They're Not Your Friends Read online

  Vince cleared his throat. “It seems your sources are at odds.” Vince nodded at Mike, as if saying, I know whom to believe. “We need more. And we still need a Personality paradigm scene setter. Anything on that front?”

  Mike thought quickly. Should he just make it up? A quick scene.

  The two of them at The Ivy? After all, every celeb loves being noticed at The Ivy. Chances are they were there recently. A lot of whispering. Celebrities are going to whisper, right? They looked sad. They always look kinda sad. They didn’t finish their meal. They never do. Too many fat grams. She ate a salad. That’s a no-brainer. He left a big tip and signed some autographs. What? Like he’s gonna argue? She had big sunglasses on and was aloof. Aren’t they always? A witness said she’d been crying. Blame the witness for inaccuracies. Maybe it was the sun in her eyes.

  Mike could see the lead:

  There’s trouble in paradise. As Sebastian Brooks and Stephanie Winters recently dined at The Ivy, their moods seemed somber. They were whispering. Stephanie picked up a tissue and wiped her eyes.

  “They seemed to be breaking up at the table,” said a source who wished to remain anonymous. “Stephanie barely touched her salad. Sebastian tried to console her, but it was no use.”

  This was in sharp contrast to their appearance at the Oscars. . .

  “My source says Sebastian’s staying at the Chateau Marmont,” Lottie said.

  Vince smiled at Mike. “Well, it’s a long shot, but why don’t you check it out.”

  Lottie stamped her foot. “Hey, it’s so my lead.”

  “You can come,” Mike offered.

  “I so don’t believe this,” Lottie said.

  “Excellent idea, Mike. Why don’t both of you go? Lottie, you can learn a lot from this guy. We need that scene setter, Mike.”

  “LET ME SEE what I can get,” Mike said in the hotel lobby, in a voice a few octaves deeper than usual. Lottie grunted. He ambled up to the desk clerk. “Hello, sir,” he boomed, feeling the heat of Lottie’s gaze on his back. “I’m Mike Posner, with Personality magazine.”

  “The hotel is not interested in subscriptions, young man,” the vulture-faced clerk deadpanned.

  Mike reddened, but he managed a smile. “I’m sorry; let me clarify that. I’m a reporter with the magazine. We’re working on a story on the actor Sebastian Brooks. I understand he’s been staying here for the last couple of days. Can you confirm that?”

  The desk clerk had big bat ears and pink translucent skin wrapped tightly around his sunken face. He snapped out a laugh, like a snake spitting venom, without changing his sepulchral expression.

  “Obviously, you must be very new at your job, Mr. Posner,” he said, while his beady blue eyes shot hate daggers. “We don’t give out any information on our hotel guests. But, off the record, I wouldn’t waste my time here; try another hotel. No one by that name has checked into our establishment.”

  Mike’s face burned. He turned around slowly, waiting for Lottie’s disgusted expression to greet him, but she was already gone. Typical, Mike thought. She was probably on to some other lead. He went outside, but her red Cabrio was still parked by the valet stand. Mike decided to check the bar.

  It was still early in the evening, but the dimly lit bar was already filling up with hipsters in frayed jeans, vintage graphic tees, and artfully mussed hair. He saw two women wearing tight Cookie Monster T-shirts. He chuckled silently. Just last week, Lottie had written a file about how Sesame Street tees were suddenly all the rage.

  In its midst was Lottie Love, plopped at the bar, sipping something frothy and leaning toward the bartender as if he were dispensing great wisdom. Mike had been making a fool of himself while Lottie was at the bar drinking margaritas and flirting.

  Mike stood next to Lottie.

  “OhmyGod,” he heard Lottie fawn. “You must get like so many celebrities in this place. You must be like almost a celebrity yourself.”

  The bartender ran a towel through a wineglass and gave a knowing smirk. “Yes. I suppose all the big names come through here. I’m famous for my martinis. I favor a lemon peel over an olive. Just the peel—not the juice. It’s a subtle difference, but it gives the drink a completely different identity. And everything, even a martini, wants its own identity.”

  Mike stifled a laugh.

  “Rully? That is so completely fascinating.”

  “Now it’s trendy to ask for sour apple martinis and wild cherry martinis and shit, pink bubblegum martinis, but trust me, there’s going to be a backlash for a simpler martini with a subtle flavor.”

