“Yes, it’s very pretty; amazing scenery. And there’s Palenque in the northern Chiapas; it’s a famous Mayan site. And of course, the Chihuahua al Pacifico Railway.”
I couldn’t figure out why Sandra seemed uncomfortable when I’d asked her about Copper Canyon. Was it my imagination or was she trying to steer me away from the topic? And why did Copper Canyon sound so familiar to me? Was it a popular location for indie films? Had I read about it in
People
magazine? Or heard of it in a
Dateline
documentary? I made a mental note to ask Mom if she’d ever heard of it. The name was nibbling around the edges of my mind like a hungry squirrel and I found it hard to concentrate on anything else.
Nick, as usual, came through with the goods. A couple of hours later, I met him at Gino’s for a quick lunch before heading to WYME. Gino’s Trattoria is one of our favorite spots; it’s a cute little place close to the station, just two blocks from the Cypress Grove Gazette building. Nick was waiting for me and had already grabbed one of the popular patio tables.
Gino’s reminds me of that Billy Joel song about an Italian restaurant, with its red-and-white-checked tablecloths and photos of long-dead opera singers lining the walls. The new outdoor patio area is a winner, featuring a handful of cozy wrought-iron tables topped with striped umbrellas in the colors of the Italian flag: red, white, and green. But best of all, the food is terrific, the prices are reasonable, and the service is fast. No wonder it’s a hit with the Cypress Grove business crowd.
Nick half stood up and I waved him back to his seat. He was wolfing down an antipasto tray probably designed for six people and he pushed it toward me when I sat down across from him. I raised my eyebrows at his offering. All that was left was a handful of black olives, half a marinated artichoke, and a few pieces of wilted lettuce.
“How’s the movie biz?” he asked, just as a server, a cute blonde named Terri, plunked a frosty mug of draft beer in front of him. I tried not to look at it too longingly and ordered an iced tea before she darted away. The beer looked tempting but I had a show to do that afternoon.
“It’s crazy making,” I told him. “You know that expression, ‘it’s a nice place to visit but I wouldn’t want to live there’? That’s what a movie set is like. It’s a lot of chaos followed by hours of downtime. Hurry-up-and-wait, they call it.”
“Lola certainly loves it.”
“She does. I was thinking about that today. She loves being on camera, loves being on the set—she practically absorbs the atmosphere through her pores. She always comes home energized, even after a fourteen- or fifteen-hour day. Maybe you have to be an actor to really get a buzz going. I have to tell you, being a script consultant just doesn’t do it for me.”
I filled him in about the Guitar Heroes and my work as a script doctor. “I still can’t believe those yahoos got paid big bucks to write the script.”
Nick’s eyebrow twitched upward. “And that someone actually thought they did a good job.”
“Exactly. Thank God Hank Watson has more sense.”
Nick speared one of the remaining olives before he tried to catch Terri’s eye as she zipped by with a pitcher of lime-colored margaritas. “I’ll tell you my favorite quote about the movie business. Here’s a hint; it’s by William Goldman. You’ve heard of him, right?”
“Of course. Everyone’s heard of William Goldman. He wrote the screenplays for
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
and
Marathon Man
. And he wrote
Adventures in the Screen Trade
. It’s one of the best books I’ve ever read about the movie business.”
Nick smiled. “And after decades in the business, what did he have to say?”
“He said, ‘Nobody knows anything.’ Mom uses that quote all the time. She loves it. It sums it up perfectly.”
Sometimes Mom and I try to outdo each other, coming up with a list of the world’s worst movies. To qualify for a “worst movie award,” the movie has to have truly abominable acting, a weak script, bad casting, and schlock production values. You’d be surprised how many movies make the cut.
“You look at certain movies”—I shook my head helplessly—“and you wonder how they ever got made. You picture a bunch of studio execs sitting around in a Development meeting, saying, ‘What a terrific idea! This will kill! Totally kill!’ And then they find someone crazy enough to put up money for backing and they scramble to get A-list stars onboard, because after all, everyone knows you have to have a name star to carry a movie . . .”
“And sometimes even that doesn’t help,” Nick said.
I nodded. “And then you put together the bad script, the awful acting, and the cornball premise and everyone’s surprised when the movie tanks.” I scrunched my chair over a little. Gino’s was filling up rapidly with the lunch crowd. One of the servers had dragged out another umbrella table and was struggling to set it up next to ours.
