The Trouble Boy, page 22
“Hi,” I said. “Did you want to talk to Cameron?”
“No,” she said. “I wanted to find out how you’re doing.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “A little tired, but fine. I didn’t get to leave the hospital until four.”
“Yeah, they kept us all really late, too,” she said. “Look, if you need anything—anything at all—just give me a call, okay?”
“Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate it.”
Just before I left that evening, Cameron came into my cubicle.
“I know it may not be the right time to tell you this, but I just spoke with a development person at Miramax about your work. She sounded really interested. I thought maybe the three of us could have lunch in the next few weeks. I know you’ve been working hard on your writing, and believe me, it hasn’t gone unnoticed.”
“That sounds great,” I said. Maybe, just maybe, this would be a situation I could turn to my advantage.
That night, I made plans to meet Jamie and Donovan at a quiet bistro in Chelsea. Donovan was sitting alone at the bar when I arrived. He got up and gave me a hug.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” he said.
“Can we deal with what happened between us?” I asked.
“Yeah, I—”
“Me first,” I said, interrupting him. “I’m sorry I told Jamie. It was inappropriate.”
“Look, the whole thing was just stupid. I mean, it wasn’t stupid that it happened, but I shouldn’t have freaked out. I’m sorry about that. When I said I was disgusted, I didn’t mean about you. I just would have preferred it hadn’t happened in the way it did.”
“I had wanted it for a long time, but I guess you didn’t feel the same way.”
“Toby, I wanted it too. I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t. It’s just that we’re friends. We know too much about each other.”
Why was it that for some people, intimacy meant death for relationships?
I accepted his apology, but I knew things would never be the same between us.
After Jamie arrived, we sat down at a banquette. I ordered a cheeseburger. I needed comfort food.
“So are you going to tell us what happened?” Jamie asked.
I knew I wasn’t supposed to be drinking, but I had ordered a glass of red wine to keep me calm. I took a sip.
“The whole thing was an accident,” I said. “Jordan’s foot slipped and she didn’t know she was in reverse.”
“How bizarre,” Jamie said.
“Why didn’t she stop the car?” Donovan asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It all happened so quickly.”
“Did you have to talk to the police?” Jamie asked. “Was that weird?”
I nodded. “It was okay.”
“Will you have to testify in court?”
“Probably.”
“Do you have a lawyer representing you?”
“No. Why do I need a lawyer?”
“You should have one. For protection.”
“I can’t afford a lawyer.”
“I know someone good,” Jamie said. “I’ll email you a number tomorrow.”
The way the two of them were talking about testifying in court and having a lawyer made me think they didn’t believe me. But I knew I couldn’t tell them the truth.
We finished the meal. My stomach was starting to hurt.
“Do you want to come out with us?” Jamie asked. “We’re going to Starlight.”
“I’m not feeling well,” I said. “I should rest tonight.”
I took a cab home. As I patiently endured the Friday night traffic, my stomach started to turn. As the cheeseburger settled in my gut, I realized I hadn’t gone to the bathroom in more than twenty-four hours.
When the cab got to my apartment, I stumbled out, holding my stomach and hoping it wouldn’t let loose before I got to my apartment. I had only reached the second floor when I couldn’t hold it any longer.
After I cleaned myself up in my bathroom, washed out my boxers, and took a shower, I felt like I had let go of something emotionally as well. Maybe things would sort themselves out. Maybe I would wake up in the morning and find none of it had really happened.
On Saturday morning, I walked to a local newsstand. “Jordan Gardner Smashes Up,” screamed the cover of the Post, with pictures of Jordan and the wrecked car. The story was also featured in a double-page spread in the Daily News and reported in the Metro section of the Times.
According to the articles, all of the victims had extensive scrapes and bruises. Since the point of impact was below the waist, many had suffered broken legs, and one young woman’s pelvis had been shattered. Few of the breaks were clean ones; nearly everyone needed reconstructive surgery that would require lengthy rehabilitation. Of the two women I saw sitting together on the ground, one had lost vision in her right eye and the other had broken an arm. They had both been pushed against the van’s bumper by the mass of bodies.
In all three articles, I was named as the fourth passenger in the car. There were no quotes from Jordan, Ariana, or Cameron, only observations from onlookers at the scene. Witnesses were angry Jordan hadn’t been handcuffed, and that she and the car’s passengers had “mysteriously disappeared” right after the crash, only to emerge ten minutes later to speak with police. “She thinks because she’s a celebrity, she can get away with this,” one victim said in the Times article. “Well, she can’t.”
Incredible details were being thrown around, like the fact that Jordan could face 104 years in prison if convicted on all eleven felony counts; among them were first- and second-degree assault, first-degree reckless endangerment, and driving under the influence of drugs or alcohol, though there was no hard evidence to support the last allegation, since Ariana’s lawyer had made sure Jordan was not given a Breathalyzer test. As a further complication, Jordan had never bothered to get a U.S. driver’s license after moving to the States. She had been released after posting $20,000 bail; the judge set a court date for the beginning of July.
