They're Not Your Friends Read online

  There was something else. Vince Reggio was about to explode with his good news. It must be a promotion, Lem imagined. Americans love adding adjectives in front of job titles. It made them feel important, even though the tasks remained the same. To American ears, Executive Vice President in Charge of Bureaucratic Rigamarole sounds more impressive if there’s a “chief” prefixed to it. Americans! It’s no longer politcally correct to call a team the Redskins or the Braves, but a bald, bloated guy sitting behind a desk in a tie is a chief. What an insult to Native Americans, Lem thought, certain that an Indian would much rather be associated with a kid storming down a field with a ball in his hand than a fraudulent suit droning on about paradigm shifts.

  Reggio cleared his throat and boomed, “Okay, let’s move on to more pleasant news. Drumroll, please.”

  Bernie playfully rapped the table with her swollen knuckles. Reggio chuckled.

  “Our intrepid reporter Mike Posner has scored an exclusive with. . . ta-da. . . Chris Mercer.”

  There were more gasps. Reggio flapped his hands together and the rest of the office joined in. Then he gave the thumbs-up sign.

  “Good going, Mike. Do you want to tell us how you hit the ball out of the park?”

  Mike knitted his brows while his ears turned bright red. “I, um, pretty much ran into Chris. It was. . . luck.”

  “Elaborate, Mike. Don’t be so modest. We all want to learn your tricks, even I. Everyone can improve their skills,” Bernie said, sucking in her cheeks. “Tell them what you told me.”

  Mike shrugged his shoulders.

  “Okay, I’ll do it for you. One of Mr. Posner’s many, many sources gave him a tip. Chris Mercer has been holed up at the Chateau Marmont under an assumed name for weeks. Mike has been staking the place, hoping he’d catch the big CM. He found his bungalow, knocked on the door, and Chris answered. As simple as that. You see, people—Mike didn’t get lucky. He didn’t just happen upon the Merce Man. His tenacity finally paid off. There is no such thing as luck in this business. Luck equals tenacity plus opportunity.”

  While reporters scribbled this in notebooks, Lem glanced at Mike, who quickly averted his eyes.

  “Please, Mike, tell us more,” Bernie said.

  “Well. . . I just was. . . lucky.”

  “Okay. I’ll speak for you,” Bernie said. “Mike said he was with Personality magazine and we wanted to do a story on him. Well, Chris said he wanted absolutely nothing to do with our magazine. He said it was not cutting edge enough, too mainstream. Mike goes, ‘Chris, who are you kidding? Mainstream is your audience. Personality brings you forty million potential moviegoers. How’s that for mainstream?’ He said he never thought about it that way. And Mike said, ‘Well, you should,’ and walked away. About five minutes later he was begging Mike for an interview.”

  Bernie stared lovingly at her golden boy. Then she scowled. “That’s what we need—more investigative journalism. You should all take a cue from Mike and do some real digging. Cultivate sources who’ll tell you where A-listers are hiding. A lot of you are getting lazy; you know who you are. A lot of you kowtow to celebrity. You’ve got to be tough and pushy. Mike is relentless. He doesn’t take no for an answer. He gets in their faces, and he gets results. Thank you, Mike.”

  “Sure,” Mike said with his head down. Again, the room applauded.

  “Well, that’s all, team,” Reggio said, slapping his hands together. “Let’s hustle and break some records today! And I advise all of you to take a moment out of your day to congratulate Mike and get some pointers from him.” Reggio pumped his fist in the air and laughed. “That is, Mike, if you’re not too busy muckraking.”

  Lem looked at Mike, who sat there grinning as he bounced a pen against a yellow legal pad. Soon Bernie was at Mike’s side, and he stood to shake hands. They looked like two war correspondents just returned from the trenches.

  So his suspicions were confirmed. Lottie was right. Mike had stolen the master key and Lottie’s Rolodex. Then he sat at a bar while Lem yammered away about how desperately he needed to interview Chris Mercer. Right there, Mike was hatching a plan. And then he left, knowing exactly where he was heading. Leaving Lem all alone.

