They're Not Your Friends Page 19

  Mike didn’t know what to do. He’d never expected to be right at the doorway to his biggest scoop. He wasn’t prepared. He stood there for a few seconds, wondering if he should just walk away. He remembered Joey Green.

  Hick.

  The door swung open.

  “The more the merrier,” a shirtless Chris Mercer said, smiling as he chugged a beer. Then he looked at Mike. “Who the hell are you?” He turned his head toward someone in the room. “Hey, when I said invite friends, I meant female friends. Duh!”

  “What are you talking about,” said a woman as she moved toward the door. Her lipstick was smeared and her hair was disheveled. She looked at Mike sleepily.

  Then her eyes bugged out.

  “OhmyGod, I know you. You’re with Personality magazine.”

  Bad nose job. Great legs. Cyndi Bowman.

  “What? How the fuck did you get in?” Spit flew out of Chris’s mouth as he spoke. “I’m gonna have the whole fucking staff fired.” He looked at Cyndi. “Maybe I should fire you, too.”

  “Oh, Chris,” Cyndi moaned.

  He pushed her aside and moved out the door. Mike was surprised at how short the legendary Chris Mercer was. Mike, at five feet ten, had about four inches on the guy.

  “What do you want? You want me to say this is my girlfriend, ’cause she’s not. Okay? Far from it.”

  Cyndi’s face contorted. Mike would have sworn she started to cry. But then she smiled. “I’m his publicist. We were strategizing.”

  “Yeah, but you wanna see us fuck so you’ll have a story for your magazine? An exclusive. Is that what you want? Is it?”

  Chris tossed off his shoes, undid his belt, and tugged on his pants. Mike stood there, his mouth like the Grand Canyon.

  “Chris, stop it. Remember what I told you about losing control.”

  “I thought you liked it when I lost control,” Chris sneered. “That’s the only time you get any.”

  “Stop.”

  “No. Let’s give him a story. Okay? Come on, Cyndi, get naked.”

  “Chris!”

  Chris threw his underwear at Mike’s face. Then he shoved Mike.

  “WHAT ARE YOU FUCKING WAITING FOR? ISN’T THIS WHAT YOU WANT? Up close and personal with Chris Mercer.”

  He lunged again and slipped his hand into Mike’s pocket. Before Mike could stop him, Chris pulled out his tape recorder. He pressed the buttons.

  “Testing, testing, one, two, three. I am Chris Mercer. I am Chris fucking Mercer. Isn’t that cool? I am actually Chris Mercer. I am so fucking rich and powerful and you are dogshit.”

  He rewound the tape. Then he hit Play. “I am Chris fucking Mercer. . .” As the tape replayed his message, Chris stuck out his tongue and licked the recorder while grabbing his crotch. “Look at me. I’m fucking myself.”

  He hurled the tape recorder into the air. It shattered as it hit the ground.

  Mike stood frozen as two security guards rushed in. They each took an arm and heaved him into the street.

  MIKE REALIZED THEN that his ass was still sore. He rubbed it.

  A wave of nausea swept through his entire body, and he bolted naked from the bed into the bathroom. He crouched on the floor, heaving into the toilet. As he washed the sweat and puke off his face, it suddenly hit him. The towels were too soft and pastel! Mike studied the bathroom in horror. It was his bathroom—same position of the toilet, the tub, the medicine cabinet—but something was different. There were frilly pink curtains on the window. Designer shampoo in the shower. Fragrant soap in the soap dish. A hair dryer. A curling iron. Someone had invaded his home and redecorated!

  Mike opened the door to the bathroom and returned to the bedroom. It was his bedroom—at least it looked like it—same size, same windows, same closets, just more frilly. Mike’s stomach somersaulted. He must still be dreaming. Or had he become someone else? Someone who liked pink floral comforters and matching pillow shams and curtains. Someone who had a collection of stuffed bears, arranged in size order.

  Someone with a poodle.

  A poodle? There was a poodle curled up on top of the bed, eyeing Mike. A poodle who yipped when he barked. He sounded like he had no balls.

  No balls.

  NO BALLS!

  “MY-I-IKE, I MADE you breakfast.”

  Mike rushed to the kitchen.

