The New Elvis (18 page)

Logan thought he was the only one who blushed until he watched Ron’s face flush a lovely shade of pink.

Corcioni pulled out a pipe and a pouch of tobacco while Ron composed himself, unlatched his briefcase, and pulled out his laptop. He opened the layout of the first issue Logan had done and slid it across the massive desk to Corcioni, who took a puff on his pipe, leaned forward, and looked.

“She wants them to look like NetFlix mailers with perforated edges.”

The old man shushed him.

Ron dug around in his briefcase and pulled out a sample first issue from PPP that Marilyn had given him. He pushed it across the desk, but Corcioni ignored it.

While they waited ten minutes, Ron entertained Logan by sharing stories Corcioni had told him about dead drops. Forested areas were always good. You could use a hollowed-out branch or, better yet, a hollow spike with a capped lid you’d insert into the ground and step on ‘til the cap was flush with the ground and virtually undetectable. You could even use garbage and stuff a message written on a napkin into the bottom of a cup, returning it to the refuse bin or tossing it on the ground with other litter. Good dead drops lasted for hours. In the event of problems, you could leave chalk marks to signal to an agent there was a change of plans. But the biggest thing to consider when sizing up a suitable dead drop was realizing you had to have a reason for being there. While there wasn’t much call for wandering around the woods at night, a far better choice for a drop was an underground parking garage filled with cars. It was simply a matter of getting out of your car, getting into the car of the person you were meeting, exchanging information, and then parting ways. As a paparazzo, this was Ron’s preferred method of meeting sources.

Corcioni looked across the desk. “We can do this, no problem.”

Ron beamed. “With the perforation and everything?”

“Right here in Chi-Town.”

Corcioni had taken advantage of the fact
The Chicago Sun-Times
had stopped the presses, closed its printing plant, laid off four hundred employees at its South Ashland Avenue facility, and moved to the Freedom Center downtown. There was equipment to be had in the transfer, and he made haste to secure what he could for his firm.

“She’s gonna want to know how much.”

“With distribution?”

“Yep.” Marilyn had filled Ron in on what to ask for, what to get.

“What’s your price point?”

“She wants them to go cheap so they’re an impulse purchase. Thirty-five cents, tops.”

“Tell her to lower it to a quarter. I can run these at five cents each, with distribution of a hundred thousand copies to ten major cities coast to coast, and get them on the racks at the registers right next to
The National Enquirer
. That’s ten thousand issues per city with leftovers being picked up when trucks deliver the next one. You got any more issues besides this first one?”

Ron came around and looked over the old man’s shoulder. As a cloud of sweet, cherry-smelling smoke enveloped them, Ron showed him a list of stories in the making Marilyn had given him.

“Good, good. Keep ‘em coming. We’ve got trucks going out every day. If you’ve got the stories, we could theoretically do seven runs a week.”

“And you really can get them on the racks near checkouts, right next to
The Enquirer
?”

Corcioni looked up at Ron, his thick neck swallowed by a cashmere turtleneck that nearly ran up the underside of his chin. “Kid, you ever hear of a little thing called connections?”

Ron’s iPhone rang. “Yeah, Dan, what’s up?”

As he listened, his face fell. He moved to the chair across from Corcioni’s desk and sat down hard. After he hung up, he shared the news. “Marilyn was found raped and beaten in Venice. She’s alive, but barely. Dan thinks ex-cons hired by
Flash
did it.”

Corcioni sucked on his pipe and blew out a plume of smoke.

“
Flash
is where she worked before?”

Logan and Ron nodded simultaneously.

“And she left and took a lot of staff with her?”

“She cherry-picked the best,” Ron said.

Corcioni tapped his pipe on the ashtray. “Surprised they didn’t kill her. This business—” he stopped and coughed, leaving the sentence unfinished.

Because Bea wasn’t feeling up to it, Noah accompanied Ryan to
It Factor
auditions at the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, where thousands turned out to audition. The show’s host was both hyperactive and charismatic, jumping around onstage, welcoming the throngs. Interns gave everyone a number, and the potential contestants lined up at screening tents set up on the grounds.