  “I’m so impressed! I will so have to try one before the end of the night,” Lottie said, thrusting out her boobs. Mike took a stool next to her and cleared his throat, but she slit her eyes at him and then looked away. “Excuse me,” the pompadoured bartender said as he headed to the end of the bar to take a drink order.

  Mike glared at Lottie. “Nice work, Lottie. You’re supposed to be helping me. Instead you’re flirting with Fonzie over there.”

  Lottie stuck her top teeth over her lower lip and crossed her eyes. “Duh, hullo Mr. Desk Clerk, whose mouth is sewn shut except when he sucks on his manager’s dick. I’m from such a major magazine and even though you’ll get fired if you tell me who stays here, I’m like the nicest guy ever, even if I just fell off the turnip truck in Rochester.”

  Mike opened his mouth, but nothing came out. “Okay,” he finally said. “Okay, Lottie Love. Let’s see you work your charm. But I bet you’ll get less than I did. The guy downstairs said Brooks didn’t even stay here. And, for the record, I was living in Manhattan.”

  “Puh-lease, let me give you a dollar so you can buy a clue. No one in Hollywood uses real names. Now stop talking to me or else the bartender will never ever come back here. . . or do you want to run away from this story? I hear you’re good at that.”

  Mike’s heart caught in his throat. “What? What are you talking about?” His voice shook.

  “Oh, nothing. Nothing at all, Mr. Sourcing Expert.”

  Mike grabbed her arm. “I mean it, what are you trying to say?”

  “I mean, what do I know? I’m just a stupid Valley girl. Like ohmyGod. Fer sure.”

  Mike pivoted on his stool and took a long, deep breath. So Lottie knew about the debacle in New York. He exhaled and concentrated on the rows and rows of liquor bottles lining the shelves behind the bar. From the corner of his eye, he watched Lottie dangle a cigarette out of the side of her mouth. Within seconds the bartender was back, holding out a torch of light for Lottie, even though smoking was outlawed in L.A. bars. While his heart pounded away, Mike held up a few dollars to order a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, but the bartender ignored him.

  Mike continued to look straight ahead, although he cocked his ear toward Lottie.

  “So do you have any favorite celebrities that come in here?” She spoke in a husky, velvety voice.

  “Ben and Matt. They’re always nice. Salt of the earth. They were here a few days ago. . .”

  Lottie took a long, slow drag of her Marlboro Light. She puckered her lips, and the smoke funneled up toward the ceiling. She took another labored drag, the tip of her cigarette glowing a bright orange ember. As if suddenly remembering Mike, she twisted her lips and blew smoke right into his face. Mike coughed weakly as she swiveled her chair back toward the bartender. He breathed in deep. God, she hated him. He could use a beer.

  “What about that actor who’s in all those action movies? You know, oh, he’s really cute. I mean, he’s so not as cute as you, of course. But you kinda remind me of him. You have the same biceps. Oh, what’s his name?” Lottie contorted her face as if trying to pinch out a factoid. “Sebastian Brooks?”

  The bartender smiled knowingly and winked. “He’s actually a big fan of my martini with a lemon peel.” He leaned in. “Sebs was here every night last week drinking them, one after another. He can really pound them down.”

  “Wow,” Lottie said, batting her black-mascaraed eyelashes. “I�
��m such an enormous fan of his. What’s he like?”

  The bartender exhaled and scratched his forehead. He smiled widely as if he were a professor bestowing wisdom on an eager pupil. “Well,” he whispered, leaning over the bar toward Lottie. “Let’s just say he had more than his share of my martinis.”

  “Was his wife with him? She’s beautiful.”

  The bartender took a deep breath, leaned closer to Lottie, and whispered as if sharing this information actually caused him great pain.

  “Looks like there’s big trouble in paradise for the poor guy. I spent the week acting like his personal therapist. Shit, I should have charged him, considering the elephant bucks he makes. Fifteen mil a picture is what I heard. Outrageous.”

  The bartender shook his head while rubbing his thumb and forefinger against the sides of his mouth. “Turns out Stephanie was yanking the wank of the producer on their latest movie. Sounds like the entire crew knew about it. The guy’s not the brightest candle on the cake, if I do say so myself.”

  “That couldn’t be more tragic. They seemed so incredibly happy. The perfect couple.”