  “There was this one time, I staked out Sinatra for weeks,” Lem heard Bernie bellow. “He wouldn’t give me the time of day. Finally I yelled to him, ‘Hey, old blue eyes, I’m not asking you to fly me to the moon, but the best is yet to come if you let me interview you’. . .”

  After the meeting, Lem took a walk along Wilshire. He stopped in the Starbucks down the street. When he quit the booze, he started relying on caffeine. He hated to admit it, but he enjoyed the whole Starbucks “experience.” At first he’d fought it. How could anyone spend a minimum of three dollars on a cup of coffee? But then he decided there was something poetic about it. People queuing up at the door of this corporate behemoth, weary, desperate for a jolt, and struggling to somehow be different.

  No black coffee for me, they silently scream. I’m an individual, Goddamnit! I’ll take a grande vanilla latte no foam with two percent milk. I’ll have a tall decaf mocha valencia with vanilla soy, no whip. How about a skinny venti iced chai latte?

  Nearly three months ago, when he first started frequenting Starbucks, he’d stare at the menu in complete bewilderment. Couldn’t he just say small, medium, or large? he’d ask. The “barista” would look at him in disgust. But now Lem Brac was an expert. In fact, he had waged a silent challenge. Every day he’d order a different drink and use as many words as possible. He delighted in this newfound language.

  Today he decided on “grande caramel macchiato with two percent milk and light foam.”

  He walked down the street back to the office, sipping his ten-word concoction while wondering what the hell had happened.

  He’d thought that once he stopped with the booze, he’d be able to get back on track. But all he could think about was vodka. Despite his intellectual amusement, the macchiato couldn’t hold a candle to Smirnoff’s. Last night, Lottie had talked to him about Alcoholics Anonymous. Maybe that’s what he needed, although he always thought those programs were for wimps. He was a loner. He could do it on his own, right? Well, maybe he couldn’t.

  Preoccupied, he wandered into the Personality building. As the elevator door closed, a hand pushed it opened. Mike jumped on. When he saw Lem, his eyes bulged. He was a trapped rat. There was silence. But Mike Posner was never one to handle silence really well. If they were in a car, he’d be reciting vanity plates.

  He cleared his throat. “Lem, I guess I scammed them pretty well. The truth is, I just happened to run into the guy. I was pretty loaded, but I had to give them a story. You wanna know what really happened? It’s pretty crazy. . .”

  “No. From appearances, it seems you scammed me as well.”

  “What? Come on Lem, I wouldn’t scam you.” Mike huffed out a laugh. His eyes followed the elevator light as it crawled from number to number.

  “After you left, I ran into Miss Love,” Lem said. “I helped her pack up her office. She was very upset.” Lem’s eyes bored into Mike’s. “It appears someone made off with her Rolodex.”

  Mike’s eyes popped like one of those squeeze dolls. “It wasn’t me.”

  “I didn’t accuse you, Michael,” Lem said, smiling and shaking his head. “All the rules have changed. When I started in this racket, a reporter would never, never steal a story from another reporter. No matter what.”

  Mike’s eyes blazed.

  “Steal a story! Steal a story?” His voice cracked. “What the hell are you talking about? Chris Mercer? That was never your story and you know it. Vince was just amusing. . .”

  Lem flinched. “Of course you’re right. You hit the ball out of the park; now you better run the bases and score your touchdown. . . Please, Michael. You did a great job with Reggio and Bernie in the meeting, but I’ve been around far too long.”

  Mike stared at Lem, his eyes burning. “I stole nothing. Nothing.” He spoke in a flat, lo
w, trembling voice. “Not the story. Not Lottie’s Rolodex. I don’t need to.”

  Mike froze with his fists clenched and his jaw slack, while taut knots at his temples pulsated. To Lem, he resembled a child considering whether or not to have a tantrum. He stood there, frozen in place, his wide eyes darting around. Lem was suddenly overwhelmed with sympathy for the guy who would someday probably fire him. The elevator tinged and the door slowly slid open.

  “Of course you didn’t. You’re a star, Mike Posner. A star. Don’t forget it.”

  HE HAD WANTED the interview more than anything since he saw those eyes. If he could earn the respect of his colleagues, maybe he could earn hers. Maybe he could stay sober for her.