After eight hours of waiting, Ryan was granted the chance to sing a few bars of “Love Me Tender” for a team of judges and was greenlighted to meet the star panel. He emerged from the tent, hugged Noah, and pointed to a squat, windowless building that looked like it belonged in Quantico. “We’re supposed to go over there.”

The two of them crossed the grounds, found seats, and watched Bartelmus Starr roughhouse with little kids. Ryan and Noah were dressed for the hot weather, but the sun was still beating down hard at five in the afternoon, and they were a sweaty mess. Finally back to business, Bartelmus approached the boys and read the sticker on Ryan’s gold-and-white striped T-shirt. “181-226-343-442-551.”

Ryan looked down. Only the first six numbers were on it.

Bartelmus broke into a wide grin. He wore a three-piece suit but still looked as fresh as his newly pressed pocket square. Noah nudged Ryan. Bartelmus was making a joke, and they were obliged to laugh.

“Oh, right.” He stood up and towered over Bart, who hugged him around the waist. Then, throwing his arms wide as if to welcome Jesus, he flagged down some men with cameras and scrutinized his clipboard again.

The lights from the cameras lit up Ryan and Bartelmus.

Bartlemus spoke directly to the blinking red light on the first camera. “This is Ryan Wyatt, and he’s ready to meet the judges. Where are you from, Ryan?”

“Right here in Southern California.”

“Specifically?”

“Beverly Hills.”

“And you are how old?”

“Eighteen. Nineteen in October.”

“Whoa, don’t rush it,” Bartelmus chuckled. He winked at the red light on the camera. “We get old too fast, don’t we?”

The middle-aged viewership must love this little leprechaun
.

Bartlemus looked at him, eyes wide. “So, are you nervous?”

Ryan shrugged. “Not really.”

Still seated in his folding chair, Noah spoke up. “He does a lot of karaoke.”

The cameras swung wide to include Noah, dressed in a solid blue shirt and denim shorts, his sandy hair matted with sweat. The pride and admiration he felt for his friend was written all over his sunburned face. Bartelmus took a seat beside him, grabbed his hand, and pumped it. “You’re here for Ryan?”

“Yes. I’m his friend.”

“And your name?”

“Noah. Noah Che—”

Bartlemus didn’t let him finish. He dropped Noah’s hand as though he’d been grasping something unsavory and jumped back up. He grabbed Ryan again and led him to the crouched, concrete building that looked like it was trying to hide from its prey. Bartlemus pointed toward the shiny metal door. The cameras were tracking them.

Bartlemus looked serious, but his words carried a lilt, suggesting hope.

“This is it, kid.”

“This is it,” Ryan parroted. He rubbed his hands together.

“Go get ‘em, and good luck.”

When Marilyn was released from the hospital, she had Tobias drive her straight home, where she stayed in bed, beneath her white goose comforter for days, in a haze of painkillers. On the seventh day, Pia and Tobias stopped hovering, decided she would be OK for a few hours—especially in light of the three new locks on the front doors of their adjoining apartments—and left. That afternoon, however, someone began pounding on the door, and Marilyn jolted upright, her heart battering in terror.

Then, just as abruptly as the pounding began, it stopped.

She opened the door to her bedroom and looked out.

In her purse on the bed, her cell phone rang to the tune of “Diamonds Are A Girls Best Friend”. She answered it.

“Marilyn?”

“Yes?” She didn’t recognize the caller’s voice, which frightened her further.

“This is Tom. The security agency sent me over so you could interview me.”

Still on the phone, Marilyn crept to the front door and peered through the peephole. An impossibly tall man stood there. She couldn’t see his eyes, but he had a strong, square chin.

She noticed a card for Best Bodyguards on the dining room table, and she picked it up, trying to remember what was going on. “I’m gonna hang up and call the agency and verify your identity. What’s your name?”

“Tom Nielsen.”

She disconnected the call and dialed the number on the card. “Did you send a giant to my place?”

There was laughter on the other end of the line before the woman called over her shoulder to someone else in the room. “How tall is Nielsen?”

“The Dunkin’ Dutchman’s evil twin is seven-feet-five-inches,” a woman in the background shouted.

“The Dunkin’ who?”

The woman on the line sighed. “Rik Smits. Indiana Pacers?”

Marilyn shook her head and peeked through the keyhole again. Tom was pacing.

