They're Not Your Friends Page 18

  He ignored his trilling cell phone. A few minutes later, he checked the message. It was Catherine again.

  “I think Lottie’s been drinking. She said she’s going to head over to the office tonight and sneak in. If you have any luck, please let me know. Sorry to keep bugging you, but she’s scaring me.”

  Catherine sounded upset. Did he really need the Rolodex? No, he told himself as he started dialing Catherine’s number while thumbing through the Rolodex. It fell open to Mercer, Chris. There was his card with a phone number.

  Scribbled underneath was: alias Johnny Malibu, Chateau Marmont.

  Mike clicked the phone off. So Lottie hadn’t been bullshitting about Chris Mercer after all.

  “Hello, there, Mr. Posner.”

  Mike quickly tossed the Rolodex into his briefcase.

  “Hi, Lem. . . Uh, you just get out of the office?” Mike hadn’t even bothered to check Lem’s office. He just assumed the old Brit left at five every night. What did that guy do, anyway?

  “Yes. I’m desperately trying to pry open the muse’s mouth. But she utterly refuses to speak to me.”

  Lem’s eyes were on Mike, waiting for something. Mike downed his Sierra Nevada and nodded at the bartender.

  “Your finger’s bleeding.” Lem pointed to Mike’s hand, where a few cactus bristles poked out.

  Mike shrugged his shoulders. Then he turned toward the bartender. “I’ll take another. How about you, Lem? Can I get you anything?”

  “Unfortunately, the only ale I drink these nights is ginger. It’s been a hundred eighty-two days and five hours since my last real drink.”

  “Shit, why do you come here?”

  “I like to torture myself.” Lem smiled. “Actually, I was walking by and I saw you in here, so I thought, why not? I’m a big boy. I can sit at a bar without a drink. I think.” Lem stared hard at Mike. “It’s a shame about Lottie Love.”

  “I guess.”

  “She had a lot of great contacts at the magazine. Vince pretty much pimped her out. Bernie just couldn’t handle looking at her. She’s everything Bernie wishes she could be.”

  “You know, she’s an alcoholic.”

  Lem raised his glass and chortled. “Lottie Love? I know alcoholics intimately and she’s not one of them.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “I know. . . I know. Your sources say. . .” Lem laughed.

  “What does that mean?” Mike gulped hard. Was Lem on to him?

  “Nothing, really. It’s just that we all rely so heavily on sources that no one really knows the truth. That’s why I stopped writing.”

  Mike closed his eyes while the beer massaged his brain cells, leaving him feeling elastic and relaxed. He rubbed his eyelids. When he opened his eyes, Lem’s bore into him. Mike wished the guy would leave him alone so he could figure out a plan.

  “So, Mike, are you happy at our most shallowed halls?”

  Mike thought about this. “Well, I wouldn’t say I’m happy. I’m just not miserable.”

  Lem swilled his ginger ale. “It’s all so tedious, isn’t it? Today I was asked to look into the impending divorce of two actors. Why? Why? What’s the reason, the masses want to know? They want bloodshed and tears. Personality demands we dig dirt. But more often than not, it’s mundane. Relationships end. People get bored with each other. The blood no longer rushes to the extremities. But that’s never good enough. So we interview people who have no idea.” Lem took a breath. “I got into this business to find truth. Do you ever feel that lying’s our real commodity?”

  “What do I know? I’m a hick from Rochester.”

  “You’re a star right now, Mr. Posner. But remember, stars fade or fall, but they never shine forever. Those celestial bodies lighting up the darkness right now are already dead. Their agents haven’t had the nerve to tell them.”

  “Cheers,” Mike said, guzzling the rest of his drink. “To Marilyn Monroe.”

  “Now let me ask you a personal question, Mr. Posner. If I may.”

  There was a long pause. Mike gulped down his beer. Had Lem seen Lottie’s Rolodex?

  “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  Mike exhaled. “No. Not now.”

  “Well, have you been. . . with anyone recently?”

  “Let’s bitch and moan about the job. Let’s talk about our ambitions, or lack of.”

  Lem shook his head. “Sex and ambition are inextricable. Once you give up on sex, you’ve given up on life. Trust me.”

