Elimination Night (32 page)

“Let’s get straight to the point,” said Dick, prodding at a remote control barely wider than his thumb. The lights dimmed as a motorized projection screen lowered itself from the ceiling at the far end of the room. To the sound of a tiny fan blowing cool air over hot circuitry, an image wobbled onto the white rectangle in front of us: a stock photograph of a burst pipe, spraying water everywhere.

“As you’ve probably noticed, Miss King, we have a leak here at
Project Icon,
” announced Dick, nodding with almost fatherly pride at the visual metaphor now being displayed for my benefit. “Someone in this building—someone with the most
intimate
of access to our talent—has been passing along highly sensitive information to members of
the press, and by that I mean a certain trumped-up jackass at
ShowBiz
magazine, who writes under the name of Chaz Chipford.”

Dick clicked his remote again, and a photograph of Chipford—taken from afar, seemingly without his knowledge—appeared on the screen. He was emerging from a Russian dry cleaner’s somewhere, with a curious expression on his face.

“Now, we can only assume that whoever has been providing Mr. Chipford with his information has being doing so in return for monetary compensation,” Dick went on. “And this of course would be a gross violation of any
Icon
employee’s contract. Make no mistake: Zero Management and the Rabbit network cannot and
will not
tolerate such breaches of confidentiality. That’s why they’ve retained my services to locate this mole. And when I do, Miss King, he—or
she
—will be held accountable, to the maximum-possible extent under the law.”

Before I could object to the implicit accusation, Dick had activated the projector again, causing Chipford’s face to dissolve into a montage of his recent
ShowBiz
front pages.

I had to admit—it was an impressive body of work:

      
THIS LITTLE PIGGIE
WENT PEE-PEE-PEE!
—HOW WILDMAN LOVECRAFT BEAT
PROJECT ICON
DRUG TEST

      
(A CHAZ CHIPFORD EXCLUSIVE)

      
SORRY GIRLS, HE’S YODEL-
GAY
-HEE-HOO: LI’L NUGG GETS SNUG WITH BIBI’S MYSTERY HUNK DRIVER

      
(A CHAZ CHIPFORD EXCLUSIVE)

      
#METHHEADMIA: BAZOOKA-BOOBED DIVA STOLE TV FROM DYING GRANDMA TO BUY “ONE LAST FIX”

      
(A CHAZ CHIPFORD EXCLUSIVE)

      
“COMRADE CASSIE” EXPOSED: SHE LIVES ON FOOD STAMPS WHILE DADDY MAKES $200BN A YEAR

      
(A CHAZ CHIPFORD EXCLUSIVE)

When Dick was sure I’d fully digested Chaz Chipford’s greatest hits, he sat back down with a grunt.

“Thank you, Dick, for that insightful presentation,” said Len, yawning. “Now, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea here, Bill. No one suspects
you
of anything. You’re far too tediously honest for that kind of behavior. Nevertheless, I can’t ignore what my dick’s telling me—so to speak—and he’s observed some
lifestyle changes
that need to be explained, so you can be ruled out of our investigation. You took a cab to work today, for example. Highly unusual, as I’m sure you’ll agree. After all, we pay you as close to nothing as makes no practical difference. And then there’s this issue of your attire. I found myself looking at you this morning and not feeling slightly depressed, Bill. That’s unusual. Then it came to me: You’re wearing a
dress
—which is frankly nothing short of extraordinary. It’s not even one of those hideous tie-dye things you sometimes drag from the swamp of your wardrobe on the hottest days of the year.”

“It’s a Diane von Furstenberg,” I volunteered.

“It’s a bloody miracle, that’s what it is,” said Len. “With some heels and a bit of makeup, there’d be a serious danger of someone finding you attractive.”

“You’re such an
asshole,
Len.”

Len feigned shock. “Finally!” he cried. “
She fights back.
I’ve been wondering how long that would take. You can’t deny it now, Bill:
Something’s up with you.
What it is?”

“I’m not your leak.”

“But you
know
something, don’t you? Yes, you do. Tell us everything, Bill.
Tell us what happened.
”

Silence.

Honestly, I didn’t even know where to begin.

When it came to my new wardrobe: Boris was what had happened. Remember that time he’d invited me over for dinner, to taste his grandfather’s… meatball recipes? Well, when I finally calmed down enough
to call him back, I accepted. And guess what? Boris can really cook. Oh, and he can really
kiss,
too. We did that. We did that… a lot.

