Star Island (31 page)

“She’s still asleep,” Chemo reported.

“No tummy problems?” her mother asked lightly.

“Nuthin serious.”

While Janet Bunterman went to check on her daughter, Ned Bunterman bungled an attempt at small talk.

“Can I ask what happened to your arm?” he inquired, provoking Chemo to unharness the weed whacker and lay waste to a bouquet of Chinese peonies that had been thoughtfully placed by the hotel staff upon the walnut cabinet of the entertainment center. From that response Ned Bunterman discerned that the bodyguard was overly sensitive and likely a sociopath, and spoke to him no further.

Cherry’s mother emerged from the bedroom looking fretful.

“The poor thing’s exhausted,” she said.

Chemo said Cherry was up half the night watching pornos on Pay-per-View. Her parents seemed almost relieved to hear it.

“But no visitors, right?” Janet Bunterman said.

“Just room service.”

Ned Bunterman looked at his watch, a signal to his wife that Cherry should be roused. “I’m sure she’ll feel good as new after breakfast,” he said. “I’ll call down for some oatmeal and honeydew.”

“Yuk!” It was his daughter, listing in the doorway of the bedroom. She didn’t look dazzling but at least had managed to dress herself—jeans, flip-flops and a UCLA sweatshirt. “I am
so
not hungry for oatmeal,” she snapped at her father.

“Then how about a smoothie?”

When Cherry spotted her bodyguard, she glowered and took a shaky step forward. “That guy, Mom, that perv over there—he electrocuted me with a thingie they use on cows!”

Chemo affected an expression of wry bewilderment.

“He belongs in freaking jail!” she screamed at her parents.

“Now, honey, stop …,” said Ned Bunterman fearfully.

But Cherry’s mother looked elated.

“That’s our girl! All pumped up for
Vanity Fair!”

Tanner Dane Keefe was informed by his personal assistant that he would be leaving the island for the day.

“Where’m I going?” he asked.

“Wherever you like.”

“But I wanna stay here.”

“Your friend Cherry needs the place for a photo shoot.”

The estate had been on the market for three years, despite the listing agent’s dogged efforts. On Star Island the principal selling point for property was the celebrity of its previous owners, so realtors were skilled at strategic name-dropping. Every house that came up for sale was presented as the former residence of Capone, Sly, Shaq, Cher, Johnny, Rosie, Julio, Diddy or Madonna. Occasionally an inexperienced agent would toss in Mickey Rourke or one of the Bee Gees. Prospective buyers seldom checked the veracity of these glamorous claims because they preferred not to deflate a good story.

The home being rented by Tanner Dane Keefe had in fact been built and occupied for many years by a wholesale distributor of three-way Foley catheters. He wasn’t famous but he was very wealthy. The present owner, a Venezuelan bauxite tycoon, had soured on the house after his young wife dumped him for a deejay at Crobar and skipped off to San Juan.

Now, with the economy in the crapper, not many rich people
seemed eager to fork out seventeen million for six bedrooms, two pools, a dock, a cheese cellar and a wet bar upon which Cindy Crawford might or might not have simulated a pole dance. Having dropped his price twice already, the Venezuelan was hoping that a photo spread in an upscale American magazine might chum up some prospects. He had no qualms about displacing his tenant for a day.

“But this is
my
crib,” Tanner Dane Keefe protested.

His personal assistant yanked off the covers and saw, to her relief, that he was alone in bed.

After wiping his nose on the pillow, the actor sat up. “Hey, what about the whale video? You were supposed to call the Seaquarium.”

“Your breakfast is ready. Scrambled eggs, runny.”

“From free-range quail, right? Otherwise I won’t touch ’em.”

“Of course.” The personal assistant, who’d purchased new Palin frames after losing hers to Cherry Pye’s bodyguard, steered Tanner Dane Keefe toward the bathroom.

“And the Tabasco sauce—”

“Organic,” she lied.

“Cool.”

“Don’t forget to brush your tongue.”

The actor was groomed, fed and dressed by the time the photographer and his female helper arrived. They didn’t bring much equipment: a couple of cameras and two kinky props—a handgun and a pair of handcuffs.

“Why can’t I stay and watch?” Tanner Dane Keefe asked.