In an attempt to gather evidence, the police had tried to interview employees of the club as well as members of Ariana’s staff, but an informal gag order (that, the articles noted, could be construed as an obstruction of justice) had been slapped on all of them by their employers. Significantly, a witness had noted to reporters that there were no brake lights visible on the car as it raced toward the group.
My phone continued to ring over the weekend, so I pulled it out of the wall again, only plugging it back in occasionally to make calls. One of the messages was from Jordan, making sure I was okay. Another was from Sherry Merrill, who had read about the accident in the LA papers. I left a message at her house to say I was fine.
I couldn’t sleep all weekend. I didn’t enjoy hanging out with my friends on Saturday night, because everyone wanted me to talk about it, and I had to keep telling the same lies over and over again.
On Monday morning, I arrived at the office and greeted the main Eastside Pictures receptionist. She looked at me glumly.
Cameron called me into his office before I had a chance to check my email. Once again, he shut the door.
“First of all, how are you holding up? I’ve been worried about you.”
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“There’s something you should know,” he said. “The girl who lost vision in one eye? She died yesterday morning in the hospital from internal bleeding.”
I sank into a chair.
“I don’t believe this,” I said.
“You realize this makes the charges against Jordan extremely serious,” Cameron said. “She could face life in prison for this.”
“I know that,” I said.
“It’s very important that we all stick with the same story.”
Why was he telling me this? Did he think I was going to go to the cops?
“Of course, Jordan will pay for the girl’s funeral,” he said.
“Like that’s going to make it better?” I said.
“Toby,” he said sharply, “it’s not going to make it better. But there are things one does in this kind of situation, things that are appropriate.”
“I guess there are,” I said.
I left, closing the door behind me.
I checked the news. Stacey Davis was a twenty-four-year-old junior market editor at a fragrance industry trade magazine. She had only recently moved into the city, where she had lived with three roommates in Yorkville. Jordan had already issued a statement expressing her regret and offering to pay for the girl’s funeral. “We don’t want her money,” the girl’s mother told reporters. “She can’t buy her way out of this.”
In a strange way, I felt sorry for Jordan. I knew what it was like to be accused of something. The difference was that Jordan was guilty.
That morning, as I was responding to my email, Cameron came in with a page from Daily Variety.
“Did you see this?” he asked. “Lola Copacabana just sold her life story for a hundred thousand dollars.”
“I was supposed to be part of that project,” I said. “But her agents had someone else they wanted to work with.”
“You know, this transsexual stuff is really hot right now. People are fascinated by it.” He showed me the article. “How far did you get on her story?” he asked.
“I finished it,” I said. “I was just about to send it to her when she cut me out of the deal.”
“You and I should talk about this more.” He motioned me into his office and shut the door.
“Do you think you could revise the screenplay, take out anything specifically about her life—fictionalize it all, basically—and then show it to me?”
Maybe all my work on Lola’s story wouldn’t go to waste.
“Sure,” I said. “I mean, we would have to make sure we weren’t stealing anything from her. But I could change things around. She doesn’t have to be a nightclub performer. She could be a fashion designer or a hairdresser or something.”
“We’ll clear it all with legal ahead of time to make sure there are no problems.” He looked out the window, musing for a moment. “I think a real woman should play her, though, don’t you think? That would be more bankable.”
Before I could say anything, he stood up and shook my hand in a gesture of mock formality. “You, my friend, have your first screenwriting gig.”
I was grateful for it, mainly because I thought it would take my mind off things. Fictionalizing Lola’s life, though it would be more work, could be absorbing. By lunchtime, I had already come up with elaborate scenarios about her life as a child, her sex change, and her eventual move to New York. It was refreshing not to be bound to the truth.
I got another voice mail from Sonia before I left for the evening. Without even thinking, I deleted it.
On Tuesday morning, Cameron asked me if I’d like to join him at B Bar that night. He held up a copy of Time Out.
“Lola’s supposed to be performing. I thought it would be fun to check it out. You, me, Ariana, Jordan, a few other people. You know, distract us a bit.”
I agreed to meet them that evening in the back room.
Later in the afternoon, there was a black envelope on my desk addressed to me. It was an invitation, for me and a guest, to the premiere of Jordan’s new thriller, to be held at the Ziegfeld with an after-party at Flash. As this was a time of crisis, Ariana wasn’t about to deviate from the formula.
Inside the invitation was a note from Jordan: “Toby, I hope you can make it to my premiere. Love, Jordan.” It felt like a six-year-old’s invitation to her birthday party.
I decided I would bring Jamie. Donovan wasn’t going to get off that easily after our fight.
It felt like I was accepting a bribe, but I figured I was free to accept whatever perks came my way.
I looked at the note again and realized the handwriting was familiar.
It wasn’t Jordan’s. It was Ariana’s.
I met Cameron in the back room of B Bar that evening. It was the same Tuesday night party I had attended with Jamie and the boys eight months ago, the same blend of pseudo and real celebrities, downtown freaks, and slaves to fashion. But this time, instead of staring at Cameron Cole from a booth over, I had been invited to hang out with him and his friends.
