Trophies, page 7
“Three. Six, nine, and thirteen. They’re adorable. You have children?”
“Six, five, four, two, an’ ten months.”
Pepper’s pancake-flat belly wasn’t lost on Claire. “Maybe our sixes could playdate?” she asked.
“Your six is a masochist?”
Patti, meanwhile, was reviewing the list on her wrist. “I’ve got two fourteens, two fifteens…oh, here’s a sixteen.”
“Is it hard raising twins?” Claire asked.
“Huh? I don’t have any twins,” said Patti. But she checked her wrist again, to be sure.
“I fucking hated his ex-wife,” offered Maya.
“Beg your pardon?” Claire gulped.
Marion excused herself.
She stepped out the kitchen side door, looked around, and suddenly regretted never having dropped acid in her youth. She had no excuse but to accept the scene before her as reality.
In the service driveway, Jack Powell was scowling at some guy in a too-tight jacket.
Ivan was handing Too-Tight-Jacket cash.
A lot of cash.
“I take it this man’s not your cabbie,” Marion announced.
When he saw her, Jack Powell shimmied like he wished to disappear, making Marion think of a Star Trek episode when the transporter wasn’t working. Jack finally managed a politician’s grin but couldn’t find his voice.
(So many deer tonight.)
Before she could get out a good sailor’s curse, Ivan gestured toward Too-Tight-Jacket. “This individual is a business associate of Mr. Powell’s and he’s blackmailing him for fifty thousand dollars in exchange for a disk which contains incriminating digital images which could deep-six his senatorial—”
“Marion, I was set up. I had no idea—” Jack protested.
“Images of what?”
“Gambling,” barked Jack.
What a crappy lie. Internet guys were supposed to be creative.
“It does not matter,” said Ivan in his soft German accent. “This individual is now paid off in cash and we will deposit this reimbursement check from Mr. Powell in the morning. Mr. Powell is going to go inside and stop embarrassing his fine hosts, and this individual whose name you do not wish know is going to hand over his home movie and vanish back into the shadows from whence he came.”
On cue, Too-Tight-Jacket handed a memory stick to Ivan. Jack clutched for it, but Ivan tucked it in his inside breast pocket. Jack immediately looked for something to do with his hands.
Nobody ever argued with Ivan. It wasn’t physicality; he was barely six feet and trim. And his face was more male model than bouncer. Yet when he was serious, most people went docile. She’d seen trainers who brought vicious dogs to heel with the same effortless, dominance mojo. Pepper always said men were dogs.
“I will destroy this immediately,” announced Ivan.
“What if he made copies?” mewled Jack.
“He will not because he knows I will find him.”
Too-Tight-Jacket twitched, blinked, and made for the gate.
What had he recorded Jack doing? Marion wondered. It had to be sex. The guy didn’t look clever enough to deal drugs, let alone document bribery or fraud.
“I apologize for the delay, Mrs. Zane,” Ivan told her. “The reception can now proceed as planned.”
“Thank you for taking care of this, Ivan.”
“You don’t want to know.” Ivan turned to Jack. “Please return to the party, Mr. Powell; there are many guests waiting to hear why they should give you their money.”
Marion latched a steel grip on Jack Powell’s arm and steered him away. Jack stopped outside the kitchen door.
“Marion, I never meant for you to—”
“Yes, I regret it too, Jack. And I’m certainly not going to press you for the ugly details, but I am going to tell you that if you are ever so pathetically stupid as to engage in anything that could compromise your election and our stellar endorsement again, I’ll personally see to it that you get elected as chicken-head latrine bitch of L.A. County Jail. Now get your ass inside and stop embarrassing my husband.”
Mumbling something about “freshening up,” Jack dashed off, dodging past the kitchen staff like a tailback.
(Ugh. Thank God for Ivan.)
If anyone deserved a three-month vacation, it was him.