The photographer’s helper, whose name was Annie, said, “Sorry, sport. Mr. Abbott runs a closed set.”

Tanner Dane Keefe had briefly met the woman before—the night that Cherry had gotten into the birdseed—though he didn’t remember.

“But I wanna see her pictures,” he said.

“Absolutely—when they come out in
Vanity Fair
. We’ll send you a pre-pub copy.”

“Vanity Fair?
Are you shitting me?”

“She’ll be the August cover,” said the helper.

Tanner Dane Keefe’s personal assistant led the crestfallen young man outside to his leased Lexus coupe and settled him in the passenger seat. He’d been trying to get the cover of a major magazine in advance of his new film, but so far no solid offers had materialized. Even the surfer mags were balking, owing to the necrophilia angle.

“That fucking Tarantino,” fumed Tanner Dane Keefe, “he’s gonna hog all the media.”

“You need a new publicist,” the personal assistant asserted loyally, sliding behind the wheel.

“Can’t I at least hang around till Cherry gets here?”

“Be a luv and fasten your seat belt.”

Coming out of the circular driveway, they saw two cars parked on Star Island Drive in front of the estate. One was a black sedan, and the other was a Jaguar with a crimped rear fender.

The actor instantly perked up, thinking the silver convertible belonged to his Vicodin connection.

“No, Tanner,” said his personal assistant. “Doctor Angie drives a Vette.”

“Your Town Car’s here,” Bang Abbott told Ann DeLusia.

The chauffeur had called when he arrived. He hadn’t bothered to mention the Jag that rolled up behind him.

“When is Princess Red Bull due?” Ann asked.

“Any minute,” Bang Abbott said.

“You’re gonna miss me, Claude. I’m good company.”

The paparazzo huffed snidely. “We’ll meet again.”

“Hope not,” said Ann.

“Remember, soon as they get here—”

“I know, I know. Stay in the kitchen.”

“Don’t fuck this up,” Bang Abbott warned.

On one point the Buntermans had been adamant: If Ann showed her face in front of their daughter, the photo session was off. The psycho bodyguard would rush Cherry back to the Stefano.

“Where are you going to set up?” Ann asked.

“Not sure.” They’d made a hasty tour of the house, Bang Abbott checking out the hues and the layout and the lighting. Cherry’s portraits would come off stark and artsy in black and white, but the publisher could charge more money for the book if Bang Abbott shot in full color. Digital made it easy to try both ways.

Ann said, “I vote for the bedroom with the red drapes. It screams skank.”

When the doorbell chimed, Bang Abbott pushed Ann down a hallway toward the kitchen. His jowls were flushed and his expression was feral.

“Beast mode,” she whispered.

“Get lost!”

“Tell Janet I’ll be waiting.”

Ann located some cream cheese in the cavernous Sub-Zero and lathered up a stale bagel. To settle her nerves she nuked a mug of chamomile tea, which made her stomach gurgle. Soon she had to pee, but she was afraid to venture out. Edging closer to the door, she could hear voices, a muted rhythm of civil conversation. Nobody was shouting or arguing. Soon came a clicking of footsteps on the hardwood floor, and Cherry’s mother whisked into the kitchen. She fixed Ann with a gaze of elated relief, her eyes welling as she scampered forward with open arms. Ann figured she’d been practicing the sappy overture on one of the Larks.

After a smothering hug, Janet Bunterman stepped back and looked her up and down, as if beholding the sight of long-lost kin. “Oh, Annie, thank God you’re all right!”

“I’m not all right. Check out the dress, Janet—I look like the hostess at a polygamist barn dance.”

“You look just fine,” Cherry’s mother said.

“We need to talk.”

“I know.”

“Right now,” Ann said.

“Not a good time.” Janet Bunterman cut her eyes toward the door and in a hushed voice said, “Cherry’s here.”

“Yes. Such a delicate creature.”

“It’s scary dealing with a reckless criminal like Abbott. I’m sure you appreciate the risk we’re taking—it’s all for you, Annie.”

“What a crock. You’re just scared he’ll send out those needle pictures.”

Cherry’s mother began to look uncomfortable. “Well, there’s that.”

Ann repositioned to block her exit. “The night I got snatched,” she said, “you reported the car missing—but not me?”

