So 5 Minutes Ago (23 page)

“Yes.” I nod. “I can see the difference. Wow.”

She hands me a few more strands. “Wow,” I say again. “I had no idea you did this.”

She looks at me quizzically. “It’s why you’re here. That’s what they told me. The magazine wants them. Which one is it,
InStyle
?”

Oh Christ, how could Suzanne not have warned me? Probably her bitchy little assistant who forgot, her way of fucking with me. So this is the excuse for my visit—that
InStyle
is doing a feature on the Phoenix’s jewelry making. Actually, it’s not a half-bad idea, given how many unemployed actresses in Hollywood string their own worry beads as a way to calm themselves down and remind themselves that they really are
artists.
Still, it would take Spider-Man to leap from this to “Hey-do-you-think-you-could-consider-not-firing-the-agency?” And I only have an hour.

“You know, these are great. Why don’t I take as many of them as you’re comfortable letting me have and we can get some preliminary shots out to New York and go from there?”

She shrugs. “Take your pick. I’m kind of over the whole beading thing. You know how you go through phases? Sometimes I like being a blonde. Other times not. Besides, I’m so busy with the show now, I was actually thinking of selling them on QVC or eBay—for charity, of course—and keeping the cat toys in here.”

Great, the show. At least we’re moving in the right direction, where I can bring up her agency contract without sounding like a total idiot. “Yeah, how’s that going?” I say, gathering up a few more of the necklaces. “Are you going to let them film here?”

“Oh God, no,” she says, heading for the door, bored with jewelry now. “Sharon and Ozzie might have no pride, but I would never let a TV crew in here. I bought a house down the road that we’re going to shoot in.”

She disappears back into the bedroom. By the time I put away most of the necklaces, tucking a few token strands into my bag—hey, if this is my ruse, I better make it plausible—and follow her, she’s already climbed onto the giant bed and curled up against the pillows. I look around for a place to sit, but unless I’m to crawl onto the bed as well, I have no choice but to take a seat on one of the two leopard-print chairs flanking the fireplace on the far side of the room. With all the incense smoke and the shades drawn tight against the blazing beach sun, I can barely make her out.

“So,” I say, deciding to just plunge in. “As long as I’m here, maybe we can talk a bit about your publicity campaign for the show.”

“Let’s not,” she says with a wave. “I’m still getting the house set up and dealing with the network. The rest of it will come when it comes. The earliest we’ll air is March and maybe not even until June. Meanwhile, I’m just letting my manager deal with all that.”

“Okay,” I say, trying to remember exactly who her manager is. Funny, Suzanne didn’t bring it up in our discussions. “You know, I’m sorry, who is your manager these days? I have a hard time keeping track.”

“Well, that’s probably because I just changed managers after something like twenty years. Jerry Gold.”

I’m stunned. “
Jerry Gold
’s your manager? As in Carla Selena’s Jerry Gold?”

“Or as in Carla Selena has
my
Jerry Gold. I’ve known Jerry for years, but it was just never the right time for us to work together. Until now.”

So all roads lead to Jerry Fucking Gold. The same Jerry Gold who abruptly fired Suzanne over Carla is now trying to walk off with the Phoenix? This has to be more than a coincidence. A coincidence that just happens to bolster G’s case against Suzanne. I decide to go for innocent. “So Jerry came to you with the idea for the series?”

“
I
had the idea for the series. MTV came to me. I hired Jerry to work out the details.”

“And has he talked about what he wants to do about the publicity yet?”

“Not really. I mean, he mentioned we should try some new things, some new approaches, but nothing specific. But like I said, I’m not there yet.”

“So you haven’t talked to Suzanne about any of it?”

I hear her sigh. “No. Until your office called about this necklace thing, I hadn’t talked to anybody in a while. I mean, what was there to promote?”

She has a point. After her retail phase— her skin-care infomercial and QVC sales—the Phoenix kind of disappeared. Took her Oscar and her platinum albums and just faded into the woodwork. That she is back in the public eye in her fifties now armed with a $20 million TV deal is remarkable even by her standards of self-reinvention.