  Mike laughed into his beer. Then he gulped the remainder. “Sex has given up on me.”

  “Nonsense. You’re young, handsome. You’ve got it all.”

  “You don’t know the half of it—literally.”

  Lem’s rheumy eyes looked past Mike and out toward the door. Then he blinked, as if staving off some ghost. He smiled.

  “I’ve wasted a lot of time. I’ve spent an entire life on an apparition. And the person who mattered most, I didn’t even see. I didn’t even know she existed.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Lem snapped his head back. “Don’t mind me. I’m talking nonsense. I saw a memo on Vince’s desk. They’re going to start cleaning house. I don’t know what I’ll do next. I don’t want to fail. If only I could get Chris Mercer.” He sighed and closed his eyes for moment. “Michael, you’re young and in touch. Can you. . . I hate to sound desperate, but, well, can you help me?”

  Mike held his breath. “I wish I could, but it sounds like Cyndi Bowman won’t let anyone near him.” He checked his watch. “Listen, I’ve gotta get going. You wanna lift or anything?”

  “I think I’ll stay here a while longer and torture myself. I have many more hours before I head into the arms of Morpheus.”

  MIKE DROVE DOWN Wilshire, passing the art deco apartment buildings and hotels dotting Westwood and Beverly Hills. He turned on Doheny until he hit Sunset. He drove past a tattoo parlor, a cluster of restaurants with a smattering of patrons dining alfresco, a few clubs with lines beginning to form along velvet ropes, billboards for movies he’d never heard of, a statue of Rocky and Bullwinkle. Then he was in front of the Chateau Marmont.

  Michael, can you help me?

  Lem’s voice echoed in his head. The guy scared him. Talentless and lost. He was everything Mike prayed he would never be.

  How could he help Lem when he had to save himself from becoming Lem?

  He picked up his phone and dialed her number as if he were dialing 911. Relief washed over him when her machine picked up.

  “Catherine, it’s Mike. I had a great time, too. . . Listen, I haven’t been able to find the master key, but I’m working on it. Tell Lottie not to worry. I’ll have her Rolodex real soon.”

  California

  BRayK-N

  CHAPTER 12

  “IDENTIFICATION PLEASE.”

  “Gee, where is it? Let me see.” Lottie smiled and thrust her boobs out at the security guard working the lobby. He didn’t even look up.

  “I can’t allow anyone inside the premises without proper identification.”

  “I so completely understand.” Lottie licked her lips. Then she rummaged through her purse and found her Personality ID card. She smiled. Maybe it would still work. The security guard studied her with a slight snarl. Then he ran her card through a scanner. He looked from the scanner to her and back again. He smirked. He was enjoying this little power trip. She knew what was next.

  “Sorry. I can’t allow you to enter the premises.”

  “What?” She bugged out her eyes and clutched her chest. “There’s got to be some kind of mistake.”

  “There’s no mistake.” He sucked in his cheeks.

  Lottie’s toothy smile evaporated. She slammed her fist on the counter. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

  “Watch your language. This is a professional office building,” he hissed. Then he paused, stared hard at Lottie, and grimaced. “My computer shows you were terminated.”

  “Listen, where the hell�
�I mean, heck—is Earl?”

  “Earl?”

  “Yeah, fat Earl. He promised he’d send all my stuff and he hasn’t. I need to speak to him.”

  “Earl? Oh, Earl.”

  “Isn’t that what I said, oh, about an hour ago? Earl!!! Fat Earl.”

  “You can see Earl tomorrow at one on channel seven.”

  “What?”

  “He got a role on General Hospital.”

  “What? I don’t fucking believe it.”

  “Well, believe it. He was never about security anyway. He didn’t do anything here except rehearse his lines.”

  “That fat asshole liar. Jesus, my life sucks.” She shut her eyes and shook her head. “Please, just let me in. I need my stuff. Come on, two seconds. Please. Please.”

  He scanned her and frowned. “Sorry, honey, no can do. You’re going to have to leave now. Take it up with management tomorrow.”

  The security guard looked past Lottie and smiled.

  “Working late, Mr. Brac?”

  “Hello there, Robert. I just had a few ginger ales at Houston’s and forgot some notes. I swear I had a better mind when I was soused. Be right down.”

