Trophies, page 45
At dawn, she could hear herself think. It was a time when enough of the world was still quiet and tucked away to allow her to receive the sensation that she was having a private encouragement session with the growing light. For Marion Zane, dawn felt like hope.
And at dawn on this particular day, she felt very hopeful indeed, watching the growing light illuminate the Black Book on the coffee table in front of her.
She’d just finished a conference call with brokers in Dubai, Los Angeles, New York, London, Paris, Rome, Cape Town, Tokyo, and Toronto. All of them had forgone sleep for the call. She’d faxed two selected Black Book pages to each of them, just to whet everyone’s appetite:
The first page featured listings for a strike force in Yemen next to an amazing yodeling troupe from Switzerland (who’d perform anywhere, at any function), next to Yummy Cupcakes, the exquisite Santa Monica custom-order bakery with the fourteen-page menu.
The second page listed the Black Book’s alphabetized directories of categories.
It was a serious table of contents.
The private sale was set to take place next week.
Today’s dawn had convinced Marion that she should do some publicity before the sale. Maya had offered her publicist. And she felt that all the bondo and bodywork the Trophies had compressed into this week for her shouldn’t go to waste. Some buzz might sweeten the bidding.
Marion turned the Black Book over in her hands.
It contained everything a ridiculously wealthy person would want to know. (Especially if one could decode it.) Everything.
Except for private painful secrets, confessed in confidence by her dearest friends.
As she watched the light gently falling on her book, Marion thought about the Trophies and replayed in her mind the looks of relief and gratitude on their faces when they’d read their own entries in the Black Book. (Well, Patti Fink’s expression was a little miffed when she learned that Marion had fabricated her age as thirty-five instead of twenty-eight, but please, it was supposed to be a book of fact not mythology.)
Her dearest friends. Ready to go above and beyond (and bizarre) in her support. Her lifeboat. Marion Zane thought about her dearest friends.
And she wondered which one of them she’d choose to betray.
Even though it was a foggy day, Marion could tell that the sun had fully risen. Dawn was over.
She’d been up all night, poring over every single entry in her Black Book biography section, as if she were combing for nits (thank you very much for the indelible memories, six-year-old Dickie Jr.), determined to find, then hoping to find, and then, finally praying she’d find something, anything, that was a juicer story than the one above:
Maya’s forced prostitution and sterility.
Or Pepper’s tampering with United States attorney’s evidence in an international weapons-smuggling case. And perjury. And conspiracy to obstruct justice. And…
Or Patti Fink, wife of Louis Erhardt III, and murderer.
There wasn’t a single one. Many of the biographies in the Black Book included mitigating circumstances (euphemized or in code, of course), but only Marion Zane knew where those Trophies’ skeletons were closeted. She knew enough to be able to provide evidence and prove that the secrets she’d painstakingly gathered were true:
Wanda had witnessed Patti’s hit-and-run. (Why else did anyone think she kept a maid with a bad back? Patti was crazy. Not stupid.) Any of the private detectives in the Black Book would be able to locate survivors and former patrons of Maya’s brothel in Grozny. And Pepper had told her the exact lines she’d erased. Forensic examination would find what was written underneath.
Los Angeles was going to be Verna’s launch town. Trophy scandals would have local flair. They’d be eaten with a spoon.
Atta girl, now you’re thinking like Verna.
And that was unthinkable.
But the alternative was unthinkable as well. The photos Verna had of her, and they alone, would brand her a freak. (Even though she’d only relieved herself in bushes twice.) And the shots of her swinging a pipe at sixteen-year-olds…
Baba Yaga.
Was she willing to give up Stage III Trophy status?
Her husband?
The hospital? Let’s not forget about that. Desperate efforts this week had turned up another $8 million, but even if they did get the rest of the money, everything would crumble once Marion was exposed as crazy penniless Baba Yaga. Was she ready to give up any other chance to make changes for the better using MAJOR INFLUENCE, now, when she was so close to her goal? Hell, the money was as good as in her hand. Was she ready to give everything up?
No.
She hadn’t sunk to sleeping in doorways, but she’d tasted it. And that’s where she’d end up after she finished serving years and years and possibly years (because she’d really go crazy; it ran in the family) in a rubber room! Judge Eli Volker wouldn’t hesitate this time…
Just when you thought you couldn’t yip anymore…
The Black Book was open to a page that listed a twenty-four-hour worldwide rescue team. They handled anything from lost passports to hurricanes to rebel uprisings. Maybe they could drop her off in New Guinea.
No. No more running.
She was determined to stay a Stage III Trophy. Verna knew all about that determination—from personal experience. That’s why she’d bet the farm on Marion giving up a secret.
Marion too was a well-honed survival machine. Every obstacle that had ever come between Marion Mintz Zane and her own personal agenda had always ended up as roadkill. And information was Marion Zane’s shield and sword. She didn’t get her strength from the Zane downtown property.
Information was her Tara!
