Babylon Confidential: A Memoir of Love, Sex, and Addiction (14 page)

I remember Gary saying to me, “Isn’t it funny that we’re married? You’re not my type at all. I like leggy blondes with big tits.”

Prior to me, Gary had had a long list of lovers including Season Hubley (Kurt Russell’s ex-wife), the producer and notorious cocaine addict Julia Phillips, and Priscilla Barnes, who’d played nurse Terri Alden in
Three’s Company
.

Gary’s writer’s block started the same day a seven-figure IRS bill arrived in the mail, courtesy of another ex-lover, Maria Cole, Nat King Cole’s widow. When Gary was married to her he’d made the incredibly stupid decision to cosign some tax papers, which put him on the hook for millions of dollars of tax debt.

The only way for him to clear the debt was by writing more big-budget scripts, but the creativity needed to accomplish that was smothered by the depression that settled over him. He’d stare for hours at a blank monitor, type a few lines, and then delete them in frustration. I’d try to do nice things for him to cheer him up, but when he was in those moods he was an inconsolable asshole. After I got my head bitten off I stopped trying and would just leave him to stew until he came out of it on his own.

I pushed Gary to take antidepressants, but he gave up after a few weeks, claiming that he didn’t want to be addicted to anything. I switched tactics and suggested that we try ecstasy. He got some from Julia Phillips, I think, and it was really high-grade stuff. We made love and talked and cried. It was wonderful. On Monday morning he was back to being an asshole. Unfortunately, you can’t take ecstasy every day of your life.

Despite our money trouble and the stress that came with it, we did have our happy times, especially during our first year together. When the writing was going well and it looked like he might sell a script Gary would revert to the exciting, outgoing guy I’d married.

It was during one of these periods of relative marital calm that other turbulent relationships in my life would come to the fore.

One friend would betray my trust, while another bond that I thought was lost forever would be redeemed.

My relationship with Lana had always been a problematic one. After her performance at my wedding, which had all but ended my relationship with my friend Christine, Lana set her sights on Gary. I don’t know whether it was because she was still bitter about the wedding or whether she just wanted what I had, but when we’d attend the same parties she’d sidle on up to Gary and start flirting. Despite the fact that Lana was the leggy, blond, big-titted type, Gary was a faithful partner and when she didn’t take the repeated hints that he wasn’t interested, he told me.

For me, it was the last straw. I’d taken her to the South of France, let her live in my house rent-free, and loaned her thousands of dollars that she had never repaid. We’d starred in the same kinds of TV shows, we’d started out in our careers together, but Lana’s optimism, her dreams that she would make it as a big-time actress, hadn’t materialized to the point that she was self-sufficient. She was always relying on friends to prop her up. I told her to get lost. We stopped speaking.

The next time I saw Lana was at her funeral.

I’d heard that Lana was struggling. She’d broken both her wrists while entertaining at a children’s party, had been fighting an addiction to booze and painkillers, and was struggling to keep her apartment in Venice Beach. Worst of all, she’d turned forty. As far as Hollywood is concerned, the day a woman turns forty, she is magically transformed into Methuselah and is suddenly unemployable.

On February 3, 2003, after working a shift as a hostess at the House of Blues, Lana went home with Phil Spector, the intense, weasely-looking guy who’d produced records for a host of famous artists and bands: from early R&B groups like the Ronettes, the Crystals, and the Righteous Brothers to the Beatles, John Lennon, Tina Turner, the Ramones, and Leonard Cohen. In addition to being a total fucking nutcase Spector had a history of drink and drug problems as well as a penchant for guns. He’d previously threatened five women at gunpoint—Lana was the sixth.

He shot Lana with an unregistered blue-steel .38-caliber Colt revolver. When the police carried Lana’s body out of Pyrenees Castle (Spector’s mansion in Alhambra, California), they took with them Spector’s nine other guns, fragments of Lana’s teeth and fingernails, her leopard-print purse, and her false eyelashes.

At the time of arrest Spector was on seven different prescription drugs.

It was a horrible way to go. Even worse, the fame that she had sought in life found her in death, though not in a form that she would have hoped for.

Her name, her clips, and her photos were screened on news and entertainment programs around the world. They referred to her as a B movie actress, and instead of vilifying Spector, they cheapened her. Leaked photos of her dead body appeared on the Internet. HBO began developing a film about Spector’s prosecution that is being filmed at this writing, scripted and directed by David Mamet and starring Al Pacino as Spector and Helen Mirren as the prosecutor.