“You know, they used to call me The Cat when I played Vegas because I’ve done more than most people have in nine lifetimes,” she says. “I don’t go into anything with a lot of confidence, but I do have my fuck-it-all attitude. But also, money has never been my primary reason for working.”

“Well, that makes you different from about 99.9 percent of the people in this town,” I blurt out before I think better of it. My job as a publicist is to stroke the clients, reassure them, manipulate them, even lie when necessary, but never challenge them.

A laugh explodes out of the gloaming. “Well, we
know
that. One time I was making a fortune on the road and I quit to do a play off-Broadway. I went from making $500,000 a night to five hundred a week.”

“You’re lucky you don’t have to worry about money.”

“Don’t kid yourself.
Everyone
worries about money in Hollywood. Even David Geffen. I just happened to come into the business with a chip on my shoulder. It’s one reason why I’ve done what I’ve wanted to do and not what anybody else wanted me to do. I have a talent for making money, but I’m not a smart businessperson. I mean, after that infomercial, I didn’t work for years. I made a shitload off it, but it annihilated everything—the Oscar, the albums—that came before it.”

“But a lot of celebrities do businesses on the side. Quarterbacks buy car dealerships. Magic Johnson bought a movie theater chain. Look at J. Lo and Britney Spears. They opened restaurants that
failed,
but nobody writes them off.”

“Right. And Arnold and Bruce ran around and promoted Planet Hollywood and at the time, everyone thought that was cool too. But that’s the thing. What I did with the infomercial didn’t look cool and that was the difference. But you know, failure is very underrated. That whole experience was a good lesson for me. It taught me that it’s not how things
are
in our business that counts, it’s how things
seem
that matters.”

Maybe it’s the dark, that we can’t see each other that makes this feel so confessional. “So what do you think about your reality series? That’s cool.”

She sighs again. “It’s a shot like anything, but you never know. Look, most of the time it’s all shit. Scripts are shitty, albums are shitty, people are shitty. But every once in a while, something comes along that’s really right for you. The trick is to know yourself well enough to know that when you see it. And to take yourself not so seriously when it doesn’t work. There’s always another gig.”

“I don’t know. I think you’re one of the exceptions. I think the clock is ticking for most women in Hollywood. And when it’s over, it’s over. I don’t think there are a lot of second acts. Or even second chances.”

“Hey, I never said it was easy. I hate getting older. I hated it when I was in my forties and let me tell you, that’s a day at the beach compared to being in your fifties, when nature basically says, ‘Fuck you.’ The clock is ticking. For all of us. And there is nothing positive about it. Not in this business. You don’t get better because you get older. You get older and you get forgotten. I know that. But because I plan on being able to do all the things physically that I want to do before I die, I’m going to be out there killing myself.”

There’s a knock at the door. Tracy/Stacy with the two-minute warning. “Yeah,” I say, reaching down and fiddling with my bag, enough of a feint that she backs out. Still, better wrap this up. In the glow of the candles, I make out the Phoenix sliding off the bed.

“So you seem a little, I don’t know, out there,” she says, heading toward me. “I mean for a publicist. Usually the ones I’ve met have clipboards and agendas. You know, lists and you’re on it.”

“Oh, that’s more like studio and network people,” I say, getting to my feet. “We’re not that organized. Mostly we just say no a lot.”

“I don’t know,” she says, shaking her head, the corn silk wagging. “Do you like being a publicist? I mean, do you like coming out here for
necklaces
?”

I’m tempted to come clean. Tell her, of course, I hate being a publicist. Even she gets it that hiking out to Malibu for necklaces is about as demeaning as it gets—for all of us. After our confessional little conversation, she just might understand.

There’s another knock at the door. Tracy/Stacy again. Might as well be wearing a jack-in-the-box’s hat with bells.

“You know, that’s a good question,” I say, rushing now. “It’s a question I’ve been, or should be, asking myself, but actually, I really need to ask you one thing before I go.”