Marion and Ivan’s stars had first crossed when she and Richard took her stepkids to Guatemala for a tour of Tikal with Conservation International. They were staying in the jungle, at a charming camp that also served as a way station for injured animals; taking meals in the company of gorgeous tame parrots and toucans and touring the majestic temples and plazas with renamed experts in the fields of anthropology, primatology, and ethnobotany. When Marion first laid eyes on the dangerously handsome man chatting quietly in German at the camp owner’s table one evening, she naturally assumed there was a fashion shoot going on in the neighborhood. She never dreamed he’d been summoned as protection from ex-paramilitary groups who had no civilian skills aside from kidnapping for ransom. That sort of thing only went on in Colombia or Mexico.
The trip had been going as well as expected. Dickie Jr., ten at the time, was thrilled by the excursion and behaving like an angel—they didn’t find out about his theft of the tourist center’s fifteen-hundred-year-old skull until they returned home. True to form, eight-year-old Crystal kept up a constant litany of complaints about the jungle being “too green,” the animals “probably diseased,” and the ruins “totally ghetto” from the moment they landed. When she failed to show up for breakfast on the third day, everyone considered it a blessing and gave thanks to the gods of anorexia. The scene outside Crystal’s hut told another story.
The front door had been smashed into firewood and three men in ski masks and camouflage lay dead on the ground. Two with broken necks, one stabbed through the heart. Ivan was untying the nanny and Crystal was unharmed, hopping around, and delightedly squealing about how “the German dude got medieval on the punks with bad cargo pants.” It was first time the child had smiled all week.
Marion never was sure how Ivan disposed of the bodies and ushered the Zanes straight to their plane without having to deal with local or national police authorities. All she knew was he got them back in time for the beginning of classes after Harvard Westlake’s spring break. No customs, no nothin’. As Crystal said, the man had “mad skills.”
Marion repaid him with a job for life. Ivan miraculously obtained his own green card and citizenship. Marion hadn’t regretted her offer for a moment and never questioned Ivan’s methods of operation. Things just always worked out so well.
As Jack disappeared into the house, Marion realized that witnessing an actual blackmail payoff left her not only pissed and appalled but also a little bit amped, and she decided she had time for one more perfect margarita in the kitchen.
Alone in the driveway, Ivan whipped out a disposable phone, punched a speed-dial key, and gave the party on the other end a detailed description of Powell’s blackmailer and the vehicle in which he departed. As he dictated specific instructions, his dark eyes grew merry and bright.
8
Sunk Ships and Loose Lips
Pepper sneaked into the dining room, where Roger had left her a tray of mini pigs in a blanket. She’d been the chef ’s crush ever since he caught her last Thanksgiving using his turkey baster bulb as a makeshift breast pump. Midchew, she felt a hand on the small of her back, working downward. A fat, tiny hand.
“Mr. Kousakis!” she yelped, spinning away. She was alone with him.
“I apologize for my brusque demeanor earlier, my dear. The Papadopoulos brothers can be quite…difficult. They do not possess the same negotiating skills as their father and tend to make decisions against their own best interests.”
“Meanin’ they won’t raise yer bribes.”
This only made Kousakis grin. So much for her appetite.
“Perhaps you could employ your own skills to persuade your husband to understand that compliance with custom will prove to be to his advantage.”
He was talking to her chest.
Keeping her cool, Pepper leaned down low enough for him to almost get a clear view. Her drawl was pure honey-drip velvet. “You wanna see my skills?”
Kousakis made a stupid face and nodded like a schoolboy.
Pepper took a good down-grip on his tie. The same grip she used on Jed and Cooter when they tried to run in a parking lot.
Lyndy was holding court with a few captive wives in the foyer. The floor was navy-dyed marble, inlaid with a brass map of the constellations. Lyndy chose to stand at the center of the universe.
“…oh, please. Anyone can get their picture in those new faux society magazines. They cater to the vanity of those who think they should have stature and fame merely because they have wealth. I mean, how grotesque. It’s not journalism; it’s commercial exploitation. Those magazines were conceived in order to draw revenue from hawkers of luxury goods placing advertisements. It’s a brilliant concept from a business point of view, but that niche market has contributed to the sorry state we find ourselves in now—where there is no longer any distinction between new money and real class.”
