City of Angles, page 9
As Vincenza said this, they came to an intersection, and Gary braked the Saab. The stop provided him with an interval in which to swing his head around to her. “You’re in trouble with the police?”
“I’m in trouble, yes. But not with the police. As I say, drive in a circle. You’ll see it’s true.”
They were moving west along Franklin Avenue. The streets bisecting it, running up the surrounding hillsides, were flanked by elegant, three-story homes. The greater number had sloping driveways with metal gates. Around those were entwined branches of bougainvillea and wisteria, or blossoming magnolias. But, taking Vincenza’s suggestion, Gary turned south on North Bronson. This drew them through an underpass of the 101 freeway. Beneath it were tents and mattresses laid out by the homeless: mentally ill veterans and junkies, scrofulous people dressed in soiled sweatpants and ragged hoodies. One held up a tattered cardboard poster asking for money. Another shouted and gesticulated at no one. It was the most pointed demonstration and reminder that the city seemed only to admit of two outcomes: success or failure. She had the sense that triumph and attainment and honors and money and fame were just in front of her, almost beheld. Yet here she was, running away, possibly from the leaders of the Church to which she had devoted herself, and her heinie was placed on the leather seat of a car driven by sex freaks, squalor all about.
Jammed as the underpass was, they had to decelerate, and the minivan pulled up behind them. When the light flashed green, they turned onto Hollywood Boulevard. More homeless could be spotted crawling about, skulking in the alleyways around it, while on their left Vincenza saw a huge polyvinyl skull affixed to the front of a low-slung building: the Museum of Death. A notorious neighborhood tourist haunt, it was an exhibition space devoted to the activities of serial killers, the lowlight of the long block leading to North Gower. Vincenza watched as an obese couple parked on the street. Passing by the gaunt street people, they clambered out of their automobile with feverish looks of anticipation, rolling forward towards the museum’s entrance. They were there to study its meticulous displays on the activities of cannibalistic murderers.
Nothing was said by Gary and Fran as they went by. They wanted to pretend that none of this existed. What was harder to ignore was the continued pursuit of the bronze minivan as they flipped back to the right, passing once more under the freeway, wending their way towards their home, which was on a hillside street off Franklin Avenue.
Fran was the one who spoke. “I guess you’re right,” she said. “He does seem to be following us. You have any idea why?”
Vincenza nodded, but did not explain.
“Are you in danger?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re running away from someone? Aside from your acting, are you…” Fran hesitated before asking the question.
Vincenza knew what her suspicion was and finished the sentence for her: “An escort?”
As Fran gave her a responsive if embarrassed expression, it occurred to her that this was a far more plausible explanation for her state of affairs than the actual one. If she were being hounded by a violent pimp, she was in a situation that might inspire their sympathetic offers of assistance, perverts though they were.
She did not even have time to confirm that this was the case before Fran planted both of her hands on her cheeks, taking in the horror of the imaginary predicament. “He beats you?”
Much as Vincenza had been hit by her stepfather, and well-trained as she was in the art of the memory exercise of “substitution,” she had no trouble summoning real tears. Brushing these away with feigned shame, she looked at them as they parked in the driveway of their house. Her eyes said it all: They weren’t really going to proceed with this tawdry scheme of theirs to make joint use of some combination of her orifices? They were going to help her, weren’t they?
She watched as the couple exchanged looks with one another. They had mentioned on the climb up to the Observatory that they were vegans, and, like her, they worried greatly about climate change. Perhaps they were not the monsters that she feared. Their faces told her that they wanted very much to believe that they were good people. Yes, they would help her. They were obligated to. If there was disappointment that they were being deprived of what must have been akin to a seven-course gourmet tasting menu, there was an awareness that someone else was hungry and needed the meal more.
“We do think you’re quite lovely, Vincenza. Exquisite, in fact,” Gary said, “but perhaps this is not the moment for what we’d talked about.”