  The bartender raised his brow, smiled knowingly at Lottie, and again shook his head from side to side. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from this job it’s that nothing is what it seems. I have the richest actors, the most powerful directors, big-time movie producers getting sloshed in here nightly and crying on my $9.99 Gap T-shirt.”

  The bartender ran a hand through his mousse-enervated hair. What a crock of shit just to get laid, Mike thought.

  The bartender droned on. “When poor old Brooks found out, he left the movie without finishing it. He says he’s going to be sued by the producers for megabucks. He was here every night last week, drinking martinis and falling asleep at the bar. You missed it, two nights ago, he got up on the bar and sang ‘Love Stinks.’ He stripped down to his boxers.”

  The bartender swabbed the top of the bar with a towel. He raised his eyebrows and sucked on his cheeks.

  “If there’s one thing you learn when you’re a bartender it’s that there’s no such thing as a perfect couple, especially in LaLa land. There ain’t no such beast. No such beast a’tall.”

  Mike coughed into his hand to quash a laugh.

  “Well, that’s too bad,” Lottie said in the middle of a tobacco exhale, which she again directed at Mike. Then her eyes looked past Mike in horror. She twisted her arm and dramatically checked her watch. She spoke quickly. “Your stories were so completely fascinating that I totally lost track of time. I couldn’t be more late.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “Yeah, I. . .”

  Suddenly a pretty woman with long brown hair, bright red lips, and a determined glint in her almond-shaped eyes grabbed Lottie’s arm.

  “We need to talk.”

  “Not here,” Lottie said through clenched teeth.

  “You shouldn’t be here. You’re not ready. Remember, you have a disease, Lottie.”

  “I’m just doing my job, Catherine.”

  The woman surveyed the bar. “Your job description requires you to drink margaritas?”

  “It’s nonalcoholic.”

  “Yeah, right. You know, when I signed on to be your sponsor. . .”

  “I know. I know, but not here.” Lottie turned to Mike and stuck out her tongue. Mike grinned. So Lottie Love was an alcoholic. She knew one of his secrets, but now he knew hers. He watched as her friend pulled her out of the bar.

  “Too bad. All the pretty ones are nympho party animals in their early twenties and Twelve-Steppers by twenty-five,” the bartender said. Then he looked at Mike. “Hey, you wanna drink?”

  “No, thanks,” Mike whispered, still staring at the door even though Lottie was gone.

  MIKE WATCHED AS LOTALUV peeled out of the lot. He handed his ticket to the valet and waited. “Are you Mike?” the valet asked. Mike nodded his head. “A hot chick left a note for you.” He handed him a piece of paper.

  Thanks so completely much for teaching a rookie the ropes.

  ~L L

  Mike crumpled the piece of paper into a ball and threw it onto the Pepsi-can-and-newspaper-strewn floor of his car. Tomorrow he’d find his own anonymous sources. A good friend. A costar. Whatever it took. As long as he kept it fairly innocuous. Was Tom Cruise going to complain? “Why did Mike Posner write that I’m a doting father? It’s a lie.” No, Mike knew there was a foolproof way to lie. Tomorrow he’d find a friend who’d be in shock. Who’d talk about a party where Sebastian and Stephanie were so happy.

  “They seem so much in love. I can’t believe it. Why just last week, Sebs told me. . .”

  Mike drove along Sunset to the 405. Even at 9:00 P.M. there was traffic on the freeway. He idled, waiting to see what the snarl was about. Sometimes traffic halted for the most inane reasons. They called rubberneckers Lookie Loos out here—and Lookie Loos were a different breed of driver. They’d brake to contemplate a stalled car, or a cop writing a ticket, or a flamingo-pink sunset. Californians seemed perpetually in a fog, their eyes never quite focused or familiar with the terrain they passed daily. Once, a truck transporting huge ceramic amusement park bears stalled and overheated on the other side of the freeway. Traffic was snagged for over an hour as each driver studied the truck’s inventory as if it were a spaceship filled with aliens. Then there was a time when a truck carrying toilet paper spilled its contents. Instead of plowing over the rolls, drivers navigated their cars between the toilet paper as if each roll was a land mine. Sometimes, traffic was schizophrenic—it clogged and then dispersed for no apparent reason. Mike would search the sides of the road for an explanation for the jam and its sudden release, but there would be nothing. And rain—forget it. Californians reacted to rain the way the rest of the world reacted to mortar fire. If it’s drizzling out and you need to take the freeway to your destination, you might as well stay in bed.