  Since the funeral, that photograph had haunted him. Those eyes. He thought he was crazy. Maybe it was the sea lions. Maybe it was calling Mike “son.” Maybe it was Thom’s death.

  He ignored it for a few days. But then he helped Lottie pack up her office and he felt the need kick in. He was back at the motel watching the father splashing around with his kids. He’d always wanted to be a dad. After helping Lottie, he realized he could still be of value.

  That night he scanned his old photo albums. There was Lem Brac as a baby in a cradle, in a pram, nestled between his mum and dad. There were those lips. The reddest lips he’d ever seen. And those eyes. His mother’s eyes. Almond shaped.

  Patricia’s daughter, Cathy, had his mother’s eyes.

  Lem Brac was a father. Why hadn’t he known? He could understand Patricia’s motives. Why let her daughter discover her father was a drunk and a philanderer? But Thom Bowman? How could he have kept such a secret from Lem for all those years? Why?

  He had rung up Marjorie Bowman the day after the funeral. She was resting, so he spoke to Tommy.

  “You should really talk to Patricia, not me,” Tommy said. “I can’t tell you anything.”

  “It’s true. Isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know anything. You should just talk to Patricia.”

  LEM SLUMPED AT his desk. To distract himself, he studied the press kit Lottie had messengered over. In it was everything that had ever been written about Franny, including his stories. Lottie said they moved her, and she wished she had gotten to know him better when she worked at Personality. Lem allowed himself a small smile. Lottie Love, the girl who looked the fakest, was actually very authentic. He hoped she allowed herself to fall in love, get married, and have children one day. He hoped she didn’t keep the passenger seat crammed with old newspapers.

  There were also samples of Franny Blanchard’s product line called The Cure—Homeopathic Remedies to Promote Health and Well-Being. Why does every has-been feel the need to either write children’s stories, la Jamie Lee Curtis and Madonna, or come out with an invention they’ll hawk on 3:00 A.M. infomercials, like Suzanne Somers and Victoria Principal? Lem read the labels on each bottle. Calm. Health. Strength.

  CALM. With ingredients to promote serenity, CALM relaxes your muscles, your body, your mind, your soul.

  He remembered the same bottle on Thom Bowman’s desk. It was the stuff Marjorie had the day of the funeral. Calm. He needed to feel calm more than anything.

  Lem twisted the cap off and took a few sips. He rubbed his temple with an index finger. Then he breathed deeply and shut his eyes. Suddenly a familiar sensation rode through his body. He hadn’t felt this way in, oh, six months, but who’s counting? If he had known herbs could make you feel so good, he would have taken them years ago. Lem brought the bottle to his mouth and glugged it.

  It wasn’t enough.

  LEM FIXED HIS hair with a nearly toothless comb and checked his reflection in a dust-covered pocket mirror he kept in the top drawer of his desk. Every time he looked at himself, he was shocked. Any trace of that young reporter with promise had disappeared from his features. His skin was raw and craggy. His nose was riddled with broken blood vessels. His blue eyes—once piercing and full of adventure—were yellow around the rims and runny, just like raw eggs. This was not the face of a man anyone could ever fall in love with. This was not the face a daughter could be proud of. The alcohol he had chugged daily had blotted out his features and left him puffy and frayed, as if he were out of focus. Booze was like a squatter who had erased any trace of the former inhabitant. Sir Lem had packed his bags and moved out long ago. The Lush resided here now; and while he had been away for six months, The Lush would always return.

  He could no longer deny the squatter. Who the hell had he been fooling? His appetite was ravenous. Lem’s hands trembled as he grabbed his wallet and headed toward the elevator.

  Lem walked right past Bernie as she called her golden children to lunch.

  “VINCENZO, MIGUEL, Orso awaits,” she bellowed, brushing past Lem without so much as a nod of recognition. Why did certain people feel the need to address others as foreigners? It was a mystery to Lem, but he didn’t really give a rat’s ass.

  THE SLIDING GLASS doors whooshed open and the frosty air inside blasted through Lem. It was nearing the official beginning of summer, and Pavillion’s was decked out accordingly with stacks of striped chaise lounge chairs and rubber floats, a cylindrical plastic tube filled with brightly colored beach balls, a display of barbecue grills, and a cluster of rangy palms already wilting outside in the fluorescent sun. Lem moved past this frivolity to the liquor section, where he grabbed a bottle of Smirnoff’s.

