Flavor of the Month (111 page)

“Can I get you a trowel?” he asked.

“Very clever. I told you, I’m not speaking to you until you return Candy and Skinny.”

“I don’t have them. But I think I know where they are.”

Aunt Robbie arrived at Theresa’s at four. “Where is she?” he asked Kevin, who nodded up the stairs to Theresa’s bedroom, then shrugged his shoulders. “Has she had anything to drink yet?” he asked.

“I don’t know and I don’t give a shit.”

Robbie moved to the stairs. At Theresa’s door, he stopped to knock, but, knowing he wasn’t going to get an answer, opened the door and walked in.

“Jesus Christ,” he said to no one in particular. The room was in shambles. Even with the curtains drawn, the dim light showed piles of clothes heaped everywhere, the bed stripped of linen, a stained yellow pile on the floor, and a bloated, whitened heap of a human being stretched out full-length, as if dead, across the sill of the bathroom door. She was naked, and dirty, and her gray hair had the coated, greasy look of a street-woman’s. This is what becomes of a legend most often, he thought. Robbie wouldn’t let himself feel the sadness that throbbed in his chest. There was too much work to be done.

Robbie pulled back the curtains, and the room sprang into light. Theresa groaned and turned her head.

Robbie pulled Theresa off the floor. He called to Estrella. The maid arrived and gasped. “Grab her black dress and iron it. Meanwhile, find a pair of her long white gloves, and shoes.” Estrella began to sort through the debris, mumbling to herself. Robbie called out to her, “And thanks, Estrella. She’s lucky to have you.”

“And you, too, Mr. Robbie. No one else would come to take her to a party anymore. You a good friend.”

“I have no friends,” Theresa cried. “No one cares about me.”

“Goddamn it, Theresa! Pull yourself together!” Robbie grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “You’ve got an appearance.”

“No. Not anymore. They’ll find out. They’ll all find out.” She mumbled. Robbie wondered what the hell she was going on about.

“Theresa, you’ve got to sober up, and you’ve got to go. If you don’t show up, you’re finished forever. This is live net. We are going tonight. You and I. Goddamn it, Theresa, I want to go to this party.”

“But, Robbie,” Theresa began to cry. “I can’t go. I’d be humiliated.”

“Not if you’re sober you won’t.”

“But Lila will be there,” Theresa wailed. “With an Emmy.” Theresa stopped crying and looked around. “She’ll kill me, Robbie,” she whispered.

“Ridiculous! When has Lila or anybody scared you?”

“She was such a lovely baby, wasn’t she? Kerry could never have raised a son. I didn’t want a son. A daughter was just right.”

“Certainly. Perfect. Now, start to get ready for your hairdresser.”

“But she’ll kill me. Like she killed Candy and Skinny.” She was wailing now.

Robbie had listened to the rambling, but didn’t try to make much sense of it. Until she mentioned the dummies. He felt a tug of guilt. Well, it had been necessary to get this truce signed. Still, what was she talking about? The dummies were gone.

“What are you talking about, Theresa?” The star shrank into the middle of the big bed, and Robbie wasn’t sure if she was shaking from alcohol withdrawal or fear.

“I did the right thing, didn’t I, Robbie? I raised a girl. A lovely girl. Only now she hates me. I should never have done it to her,” Theresa whispered.

“What?” Robbie asked.

“The way I raised her. Then hating her because she was so young, so beautiful. And that ghastly episode I shot with her. She hates me for that. She wants to kill me. Like she killed Candy and Skinny. She killed my other babies.”

“Theresa, what
are
you talking about?”

Slowly, as if each movement was painful, Theresa crawled to the edge of the bed, then got off it, fell to her knees, and began to scrabble about under it. Neither Robbie nor Miss Wholley had had time to evacuate the horrors under there, and God knew the last time Estrella had tried.

But instead of empty bottles, or old mateless shoes, Theresa pulled out a long white box. A coffin, really. Then another. Two actual coffins, perhaps for children’s burials. Robbie shivered and saw that Theresa was shivering, too. Whimpering, she flipped open the lids.

Robbie looked inside. Skinny had been decapitated, her head chopped to kindling. Candy had been defaced by a thousand vicious stab wounds. Both dummies were nude, their bodies smeared with paint, or maybe someone’s blood. And each of them had perfect little sets of male genitalia nailed to the appropriate parts on their torsos.