  Mike crawled onto the 101, thrumming his hands against the wheel as if somehow that motion would unclog the artery. Up ahead, he saw the reason for the snarl: there were bright white lights illuminating the lavender sky. Helicopters whirred overhead. In a big lot beneath the helicopters a giant insect chased a crowd of people who seemed to be screaming and falling onto one another. The freeway was like a drive-in theater as drivers gawked at the movie-in-progress. Would it be next summer’s blockbuster? Mike watched the giant insect as it kicked its legs and then flipped into the air. Science fiction meets martial arts most likely means box office gold, Mike figured. A car behind him honked, and Mike jolted up in his seat. He had been so busy watching he hadn’t noticed traffic moving ahead of him. He hit the accelerator and craned his neck toward the insect.

  IT TOOK MIKE close to an hour to travel the eleven-mile trek home. It was nearly ten, and he was hungry and in need of several beers to drown out thoughts of Lottie Love. He parked his car and found a seat at the counter of Jerry’s Deli. Mike liked Jerry’s because it reminded him of delis in New York. The walls were filled with posters advertising Broadway plays. Mickey Rooney and Anne-Margret in Sugar Babies. Julie Andrews in Victor/Victoria. Yul Brenner in The King and I. Showboat. 42nd Street. Annie. Cats. The ceiling was strung with a roller coaster of klieg lights clamped to metal bars, casting off yellow, blue, red, and green glows. Mike also liked Jerry’s because he could eat alone at the counter without feeling like a loser. He hated sitting at a table and staring across at an empty chair. He also hated eating at a bar, where the mood of desperation mixed with expectation was as thick as the grease on the french fries.

  Mike quaffed a Heineken and chewed on a corned beef on rye slathered with bright yellow mustard. He ordered another beer and then another as he listened to the nonsensical din of conversation around him. He stared at the posters as if hoping to be transmogrified back to New York when he blinked his eyes. He missed the guys in the newsrooms in Rochester and NYC. He missed Liz. He missed Mr. Cat. And though she was only a few miles away, he even missed Lottie Love.

&nbs
p; A FEW DAYS later, Mike was sent to cover the Pediatric AIDS charity picnic. “There’s a good chance Mercer will be there, and you can talk him into an interview,” Vince said, nudging him. “Mingle. Interview some celebrities for our party page. Talk about the latest fashion trends. Lottie will be there. You can have her assist you.”

  The Pediatric AIDS picnic was an annual event where anyone with $1,000 to spare could mingle with fame. It was a petting zoo of celebrity. Wearing HERO baseball caps, celebrities manned booths while ordinary folk lined up under the guise of wanting to play games like Ducky Dash, Hoop-er-roo, Frog in a Bucket—even though what they really wanted was to shake a hand and have a picture snapped with Jack Nicholson, Robin Williams, Drew Barrymore, Heidi Klum, the cast of That ’70s Show, the cast of The O.C., the cast of ER. Grown men waited more than a half hour to pump Jack’s hand and smile for the camera. They beamed lovingly at Jack, who grunted out a quick smile as the camera clicked.

  “We’ll get you out of here real soon, Mr. Nicholson. Thanks for being such a good sport,” his publicist said. “Now people, give Mr. Nicholson some space. Mr. Nicholson needs some space, people.”

  “I’m your biggest fan. I really love your body of work.”

  “You’re the best, Jack. I love you. I’ve seen everything you’ve done.”

  Seeing celebrities up close always reminded Mike of being a little kid and catching a glimpse of Mickey Mouse at Disney World. There was nothing real about Mickey, and if you looked hard enough, you could see human eyes peering out from the mask. It seemed impossible that Jack or Julia or Tom or Nicole could actually exist off screen, unless as a person in costume—another Disney attraction.

  “Hey, Jack. I’m Mike Posner, with Personality magazine,” Mike blurted out. Jack snarled and walked away. An assistant ran up to Mike and breathlessly said, “Don’t you know? Jack never talks to the press. He has two rules at these events. He never takes off his sunglasses for photos, and he never grants interviews. We’re just lucky he’s here today, what with his schedule. He makes time for the kids.”