  “You were so romantic last night. You just pushed at the door and then barged right in here,” his neighbor said. Mike couldn’t remember her name. She smiled while whisking. “I sensed chemistry the first time we met. I know you were, well, slightly buzzed last night, but it was really romantic in a rugged kind of Richard Gere or Harrison Ford way.”

  Mike shook his head, too stunned to speak. Cookies, he thought. It was a name that reminded him of cookies. Ginger snaps? Chocolate chip? Keebler? Fig Newton? Graham?

  “Well, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed. I thought it was very charming. They say that the truth comes out after a few drinks anyway. You seem like a pretty repressed guy, at least in your sober life.”

  Rootie nuzzled Mike’s leg. Was that soft clicking the sound of colliding plastic balls?

  His neighbor scooped up the sizzling omelet with a spatula and set it on a plate.

  “Have a seat. This is for you. Remember I told you that my goal was to become a vegan? Well, ta-da. . . I’m a vegan. I’m adhering to the same macrobiotic diet as Gwynnie and Madonna. I’m thinking of becoming a Kabbalah, too, you know, to get some spirituality in my life.”

  Mike stared at the omelet in front of him while his stomach flipped. He poked at it with a fork but couldn’t bring it to his mouth. He was too tired and too dehydrated to move. “Listen, I should get going. I didn’t mean to barge in on you.”

  “Yes, you did—or at least your more uninhibited self did.”

  Mike rubbed his temples. He eyed her, wondering if she had learned the truth about him.

  “It was two in the morning, and I thought someone was trying to break in here. I was scared out of my mind and just about to call the cops. Then I looked out the peephole and there you were, practically ramming the door in with your shoulder. So Rootie and I let you in. Right, Rootie? You seemed harmless. . . enough.”

  His neighbor sat across from Mike, sipping on a mug of green tea. Oatmeal? Toll House? Sugar? Mallomar?

  He waited for a comment, a laugh, some indication.

  “You were great, by the way.”

  Great? Mike Posner? He wished he could remember. Something. Anything.

  Pepperidge Farms! Amber Pepperidge Farms!

  Amber trotted into her bedroom. Mike snapped his fingers at Rootie. As the canine licked Mike’s hand, he lowered his plate for the dog. The dog headed for the plate, sniffed it, groaned, and turned away. Mike tossed the pseudoeggs into Amber’s Justin Timberlake garbage can, hiding it underneath an empty Tropicana orange juice carton.

  When Amber returned, Mike realized everything about her was heart shaped. Her lips. Her cleavage. Even her face, framed by honey-blond hair. He bet she dotted her i’s with little hearts, just like Lottie. Her o’s were probably heart shaped, too. Her boobs were enormous and disproportionate on her thin five-foot-four-inch frame, creating a heart-shaped body. Maybe Amber would be famous one day. Then he could say she said he was great.

  “I’m sorry. I really don’t remember much. . .”

  “Well, I mean, we didn’t do that much,” Amber said. “I’m not a slut or anything—especially with a guy who’s drunk.”

  Amber wrapped her arms around Mike and kissed him on the lips. Mike squeezed his eyes shut and kissed her back. They fell onto the couch, and soon Root Canal was on top of Mike’s back, licking his ear. They kissed and kissed. In the middle of a kiss, bile traveled up his intestines and into his throat. He pulled his lips from Amber and swallowed hard. Amber grabbed his crotch. Was it his imagination or was she rooting around trying to find it?

  “Mike—eee.”

  “Amber. . . I’ve got to. .
.”

  “Mike?. . . Mike?”

  Mike jumped off the couch and out of the apartment, breathing deep and swallowing hard. He fumbled with the keys to his place, opened the door, and puked in the kitchen sink. He remembered that on the way to the funeral Lem had told him not to let the tools rust. He should tell Lem that his tools had not only rusted—they were defective.

  LITTLE JOEY GREEN and now Amber. Mike Poseur. He spent so much of his time running away from his inadequacies. It was just a matter of time before they all chased him down. Mike closed the blinds and lay in bed. Someone knocked on the door, but he ignored it. He left a message with Melissa, saying he was sick. He checked his messages at the office. The first was from Catherine.