  Lem headed toward the elevator.

  “Now that’s a man to know,” the security guard said to Lottie. “That guy has more class than anyone in this building. And he’s seen it all.”

  But Lottie was already at the elevator.

  “HEY!” he shouted after her.

  “Lem, Lem, you think I could ride up with you? I just want to collect my stuff. They promised me they’d send my stuff. Please.”

  Lem looked toward the security guard. “It’s okay. She’s with me.”

  ONCE INSIDE THE elevator, Lottie felt awkward. She hadn’t been alone with Lem since lunch her first week on the job when he’d ordered some silly drink called a Roy Rogers and told her, “They’re not your friends.”

  “Earl, the security guard, promised me he’d send all my stuff, but I found out he was just rehearsing lines.”

  “Isn’t that all we do here? Rehearse lines from a script we think we understand.”

  “Huh?”

  When the door opened, Lottie felt relieved. She headed toward her office. Lem went to his. She still had her key.

  She surveyed her room. Brad and Tom and Ashton and Marlon and Tobey and Cory stared down at her. “We missed you,” they seemed to say. “Welcome back.” Lottie opened her file drawers and emptied their contents. She stood on tiptoes as she slowly untacked Brad Pitt.

  “I thought you could use this.”

  Lem stood at the door holding a cardboard box.

  “Thanks.”

  “I keep this on reserve. Every day I think I might have to collect as many valuables as I can and leave,” Lem said. “Here, let me help you.”

  As Lem carefully removed Brad Pitt from her wall, Lottie was suddenly embarrassed by how juvenile her office was. No wonder no one respected her. She turned away and tossed the contents of her desk into the box. Then it hit her.

  “MY ROLODEX!”

  “What?”

  “My Rolodex is gone. Someone took my Rolodex. You have no idea what was in that thing. Everything. My entire life. Everything, everything, everything. Shitshitshitshitshit. I don’t believe this.”

  “Are you certain? Maybe it was. . .”

  Lottie saw a look of realization pass over Lem’s face.

  “What? What? Who took it? You know, don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t know. Maybe it was just moved. Perhaps it’s in one of your drawers.”

  Lottie opened and shut drawers, but nothing. She looked up at Lem.

  “It was him.”

  “Him?”

  “Mike. Mike Posner.”

  “There, there, Lottie. Let’s not jump to any conclusions.”

  “Conclusions? You want a conclusion? Mike stole my Rolodex because he’s a complete talentless hack. God, I hate him.”

  Lem chuckled.

  Lottie’s face flushed and her heart pounded. She picked up the cardboard box and banged it on the floor. “I guess I am funny to you. I’m just a stupid Valley girl. LikeohmyGod. And Mike’s this big-shot ace reporter. Why would he want dumb ol’ Lottie Love’s Rolodex?”

  Lem swallowed hard. “Charlotte Love, that’s not why I laughed.”

  “Lottie. Only my father calls me Charlotte.”

  “I think it’s a beautiful name,” Lem said. “Charlotte was my favorite Bront.”

  “Huh?” Lottie huffed. “Well, I hate it. It reminds me of my disastrous childhood.”

  “I’d gamble that your childhood wasn’t nearly as awful as you think.” Lem smiled. “Anyway, I wasn’t laughing at you.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Miss Love, I laughed because there’s no reason for you to hate Mike Posner.”

  “He’s a fraud.”

  “That’s only because he’s not as lucky as you are.”

  “Lucky? What? You think things just come easy to me?”

  “‘Lucky’ might not be the appropriate word. Let’s say you are more fortunate. You have more talent.”

  “Yeah, right. That’s why they fired me.”

  “I’m a big fan of Lottie Love’s oeuvre,” Lem said, smiling. Then he leaned and whispered, “I recently started reading all your party stories.”

  Lottie rolled her eyes as if this was the silliest thing she’d ever heard. “God, why?”

  “What better way for an old has-been to become informed?”

  Lottie snorted out a cynical laugh.