Nick gestured with his fork. “Case in point. Here’s one of my choices for worst movie. See if you can top it.” He locked eyes with me. “
The Waterboy
.”
The Waterboy
! That god-awful Adam Sandler movie. This would be hard to beat, but I was going to give it my best shot
.
“
Patch Adams
.”
Nick groaned. “I was going to use that as my first choice.”
“But you didn’t. So that means I’m winning.”
“Not yet, you aren’t.”
Nick’s eyes narrowed in thought. “How about
Battlefield Earth
, which is a close tie with
Armageddon
. I’m giving you two for the price of one.”
I thought about this for a moment. Nick was better at this than I’d thought. “
Glitter
?”
He shrugged. “The Mariah Carey epic? Yeah, that’s got to be up there in the top ten. And how about
A Knight’s Tale
? Do you remember the dry spaghetti shooting out of the jousting rods? The prop guy told everyone it would look really cool on film. It was supposed to look like wood splintering at the moment of impact. And of course, all it looked like was—”
“Dry spaghetti!” A beat. “I loved Keith Ledger, though.”
“
Dirty Dancing
? Remember that line about putting Baby in the corner?”
“Yeah, but I loved Patrick Swayze.” I always hate to pan a movie if I love the star.
“Maybe I just don’t get girlie movies,” Nick said finally. I figured this wasn’t the time to tell him I’d worn out my DVD of
When Harry Met Sally
from playing it so many times.
I glanced at my watch. I needed to find out as much as I could about that mysterious Mexican retreat before heading back to the station. “So tell me everything you know about Copper Canyon.” I fumbled in my purse for a notebook and pen.
“Planning a little Botox or a mini face-lift?” he teased. “I think you’re a little young for it, but it never hurts to start early.” He leaned across the table and patted me playfully under the chin. “Hmm, maybe a touch of tightening would help in the chin area. I think I see a bit of softening along the jawline.”
“You do not!” I started to swat him with my menu and then stopped as his words sunk in. “Wait a minute—plastic surgery? I thought we were talking about a resort area in Mexico.”
“Copper Canyon,” he shot back with a grin. “They’ll do the works. Anything you ask for, face-lifts, acid peels, and total body lifts. A certain star went there for implants, but not the usual kind. She wanted to have a derriere like Jennifer Lopez. They’ll do anything you want there; they’d probably screw your head on backwards, if you paid enough.”
“I hope you’re kidding,” I told him. “You mean Copper Canyon is—”
“The top cosmetic surgery center in Mexico.” Terri drifted by again, and we ordered fast: chicken alfredo for him, spinach ravioli for me. “It’s a mecca for the A-list types in Hollywood.”
“How do you know these things?” I always am amazed at the breadth and depth of Nick’s knowledge; his youthful face and boyish grin are deceiving. He may look like someone’s kid brother, but behind those cool green eyes lies a first-rate mind, always on the lookout for the next big story.
“One of my pals with NBC did a piece on medical tourism last year. Mexico is one of the hottest places, with top docs, or so they say, and the price is right.” He paused to spear a piece of marinated artichoke. “You haven’t been living in a cave, so I suppose you’ve heard of all this?”
“I’ve heard they had some experimental treatments for serious diseases, and some new cancer treatments down in Mexico. And maybe some supplements. I think I heard about senior citizens going over the border to get cheaper meds.” I scrunched up my face, trying to remember the details of an exposé I’d seen. “But I didn’t hear anything about cosmetic surgery. Was there some scandal down there?”
“More than one. Quite a few. Mostly to do with phony meds being passed off as the real thing. The cosmetic surgery angle is something different.”
“Tell me about it.”
“It’s huge. Supposedly they have world-class cosmetic surgeons, operating in high-tech hospitals that look like spas. They do eye lifts, face-lifts, laser treatments, everything. And you can live it up during your recovery and pretend you’re at Sandals. Five-star oceanfront resorts, along with twenty-four-hour nursing care. You can have mojitos and pedicures with your IV drips. At least that’s what I’ve heard.”