  “I guess Lottie broke into the office last night and the Rolodex was already gone. She’s crazed.” There was a laugh. “She thinks you took it. But I told her there was no way. Anyway, maybe we can get coffee later this week?”

  The second message was from Cyndi Bowman.

  “Call me ASAP regarding Chris Mercer.”

  Fuck you, Mike thought. Fuck Chris Mercer. What an asshole. Mike was glad he’d never have to interview the guy. He wasn’t worth the ink. Stars fade or fall, but they never shine forever.

  His home phone rang. Mike screened.

  “Hello, it’s Cyndi Bowman, Bowman Publicity.”

  Cyndi Bowman? Calling him at home? In a voice desperate to conceal complete and utter fear?

  He couldn’t resist. He picked up the phone. “This is Mike,” he grunted.

  “If you plan to divulge an iota of your evening to the press, I’ll have so many lawyers up your ass you’ll. . . you’ll. . . you’ll be sorry.”

  “Yeah, well, tell your client or boyfriend, or whatever he is, that he owes me a tape recorder.”

  “You were trespassing.” He could practically hear Cyndi’s teeth unclenching. She was rabid. “Remember, if anything gets out, I’ll make sure no celebrity will have anything to do with you or your magazine.”

  “Yeah, if it gets out that you’re humping your client. . .”

  “We were strategizing.” She paused and cleared her throat. “I know what you’re thinking. You better think twice.” She shrieked into the phone, “Get it. Got it? Good.”

  Mike could practically feel her hot spit on his face.

  “Cyndi, I. . . I. . .”

  “I know what we have to do. I practically invented this game. If I give you access to my client, I want you to guarantee last night won’t be mentioned to. . . umm. . . Vince Reggio or anyone.”

  “Well. . . huh?”

  “I’ll give you an hour with him. An exclusive, ’kay? But I don’t want any mention of last night in the article, or there will be major problems. Major.”

  “Okay.”

  “As long as we’re on the same page, I’ll get the wheels in motion,” she said.

  “Okay.” Mike shrugged his shoulders. What the fuck had just happened?

  “And I’ll send you over a new tape recorder ASAP.”

  When they hung up, Mike pumped his fist in the air. When it hit him that this was something Vince would do, Mike froze in midpump.

  California

  HAZBENZ

  CHAPTER 14

  ON LOTTIE LOVE’S FIRST DAY AT HER NEW JOB CYNDI GAVE HER A list of the clients she would represent. Lottie stared hard at the names, but none sounded familiar. One thing was certain: these were not the Next Big Things.

  “You’ve been given a list of some of our older, more established client base,” Cyndi began.

  Lottie laughed. “You mean the has-beens.”

  Cyndi tossed her head back and clucked, smoothing her Agnes B. blazer. “No, Lottie.” She spoke as if Lottie were a disobedient child. “They are the bedrock of C.B. Publicity. They founded this company, and we owe them a big debt. You may think this is an insult, but it shows the kind of faith I have in you.”

  Lottie laughed again. “You couldn’t be more brilliant at being a publicist, but this is Lottie Love you’re talking to. These people are losers.”

  “Lottie, the truth is, yes, these people haven’t had press in a number of years. But if anyone can get them ink, it’s you. I don’t feel comfortable giving this assignment to anyone else.”

  Lottie rolled her eyes. She hadn’t been there but a few hours and already she was beginning to loathe Cyndi Bowman.

  But she wasn’t going to let it get to her. Lem Brac had told her she was good. You have talent, he said. You get these people to reveal. Nobody had ever said anything like that to her before.

  She smiled and clicked on the television in her office. One of the perks at Bowman was that everyone had a TV to keep up with pop culture. She flipped around, trying to find something interesting while she studied her lame clients. She tapped her brand-new kitten heels on the floor. She adjusted the fuchsia camisole peeking out from her demure wrap dress. Then she spotted a familiar face.

  Fat Earl.

  He wore a security guard’s uniform as he stood next to a frazzled woman pointing a gun at him. Lottie turned up the volume.

  “If you come any closer, you’ll be a corpse,” the woman screamed.

  Fat Earl smiled, walked toward the woman, and tugged the gun out of her hand. As he looked hard at her, the camera zoomed in on him. Then he spoke.