The woman sounded certain. “That’s the guy we sent. Did you forget about today’s appointment?”

Marilyn unlocked and opened the door, and Tom breezed past her as though he was afraid she’d push him out if he stood in the doorway. He stopped in the middle of her white shag rug and looked down. “Uh, my shoes may be dirty.”

Marilyn closed and relocked the door before she crept over to him and looked up. He towered above her and had hair so blond it bordered on white.

She extended her hand. “Marilyn.”

He treated her hand as though it were made of fine china. “Tom Nielsen.”

“I know. The agency sent you.”

He looked around, then at her shirt. “What’s Pink+Dolphin? A rock band?”

She didn’t hear his question. She sat down on the sofa and felt the bandages on her head. “I must look a mess.”

Tom looked down at the waif of a woman, her head swathed in white, both eyes blackened, bandages on her hands, arms, and legs. A wave of pity washed over him.

“I’ve seen worse,” he reassured her, though he knew it wasn’t true.

Ryan had never seen Crann Berry, Deth Mental, or Tamarind Toxic in person before, but here they were, sitting before him at a long table filled with cups promoting StazUp Cola, the drink that promised to keep you awake not only all night but forty-eight hours straight. Deth was the token, hardcore rocker who nearly died by overdosing throughout the sixties and seventies, only to discover rehab and fidelity with one of Hugh Hefner’s pets at the Playboy mansion before the eighties ended. Wearing a full Native American headdress and suede dress for the auditions, he wouldn’t even touch the Staz, though he kept the cup right in front of him per the sponsor’s request. Instead, he waited for breaks and had his assistant serve him green tea, pistachios, and dried fruit to keep him going. He was the hardass on the panel, the one who said what he thought even if it drove contestants to despair, and there were always a few bad singers included in the mix just so everyone could have a good laugh when Deth ripped them to shreds.

Both female judges were current pop stars. Crann was known for her breathy vocals, scanty costumes, choreography, and conquests. Tamarind was known for her weird Sitar wailing, endorsed by Deepak Chopra, Oprah, and New Agers worldwide, and its ability to induce trancelike states. That any of them were suited to judge singing talent was questionable, but Ryan was ready to give them a chance.

“Who are you, lad?” Deth asked as Ryan approached the taped marks on the floor.

“Ryan Wyatt. I’m local.”

“You ever cut any LPs?”

Ryan shook his head.

“You know who you look like, don’t you?”

Ryan nodded. “I do. In fact, I’m going to sing one of his songs for you now.”

“Right, then,” Deth said. “On with it.”

There was no musical accompaniment. The auditions were a cappella.

Ryan stood perfectly still, focused, and then launched into “Heartbreak Hotel”. Immediately, he began to gyrate as his singing resounded off the walls. The three judges were captivated. He needed two yeses to make it through to the live shows. As he finished the last line of the song, Tamarind let out an ungodly shriek of approval and stood up. Her chair tipped, fell, and clattered on the floor.

“This is what we’ve been waiting for,” she screamed.

“Wait your turn,” Crann said coolly. “I get to comment first.”

Deth turned to Tamarind. “She does, you know.”

“Sorry. I couldn’t help myself.”

“Bloody hell,” Deth said. “Why don’t we all save some time and answer in unison?”

As Logan finished each story, he took it upstairs, knocked, and waited for Marilyn to peer through the peephole and open the door. She didn’t go out without Tom anymore, and Logan suspected she and her bodyguard had fallen in love.

Today, he came up to tell her the Susannah Byron and Bruce Cedric layout was ready, and like all the spreads he worked on, he easily imagined himself on the scene with Belle and Graham as they trudged up the hill leading to Laurence Conrad’s Hollywood Hills hideaway, an underground fortress reputed to be eco-friendly. Everyone suspected Susannah and her husband Bruce were experiencing marital woes when he failed to meet her at LAX on her return from Czechoslovakia, where she’d been filming
The Red Agenda
. When Marilyn got word that Susannah had hopped into a taxi and wasn’t headed home, she was certain the actress was on her way to her lover Laurence’s bunker.

“I hear his place is fireproof,” Graham commented, trying to keep pace with Belle, who was twenty paces ahead. “Earthquake proof, too.
The Star
says his place will still be standing in the year 4000.”