They're Not Your Friends Page 23

  It ended fast. When he returned to Julia, a cluster of gorgeous women waited for him.

  “Julia says you write for Personality,” they chimed at once. “You should do a story on me.”

  “You? Why you? You haven’t done anything but bad theater.”

  “Bad theater. I guess you’re forgetting about all those guest appearances on prime-time shows that I beat you out of. Ha!”

  “Please, no one remembers guest appearances. You’ve got to be a regular to make it count.”

  “Or have a recurring role, like I did all season on Malcolm in the Middle.”

  “Hey, you guys, I was here first. Mike and I were having a nice conversation.”

  “So? It’s not like you’re with him. And even if you were with him, I wouldn’t care. I would do him in front of you.”

  “Guess what, Mike? I get to die next week on ER. And not just like in the first few minutes. I linger for like half the show.”

  “So what? You still die.”

  “Yeah, you know what that means. You can’t come back.”

  Mike smiled. Guests eyed him, wondering if the guy surrounded by a bunch of beautiful women was someone. He checked his watch. Only a few more minutes before he was supposed to meet Cyndi and Chris in front of something called the Colossal Colon. He scanned the lawn. There were people milling about what looked like a giant worm. Must be the colon, he decided.

  “Listen, I’ve gotta go interview. . .” A long pause. “Chris Mercer.”

  “Wow! What’s he like?”

  “Well, don’t leave without saying good-bye.”

  “We’ll be waiting for you.”

  “Hurry back.”

  “Can I come too?”

  MIKE ARRIVED AT the giant worm/colon just as Cyndi Bowman was exiting it. She gave him a quick smile, then extended her hand as if they had never met before.

  “Cyndi Bowman,” she said. “Chris should be here any second.” She pointed toward the colon. “You should check it out. You can walk into it and see what hemorrhoids and fissures look like up close.”

  “It’s just something I’m not that curious about.”

  “Okay. Just hang then. Chris’ll be here any second.”

  A few more minutes passed. Mike scanned the lawn but didn’t see Chris anywhere. His cell phone trilled.

  “Mike Posner.”

  “Where’s my Rolodex?”

  “I don’t have it.”

  “Okay then. Be that way. You couldn’t be more sorry.”

  Mike laughed. “Doesn’t that mean I shouldn’t be sorry at all?”

  Silence. Mike pressed the Off button as Cyndi eyed him. She hummed nervously as her eyes skittered across the lawn. She checked her watch.

  “He should be here momentarily. I saw him just a little while ago. This really isn’t like Chris at all. Probably someone with colitis is talking his ear off.” She leaned in, giggled, and whispered, “He shouldn’t be much longer. Those people have to take a crap every five seconds.”

  ANOTHER HALF HOUR. Mike watched as Cyndi canvassed the lawn, castigating assistants on her cell phone. “You find him now or it’s your ass.” She’d press keys and speak. Press keys and speak.

  Mike’s heart pounded and he felt light-headed. A waiter with a tray of champagne sauntered by, and Mike grabbed one, guzzled, and grabbed another. Cyndi marched toward him from the lawn. “We’re locating him right now,” she said. She forced out a quick smile while her eyes looked past Mike.

  Suddenly there was a tremor of sighs, and Mike raised his head, scanning the crowd for the epicenter of the starquake. It had to be Chris. Mike looked around. It was someone else Mike didn’t recognize.

  His cell phone rang.

  “Hello?” he exhaled into the phone.

  “It looks like the star reporter won’t be interviewing Chris Mercer after all.”

  CLICK.

  “Lottie?”

  He took off, running around the lawn searching for Lottie Love. She must be somewhere watching these events unfold and having a really good laugh. His eyes darted over the tables, the bars, the tents, everywhere. He banged on bathroom doors. Then he raced around again, covering the periphery, nearly knocking over Courteney Cox. He took another champagne. Where the fuck was she?

  He spotted her at the bar. Long auburn hair. Michael Stars black camisole. Earl jeans. A cigarette dangling from her mouth.

  “Lottie!” He grabbed her shoulder.

  She jerked and grimaced. “Do you mind?”

  Just another Lottie Love clone in a sea of Lottie Love clones.

  She was nowhere. Chris was nowhere. Cyndi Bowman marched toward him.

