True Hollywood Lies (5 page)

He was no longer the attentive wooer. With that dismissal, the moratorium on his cell phone ended. It was recovered from its cushioned nesting place, and he thumbed out a text as he headed off in the direction of the pool. His panther-like restlessness virtually shouted,
I’ve got things to do, places to go, people to see, so get lost
.

“Which way to the bedroom?” I called out archly, hoping that my tone conveyed the message
I may be at your beck and call, but I’m certainly not your slavey!

No response. I couldn’t tell if that was the result of his not hearing me, or the fact that he was ignoring me outright. Naively, I chose to believe the former.

“And, um, before I leave, shouldn’t we discuss the terms of my employ—”

Placing one hand over the mouthpiece of his cell phone, he turned back around. On his face was a look of mild exasperation intended to make me feel guilty for asking.

“Call my manager, Genevieve. She takes care of those kinds of details. Jasper’s person will have her number.”

He had spoken.

And now I was
his
“person.”

I nodded resignedly, a gesture as empty as an air kiss, since he was already psychically light years away from me.

I’d officially been pulled into his orbit.

And yes, I know a black hole when I see one. . .

* * *

I was off and running. In less than three hours, I had to accomplish the following: (a) Have Louis’s laundry at the dry cleaner’s down on Ventura before they closed; (b) Make it over to Sunset Boulevard, to Louis’s manager’s office, to pick up a care package (Louis’s phrase, not mine) containing everything I ever needed to know about managing Louis’s life; and (c) Stop off at the Beverly Hills Ralph’s for the appropriate snacks for Louis’s pay-per-view TV boxing event gathering with his posse (again, his term).

In doing so, I must consider the following: Zone (Louis), legitimate vegan (for another guest), and gourmet carnivore (for the two or three other guys). By that description, I assumed Louis meant that anything that ever suckled a mother or flown the coop—be it a cow, buffalo, deer, open range chicken, duck, or ostrich—was fine to bring home, as long as it had been fully prepared by either a name chef or a trendy deli, as opposed to Mickey D’s or the Colonel.

Once Louis’s little shindig was underway, I planned on perusing his care-and-feeding package so that I would know exactly what I should be doing over the next two weeks. This was, of course, based on the assumption that the Supreme Being would answer my fervid prayers so that it would be necessary for me to know Louis’s agenda only that far in advance.

As I hightailed it down Laurel Canyon Boulevard, I rang Svetlana for Genevieve’s telephone number—something Louis did not know by heart, as he only autodialed it from his cell. Being the doll that she is, Svetlana forwarded the call directly to Genevieve’s office so that I would not have to program it in as I maneuvered the twists and turns of the road. After playing Twenty Questions with Genevieve’s assistant and holding for what seemed like ten minutes, I was finally deemed worthy enough to be put through to her.

“Thank God you’ve finally called!” Genevieve fairly barked by way of a salutation.

“I’m sorry. I just left Louis now. It’s the first opportunity I’ve had—”

“Yeah, okay, whatever. Look, just get over here pronto. I’ve got to pull out by six. I’m escorting Dame Helen to a benefit event at eight—”

“Mirren?” I asked more out of politeness than interest.

There was silence at the other end. Had the line gone dead? Finally: “Of course, Mirren! Is there any other?” she said haughtily.

Her snobbery brought out my own. “Oh well then, tell
Helen
that Hannah says hi. We met at my dad’s house, when they were filming
Overture
together.”

Silence. I assumed she was putting two and two together. When she made the connection, she replied with an icy sweetness. “Why, of course!
Leo’s
little girl. Jasper said something about your possibly needing this job. So sorry about your loss. But hey, don’t worry: that’s one card you can play for a while. . . well, at least for another year or two. Make it here before six, okay?”

Once again the line went silent. This time it was from her having already rung off.

Fuming, I revved the Beetle’s engine as it rounded another curb. So, I was “Leo’s little girl,” with no identity of my own? That bitch!
Needing
this job, eh? Ha! They needed me more than I needed
them.

And as for my playing the fame-by-association “card” –

Well, damn it, admittedly she was right. I had tried to pull the oldest Hollywood shuffle: name-dropping as one-upmanship.