The point being: Boris made me feel so good about myself, I was inspired to go clothes shopping for the first time since moving to LA. Hence the Diane von Furstenberg and a number of other not-usually-my-type-of-thing outfits—all of which had given me enough confidence to stroll right into Nico DeLuca’s backstage coffee bar the next morning, and not even be questioned by the two ex–Secret Service guys at the door. They just assumed I belonged there.

Of course, my upgraded look wouldn’t have been possible if I hadn’t also been moonlighting for Joey as a scriptwriter. This meant I had some money to spend on things other than the rent. Mitch had even fronted my first paycheck as an advance.

I felt
rich,
almost. Plus, it wasn’t like I had to save up for a year in Hawaii any more.

Yeah… about that. So I called Brock from Mount Cypress, just like Joey had told me to. To make things more difficult, it was a crappy line—or maybe it was the soundtrack to
Apocalypse Now
in the background, provided by the circling newscopters, I don’t know—but I pushed on with the conversation anyway. I knew I was essentially breaking up with him. But the ways things had been going, “breaking up” was a technicality. I didn’t even expect him to be surprised.

Oh, I had
no idea.

“Look, Brock,” I opened, pacing the hospital lobby, hand over one ear so I wouldn’t have to keep asking him to speak louder. “I’m gonna stay out here until the end of the season. I might even stay longer, actually, if we get picked up for another season.”

“What the hell, Sash? You said—”

“I got a writing job. This is
real,
Brock. It’s not just me sitting on a beach, composing some novel that no one will ever read. It’s a paying gig. It could lead to something.”

“I thought you hated LA,” Brock protested, without actually sounding
too upset about it. He seemed to be taking this very well. A delayed-shock thing, maybe.

“Sometimes it’s tough here, yeah,” I replied, earnestly. “But life isn’t perfect, y’know? You can’t just complain all the time. You’ve gotta do what you love—but you’ve also gotta find a way to
love what you do.
” (For some reason, this didn’t sound as good when
I
said it.) “If you never commit to anything because you think you’re too good for it, because it isn’t
exactly
right, then you’ll miss out on all kinds of opportunities, and this is one of those opportunities, Brock.
Joey Lovecraft wants me to write scripts for him.
He’s paying me. Why don’t you come out here to LA for a weekend—see what it’s like? Maybe we could do our plan in reverse?”

“Uh-huh.”

A long pause.

“What do you mean… ‘Uh-huh?’” I said, testily. “That could mean yes or no.”

“I mean, uh, yeah… right on. Look, Sash, I’ve gotta—”

“Are you even
listening?
”

“Of course, Sash. Of course.”

“Then what do you think about coming to LA?”

“
Me
—go to LA? No can do. I’ve got stuff going on. And Pete is living on the couch.”

“Pete? What is he,
three years old?
” I was beginning to remember how much Brock could irritate me.

“He needs my help, man. He’s broke. Look, why don’t you come out here, like we said,
like we had planned,
and we can talk? All that hanging around with celebrities—it’s like you’re not thinking straight, Sash. I’m getting worried about—”

A muffled scrunching noise, like someone had just pulled the phone away from him.

Chaos on the line.

“… give it to me…”

“Tell her.”

“… just gimme the phone…”

“Fucking
tell
her, Brock.”

“… will you stop…”

“If you’re not going to do it yourself, I’ll do it for you, dammit. Jesus, you’re
pathetic.
”

A female voice—older—addressed me. “Sasha? This is Nadia. I’m Brock’s manager at the Hua-Kuwali. Brock’s been meaning to tell you: We’re fucking. We’ve been fucking since he arrived in Hawaii, actually, but on a more regular basis recently. We’re lying naked in my bedroom at this very moment. Brock is living here with me, Sasha. His bong-brained friend Pete is subletting his apartment. That time he didn’t call you back for two days when you were in San Diego? We were on Maui together. We were fucking, Sasha. We’re pretty much always fucking, because as you know, Brock here is quite the piece of ass. He’s been leading you on, honey. He wants you to come all the way out here, just so he can break up with you in person, which in my opinion is a lot worse than just telling you like this over the phone. But I guess I’ve just ruined the surprise.
Stay in LA, Sasha.
”

For some reason, I was sure everyone in that hospital lobby knew the line had just gone dead on me. So I stood there for a while longer, hand still over one ear.

“Okay,
love you,
bye,” I said, a few seconds later.