Watching them smiling warmly at her, the actress had the odd sense that they felt it was important to affirm that they wanted to have the threesome with her as she was “exquisite.” In their minds, it seemed, her confidence so needed bolstering that they had to let her down easy. They weren’t rejecting her. They just wanted to focus on this first task of getting her free from her mack daddy.
“So,” Fran said, extending a hand, placing it gently on her shoulder, “what can we do to get you away from him?”
She permitted the pair to engage in a mutual embrace, while wiping another droplet from her face. Then she composed herself and outlined a strategy to employ. The first matter was for her to get back her automobile. Then she had to go to a friend’s place, somewhere safe she could stay for a day or two. In response to their complaisant expressions, she went on, explaining that they could return to Griffith Park to pick up her car, and then they could use the Saab to block the minivan as she drove away.
Moments later, she found herself an ecstatic observer of her own life. For the plan worked precisely. Yet, as she departed, what was most in her mind was something Gary said as she used her car keys to send the signal, opening its door locks.
“You should give us your number,” he observed, “so that we can do that—assuming, of course, that we could work something out, and we wouldn’t have to pay your regular rates. I mean, as we hadn’t known that you charged.”
She assured them that appreciative as she was for what they were doing that a discount was in order. Then she shook his hand and drove off. Once in the car, though, she began to wonder if she might have a bottle of hand sanitizer about.
Chapter 14
Todd Gelber suffered from an ailment that afflicted many male Hollywood executives. Through his power and rank he had managed to attract a woman of undeniable beauty, and all through their courtship she had shown him how much she worshipped him through passionate lovemaking. It was almost ceaseless, and on the nights when she was weary of intercourse or incapable of engaging in it, she took self-evident joy in pleasing him in other ways. He had never been so sated. Her eyes were always seducing him, thrilling him, intoxicating him, and when they went to restaurants or film premieres her hands were wrapped around him. If intellectually he understood that a woman might be drawn to him for his money and his position, he did not feel that with her. She adulated him. This marriage was going to be different. She didn’t care about the home he lived in or the car he drove. He knew this for a fact.
But no sooner had they returned from their honeymoon then he had learned that she was pregnant, and from that point on sex was a scarce commodity. In a typical month they made love a single time during the first week, then once more towards the end. The number of her reasons for avoiding sex had proven to be as various as the positions in the Kama Sutra, if significantly less satisfying. In the winter she would refuse him if he had a cold, even one she had given him. In the summer, she was sickened by the air-conditioning. In the spring and fall, she had unbearable headaches. She did not work and had a maid and a cook, but she complained that she had no time. That compelled her to lodge herself away from the bedroom when he was about to go to sleep. Naturally, once he was unconscious, she was able to finish her vital tasks. Yet she was masterly at appearing to be an adoring spouse, and hardly anyone suspected the extent of his dissatisfaction.
Charles Tasker was one of the few friends whom Gelber felt comfortable talking with about this. A veteran director known for his trilogy of werewolf movies, he was someone Gelber could open up with as he had been the victim of an even worse confidence game. Tasker had married a notorious former fashion model and actress, a woman who had managed to earn a reputation for sleeping her way to the top in two industries. He had wed her with full awareness of how imperfect her past had been but with the absolute conviction that the wild adulterous sex they had on their film shoot would continue. The realization that he, too, had been placed on a starvation sex diet was galling. So Gelber felt less aggrieved when he was in Tasker’s company. At least his wife was respectable and warm. Tasker’s was a rancorous tramp.
They sat across from one another in a beloved Jewish delicatessen, one block from Rodeo Drive. Flanking them were bottles of cheap yellow mustard and Heinz ketchup, along with the most ordinary flatware and paper napkins. These were displayed on laminated imitation wood tables, bare of tablecloths. It was the sort of place whose sole appeal lay in its hominess and familiarity and its status as an industry landmark.