  “Jennifer—Serving You Since 2004” read the cashier’s name tag. “Hello, and how are we today?” She was cheerful and perky, the official personality of the city.

  Lem smiled back. Jennifer—Serving You Since 2004 still had the right to be jovial. According to her name tag, she’d only been at the gig for a few months; so most likely, she was still optimistic about her acting career. Only in Los Angeles did the best-looking specimens ring up and bag groceries. They were blue-eyed, chiseled-cheeked, pouty-lipped, buffed-bodied confections of hope as they rehearsed lines while scanning toilet paper, tampons, and toothpaste. They chattered across aisles about the latest audition horror story, interrupting their tales to ask a customer if he preferred paper or plastic. But their level of enthusiasm diminished with each year of service. When your cashier has been serving you since 1995, you better check your receipt for errors. With each bagful of groceries, a dream recedes farther and farther down the conveyor belt.

  Jennifer—Serving You Since 2004 smiled as she handed Lem his change and a receipt. “Thank you and come again,” she sang. “Now you have a nice day!”

  Lem looked into her eyes. She was so innocent, so full of hope, so full of have-a-nice-days. And he felt so very, very sorry for her. He reached across the conveyor belt and grabbed her gently by the shoulders.

  “Jennifer, don’t forget your dreams. Don’t ever forget your dreams. Promise me, promise me.” His voice sounded foreign to him. Was he slurring?

  Jennifer stared at him, wide-eyed and frightened. “How do you know my name?”

  “What’s the problem?” a customer growled. “Miss, should we get a manager?”

  “Where’s the manager?”

  “GET THE MANAGER!”

  “Manager to cashier seven. Manager to cashier seven.”

  Lem let go of her. He grabbed his bag and headed for the door. A pain shot through his chest. It was like a hot knife chiseling away at his very core.

  In the garage elevator, Lem was transported to the building’s bowels and his waiting Citron. He sat behind the wheel, unscrewed his Smirnoff’s, took a swig, licked his lips, and sucked in a deep breath. He sat quietly as the vodka trickled down his parched throat, cooling the poker in his chest. Lem took a few more sips, until the pain finally subsided and he basked in the dark tranquility. But the mossy subterranean silence was interrupted by the stomp of heels against concrete. Lem watched in the darkness as “Miguel,” “Vincenzo,” and Bernie giggled and climbed into Reggio’s glinting white Lexus.

  When the only trace of them was the carbon monoxide fumes dangling in the air, Le
m shut his eyes and rested his head back on the car seat. Just as Franny had predicted, he felt calm. In his muscles. His body. His mind. His soul. And soon he was asleep, dreaming of running into Franny’s waiting arms. With a spell you were at her command.

  California

  LUVWTCH

  CHAPTER 16

  WE’LL MAKE YOUR PIPES SING!

  Sparkling teeth in a mouth as big as a slice of watermelon. Chalk-white jumpsuit. A wrench in one hand, a plunger in the other. A wave of unnatural jet-black hair.

  There was her father, larger than life on the side of his truck—parked right in front of Franny Blanchard’s sprawling Tudor. Her heart raced. Please, let it be one of his employees—Dale or Eric or Matthew—she silently begged. She squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them she quickly looked at the license plate. No numerals. The original. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

  “Isn’t that your father’s truck?” Cyndi’s smirk said shiteatershiteater. Your daddy’s a shiteater. Na na na na na.

  “Yes, it is!” Lottie answered as if Cyndi had said, “Isn’t that your father’s billion-dollar yacht?”

  Their appointment was at two, but they’d gotten there ten minutes early. Lottie didn’t really see the point. She knew they’d be waiting at least twenty minutes before Franny would see them. Celebrities had a knack for being busy doing nothing. The more successful the actor, the longer you waited. And publicists, existing on one of the lowest rungs in the Hollywood caste system (sandwiched between journalists and personal assistants), were forced to sit there, glancing at their watches and smiling, as if it were a gift to wait.

  Franny’s personal assistant, a woman with even bigger breasts than Lottie, ushered them into the house.