“The Larks had some concerns.”

“I’m sure they did.”

“Sometimes these situations are best handled without the police. It works out better for everybody,” Janet Bunterman said.

“I could be dead right now.”

“Oh, Annie.”

She said it with a frothy, condescending laugh. Ann’s reaction was to pin her somewhat roughly against the refrigerator. “What if that asshole had shot me, Janet? Did you guys have a story ready? If my bullet-riddled body floated up in Biscayne Bay?”

Cherry’s mother was startled by Ann’s muscle, not to mention her testy attitude. “You’re safe and sound, aren’t you? For heaven’s sake, let go of me.”

“Claude was right. I’m just another loose end.”

Ann had thought she’d prepared herself for the dirty truth, but she was shaking with anger. After releasing her grip on Janet Bunterman, she levered herself up on the glossy granite countertop and planted her chin in her hands.

“You people are incredible,” she said.

“Go back to the hotel and get some sleep. That’s what you need.” Janet Bunterman was well practiced at affecting sympathy. “Ned and I know you’ve been through hell, Annie, and we’re gonna do whatever we can to make it all better. But first we’ve gotta deal with this lunatic paparazzo.”

On the stove was a teakettle, in which Ann could see the reflection of the henna tattoo on her neck. There was, she had to concede, a comic aspect to her misadventure.

“Tell me,” Cherry’s mother said, “is he violent?”

“You mean Claude? That’s an interesting question.”

The hallway door opened and Ned Bunterman came in, dressed for either golf or happy hour at a strip joint. Immediately he began fawning on Ann, saying what a trouper she was; a champ, an ace, a team player.

“Do you mind?” she said irritably.

“Annie’s not feeling well,” Janet Bunterman told her husband.

“I am
so
sorry. Why don’t you go back to the Stefano and get some breakfast in your tummy?” Ned Bunterman suggested. “They make a killer mimosa.”

Ann removed a spatula from the brass utensil rack and smacked Cherry’s father smartly on one ear. All she said was, “Mimosa, my ass.”

Janet Bunterman looked stunned, yet she was slow to move to her husband’s side. It was clear that she’d misjudged the depth of Ann’s discontent, a greater cause of concern than Ned’s whimpering.

“Just go away,” Ann said to Cherry’s parents.

“Of course, honey.” Janet Bunterman motioned for Ned to man up. “So, Annie, we’ll see you back at the hotel?”

“No chance.”

The Buntermans spun around and saw a large man with loud braids and a shotgun cradled in one arm. He filled the doorway that led from the kitchen to the courtyard, the passage through which Ann DeLusia was supposed to discreetly exit the premises.

Ann brightened at the sight of him, thinking:
So
there
you are!

Cherry’s mother and father were clutching each other for the first time in years. The fearsome intruder had broad shoulders, a gleaming pate and a bum eye. He wore a soiled trench coat but no shirt, and strung from a belt loop was some poor dead creature, possibly a bunny.

“Who are these bumblefucks?” he asked Ann.

Hopping off the counter, she said, “They call themselves Ned and Janet.”

He raised the gun. “I loaded up with rat shot.”

“No, captain, don’t.”

“Fine, then. You come with me.”

Ann said, “All I want is a hot bath.”

The man she knew as Skink threw back his head and laughed, a rolling quake that discouraged Ned Bunterman from intervening. Meanwhile, his wife was poleaxed by the stranger’s smile, which was telegenic and appealing.

“Get your stuff,” the man said to Ann.

“This is it. I am stuff-less.”

“Magnificent!”

Then they were gone, out the back door, leaving the Buntermans to wonder what were the odds of Ann DeLusia, a nobody, being kidnapped twice in the same week.

Although she’d had sex on a Gulfstream jet probably a dozen times, Cherry Pye could recall the details of only one airborne encounter—with Lev, her pierced-cock, Mossad-trained former bodyguard. She’d been cold sober that night, which accounted for the uncharacteristically vivid memory. Lev had talked her into trying some exotic position called a “modified Turkish drill press” and, by the time they were done, Cherry was gasping into one of those Dixie-cup oxygen masks. For weeks afterward she’d worn a cervical collar, which she saved as a memento of Lev’s gallant pounding.