“Interesting.” I thought about Sandra. She seemed to know a little too much about the place. Did she have some connection with a hospital or doctor down there? Maybe she’d bought some special supplements to induce weight loss and the whole I did-it-through-diet-and-exercise number was a scam?
“And of course there’s bariatric surgery,” he added. Nick’s voice was casual, but I nearly dropped my pen.
“Bariatric surgery?” I suddenly had a mental flash. “You mean gastric bypass? Why would anyone go to Mexico? It’s a big operation and we do that here. They do it all across the country at major medical centers and teaching hospitals.” I shook my head, bewildered. “It has some pretty serious risk factors; it’s nothing to fool around with.”
“Yeah, but it’s much cheaper to have it done in Mexico. It only costs seven grand or so down there. And they say they do the same techniques American doctors use; lap band, tummy tucks, and everything else you can think of.”
“Wow,” I said softly. “I guess I can see why some people would go there to save money. But it seems like they’re taking a chance.” It still sounded risky to me. Why would you want to economize on surgery?
“It’s not only the bargain rates that are the big draw,” Nick said. “It’s the privacy. That’s why they cater to celebs. You’re not going to have stringers from the
National Enquirer
taking shots of you coming out of a surgery clinic if you’re miles away from civilization. Think about it. If you were going to have a face-lift, would you rather have paparazzi stalking you at Cedars-Sinai in Los Angeles, or would you rather stay at a five-star hotel in Mexico and come back looking years younger? And with no one the wiser?”
“I see your point.”
“So who’s had a face-lift?” Nick asked.
I shook my head. “No one I can think of. Just trying to put the pieces together.”
We split the bill and prepared to leave when Nick tapped me on the arm. “Hey, check out the guy in the linen suit and black shirt. Isn’t that Frankie Domino?” He gestured to the mafioso type I’d seen on the set of
Death Watch
my very first day.
“Yes, I’m sure that’s him.” Frankie Domino had been sitting alone at a tiny table at the end of the patio and we’d never noticed him. There was an empty bottle of Heineken beer in front of him, and as we watched, he stood up, tossed a bill on the table, and exited Gino’s.
“Interesting,” Nick said, edging me forward. “Let’s walk by that table. I want to see something. Just act natural, okay?”
“Act natural? What’s with the cloak-and-dagger stuff?” I protested. “So the guy came in to have a beer on a hot day; no big deal, right? He has terrible taste in clothes, but that’s not a crime.”
“Just look straight ahead and keep walking,” Nick ordered. As we passed the empty table, Nick looked down and gave a low whistle. “A Benjamin, just as I thought.”
“A Benjamin?”
“Ben Franklin,” Nick said. “He left a hundred-dollar tip.”
“Wow.” I was taken aback. “He must have gotten really good service.” I glanced at the back of the mobster who was walking rapidly down Front Street. It suddenly dawned on me that I must be missing something. “Frankie Domino is a good tipper and this is significant—why?”
“Maggie, you should be able to figure this out.” He did a small eye-roll, his mouth quirking in a smile. “He didn’t wait for the check and he tosses a hundred-dollar bill on the table. That’s what mobsters do. Classic wiseguy behavior. So my instincts about this guy were right.”
So Frankie Domino was definitely with the mob, not exactly a news flash, since we’d already suspected as much. I wondered how this fit into the bigger picture. I wanted to ask Nick his thoughts but I glanced at my watch and my heart thumped in alarm.
No time to schmooze; I had a show to do.
Chapter 15
“What’s the latest from the set, Maggie? Did you come across any big-name movie stars?” Vera Mae was poised at the control board, ready to open the lines for the afternoon show. I took a quick glance at the clock. Ten minutes to go.
“Nobody new, I’m afraid. At least the production is up and running again. Mom was in a party scene today. She just had a few lines, but she’s over the moon.”
“I can imagine. You know, I should have auditioned for one of those little parts, maybe an under-five or something. Is that what they call them?”
“Yes, it’s an under-five if you have less than five lines. If you don’t have any lines at all, you’re an extra. Or sometimes they call you ‘background.’ ”
“Background? Why’s that?”
“Well, because the people with no lines are just . . . there. They don’t really do anything; they’re background, sort of like wallpaper. Not a very flattering term, is it? Lola did some work as an extra when she was starting out in the business. Those were tough days for her out in Hollywood; she had to take whatever she could, to make ends meet.”