It’s all who ya know…
And maybe who ya screw…
79
Sympathy for the Devils
After taking five minutes to allow her eyes to refocus on objects both near and far in the real, that is to say nonvirtual, world (such as Patti’s shirtless twenty-year-old stepson Klaus, who’d just sauntered in to check the connections on her new printer), Marion slipped her readers back on and resumed surfing on her new laptop.
What a difference three days had made! And the Internet! And a world-class publicist! And Marion just couldn’t tear her overstrained eyes away.
It was sort of like watching what happened when someone dumped a bucket of black food coloring into a swimming pool (thanks again, Dickie Jr.). The publicist had selectively leaked a release on the upcoming Black Book private sale to a few key entities. Within a day, every corner of the blogosphere knew of the Black Book sale, and unauthorized Black Book Web sites were multiplying like bacteria. By the end of the second day, even conventional news organizations were commenting on it. By the morning of the third, Marion had been forced to flee Broad Beach by fence-climbing reporters and was now ensconced in Jorge’s currently unoccupied room at the Beverly Park estate (the Hondurans had turned the guesthouse into a nonoppressive sweatshop in order to warehouse and rework Patti’s castoff clothing). Plus, Marion needed to be based in town to handle the action:
The publicist and all of the brokers were getting swamped with inquiries. Two Las Vegas casinos were vying to hold the Black Book sale on their premises. All the auxiliary hype the news was causing was almost freakish. Like the black food coloring in the swimming pool.
When Marion had first gotten wind of the chatter, she’d thought the free publicity coup would turn out to be a favor for Carita Memorial Hospital. But the story that was catching fire rarely mentioned the proposed hospital as it moved up into prime-time mass consciousness.
Marion Zane, billionaire socialite hostess extraordinaire, whose extreme connections were about to be put on the auction block was the story.
It seemed that everybody liked the idea of being extreme-connected and living excellently.
It’s all about who you know…
While Marion was reading authorized and unauthorized articles about the Black Book in Beverly Park, six thousand miles away, Ivan was reading the logo on the Izod shirt logo his prey was wearing through a Zeiss scope.
He was on a high Andalusian ridge, overlooking the second of his old partners’ two-thousand-acre rancho near the town of Cortijo Grande, Spain. Steadying himself on a stump, Ivan reset the bolt of his Mauser SP66, held his breath, and squeezed, wondering if his marksmanship skills were as proficient as they’d been in his mercenary days.
They were.
Back in Beverly Park, Marion stopped surfing to open her latest e-mail and learned she had less than an hour to pack for Chicago.
Good.
The Black Book story needed to be directed back to the hospital. Back to the fact that people living within blocks of Los Angeles City Hall did so without available trauma care. Friggin’ refugee camps were better equipped!
And it was happening all over America. This wasn’t an issue for MAJOR INFLUENCE, it was an issue for EXTREME MAJOR INFLUENCE!
Marion Zane was going on Oprah!
What a difference three days made.
Three days ago, Maya’s publicist had become Marion’s publicist. Because Marion, not Maya, was going to be paying the bills. Because three days ago, Marion had received access to the million-dollar checking account Verna Hale had set up for her. Because Marion had made a deal with the devil and had become a devil herself.
Three days ago, Marion Zane had caved.
But don’t forget: she’s our devil!
She wasn’t proud of what she’d done. Ivan would have never approved. But this time Ivan wasn’t around to “take care of things.” Well, actually, he was taking care of things, ironically enough, by not being around.
Anyway, inexcusable or not, time had run out. Simple as that.
That ol’ MAJOR INFLUENCE’s got me in its spell!
The Oprah broadcast was going to air three days before the Black Book sale. The Black Book sale was going to take place three days before the zoning hearing.
And the zoning hearing would have one fewer supporter present. (Possibly three.)
80
Being Professional
“Could you hold the child a little tighter? He’s not made of glass.” No, not glass, thought Maya. The squirming little one she held against her barely concealed breasts felt radioactive. And delicious.
She was shooting an ad for a new Lancôme perfume launch that was aimed at young mothers who had no intention of going the matron route.
What better way to say “I’m still a wild fuck” than to wear a perfume advertised by Maya, buck naked, except for five-inch Azzedine Alaia (master of fuck-me) pumps, holding a naked baby whose foot barely covered her Brazilian-waxed pubis and whose arms were provocatively squashing her abundant tits?
The baby’s name was Max and he had just downed a bottle. He was groggy and sweetly compliant. Or, as the photographer put it, “Who wouldn’t be?”
Maya loved holding the baby. She hated that she loved holding the baby. She hated that her baby yearning was so strong she thought she might break in half. So strong.
There was a time when she’d actually felt lucky. When she saw other models go through the pain and hassle of arranging abortions because their asshole boyfriends refused to wear rubbers, or when they suffered horrible infections from botched IUDs.
Now she wanted a baby as much as she wanted to breathe. And she didn’t want to lose Tom. He didn’t want to adopt. Wouldn’t hear of it. Because he loved her, he wanted a baby made out of them.