  “I was absolutely amazed by the truths you are able to uncover. You really get these people to reveal. Quite honestly, I didn’t think it was at all possible. But somehow you bloody well do it—and brilliantly. They speak to you about love and sex and breakups and insecurities. I can’t quite fathom another reporter who could unearth those juicy morsels. It’s all so wonderfully refreshing.”

  “You must be the only one who actually reads my files. The editors just turn everything into photo captions.”

  “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you can do anything. And deep down you know that. Mike Posner is stuck right now—he doesn’t trust himself because he doesn’t believe.”

  “The people who lie the best do the best. I don’t even know who I’m supposed to be or what I’m supposed to do anymore.”

  “That’s only because you define who you are by the job you have and by the people you. . . know.”

  Lottie wiped away a tear and laughed. “You meant screw.”

  “Whatever are you talking about?”

  “You were thinking ‘people you screw’ and then you stopped yourself.”

  “I was thinking no such thing, but if you can read my thoughts, you are even a better reporter than I imagined.” Lem laughed. “Just don’t sell yourself so short.”

  Lottie tried out a small smile. “You really think I’m good?”

  Lem handed her a tissue from the box on her desk. “Excellent. But it doesn’t matter what I think. What anyone thinks. Charlotte—excuse me, Lottie—has to know it.”

  “Sorry about the other day. I was having a rough time.” Lottie blew her nose and smiled. “I wish I’d gotten to know you better when I worked here.”

  “Well, to be honest, up until recently I was too drunk most of the time to get to know anybody. I’m an alcoholic.” Lem paused. “See, you must be an excellent journalist. You know, I’ve never said those words out loud before.”

  Lottie thought about this and giggled. Then she broke out into near convulsions of laughter.

  “You know what? I’m not an alcoholic. I haven’t said that out loud before.”

  California

  BALLS

  CHAPTER 13

  MIKE LAY ON A PILLOW, EYES SHUT, HEAD THROBBING, TRYING to summon the events of the previous evening. It wasn’t too long after he walked into the dimly lit Bar Marmont that the frayed rope in Mike’s mind ripped from the undercurrent of beer and gin. He had fel
t the snap, indicating that his synapses were marooned and therefore his brain was officially closed for the evening. He was essentially a body without a command center. He could no longer be responsible for his actions. And without a boss to tell him it was time to go home, his body obliviously continued on.

  When he tried to hoist himself off the bed, it was as if someone had clamped a vise to his skull. He flopped back down, struggling to capture the flotsam and jetsam of last night’s events off the flooded shore of his consciousness.

  AT BAR MARMONT he had ordered a few martinis from a hermaphroditic waitress in a kimono. Fake butterflies with blue and gold wings adhered to the ceiling like specimens in a science lab. There were the usual suspects—boys in their I’m-in-the-industry uniform: thrift-store corduroys, goatees, thick black-rimmed glasses, and hair moussed and gelled and threatened into that just-out-of-bed look. Girls in skimpy belly shirts and low-riding Juicy Coutures.

  Mike remembered surveying the bar. He closed his eyes as the buzz from the white-water rapids rush of booze encompassed him. He could feel the room—the First Auditions, the Developments-in-Progress—whir around him. He remembered thinking maybe he could pull a Lottie Love by flirting with Vampira, a waitress with black lips, teeth cut into fangs, and white powdered skin.

  “Hey.” He smiled at her. “I love that tongue piercing. Is it hard to talk?”

  “To you, yes.”

  Hick. Hick. Hick.

  “I hear Chris Mercer’s staying here.”

  Silence. Vampira rolled her eyes and moved to the other end of the bar. He flashed money and she returned. He ordered another martini, with a lemon peel. “What about Johnny Malibu?”

  Vampira eyed him suspiciously.

  “Oh, so you do know Johnny?” she said, her voice softening.

  “Yeah, I’m here to see him.”

  “Well, you should have told me. I thought you were a tourist from Nebraska or something.” She laughed. “I’ll take you to him.”

  She handed him the martini and then moved from behind the bar and escorted him up a path that led to a garden, where a beefy guy in jeans and a T-shirt stood. Vampira whispered something in the guy’s ear. Mike thought he was about to get thrown out. Instead, the guy told Mike to follow him down a row of bungalows. He pointed to one and knocked on the door. “Someone for Johnny,” he said. He walked away.