Neil Morelli had not received an invitation to Ara’s party. No surprise. But he had been surprised to hear from Roger after so long a silence. And to speak to him over the television set, not the car radio, as he usually did. He, Neil, was getting closer to the center of things. Neil was very glad Roger had called. He needed to ask him so much, needed to know so much. And, with failure and humiliation weighing on him like a ton of bricks, Neil knew Roger would understand—and help. Neil now knew who was to blame for his failure—all those who traded on their celebrity names and family connections.

He had at first been hesitant to tell Roger about whose ultimate responsibility all this humiliation was, of his plan to go to the Emmys, get into them somehow. But Roger had been so kind, so, well, fatherly, he began to tell him everything, and, to Neil’s great relief and surprise, Roger not only agreed with Neil’s appraisal, but approved of Neil’s plan, and gave him exact instructions on how to carry it out. In fact, it was Roger who told him about the theater manager who did the hiring of the ushers for the Emmy show. Neil had run off and applied for the job for the evening of the Emmys—for tonight—and gotten it, even though he’d had to lie and swear that he had a tuxedo. It was Roger’s doing that he got the job, Neil was convinced, of course. Roger must have spoken to the manager on his behalf.

Roger also told him not to worry about the tux, and gave him the tip about the tuxedo department at Saks, and how easy it was to put one on under his regular clothes in the dressing room and walk out. The tuxedo department was the least busy department in the store, so there never were any salespersons or security guards lurking about. Walking out with the formal wear under his baggy jeans and windbreaker had been a breeze. Even the brazen act of grabbing a dress shirt and bow tie from a display near the door seemed easy, with Roger watching over him.

The other items Roger had told him to get were as easily acquired, some of them through the guys at the cab company. He wasn’t exactly sure how or when he would use all this stuff, but Neil wasn’t going to question any of Roger’s directions. Because Roger told him that he—Neil Morelli—was going to host the awards show. Just like Billy Crystal did the Oscars. He, Neil, would be as famous, as admired, as loved. Roger had thought of everything so far, right down to the suspenders. This was a man on his side, probably the only man who had ever looked out for Neil in his life, and that included his degenerate gambler father. No, Neil was going to do everything Roger told him to do. Roger understood. Roger would help him set things right.

Neil adjusted his tie in the mirror of the bathroom, and wished he had a full-length mirror to admire the full effect of the tux. But wouldn’t you know it? Roger called just then, and, as if he could read Neil’s mind, told Neil how great he looked, and—this brought tears to Neil’s eyes—how proud he was of him. Then Roger told him to sit down and go over the seating arrangement for the auditorium the manager had given each of the ushers, and told him to memorize where the key people were sitting. Roger also went over the physical plan of the theater, and told him the exact spot where he should be standing, and the exact time, to get the best view of the award presentation.

Neil got it all, put the sheet of paper back into his inside pocket, spit on his hand and smoothed his hair, then opened the door and walked down the street toward the bus. On the way, he heard Roger’s voice come from behind him, not through a radio or an amplifier like usual, but over his shoulder, like a guardian angel. “Timing is everything,” Roger said. And Neil didn’t have to turn around to know that Roger was with him and, as always, was absolutely right.

Sam Shields had definitely risen on Ara’s Hollywood-heat barometer. This year, he had not only an invitation to go, once again, as April’s escort, but his own invitation as well.

Since
Birth
had succeeded, he was a popular boy. No doubt about it. Two hits in a row. April wanted him to sign a three-picture deal, but so did Columbia. He had options now.

He also had a new Armani tux, and a Thai silk custom-made dress shirt. He slipped into the jacket and shot his cuffs. He’d look like a winner tonight.

But he’d see Mary Jane—Jahne—tonight, too. It was traditional for the Emmy winners to drop by after the award. Of course, he could leave early. But he
wanted
to see her. After thinking it over, Sam was ready to forgive her. He wanted her back. And being turned away at Sharleen’s gate had only made him more eager.

And, after all, didn’t she owe everything to him? Sam shook his head at the irony. Mary Jane couldn’t get cast in a soap commercial, couldn’t get a part off-off-off-Broadway, until he had given her the break in
Jack and Jill
. And she’d gone through the surgery for him. Because of that, now, tonight, Jahne Moore just might be walking away with an Emmy award. And perhaps an Oscar in the future. Sometimes Sam could see the amusement in the way things evolved in this town. Just as he could at this moment.