  Was she talking to him or into her headset? He could never tell. He hated those headsets—everyone thought they looked like the Secret Service or Britney onstage, when they were really just greeters at The Gap.

  Cyndi looked right at Mike and crinkled her face into a pained smile.

  “Well, of course I understand.”

  “What do you understand?” Mike asked.

  “Some things must be a priority. . .”

  “What’s a priority?”

  Cyndi stuck an index finger out at Mike to silence him.

  “Well, Christopher, you do what you have to do. . . Absolutely. . . Absolutely. Well, thanks so much. We’ll talk tomorrow. . . Or stop by. Anytime.”

  She dropped her index finger and squeezed out a grimace.

  “So, it looks like this thing won’t be happening tonight, ’kay?” She spoke in a singsongy voice and squeezed out an “I’m suffering from colitis” smile. “Call me tomorrow to resched.”

  “WHAT? I CAN’T RESCHEDULE. THIS NEEDS TO HAPPEN RIGHT NOW. YOU GUARANTEED THIS. GET HIM ON THE PHONE.”

  White dots of fury flew in front of Mike’s eyes. Cyndi frowned.

  “You don’t need to raise your voice at me. I’m sorry for the misunderstanding.”

  “MISUNDERSTANDING? There was no misunderstanding. You fucking—”

  She stuck out her hand like a traffic cop. “Okay, you so do not need to use vulgarities. As a journalist, you know that sometimes situations arise that are beyond our control.”

  “As a publicist, you’re supposed to fucking make sure this interview happens.”

  Cyndi took a deep breath. “It will happen. Just not tonight, ’kay?”

  “No, it’s not ’kay.” Mike spit it out like a curse. “It’s not ’kay at all.”

  “Well, it’s beyond my control.” Cyndi pulled her hair back and sighed, as if she needed to regain composure. “As you know, Chris is a recovering alcoholic and it’s a daily struggle,” she said. “Anyway, he just got a call from someone he sponsors who had hit bottom and needed his help. That’s the kind of guy he is. He’d drop everything to help an alcoholic. Everything.”

  She prattled on, but Mike stopped listening. Lottie Love. Somehow Lottie had screwed this up for him. Lem was right. Stars don’t shine forever. His barely blinked.

  He gasped for breath. He struggled to speak calmly. “Cyndi, please. If I can’t talk to him in person, at least get him on the telephone. I need something. Call him up.”

  She squeezed out another fulsome grin. “No can do. He specifically asked not to be disturbed.”

  “This is bullshit. Bullshit. Where the fuck is he?”

  “There’s nothing I can do, o-kay? I’ll confab with him in the A.M. Promise!” She nearly sang.

  “LET’S TALK ABOUT COLONOSCOPIES,” the hostess yelled into a microphone.

  Mike stared hard at Cyndi. “This is bullshit. I’ll get all of Chris’s high school classmates on the phone. I’ll talk to his neighbors. I’ll find his enemies. I’ll do this without you or him. And you’ll hate it. I’ll write about the other night. Everything.”

  Cyndi threw up her hands. “I guess you’ll do what you have to do. But I know your deadline is in. . .” She checked her watch. “Like a half hour, and it’s already bedtime in Jersey, his hometown.” She smiled.

  Mike
bit his tongue and clenched his fists. “You’re a real fucking bitch. And. . . and. . . you should sue the doctor who gave you that nose.”

  “MIKE!” JULIA FROM Sin Gals yelled out to him, but he ignored her. He wandered across the lawn, leaned against the Barbra Streisand sculpture, closed his eyes, and tried to calm his palpitating heart. He took deep breaths.

  He called the Chateau Marmont.

  “Chris Mercer, please.”

  “I’m sorry. . .”

  “Okay, Johnny Malibu.”

  “I’m sorry. . .”

  “I know that Chris Mercer—or whatever he’s calling himself these days—is staying there. I need to talk to him right now. Right now! It’s an emergency.”

  “I know it is. And I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do to help you. Perhaps you can write to his fan club.”

  Click.

  MIKE BANGED A fist into Barbra. What the fuck to do? He studied his cell phone, trying to figure out how to break the news to Vince. Then it occurred to him.

  He pressed a button to reveal the last incoming number. He dialed it.