Then I walked very calmly to the bathroom, where I bawled my way through half a toilet roll.

I felt much better afterwards. Much, much better.

At least Joey had been wrong about one thing: Nadia wasn’t “some hula-skirted surf princess.” I’d seen pictures of her on Brock’s Facebook page: She was midforties, with a smoker’s complexion, and showing evidence of the kind of cosmetic surgery that’s intended to repair the damage caused by previous cosmetic surgery. All right, so maybe not
that
bad. But bad enough for me to suspect that Brock had a nonromantic motive, no doubt related to Nadia’s salary as the manager of a five-star beachfront hotel. He always liked the good life, Brock. Or
more accurately, he liked to be supported, usually via frequent and generous wire transfers from his dad. I wondered how much longer he could get away with living like that.

Then again:
Who gave a fuck?

Not me.

Boris was sympathetic, as always.

“Dude was a gutless loser, Sash, but I know you wanted to finish your Novel of, uh—Huge Significance?—over there in hula-land. So I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

“Immense Profundity, actually. And ‘finish’ isn’t exactly the right word. It’s still one sentence long.”

“Yeah, but like you said the other day, at least you figured out where to set it.”

“Hmm. Guess.”

“Have you ever been to a fifteenth-century Norwegian monastery before, by the way?”

“No. But here’s the funny thing, Boris: I think I might have already written another book. A totally different kind of book. Without even knowing it.”

“What—you’ve been
sleep-writing
or something?”

“I’m serious. Since I moved to LA, I’ve been keeping a diary. Just notes on stuff that’s been happing at work. Conversations with Joey. Rants about Len. That kind of thing.
You’re
in it, too. Not much. But I wrote a few pages about our first date—before I found out about Mrs. Zglagovvcini being your great aunt and everything.”

“Look, Sash, she
insisted
I didn’t—”

“Let’s not get into that again.”

“She didn’t think you’d agree to—”

“Mrs. Zglagovvcini is
insane,
Boris. No offence to your family or anything.
Insane.
But anyway.
As I was saying:
My novel’s been right there, the whole time, staring me in the face—literally—on my laptop. I didn’t even realize how much I’d been writing: I’ve got more than three hundred pages! And I was reading some of it back last night, and
it’s just… the craziest stuff. All I’ve got to do is change the names and take out that one bit about Wayne—I mean, the whole puppy thing is bad enough—and it’s done. My first novel, finished. I even have a title.”

“What is it?”

“
A Babylonian Named Bill,
” I said, proudly.

“Ah.”

“You like it?”

“Lemme sleep on it. In the meantime, you’d better keep that laptop of yours locked up at night.”

“What do you mean?”

“Jesus, Sash—
are you kidding me?
After everything that’s happened this season? If Len or Teddy or any of those guys find out you’ve written a book about them,
they’ll go nuts.
It’ll be like the Watergate breakins all over again. Back that thing up, man. Print out the file. E-mail it to yourself. And for God’s sake,
don’t take it to work.
”

I didn’t tell Len any of this, of course. Then again, if Dick had been following me—which wouldn’t have come as much of a surprise—he would have known about Boris already. I’d been practically living at his house up on Mulholland Drive. Hence the cabs.

“Look, I don’t get it,” I said to Len, as the three of us sat there in his office, projector still humming. “Why do you care about the leaks? I mean, okay, it sucked to be Joey when Rabbit found out he’d been using pig pee in his drug tests. And I felt bad for Big Nugg when all that stuff about Jimmy, uh, came out. Mia? well…
she
deserved it, to be honest. And Cassie should have known better. But that’s not the point. The point is, shouldn’t we be thanking Chaz Chipford? Aren’t all these headlines the reason why our ratings have been going up every week?”

Len raised his palms as if in surrender.

“As much as I enjoy having a three-hundred-pound dick at my beck and call—no offence, Dick—this wasn’t
my
idea,” he said. “I got my orders from up on high. The way Big Corp sees it, all this tittle-tattle in
ShowBiz
might be doing us a favor for now,
but what’s the next story going to be?
The Germans have put a greased fist up Sir Harold
Killoch’s arsehole, Bill. He can’t afford another scandal. Besides, he invested a hundred million dollars in
The Talent Machine.
He doesn’t want us stealing its glory, which would make it look like the giant fucking pile of ego wank that it is. They’re happy to see our numbers improve, yes—but not
too
much. And certainly not if it means giving
ShowBiz
magazine any leverage over us.”