There it is. My line in the sand. Whatever I had intended to do or not do when I set out here this afternoon has changed. God knows, it would be easier to do what G asked. Nothing. Just say my good-byes and get the hell out of this dungeon. Let the chips, and the Phoenix, fall where they may. But the Jerry Gold thing is just too much of a coincidence. Besides, the Phoenix seems too much her own woman to just let Jerry make all her decisions. I have to take my shot.

“So here’s the deal,” I say, plunging in. “Jerry has talked to Suzanne about dropping the agency from handling you.” I pause and look up.

“What? What are you talking about?” she says. “Jerry and I haven’t even talked yet. Not about publicity. He couldn’t have talked to her.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure that’s the case, and frankly,” I pause and take a breath, “that’s the real reason for my visit here today.” I close my eyes for a second and brace for impact. “Not the necklaces.”

There’s another long pause. “What are you saying? That you lied about needing to see me?”

“No, I did need to see you. I just didn’t need to see the necklaces.”

“Tracy!”

“Okay, wait,” I say, rushing now to plug this hole in the dike. “It’s not her fault. The office told her I needed to see you for the story.”

Tracy sticks her head in the door. “Yep?”

“Will you find out what the fuck is going on?”

“Yep,” she says, nodding and backing out and then back in. “About what?”

“About why she—what did you say your name was again?—is here today. And why you let her in.”

Okay, so this is going well. At this rate, even if the Phoenix wasn’t inclined to fire DWP when I walked in here, she will surely do so now. Probably before I can even get out of here. Maybe G was right. I do have hidden talents.

“Okay, look, blame me, not her,” I say, nodding at Tracy. “But I think you owe it to yourself to know the full story.”

“I don’t need to know the full story. I
am
the full story,” she snaps. “And what I know is that I have wasted, what, an hour with you? Do you have any idea how many people would kill to have an hour of my time?”

Tracy looks at us like she’s watching a tennis match—a match that could go either way. “So should I—” she says, unsure whether to throw me out or just keep watching.

“I’m sure that’s true,” I say, cutting Tracy off. “What I’m trying to tell you is that it’s in your best interest to hear me out.”

The Phoenix doesn’t say anything, which I take as an opening. “Look, I’m here to ask you not to fire DWP. You’ve been well served by us in the past, and given our history, you have no reason to drop us as your publicists now.”

“You’re giving me a pretty good one.”

“Fair enough,” I say, raising my hands. “Look, Jerry Gold just fired DWP from handling Carla. Now it looks like he’s planning on doing the same thing with you.”

“First of all, Jerry doesn’t decide these things. I do. And even if that were true—if I approved Jerry’s decision to fire you—why should I care?”

Ah, the moment of truth. Why should she—why should any of them—care about something other than her own self-interest? “Because it’s wrong,” I say. “And it will hurt people.”

“Are you serious?” she says. “This is what we do. We take our business to the highest bidder and tough luck to the losers. I say no all the time. Appearances, charities, film offers. It’s what
I
get to do.
I
get to say no.”

I look at her. Is there anybody is this town not watching their own back? “So all your proto-feminist talk about taking chances and self-empowerment, that was just, what, talk?”

I am way over the line here, but at this point I have nothing else to lose. Besides, Tracy’s hardly bouncer material.

“I think we’re done here,” she says icily.

“Fine, I’m going,” I say, reaching for my bag. “But you ought to know that if you let Jerry Gold take you out of DWP like a piece of baggage, Suzanne, your publicist and a woman your own age, will take the fall for it. I just thought you should know that. That your actions have consequences.”

I stand up and head for the door. I may have lost a client, but my integrity is intact. Which will get me exactly nowhere.

“Okay,” Tracy says, leaping to lead me out, relieved that I’m leaving of my own volition.

“First of all, Jerry Gold is a terrific manager,” the Phoenix says suddenly. “Secondly, if he has any agenda, I can only assume it’s in your favor, since Jerry and, who is it—Doug Graydon?—apparently go way back. I don’t see why Jerry would take me out of his friend’s agency. But even if that’s the case, I still approve any and all decisions, as I said. No matter what Jerry thinks, it’s my decision. Besides, Alex,” she adds, eyeing me closely, “it’s only publicity. It’s not like it really matters.”