  It rang and rang.

  He redialed and redialed. Finally, it picked up.

  “Lottie! Lottie!” Mike screamed into the phone. “Talk to me. Right now.”

  No one answered. He heard a panting sound.

  “Lottie. I know you’re there. Talk to me. Fucking talk to me.”

  No answer. Silence. And then panting. Then something that sounded like squeaking. ErrEErrEErrE.

  “Answer me!”

  Then more breathing. Heavier and heavier. Squeaking. Grunting. ErrErrErrE. Moan. And finally he heard Lottie Love’s voice.

  “Yes.”

  “Lottie!”

  “Yes. . . yes. Yes. YESSSSS!”

  “Lottie. Listen to me right now,” he screamed.

  “Oh, yes. Oh, yessss! YOU’RE NUMBER ONE. CHRIS MERCER, YOU ARE NUMBER ONE!”

  California

  LUVSPLL

  CHAPTER 19

  “HEY, MAN. YOU OKAY?”

  Lem sat in the back of a cheddar-colored cab en route to Franny’s. He sipped Smirnoff’s out of a paper bag. A white-hot poker chiseled away at his heart.

  One hundred something days blown.

  “You okay?” the cabbie repeated, eyeing Lem through the rearview mirror.

  “Quite,” Lem said. Actually he wasn’t. His chest felt leaden, and he had trouble catching his breath. He rolled down the window and breathed in the smoggy air. Then he rested his head on the seat back.

  “Nice neighborhood, dude,” the cabbie said. Lem closed his eyes. What was it with these Americans, he wondered. They are all so bloody afraid of silence that they beat it up and strangle it every chance they get with talk of neighborhoods or license plates. No doubt this guy was another struggling actor. Marlon Lang, the ID on the glove box read. Poor Marlon, with his straggly hair and mangy goatee. This guy didn’t have star quality; the best he could hope for was the part of the annoying cabdriver. Marlon—Driving You Since 2004.

  “Lotta money here. Not too shabby.” Marlon clicked his tongue and shook his head. “I wouldn’t mind a crib up here. It’ll happen. One day. I’m not a cabdriver, really. I’m an actor. I’m preparing for a role. An action adventure. I play an alien disguised as a New York City cabdriver. Chris Mercer kills me.”

  “You too?”

  “Huh?”

  Lem laughed a little too hard.

  THIS MORNING, besides being hungover, Lem was in trouble. He knew it almost as soon as he walked into Reggio’s office.

  “Franny Blanchard is interested in a where-are-they-now treatment. I thought our Personality readers would find a profile on Franny to be a good read. She is quite a legend. Still has a lot of fans out there,“ Lem said.

  The other day Lottie had told him she now represented Franny Blanchard. She asked him to intervew her. Lem realized that if he wanted his daughter in his life, he’d have to deal with the past. And that meant more than throwing away a bunch of old magazines. He’d meet with Franny. He’d figure out what had been real and what had been an illusion.

  But Reggio looked dazed. His Good Humor–man linens were wrinkled. His hair was disheveled and gel-less. “Blanchard. . . Blanchard,” he mumbled, scanning his brain’s pop-culture repository. “Ah, Lisa the Love Witch. She doesn’t interest me. Just another faded actress who’s desperately struggling to have the limelight shine in her face. That is, as long as her public is wearing rose-colored glasses.”

  “I think her fans are still interested to know what she’s doing.”

  Reggio rested his head in his hands. “Lem, not today. This is a really bad day for me. Mike Posner dropped the ball with Chris Mercer.”

  “Mike? I’m sure that wasn’t his fault. You know how these celebrities are.”

  “He didn’t have any backup. He had no thirds, no write-around. And I just got reamed out by Julia Roberts’s publicist. Mike’s source gave him some erroneous information.”

  “I’m certain he can explain. . .”

  Reggio massaged his temples and looked at Lem as if suddenly remembering he was there. “You’re quick to come to Mike’s defense,” he muttered. “Especially considering.”

  “Considering?” Lem squinted his eyes and studied Reggio.

  Reggio ignored Lem and picked up his phone. “Melissa, Lem Brac is in my office. Could you send Bernie down here?”

  “All this for a where-are-they-now on Franny Blanchard?” Lem laughed nervously.