Most of Lyndy’s listeners appeared to have been struck by a sudden, intense interest in astronomy. Except Maya. The editors of those lifestyle magazines had always been kind to her.
“You mean your old California money kind of class, Lyndy?” Maya asked. “There is no fortune in America that did not start with a cheat or a thief. Your family stole land from naked Indians. How classy is that?”
“The Indians? No. No, that land was newly, ah, annexed United States property, or territory. Or whatever they called a piece of land that wasn’t a state yet. Open to homesteading by brave and courageous…home-steader-ing pioneers. Indians held no legal claim. And technically, they didn’t even believe in ownership of any land.”
But the wives had all gratefully drifted into new conversations.
Maya planted a big kiss on Lyndy’s cheek, then joined Tom, who was regaling a group of non-industry types (who’d smile and nod if he recited the phone book) with Marion stories.
“…sometimes courage and sometimes because she just didn’t know any better. One year she ran all the dangerous gossip columnists out of town because she didn’t like the way they picked on her friends. Like Verna Hale. Remember her, Maya?”
Maya nodded and almost felt queasy at the memory of an interview she’d had with the notorious gossip columnist.
An editor had set her up on a lunch date with Verna Hale for a “friendly interview,” friendly like the Spanish Inquisition. Before she could say hello, Verna asked her if she was “boinking” Tom (yes), who was still very married at the time (yes) and kept asking straight through dessert, trying to wear her down. Maya was so scared she had to excuse herself three times to go puke in the ladies’ room.
“…nothing was off-limits,” Tom went on. “She’d do a story on somebody’s kid who was institutionalized or publish doctors’ records. AIDS-test results! Her genius was that she wrote just enough truthful stories to enable her to mix in false ones. People believed her. She ruined marriages, careers; she caused suicides. Honey, you remember that kid-show host Verna accused of making anti-Semitic remarks?”
Maya nodded again.
“He lost everything and jumped off the roof of his accountant’s building. And the story was a lie. In those days, Verna Hale totally owned the gossip market: national column, TV show, and radio. She’d destroy anyone on a whim. The studios were terrified of her.”
“She always wore this heavy gold bracelet,” added Maya. “A wolf ’s head sinking fangs into a rabbit.”
“Giving her an interview made you feel like you were the bunny,” said Tom. “Nobody did jack until Marion hired her own investigators to dig up Verna’s ‘sources’ on the kid-show host and get their confessions. Richard had just bought a studio and local network and she had them feature the evidence until the nationals picked it up. That was the tipping point. People found their balls and started a class-action suit that put Verna Hale out of business.”
“What happened to her?” asked Lucy Wai, who, along with her partner and husband, Satung, had recently crested a hundred million through their exclusive, luxury destination club, Castlespaces.
“Hasn’t been seen in years. Maybe she went to work for Karl Rove,” Tom finished.
There were big guffaws, which quickly died down to uncomfortable silence as the notion sank in. Max Wallert joined the crowd.
“Verna was married to Fred Bowman, the securities king, in my day,” he put in. “Did that gossip thing after he dumped ’er without a dime.”
“You’re kidding?” Tom said. “Verna Hale was a Trophy wife?”
“How do you think she learned her trade?” said Max.
After comfortably dozing in his chair during the entire exchange, Lou Erhardt raised his head. “Verna Hale? I balled her back in ’78…she wasn’t much.”
Lou was an instant hit.
Patti had committed a cardinal sin. She’d left Claire alone with Craig-the-stylist. It wasn’t her fault. She couldn’t help it that national-treasure actress Helen Alexander was wearing an amazing vintage squash-blossom necklace. Patti had been to the Bean Dances at the First Mesa…
Craig had always wanted a young society star as a client. He was tired of being run ragged by manic-depressive underage actresses with thinning malnutrition hair and the eyes of bush babies. There were only so many size zeros available to wear without underpants. And his Trophy wives were worse. Five feet of legs topped off by D-cups—a tailoring nightmare. Those spoiled, giant geishas were already set in their “personal” style. No room for creativity. He was merely their rag gofer.