It’s only later, when I’m in the car heading back down PCH, squinting in the oncoming headlights, trying to find a radio station playing Christmas carols, anything to calm me down, that I realize I still have the necklaces.

17 And the Nominees Are . . .

                  I’m so wiped from going ten rounds with the Phoenix, I can hardly dial Steven on my cell as I’m driving back into town.

“Yes, I’m still here rolling all the calls you should have been rolling if you’d gotten back in time to help,” he says.

“Forget the calls,” I say, not bothering to decipher Steven’s tone, if he’s really annoyed or just being hissy for the hell of it. “I have much bigger news.”

“Like the Phoenix was wearing a brown wig? Or her actual hair?”

“Very funny,” I say, reaching to turn down the stream of carols pouring from KCTK. “Seriously, guess who her manager is?”

Steven sighs. “And we should care because?”

“Because it’s Jerry Fucking Gold.”

“Paco?” he says, laughing. “No kidding. That guy gets around.”

“Yeah, but there’s more.”

“Wait, there’s more,” Steven says, mocking me. “If you call now, you’ll also get the steak knives—”

“Look, I know you’ve had a long day, but I can guarantee you, I’ve had a longer one.”

“Okay, what?” he says sulkily.

“The point is that Jerry and G apparently go way back.”

“So? Everyone in this town goes way back. Even if they can’t stand each other. We’ve talked about this. It’s how Hollywood works.”

“No, they really
do
go way back,” I say. “I don’t know how and we need to find that out, but the Phoenix told me they did. She also told me a bunch of other stuff which I’ll tell you about, but when I brought up the whole thing about Jerry pulling Carla out of DWP and how he was threatening to do the same with her, she said they go way back. Actually, she told me to fuck off and die, then she told me they go way back.”

“She used those exact words?”

“She said whatever Jerry was up to with DWP couldn’t be bad because, and I quote, ‘Jerry and what’s his name, Doug Graydon, go way back.’ She also said who cares because it’s just publicity, but that’s a whole other issue.”

“Words to live by after the day I’ve had.”

“Okay, am I missing something here? I nearly got my head handed to me a minute ago and you’re acting like I’m giving you the weather report. Why don’t you think this is the smoking gun that we’ve been looking for? That G and Jerry are somehow in cahoots?”

“To do what? Siphon clients
away
from the agency G just bought? That would be a first.”

I don’t say anything. Just wait to see if Steven gets it. He should or I’ve seriously misjudged him. I mean, any guy who’s smart enough to cheer up his boss with a rice pudding should be able to read this landscape.

“Oh, I get it,” he says slowly. “Those clever fuckers.”

“Meet me at Le Dome. No wait, Tom Bergin’s in—” I check my watch. It’s six-thirty and I’m just passing the old Getty. “Give me thirty minutes to get across town in this traffic. And call Rachel and tell her to meet us there as well. We’re going to need her.”

“Roger,” he says, snapping back to life. “By the way, what’s that you’re listening to, ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’? I love that carol.”

“You love that carol? You’re Jewish.”

“That’s right, I’m a gay Jew and I love Christmas carols. I don’t work on Broadway and I’m not in Hollywood’s gay mafia but I—”

“Wait. You’re not in the gay mafia? That’s why I hired you.”

“Honey, you’ve gotten a lot of mileage out of your little shiksa image, but don’t push your luck.”

“See, it’s so much more fun when we’re not fighting.”

“I still did all your work today.”

“I know and I love you for it,” I say. “See you in thirty.”

The beauty of Tom Bergin’s is it’s just so fucking dark. Besides, it’s always full of serious drinkers who, given Hollywood’s mineral-water pieties, need to hide out to nurse a pops or two while catching a Lakers game. Between the boozers and the lack of light, you can while away the hours in a back booth and no one is the wiser. Plus, it’s one of the only places, other than Barneys, that reminds me of being back in New York. For some reason, I just think so much more clearly when I can forget I’m actually in Los Angeles.