  “Lem, Bernie and I need to speak to you.”

  “About what?”

  Vince shook his head but didn’t say anything. He eyed the door while tapping a pen on his desk. Then he sat erect and smiled broadly. He nodded as Bernie entered. She looked past Lem right at Reggio.

  “Craziness,” she boomed. “Craziness, craziness. All is craziness. But we pulled it off. The second installment of celebrity diets. You should see the proofs. The photos are beautiful. And yours truly managed a pub letter about my battle with the bulge.” She grabbed a slab of fat from her stomach as she spoke. “I think I’ve just located an entire battalion.” She chortled. Then she looked solemnly at Lem.

  “Lemuel.” She nodded at the floor.

  “Bernie.”

  “I suppose Vincenzo has explained the situation.”

  Reggio coughed nervously.

  “Actually, he has not,” Lem said.

  “Have a seat,” Bernie said as she plopped onto the couch. Lem sat down across from her. The poker stabbed at his heart.

  Bernie cleared her throat. “Lem, it has come to our attention that you gave a terminated employee access to our offices.”

  Lem relaxed and smiled. “Oh. Right. I was finishing up some odds and ends. Lottie stopped by to collect her belongings. Security wouldn’t let her in, so I walked up with her.”

  Bernie looked hard at him. “And you don’t see a problem with that? Lemuel, this is someone who is no longer with the company. Someone with a serious gripe. Someone who could cause serious dam—”

  “She just came in to collect her possessions. She wasn’t really out of my sight.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she wasn’t.” Bernie smiled slyly. “But somehow she did manage to steal the master key. I’m certain she was planning a second break-in.”

  “She didn’t take the master key. I was with her—”

  “Well, someone stole the master key. This is going to cost the company a lot of money, thank you very much, Lemuel.”

  Lem looked past them, concentrating on the pressed-wood entertainment center in the front of the room. The cabinets were empty, save for a television, a DVD player, and a few trophies. Those golden trophies looked like dusty Mormon temples. They had been on the shelves for as long as Lem could remember, but he had never really looked at them before. As Lem stared, he realized the winged gods perched on faux marble stands were swinging tennis racquets, baseballs, and golf clubs. These were not awards for journalism, as Lem had believed
all those years. Instead, these were someone’s athletic awards—probably poor Reggio’s Little League trophies. He grinned. Bernie eyed him.

  “I’m glad this is all so amusing to you,” Bernie said. She looked at her watch. “I’ve got a conference call to attend to.” She looked at Reggio and nodded. “Vincenzo, you handle this.”

  Reggio twitched nervously as she stomped out. He stared at his desk.

  “It’s been a stressful twenty-four hours and everybody’s nerves are frayed,” Reggio said.

  “I was just trying to help out a colleague.”

  “A former colleague,” Reggio said through clenched teeth. “We have no choice in this matter, Lem.”

  “No choice?”

  “Lem, let’s not do this. Okay? We’re all adults. I’m going to have to ask you to resign.”

  Lem laughed. “After all these years, you’re going to fire me because I let some kid collect her Tom Cruise posters?”

  Reggio sighed and shook his head. “I’m not firing you. You’re resigning. Lem, you’ll get a nice package. Take an early retirement. Play golf.”

  “I don’t. . . play. . . golf,” Lem scoffed.

  “Well, Bernie’s cleaning house. They just hired a news editor who’s going to want harder-edged stories. James Davenworth from the New York Daily News. And you haven’t been pulling your weight for quite some time. We could say you’re working on bigger projects. A book. Whatever you want us to say.”

  Lem stared at the trophies. He squinted to read them. Vincent Reggio: Team Spirit. Vincent Reggio: Most Dedicated. Vincent Reggio: Most Improved. Vincent Reggio: Hardest Worker. That translated into Vincent Reggio: No Athletic Ability Whatsoever.

  This made Lem laugh. Insanely. He doubled over. His body rattled and he wheezed, groping for breath. His stomach cramped and his chest tightened. Lem wiped his moist eyes with a beige shirtsleeve. He struggled for composure, the hinges of his jaw twitching. When he looked up, Reggio was staring.

  “Lem, this is extremely serious.”

  “Vincent,” Lem gasped. “Vincent.”