we’re gratified at the outcome, now putting it behind us, looking forward to getting back to work. The usual.

“You’re the best,” Troy says, loping on ahead, still flanked by his lawyers. Behind me I hear the clatter of footsteps and shouts. The hounds have been loosed.

“Go on,” I say, as Troy dives into the elevator. “I’ll deal with them.”

“By the way,” he says, turning back, holding the doors open. “It was never anything personal.”

“Right,” I say, nodding. “Go on now.”

“I just wanted to make sure you knew that.”