But he had his public persona to think about. Tonight, after the awards ceremony, if Jahne showed up at Ara’s, Sam would be there. He couldn’t—
wouldn’t
—not be there; that was out of the question. How was he going to handle his encounter with Jahne, in front of the entire Industry, in front of all the media people? That’s what he had to decide.

And how was
she
going to handle it? Sam hoped, for no other reason than that it would make things easier for him, that Jahne in fact did win the Emmy. At least she would be in a good—no, an elated—mood, and their connection could be swift and gay. Oh, he remembered all the things Mary Jane used to say about awards, and award shows, and award winners. But that was back before she had a spitting chance of getting nominated for one, never mind actually winning one. Would Jahne still be as equanimous as she once had been about these things, and not let her loss make her turn on him, bring unwanted attention? He doubted it.

But his final thought, the one that helped him get into the shower and ready for the night, was that Jahne Moore must have loved him a lot to go through all that she had for him. Even if she turned him away at Sharleen Smith’s. Somehow, he was sure that they’d get back together. Because, really, who else had ever loved him like that?

Monica Flanders waited impatiently for Hyram to pick her up. Hyram’s wife, Sylvia, still resented not being invited to Ara Sagarian’s party. Or perhaps she resented Hyram’s going with Monica. For the invitation was for Monica—always for Monica.

She took one last look at herself in the mirror. Tonight she would get more publicity and free advertising from the awards program than ever before. Whoever won, they wore
her
makeup. And the commercial they were running would announce it. Just so long as it wasn’t that surgery girl. She would be canceled, but definitely. Unless, of course, she won.

Monica patted her wig into place and then clipped on her diamond earrings. They were so big—eight-carat emerald-cut perfect stones—that they hurt her ears, but pain was the price you paid for beauty.

Tonight one of her girls would win the prize. And she would win, too. Flanders Cosmetics was sponsoring the Emmy show. Sales would boom tomorrow. What an idea this whole
3/4
business had been! Despite the scandals. Or because of them. Best idea she’d ever come up with.

Paul Grasso took another sip of his vodka and tried for the third time to tie the fucking formal black bow tie. What’s wrong with the clip-ons? he thought once again.

Tonight was a good night for Paul. He had finally made it, without Glick after all. He didn’t like to remember last year: sneaking into Ara’s party through the bushes. Tonight he was going to see his discovery Lila Kyle get an Emmy, then go on to Ara’s Emmy party, where the real shakers were going to be, shoulder to shoulder. Like at the roulette tables at Vegas. Only the heavy hitters stood at the table. The little guys, the assholes with their twenty-dollar chips, stood around the outer edge. And not for very long, either. Either they made a hit the first time at the table, or they were on the move again, looking for the next win. The whole secret was to stick with it, play it out—all night, if you had to. Like in this Hollywood game. Eventually, if you stayed with it, luck turned your way, and you were being back-slapped by the other heavy hitters.

Tonight Paul Grasso felt like a heavy hitter. And he was in the mood for some back-slapping. If only he could get this fucking tie tied.

It didn’t seem right to Sy that he had all three Emmy nominees as his clients and not one of the bitches had asked him to escort her tonight. So he’d settled on Crystal, who was having a shit fit because she hadn’t received her own invitation. Well, maybe they could use the party to jump-start her stalled career.

Of course, Sy didn’t need any of the
3/4
girls to get into the awards ceremony or Ara Sagarian’s party. This much he had done on his own. But it would have been a nice gesture on their part, considering. He was the one, after all, who got the three of them made into the hits they are. And stood behind them during the scandals. Only Sharleen had ever called him to thank him for the Emmy nomination. Jahne had written him a cool note. And Lila was out in fucking Siberia; he heard shit from her. Surprise.

But he could afford to put all that behind him. Tonight was a big night, probably the biggest night in his career. Tonight he owned everyone and everything, because all three of the big ones were in his stable. Tonight he even owned Ara Sagarian himself, not that he was such a prize. It’s about time Ara moved over. Next year, Sy thought, I’m going to have an Emmy party at
my
house.
The
Emmy party. If I’m really bigger than Ara Sagarian ever was, and that’s the word around town, then I might as well have the full coronation ceremony, and all the perks that go with it. So, next year it would be Sy Ortis’ party, A list and then some.