By the time I exit the 10 and slog my way up Fairfax, it’s already way past seven. I tear into the lot, toss my keys to the valet, and head for the door. The yeasty smell of hops and the roar of the crowd two deep at the bar watching the Kings game hits me like the blast of an oven. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust, but I finally spot Steven in a booth around the side.

“Hey,” I say, sliding in across from him. “The traffic was its usual cooperative self. There was a truckload of bananas overturned at Robertson that closed a whole lane.”

He leans in my direction and sniffs. “I can tell.”

I ignore him. “Did you reach Rachel?” I say, reaching for his glass and taking a sip. Heineken, I think.

“Yeah, but she can’t get here until after seven-thirty,” he says, taking back his glass. “So I took the liberty of starting without you guys.”

“Did you tell her what it was about?”

“Not really. She asked me if it was gossip or serious, but I just said it had to do with G and his time at Sony and Jerry Gold, and you thought she could help.”

“Good,” I say, glancing around for the waiter. God knows, I need a drink.

Steven raises his hand. “So before you call this meeting to order, can I just ask what’s the plan here?”

“What’s the plan?” I say, turning back. “We’re here to make one. I mean, the Phoenix nearly threw me out when I asked her not to quit the agency.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Steven says, suddenly focused now. “You came right out and asked her to stay? What brought that on? You didn’t know what you were going to do when you left the office this afternoon.”

“I kind of stumbled into it. When she told me Jerry was her manager, I just put two and two together.”

“Objection.”

“Okay, don’t play
Law & Order
now,” I say, shaking my head.

“I’m not. I’m just trying to make sure that we really know what we think we know.”

“Okay,” I say, sighing. “What do we know?”

Steven nods. “Okay. We know that Jerry manages at least two of Suzanne’s biggest clients. And we know the Phoenix apparently doesn’t like being told what to do. What did she actually say to you when you asked her to stay?”

“I’ll get to that,” I say, waving him off. “We also know Jerry’s fired Suzanne from handling those two.”

“Only one. Carla.”

I sigh. “Well, after today, I’m betting the Phoenix is also history.”

“Okay, two, then.”

“Right, two,” I say. “So now we have to figure out Jerry’s connection to G. Which is why we need Rachel. I assume they met when G was head of marketing at Sony. I mean, that’s where G met Carla, when Sony released her first hit film.”

“So what are you having?”

I look up. A waiter, blond, in jeans, T-shirt, and with the kind of silky forelock that usually makes me go weak. Or it would if I wasn’t so hopped tonight. Or if I didn’t still cherish memories about Charles’s silky forelock, which I will probably never see again. “I’ll have a Heineken. And a menu.”

“Oh God, do you want to eat here? Nobody eats here.” Steven says.

“No, but I’m starving and I refuse to eat one more night of Greenblatt’s take-out.”

“So a Heineken, a menu, and you want a refill?” the waiter says, nodding at Steven’s glass.

“No, I’m stepping up to high-octane,” he says. “Bring me a Corona and a shot.”

“What kind?”

“Cuervo Gold.”

“Got it,” the waiter says, skating off.

“Cuervo Gold?” I say.

“Don’t worry, I’m paying, not the agency.”

“No, it’s just that it’s a school night.”

“When did that ever stop us?”

“Oh God, that’s so sad if that’s true,” I say, trying to recall all the nights we’ve spent here watching
Access Hollywood
and complaining about work.

“It’s not,” Steven says with a wave. “I’ve just had a long day. So what’s step three?”

“Okay,” I say, looping my hair behind my ears and leaning forward. “So first we should double-check the agency records to see if Jerry’s suddenly handling any more of Suzanne’s clients. To see how far this could go. And then we find out how far back Jerry and G go. But what we really need—and this is what’s going to be hard even with Rachel’s help—is to figure out exactly what they’ve got cooked up. I mean it’s easy to surmise—”

“Objection.”

“What?” I say, exasperated. “I said
surmise.
”

“How are you ever going to prove it?”

“Prove what? You’re not letting me finish.”

“I know what you’re going to say. ‘Kickbacks,’ and I’m telling you, you’ll never be able to prove it. Unless one of them admits it.”