  “Don’t give these people a show. That’s what they want, a show, because then they’ll feel better about themselves. But we’re not going to let them. Pretend it’s Oscar night and I’m escorting you into the Kodak Theater. You’re dressed in a fine gown with a diamond necklace and earrings that sparkle like your eyes. So, come on. Let’s walk along the red carpet while these bystanders watch us with envy, silently praying that we’ll trip and fall. But we won’t because you’re too beautiful, too magical for that.”

  “What the hell?” Lottie yelled at the TV.

  Fat Earl seemed to smile right at her. She couldn’t believe it. He’d probably be the one walking down the red carpet to receive a Daytime Emmy. Shit! Fat fucking Earl had duped her. She had actually believed him.

  She clicked off Earl and hurled the remote across the room. Then she scanned her client list. Okay, she’d deal with it for a while (after all, she needed the money), but then she’d demand better clients. These were fucking corpses. Lottie felt like marching into Cyndi’s office and saying that the best solution would be to stuff them in caskets and bury them beneath six feet of dirt.

  Then her eyes caught a name that looked vaguely familiar. Frances Blanchard? Next to the name, Cyndi had scribbled, Meeting, today at two. See me.

  Frances Blanchard? How did she know that name?

  She opened up the file. So this woman was once a star who warranted a lot of press, and Lottie Love had barely heard of her. The file bulged with every single story, brief, and blurb that had ever been written on Franny Blanchard. She found a bunch of articles with Lem Brac’s name and began to read and read.

  She was near tears when she finished. Lem wrote better than anyone she’d ever read. His stories were rich with detail and filled with emotion, without relying on exclamation points. He wrote simply, but she could feel what it was like to be Lem Brac and in love. Her heart hurt when she finished. She couldn’t believe someone this talented had seen talent in her. Could it be possible that she was actually good at something besides thrusting out her boobs?

  Lottie was certain that everything she’d ever gotten in life was because of her body. She had won the internship at Personality because she stuck her chest out in her professor’s face. She scored most of her interviews because she flirted and teased. She had been a joke at Personality. They had called her a starfucker behind her back. She was the office’s comic relief.

  But Lem saw something in her. Lottie couldn’t stop thinking about him. It was like having a crush, but different. It was more like the crush she had on Dr. Bernstein, the guy who’d operated on her nose. It wasn’t like she wanted to do him—he was way too old. But he had, in som
e ways, healed her, made her feel worthy. She kept thinking about ways to run into Lem so she could feel healed and worthy again.

  Franny Blanchard was someone Lem had believed in once. Lottie had to meet her. She had to get Lem to interview Franny again. Maybe he’d find out what he’d been looking for all these years. Or maybe, just maybe, Lottie could get them to rekindle whatever it was they once had.

  Lottie laughed. She was beginning to sound like a Hollywood movie.

  California

  SCOOP

  CHAPTER 15

  LEM PUSHED OPEN THE DOOR. HEADS SWIVELED AND FACES clenched in disapproval as he scrambled for a seat. “Sorry, traffic,” he mumbled. Reggio frowned, cleared his throat, and turned his head back toward Bernie.

  Bernie was still in town. Lem should have known—this May had been exceptionally rainy in New York, and Bernie needed some sunshine. But she manned the helm of the conference table as if the reporters actually needed a dose of snarls and insults to sustain them. She was a haystack of a woman with a shrunken head on linebacker shoulders. There is nothing worse than a woman with no discernible neck, Lem thought.

  “I have some good news and some bad news,” Reggio said, staring at a sheet of paper in front of him. “Let’s get the bad news out of the way, shall we?” He glanced at Bernie, who nodded. “As most of you have heard, someone stole the master key. We searched the office to see if anything was taken, and it appears as though Lottie Love’s former office has been picked clean.”

  There were gasps. Shit, thought Lem. Should he confess? Or be silent? Either way, this would somehow come back to haunt him. He could feel it, and the certainty of this feeling settled in his chest like a slab of lead.

  Bernie cleared her throat. “I don’t think we have anything to worry about. My gut reaction is that Ms. Love managed to sweet-talk her way into the building and left with her trinkets,” Bernie said, heaving out her chest on the words “sweet-talk.” “But still, everyone should check to make sure important files weren’t taken. Ms. Love seemed very agitated regarding her termination.”