Jamie had called me earlier to say he and the boys were going to Wonder Bar, but I declined his invitation to join them. I didn’t tell him where I was going to be.
As I checked out the crowd at B Bar, I wondered if I might run into Subway Boy. According to that bar rag, he had come here at least once on a Tuesday night.
Cameron was sitting in a vinyl booth with Ariana, Jordan, and a few other friends of his. One was an underwear model whose supine torso was plastered across every bus in the city and had just made the Out 100; another was a young actor-writer-director who had been nominated for an Oscar two years ago. Everyone was drinking champagne and smoking cigarettes.
Two bodyguards stood next to the booth, watching over Jordan.
Cameron introduced me to everyone and I sat down next to the actor. As a glass of champagne was poured for me, I was unable to think of anything clever to say. I had seen the actor’s films, but I didn’t want to seem like a fan. I realized I needed to relax. They invited you here, I reminded myself. You’re one of them now.
“I want to make a toast to Jordan,” Ariana said. “We all know her premiere is going to be a big success tomorrow night. I’m proud of you, J.”
We all raised our glasses as Ariana gave Jordan a kiss on the cheek.
“What’s the occasion?” said a thin man in a dark suit.
Everyone looked up. It was a famous fashion designer whom I recognized from numerous party pages.
“Jordan’s premiere,” Ariana said, as she got up to give the designer an air-kiss. “Tomorrow night. You’ll be there, right?”
“Do you know my assistant, Toby Griffin?” Cameron asked him.
“I do now,” he said, shaking my hand and giving me a wink. “Ariana, make sure he gets an invitation to the benefit next month.” He smiled at everyone. “I’ve got to get back to David’s table. You kids have fun tonight.”
He disappeared into the crowd.
“Was he talking about David Geffen?” I asked.
“Yeah, he comes here every once in a while,” Cameron said.
“I’ll put you on the comp list for that benefit,” Ariana said to me. “It’s a huge celebrity AIDS thing.”
Out of the crowd appeared a party photographer.
Ariana jumped up to give him a big hug and a kiss.
“Let me get a shot of all of you,” he said.
We all slid close together in the booth.
His camera flashed several times.
He pulled out a notebook and handed it to Ariana. “Can you write down all the names for me?” He looked at me and smiled. “I don’t think I know you.”
Cameron introduced me. “Toby’s a screenwriter,” he said, and the photographer nodded.
Through the crowd, I saw Jamie and Donovan. Compared to my glittery companions, they looked young, inexperienced. Jamie saw me and dragged Donovan over to the table.
“Hey there,” I said.
Jamie looked at my companions and then back at me, confused.
“This is my friend Jamie,” I said to everyone. “And this is Donovan.”
Everyone at the table smiled weakly.
“How ya doing?” Cameron said.
“We’ll be sitting over there,” Jamie said, motioning to a table in the corner.
“I’ll catch up with you later,” I said, and they made their way into the crowd.
“God, your friend Donovan is so hot,” Cameron said, and the underwear model agreed.
My stomach turned.
The music changed from lounge to classic disco. Lola mounted a platform above us and started dancing. She was wearing a black vinyl catsuit.
“She is so outrageous! I love it!” Jordan said.
“She dresses like that all the time,” Ariana said.
“You taking notes?” Cameron said, giving me a friendly pinch under the table.
Another transsexual go-go dancer climbed onto a platform at the opposite end of the room. Her look was early eighties punk, mohawk and all. She had painted a red lightning bolt across her face, the exact color of fresh blood.
The tabloids continued to devour news about the accident. The club’s bouncer gave an interview about the fight he had gotten into with Jordan; the headline in the Daily News read “F*** ing Guido!” In response, the National Italian-American Foundation was urging a consumer boycott of all of Jordan’s films. In a statement released by her lawyers, Jordan denied having made the slur. A spokesperson for the group said if Jordan didn’t apologize for her actions, and specifically for her ethnically motivated insult, the boycott would be broadened to include not just Jordan’s movies but all films released by her current studio.
The lawsuits had also started coming in. Jordan was being sued for a total of $123 million, including $50 million by Stacey Davis’s parents and $32 million by the bouncer. All of the suits charged intentionality in the accident; several asserted that Jordan was drunk or high at the time. Additional lawsuits had been lobbed at Ariana, her company, the nightclub, the City of New York, and BMW.
For the most part, Jordan was unable to leave her Gramercy Park apartment, as photographers were camped outside it around the clock. Bodyguards accompanied her during her few forays out, one for a meeting at Ariana’s office, one on Tuesday evening to B Bar, and one to get her hair cut in preparation for her premiere on Wednesday night. Even for Jordan, Frédéric Fekkai was not making house calls.
On Wednesday morning, there was a report on Page Six about Jordan’s premiere. “Publicity Machine Barrels On,” the headline read. Currently, almost all of Ariana’s clients were sticking with her, the article said, and major celebrity attendees were expected tonight. Celebrities banded together in times of crisis, since they had all been there before. Monica Lewinsky, the article noted, was a definite yes.