As they were both famished, they ripped into their dishes, eating as they gabbed, talking from the sides of their mouths. While Gelber felt that he could speak more frankly with his friend about his marriage, he had to be careful, even sneaky, with regard to his purpose in seeking out Tasker’s presence: the Tom Selva indie picture which people were chattering about.
His plan was simple. He wanted to be in a position to buy the film before it hit the indie circuit, so that he could bury it. That would satisfy Selva’s agent and perhaps the actor himself, when he saw it in its finished form. This would be a chit—or a blunt-force instrument—of undoubted value. But to gain hold of it he needed to employ a measure of stealth. For if others suspected his intentions they might bid on the movie as well.
To implement the plot he had to befriend one of the two women producing the film, winning her trust. Tasker knew her from the Church of Life. That was key. Gelber needed to use this connection. The aim would be to make Tasker believe that he wanted to be introduced to Vincenza as a potential mistress. Simply put, he had to seem like he wanted to screw Vincenza Morgan personally when what he wanted was to screw her professionally. Yet he couldn’t have Tasker going around saying that he was finding mattress mates for him. This was the age of #MeToo, and he had gained his job because his predecessor had been ousted for making improper advances.
Regardless, he wondered: How did you go about indicating an interest in a struggling actress you did not know without tipping off your acquaintance regarding your real concern, her attempt at recreating a John Cassavetes’s film from the days of wide ties and leisure suits? There had been times in meetings when Gelber had impressed himself by his talent for misdirection. This, though, required finesse and sleight of hand greater than that shown by a magician who hides a ballfield from the spectators sitting in it.
It seemed to him that the trick was to bring up Vincenza’s chest in the context of a photo he had seen of Tasker standing alongside her at a Church function. He had known men who were connoisseurs of fake breasts. If he pretended to be such a character, then this could be the ploy by which to bring up his desire to meet Vincenza. Yet, granted the present temper of the business and the compact position of the tables in the delicatessen, he had to speak in a low voice.
To enter into the specifics of the matter, he told Tasker that he had seen Salma Hayek a few nights before, and he had been reminded of how beautiful her figure was—allowing that he was sure her breasts were enhanced. He said this leaning forward as he spoke, if taking care not to spit the corned beef hash he was wolfing down.
“I think someone told me they know her plastic surgeon, the one who did them,” Tasker responded in a tone of considerable seriousness.
Apparently, this was not a matter to joke about.
“But this isn’t anyone that Vera goes to?” Gelber said, referencing Tasker’s werewolf-slaying spouse.
Tasker shook his head as he devoured part of a sunny-side egg. Then he glanced about to be sure no one was listening to them. “Vera’s had hardly any work done. And hers are real. You know that.”
Gelber smiled appreciatively in response. If nooky shortage was a refrain of their dialogues, he was compelled to acknowledge Tasker’s wife’s physical grace.
Pausing, Gelber stuffed his mouth with more of the hash. Then, having consumed the chunk, he entered into the matter which had inspired him to propose the meeting, which was not to listen to Tasker pitch him on a revival of his series of werewolf epics.
“I spotted you in a Church photo. You were alongside a gorgeous brunette, an actress, who must have had augmentation. I think her name was…” He hesitated, affecting uncertainty. “It was something funny. Vincentia, was it? No, Vincenza. You know her?”
Tasker blinked his eyes in agreement. “You want to meet her? I’m pretty sure she’s single.”
Gelber was surprised by how easy it had been. “I mean…you understand. We’ve talked about this. Sonya is great with the kids…it’s just that…of course, I can’t and wouldn’t do anything where I’m doing anything like offering parts. Or putting pressure on anyone.”
“Of course. Naturally. I’ll see what I can do. This isn’t about business,” Tasker said. “We’re friends. You don’t owe me anything.”
The way Tasker said this reminded Gelber that he had no real friends in the business, and Tasker would be bound to remind him of the debt. He also had to bear in mind that the Church of Life could be a formidable enemy.