Tears welled up in my eyes. What was wrong with me? Was I suddenly so scared about my future that I needed to cling desperately to Leo’s past?

Unable to see the road in front of me, I pulled over to the curb and turned off the engine. Across the street the hillside dropped off completely, allowing for a spectacular view of the whole L.A. basin. Despite being enveloped in a thick, gauzy haze of smog, the city lights twinkled—albeit up to a point, where they broke off abruptly, indicating where the Pacific shoreline began and civilization as we like to imagine it left off.

I could just walk away, I reasoned, and begin fresh somewhere else, where no one knew me—

—but that would mean leaving behind all the things that were important to me: my little cottage on the Venice Canal that I now called home; my star project; the one or two friends I had who loved me for myself, as opposed to my pedigree. . .

And my past.

In truth, I could never walk away from my history with my father.

Then again, why would I want to? Just because some Hollywood handler had hurt my feelings?

The
hell
with
that!

I was through with hiding—from myself, from what I was, from what I had the potential to be. It was time to use my connections, to allow every ace I’d been dealt to be played.

And hell yeah, I
would
play the Leo card! The fact that it trumped all others at this point in my life meant that, from now on, it should only be turned over on an as-needed basis—and certainly
not
to impress industry bottom feeders, like Genevieve What’s-Her-Name, Manager to the Stars.

Decisively, I put my hand back on the car key and turned the starter. The engine groaned for a minute, then puttered to a halt. I looked at all the digital readouts on the dashboard until I found the problem:

No gas.

Great, I thought. Now I have to walk all the way down Laurel Canyon Boulevard and over to Hollywood Boulevard for a gas station, then walk back up with a gas can.

Groaning, I laid my head down on the steering wheel, which tooted loudly from the weight of it. The sound, jolting me upright, echoed through the canyon. It was a not-so-subtle reminder that my future actions would have as many consequences as my inability to act had had in the past.

It was going to be a long night.

Chapter 3: Open Cluster

A group of young stars that were formed together; possibly bound together by gravity.

Grudgingly I grabbed my pocketbook, got out of the car and locked it behind me. For the interview I had dressed in a short black skirt and matching top, with some low-heeled sling-backs; not exactly hiking attire. Feeling it would be easier to walk barefoot than in my tight little shoes, I quickly took them off. Barefooted, I started gingerly across the street, figuring it would be safer to walk against the traffic. That way, if I were to get hit, at least I’d see the person who did it.

It didn’t take long for someone to try. Just then a motorcycle crested the hill. I froze, not sure whether I should keep moving forward or turn back toward the car. Before I could make up my mind, the motorcycle swerved and fell over, skittering to a halt a mere six inches from me. Its rider, still holding onto the bike, had been dragged sideways along the blacktop.

“Omigod!” I screamed. I hadn’t meant to kill anyone. I’d only meant to save my favorite pair of Louboutins.

I kneeled over the crumbled form, a man in jeans and a leather jacket. Scared, I fumbled to release his motorcycle helmet. He slapped my hand away then took it off himself.

“Forget it! Forget—what the hell were you doing out in the middle of the road, in the dark, anyway?” he roared angrily.

Despite the scowl, the two-day growth of stubble and a bad case of helmet head, he was certainly decent-looking: mid-thirties, dark curly hair, a lanky frame and deep-set brown eyes.

To put it mildly, I wouldn’t have thrown him out of bed.

Motorcycle Guy turned his head slowly from side to side, as if making sure his neck wasn’t broken. As he rose off the pavement, he brushed the dust off his jeans. There was a big rip at the knee, where blood was trickling through.

He may have been mean, but at least he was alive. A sense of relief washed over me, followed by a mild rinse of indignation.

“Well, quite frankly, I was trying to get to the other side. Hey, listen, it wasn’t entirely
my fault. You must have been doing at least sixty! Besides, pedestrians are supposed to have the right of way.”

“Pedestrians aren’t usually strolling down LCB,” he said caustically as he heaved the bike back up on its wheels.

“They are if they’ve run out of gas.” I closed my eyes, let out an involuntary sigh, and hobbled back across the street. Now that I knew the guy was still breathing, I could quit playing angel of mercy and begin the trek down the hill.