How much would he love her if he found out she was a lie? How much would he love her when he found out that she’d allowed him to believe the myth her first agent concocted: that she’d been “discovered” in a Russian orphanage. How would she explain the damage to her womb when the fertility doctor checked her out at the appointment Tom had made for them? The appointment that was in two days…
Tom was going off on location after that. With a young, ripe leading lady. The girl was a lousy actress, but that wasn’t her true profession anyway. She had a well-publicized history of carving men away from girlfriends and spouses. The gossip rags called her “The Chain Saw.”
At any other shoot, Maya would have told the photographer to “fuck off” for telling her how to do her job. At any other shoot she might have thrown a light stand or two. But he was right: she was resisting and it was showing. But if she gave in, she might not be able to hold back. That was her predicament.
Still, this was work. And Maya was the best. And resisting the urge to luxuriate in cuddling Max was like trying to hold off a wave or a swollen summer rain cloud…
After the session, Maya lunged for her waiting vodka shot. She had bit through a huge section of her inner cheek in order to hold back her agony and she didn’t want it to get infected. She was damaged enough already.
81
This Ain’t “It”
“Nope, nothing tomorrow,” Craig sniffed, over the bad connection. “At least the publicist and I have nothing scheduled. So aside from dinotopia on Tuesday, you’ve got the week off.”
“Dinotopia?”
“The Society for the Preservation of Historical Homes. You’re the only board member under seventy-two. You can style yourself for that one too, Eddie. Those gals can barely differentiate between light and shadow.”
“What about night events?” asked Claire, still amazed that her normally manic schedule had opened wide. “Are you sure there’s nothing?”
“Nope. Nothin’ shakin’. And that’s a good thing, Eddie, because my advice, if you ever decide to take my advice again, is to lay low. You went out on your own and now you’re paying the price.”
Craig was still furious that Claire had dared to wear Nicky’s pink coat in public. Claire had to admit there had to be some sort of connection between the two occurrences, because ever since the garden party, the invitations had dried up.
And the red carpet incident at Billy’s movie premiere had been beyond embarrassing. When the photographers had asked for a single, she’d let go of Billy’s arm and posed. Then the photographers had motioned for her to get out of the way. They’d wanted a single of Billy, not her.
“Craig, you have to believe me, I was cold,” Claire attempted to explain for the hundredth time.
“And now you’re not ‘it.’ You know, you still don’t really get what you’ve done, Eddie. Your restoration is going to stress every single ounce of my styling-muscle fibers to make you ‘it’ again. I’m going to have to train and take supplements because my body isn’t prepared for the strain. So do me a favor and stay at home for two weeks, under your bed, with the curtains closed, while I figure this out. Capeesh?”
And then Craig hung up.
Out of the game.
And out of the family. Then again, she had never really been “in” to begin with.
Claire decided that Craig’s call was pretty much confirmation that her new-er strategy, a secretly renewed stronger Xanax prescription, wasn’t working at all. (In fact, no amount of meds would have been enough for her that day.)
When Claire saw the girls and Billy in the den, and the coffee table brimming with goodies, she assumed that Billy had brought home a movie and had decided to join them in watching it. And when she saw Brooke starting to shut the door, she called out, “Hold up! You’ve got a straggler!”
Brooke had looked at her like she was a complete stranger.
“We’re having a family meeting,” she announced, adding (in case Claire was thick), “That means family only.”
Trying to catch her husband’s eye, Claire only managed to get a glimpse of the smile across Katia’s muzzle before the door was shut in her face.
And the lock was turned.
She was in the bathroom reading her PDR (sorry, Maya, but my life is scarier than your threats) when Billy came in with the meeting results.
“Cookie, we had a discussion and, um, well, I need you to do the girls a favor. Actually, me a favor too.”
“Sure, Billy, anything you want. I’m your girl!” she’d answered as sweetly as possible, thinking that they’d wanted their lunch boxes cleaned out again. Or another load of towels. Lately, Claire, under the influence of her secretly renewed stronger strategy, had concluded that maybe menial domestic work was the new way to win her stepdaughters’ hearts.
But her husband’s request required a different kind of cleaning.
“Since Pam, uh, my ex-wife, lives a minute away, I mean, all girls need their mothers a lot, and since my ex has unlimited visitation rights, we think she should, uh, be allowed to come here, if they need her.”
This request, due to the influence of Claire’s secretly renewed stronger Xanax prescription strategy, required that she take a moment to think before responding:
Wow. The evil queen wanted to storm the castle and the prince wanted his princess to lie across the threshold like a damn welcome mat while he lowered the drawbridge. That wasn’t in the fairy tale.
She should say no.
And yet…
It could be a way to draw her and the girls closer together. If her stepdaughters saw her being gracious to their mother, they’d have no excuse to think of her as an enemy. And frankly, she had been wanting visual proof that the woman existed. So it wasn’t entirely the influence of Claire’s new stronger strategy that had made her say:
“Of course, sweetheart, I think it’s a great idea.”
Billy had blown out a grateful sigh and had even kissed her forehead.
“Great! Thanks, Cookie! What a relief! Because you know how Pam gets. I was getting ready for a shit storm! You’re the best!”
Then he reached for his wallet.
“I have no idea how long she’ll be, so why don’t you catch a movie? And here’s something in case there’s time to eat.”