I flop back in the booth. “Kickbacks? That’s where you think this goes?”

“Well, where else?” he says, leaning forward and dropping his voice. “Think about it. What’s in it for Jerry Gold? Nothing, now. He moves his clients around. So what? There’s got to be a payoff down the road. A payoff from G.”

“Or maybe they’re just fucking Suzanne over because they can,” I say crankily, annoyed that somehow I’ve gone from being Sherlock Holmes to Watson. “I mean, it’s not like it would be the first time the boys didn’t want to play nicely with the girls. Besides, you’re assuming G has something to pay Jerry off with. Enough to make it worthwhile. Which means that he’s planning on selling the agency and I think there’s a few steps to make before that.”

“Like?”

“Like restocking the agency with good clients and finding a buyer, and in this economic climate I don’t know that anyone is going to pony up the millions for a Hollywood PR agency like they did back in the nineties.”

“Well, what else would it be?” Rachel glides into the booth. “God, could you guys be talking any louder? You might as well call up Peter Bart and ask him to check it out.”

“Hey,” I say, sliding over to make room. “So you think it’s kickbacks too?”

She shrugs. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since you called and what else can it be? I mean, Hollywood is all about guys scratching each other’s backs. G acquires DWP. He arranges for Jerry to bolt with the biggest clients. Suzanne gets the ax and G is left as the agency’s sole partner. Jerry brings the clients back. G puts the revived agency on the block. Pockets millions for himself and pays out whatever percentage he’s promised Jerry.”

“Right,” Steven says, leaning back victoriously. “And we’ll never be able to prove it.”

I shake my head. In a single afternoon, we’ve gone from “Hey, Jerry Gold also manages the Phoenix” to “Book ’em”? “I still think we’re getting ahead of ourselves. All we’re trying to do is give Suzanne, actually Suzanne’s lawyer, some leverage to keep her job. I don’t think sending G and Jerry to Parker Center is really our goal.”

“They’ll never wind up there,” Steven snorts. “There are no state laws governing publicists—just agents.”

“Actually, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner,” Rachel says. “Of course they knew each other at Sony. Jerry briefly worked in the marketing department when G was the head of it. He left to go work for Brad Grey briefly, before going out on his own.”

“We didn’t
think
of it,” I say, “because I only just found out Jerry was the link. None of us suspected any of this until the Phoenix told me Jerry was her manager. Now you guys are ready to string them up as white-collar criminals?”

“They’re all criminals as far as I’m concerned,” Rachel says, looking around for the waiter. “Although, I could always call up my Deep Throat friend at the
L.A. Times
and see what he thinks.”

“Wouldn’t
you
technically be the Deep Throat?” Steven says.

“Look, I think we need to keep our eye on the ball here,” I say. “Move forward with what’s doable. And so far that seems to be the coincidence of Jerry Gold handling Suzanne’s clients.”

“No, you’re right, Nancy Drew,” Steven says, raising his glass. “Let’s take a minute to remind ourselves that you’ve done the real spadework. Trekked out to Malibu and got the Phoenix to spill the beans.”

“Thank you,” I say. “Now there’s only one question. What are we going to do to stop them?”

An hour later, an hour in which I’ve delivered a blow-by-blow description of my WWF encounter with the Phoenix, all that’s left on our plates are a few fries and smears of ketchup. Actually Steven and I had steaks. Rachel’s had two martinis and half our fries.

“I have to remember you can actually eat here,” Steven says, wiping his plate with a last fry. “I mean, eat here and live to tell about it.”

Rachel eyes him over her glass. “Let’s talk again tomorrow.”

“You know the center of a steak is actually sterile,” Steven says, wagging the fry at her. “It’s not like a burger, where the surface and the interior of the meat is all ground together.”

“Okay, I’m not even a vegan and that’s disgusting,” she says, spearing her olive.

Steven purses his lips and makes kissing sounds.

“Okay, kids, we’ve all had a long day,” I say, waving for the check. “Are we all set? Do we all know our tasks?”

They both nod.

“By the way, what’s our name?” Steven says.