The rest of the breakfast was composed of Tasker’s detailed descriptions of the plots of follow-up lycanthrope pictures and the part that his wife Vera might play in these movies. As Gelber listened, he was saddened by the awareness that Tasker was still in love with his wife, as shabbily as she treated him.
Chapter 15
“She had arranged to meet the people at Griffith Park. We don’t know who they were yet or how she knew them. But she had obviously made plans to hook up with them there, and they talked the whole way up the mountain. They knew to keep us at a distance. After that they tried to slip away out on the roads. Then they cut us off when she went back to the park to pick up her car.”
Clarkson was sitting in his seventeenth-floor office in Thai Town, and he was listening to a progress report from one of his aides, who was doing everything possible to avoid accepting blame for what had happened: For a second time, they had lost track of Vincenza.
The assistant was an embodiment of both the good and the bad of what he had to work with as the resident housecleaner of their new faith. On occasion, he had employed private detectives, the sort of people who specialize in surveilling unfaithful spouses and then filing reports on the co-respondents in divorce proceedings. These men—and they were always men—were usually competent, but you had no way of knowing what their ultimate intentions were. When you spoke with them, you felt their shiftiness. You sensed their absence of loyalty the moment they began talking and often before that. You saw it in their eyes and in the way they held themselves. You knew that they might be cooking up a scheme. And as he had so little confidence in their motives, Clarkson did not even feel comfortable permitting them in the Church headquarters building as he had the instinct when they walked around that they were sleuthing, eyeballing the site to some other purpose.
Of these aims, there were many, and you had to bear them in mind. Might they switch over to the role of extortionist? Would they feed a portion of what they learned in your employ to a website devoted to celebrity gossip? You could not be sure what they were up to. They would keep their own files on a case. They would not hand these over. What was more, there was only so far they would go for the Church. While Clarkson knew of at least one detective agency in Hollywood that had planted evidence and made threats on behalf of its movie actor and talent agency clients, his experience was that they would not perform these tasks for the Church—and couldn’t be relied upon if they said that they would.
His assistants, on the other hand, were men of absolute fidelity. They were believers. What varied widely was their level of ability, how adroit they were. He had a team of seven—three men and four women—whose business was dealing with the reputations of those who left the Church and then criticized it. The greater part of their work consisted of media relations. There were many reporters who made use of what they provided them from their files. During Church counseling sessions, adherents frequently discussed their sexuality and the more unfortunate events of their childhood. This was enough to destroy many a tough guy actor. The growth of the #MeToo movement offered suitable material for decimating the reputation of directors, producers, and studio executives, and all of his aides employed in this area were adept. More than once, he had sat in on their conversations with journalists and thought to himself that he could not have done the work as well himself. They knew the arts of allurement, and there had been cases in which members of the team had moved past flattery and cajolery to the more explicit kind of seduction—and from that to blackmail of the reporters. They had used these techniques, as well, for manipulation of the tax authorities.
What he lacked was competent deputies who could handle duties like those required in Vincenza’s case. These ranged from this mere task of keeping tabs on a woman so she might be confronted directly to less savory, but necessary, deeds. None of the four men he had for this category of activities had proven reliable.
The person addressing him was the least capable. Clarkson was struck by the fact that he spoke almost without pause, expressed himself precisely, and displayed a remarkably handsome face with dimpled cheeks and a manly jaw. If he had never gotten past playing the owner in a pet food commercial, he seemed on first glance as though he were born for leading-man parts in soap operas. His name, Cliff Stoop, fit. It was half-right, just as he always seemed to be. One reason he had not made it as an actor was his voice. Much too high, it made you wince. He sounded like a parakeet expertly imitating a man. The effect was made worse by his reflexive habit of smiling, trying to charm whomever he was speaking with as a cover for whatever ineptitude he had demonstrated.