Claire was a peach-fresh lump of raw clay. One he could mold.
“Mr. Carlip, I read about you in InStyle magazine,” Claire told him.
Meaning she’d missed that horrible Harper’s piece where he was compared to Starbucks, may-that-columnist-burn-in-hell. Yes.
“How would you style me?” she continued.
Craig eyed her like a lion eyed a baby impala. “By leaving you alone. You’re perfect.”
“No, really.”
“Really. Look around you. These broads have been done to death. Like they all came out of the same Vanity Fair layout. But you, Claire, are stylistically courageous.”
“Me?”
This was too easy. He pretended to study her sad little suit ensemble. “A fresh young bride, clad like a blocky Republican matron. It’s genius!” He gestured toward Maya. (Okay, he didn’t actually style her, but dreamed he did, once.) “She’d never have the balls. All she wants me to get her is ‘chic’ and ‘hot’…have you always dressed asexually?”
Claire made a consultation appointment for the next morning.
Marion entered the dining room from the kitchen in time to witness George Kousakis’s head rock back like a bobble doll as Pepper released his tie. The man took off faster than the first customer allowed inside Barneys warehouse sale. Pepper straightened, snagged a white wine from a waiter, cruised over to where Marion was peeking out at the reception, and downed the whole glass.
“What’d you say?” Marion asked.
“Back the fuck off my family or you’ll be readin’ ’bout Natura Thesally on every front page in Athens.”
“That should work.”
“So tell me about her, Marion. Did he get the girl pregnant? Was she underage?”
“Actually, she was leaking.”
“Come again?”
Marion decided to clear up Pepper’s confusion about Natura Thesally.
“Kousakis got his start running black-market oil back in the seventies. One night the supposedly empty tanker he was captaining sprung a leak, so rather than face jail time, he locked the six-man crew belowdecks, set some dynamite charges, and booked off in a Zodiac. He told authorities his mutinous crew was involved in smuggling oil and explosives—and no one was alive to dispute the cover-up. Problem was, when they raised the wreck, only five bodies showed up. Kousakis must’ve been haunted for years thinking that one guy might have escaped and could show up at any time to put him behind bars.”
Pepper grabbed another wine from a waiter. “Okay, I know you got good sources for that Black Book—”
“What Black Book?”
“—but who on earth told you—”
“The sixth crew member of the Natura Thesally. We met Kousakis when we attended this trade conference on Malta last summer and he tagged along with a group for a dinner, on board our boat, Triumphant. Well, the first mate took one look at him and went for a flare gun. Our captain had to confine him to quarters. We didn’t find out for two days that the mate had crewed on that tanker.”
“Shut up! Why didn’t he tell his story to the authorities?”
“As an oil smuggler or a mutineer? Good thing Kousakis didn’t see him or he might have tried to sink our boat too. Anyway, since Kousakis controls a good portion of Mediterranean trade, I decided to file that info away.”
“In your Black Book!”
“Oh, look. Jack Powell’s decided to join us.”
Pepper turned in time to see her husband almost knock the politician over plowing his way toward them.
He was that upset.
“What did you do to Kousakis?” Ari asked. “Don’t play stupid. He joins you for hot dogs, and now he’s my ass boy. Apologizing for bad manners! Saying my brothers misunderstood his position and that all ports in France are no charge. Did you two slip him a drug?”
“Aristotle!” cried Marion.
“Really, babe, it’s all good,” Pepper told him. “You just need to call Marion’s first mate—”
“What?”
Marion chose that moment to bugger off.
Jack Powell was fifty minutes late and just now starting to greet the guests. That meant he wouldn’t commence speaking for another twenty, meaning that the reception was going to go almost an hour longer than expected. His campaign manager was morbidly leaning on Lou’s wheelchair, and the rest of his crew had abandoned the party to snoop around in Marion’s home. The evening was stretching so long Marion caught herself spacing out. For a second she thought she saw Craig-the-stylist helping himself to the pot stickers.