“That Beetle there?”

“Yeah, that’s mine.”

“Oh.” Motorcycle Guy scrutinized me for a moment, as if weighing whether or not I was worth the hassle of helping, considering his luck with me thus far. Being no fool, I wanted to swing the vote in my favor.

“Look, I’m—I’m truly,
truly
sorry about getting in your way.”

“Thanks.” Then silence.

Great, I thought. So, you want me to grovel, huh? Sure, okay, I can grovel, if it means not walking four miles down a hill and back up before my night has even started.

“I don’t imagine—I mean, would it be too much if— “

“If what?” He cocked his head to one side then stared down at his watch. “Damn! My watch stopped.”

“Oh! I’m sorry. Look, I . . . I guess I owe you a watch, huh?”

“Nah. Forget about it. Some dude on the street sold it to me.”

“Oh. Well, uh, the offer stands if you change your mind.... Say—”

He threw the leg with the bloody knee over the seat of the bike, then turned the ignition, revving the engine a few times to make sure it caught.

“Say!” I yelled over the bike’s growl, “Um, would it be too much—”

“What?” he yelled back, with a sly smile. “Can’t hear you!”

“I said, would it be too much to ask for a ride down the hill! You know, to get some gas.”

“Humph!” He stopped for a moment and glanced skyward, as if seeking his answer somewhere on the tail of the Big Dipper.

“Look, I know you were headed in the opposite direction, but still. . . pretty please?”

“‘Pretty please.’” He looked back at me. “Does that often work for you?”

What a
punk!
What a sonofabitch jerk! That was it for me. Angrily, I shrugged him off and headed back down the hill. I could feel him staring at me, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of looking his way ever again.

I heard his bike roar up the hill.

As the sound of his bike echoed through the canyon, I stopped for a moment, totally defeated. Damn! What else could go wrong tonight?

I had made it about a mile down the road when I once again heard the low rumble of a motorcycle. It was pitch dark now. Still, I could make out the headlight on the bike, crawling toward me up the hill. As it came directly upon me, I saw that it was Motorcycle Guy once again. Apparently he’d turned around somewhere further up on LCB and cut over to Hollywood Boulevard on one of the side streets that bobbed and weaved down the hill. A two-gallon gasoline canister was tied to the back of his bike.

He paused as he came alongside me. “Jump on,” he said gruffly. Still, he was smiling.

Happy and relieved, I nodded silently, and as ladylike as I could in my very short skirt, I climbed on his motorcycle. Hesitantly, I put my arms around his waist. A minute later we were at my car. I popped the tank lock, and he angled the canister hose so that it drained directly into the tank.

I reached into my purse and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. “Please, take this. It’s—it’s the least I could do, for all your trouble.”

“Nah, I wouldn’t feel good about it. Besides, I hadn’t done my Good Samaritan act of the week yet, so you lucked out.”

“You can say that again. This is the only break I’ve had all week.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Yeah. My father just died, my stepmother is raping the estate, and I’ve just started a new job—oh jeez! I’ve got to get going!”

“Oh.” He actually seemed disappointed. “You have to go to work? Right now?”

“Yep. My boss is a real slave driver. Hey, but who knows? Maybe he’ll fire me for being late my first night on the job.” I laughed then extended my hand in thanks. “Seriously, I mean it. I don’t know how to thank you.”

He took my hand in his. A sizzling current ran up my arm, and my heart started palpitating wildly.

Twice in one day! How could
that
happen?

I let go, embarrassed, and jumped into the Beetle. It started up with a cough but pulled away from the curb with ease. Motorcycle Guy just stood there, watching me drive off. Not anxious to break the connection, I waved into the rearview mirror. Then, glancing at the car’s clock, I noted that it was already a quarter after six!

Damn! I sped down the hill.

It wasn’t until I hit Sunset that I realized I hadn’t asked him his name.

* * *

I got to Genevieve’s office too late for a face-to-face encounter, which was fine by me. Her assistant, who was just as anxious as her boss to get on with her own evening agenda, was tall, too tan for March, and wearing too-tight Sevens with belly-baring bandeau top. She handed me an overflowing paper bag and shooed me back out onto the street.