It’s like
Faust
, a deal with the devil where you get what you’ve always wanted, your greatest desire, but it comes at a terrible price and in a cruel and twisted form. I wonder how much Spector will get for the movie. I don’t suppose it matters—he won’t have time to enjoy it. Phil Spector was sentenced on May 29, 2009 to nineteen years to life and was incarcerated in the California Substance Abuse Treatment Facility and State Prison in Corcoran.

Now for the redemption story.

Not long after I had my falling out with Lana, I was following the Gulf War on TV with Gary when I had a sort of psychic flash. I had an overwhelming urge to go to Hamlet Gardens, the upmarket spinoff of the Hamburger Hamlet restaurant chain.

Gary tagged along with me, somewhat bemused. We stood in the lobby for ten minutes.

“You still haven’t told me what this is all about. Why are we standing around like a couple of chumps? I should be home working on my script.”

“Just stand here with me. Wait with me.”

I could feel that something was going to happen. Spiritual currents run through my family; we’re an intuitive bunch, especially the women on my mother’s side.

After Patrick’s death, my mom and I would sometimes see him hovering above our beds. She’d see him as a little boy, I’d see him at the age he was when he died.

And when I was seventeen and moving up to L.A. for the first time, I had a bad accident, and the family gift reared its head again. I was in the fast lane on the 101 when some Mexican guys in a van pulled up beside me and started catcalling in a mix of Spanish and English. My family had spent a little time at my grandfather’s house in Cuernavaca, Mexico after Patrick’s death, and my brothers and I would go and hang out with the local kids. We learned how to sell iguanas on the roadside to make pocket money, along with the most important words in any language—the rude ones. I was driving this crappy Chevy Citation that my dad had given me. It was about as maneuverable as a Sherman tank and ugly to boot. I was getting nervous, not because they were being rude and offensive, but because I was a new driver and really needed to concentrate, so I flipped them off, hoping they would back off and leave me alone. And they did, but not before ramming me with the side of their van and pushing me into the center divider. I hit it at just the right angle to launch my car into the air. The Chevy flipped over and hit five other cars on its flight to the slow lane. By the time it came to a halt it was completely crumpled and I was trapped. My right leg had come out of its socket and my head was swimming. I looked up and saw a bridge over the freeway where people had gathered, hands over their mouths, horrified expressions on their faces. Luckily an ambulance had been traveling right behind me, and its crew saw the whole thing. They used the Jaws of Life to open up the Citation like the cheap tin can it was. A paramedic knelt down beside me as they cut away my seatbelt.

“What’s your name?”

“I don’t know.”

I couldn’t remember anything.

There’s never a shortage of drama in my life. Sometimes it feels like I’m trapped in a soap opera. (Living in Hollywood can do that to you.) Well, here’s the icing on the cake—I had amnesia. I had to go to memory therapy at UCLA after the accident.

They pulled me out of the car, and the ambulance took me to the Queen of Angels Hospital. As I was being rolled into the ER on a gurney I saw a pay phone and remembered that my mom was working at Saks Fifth Avenue in Costa Mesa, but I couldn’t remember her name. I begged the nurse walking alongside the gurney to help me call her. I got through and I was yelling at her and crying.

“I’ve been in an accident. I’m in the hospital.”

That was the only coherent information I managed to get out before the nurse pulled the phone out of my hand, informed me that the doctors were waiting, and hung it up.

I passed out and when I came around it was to the sound of chanting. I opened my eyes. My hospital bed was surrounded by chanting Koreans.

“Nam-myoho-renge-kyo. Nam-myoho-renge-kyo.”

Then I saw a face I recognized: my aunt. Memories came flooding back. She was a Buddhist and had brought her friends along. I remembered that she chanted for money. She’d chanted for a new Volvo and got it. She’d chanted for a real-estate portfolio and it had been granted unto her. I remembered that she was eccentric and funny. Like all the women in our family she had a bent toward the spiritual, albeit tempered by a practical streak.

And then I saw my mom.

“How did you know I was here?”

“I just got in my car and it took me here.”

It might sound strange, but despite the disagreements and feuds that have taken place between us over the years, despite the estrangement and family divides, my mom and I have always shared an invisible, unbreakable bond.

I stood in the Hamlet Gardens lobby and wouldn’t budge, just waiting for something to happen, and Gary was done standing around. He was heading back to the car when all of a sudden my mom came walking out of the dining room, arm in arm with Tre. It was an amazing thing. Somehow I’d been led to her, but if it was a minor miracle it was tarnished by the unavoidable truth that she was still hanging out with my asshole ex-boyfriend.