Flavor of the Month (39 page)

But was it good enough?

Dear Dr. Moore,

Well, you were a great doctor to my now great body, but how will you do as a psychiatrist? I have so much news that I don’t know exactly where to start.

I’m glad you got the clippings—I try not to care too much about what critics say—but the one in the
Times
brought in a lot of L.A. people, including Marty DiGennaro! No, I am not making that up. He came backstage to compliment me, but that was only the beginning! He asked me to do a test, and, yesterday, he asked me to be one of the stars in his new television show.

Okay; I know what you’re going to say: did I go through all that agony and you do all that work merely so I could become the next Vanna White? But, Dr. Moore—Brewster—
this is Marty DiGennaro
. And the series is truly innovative. It’s called
Three for the Road
and I’ve seen the first couple of scripts. It’s wacky! Three girls (yes, I’m passing for a girl!) go cross-country together by motorcycle. The trick, though, is the terrific dialogue and the wonderful visual concepts—great crosscuts, fades, camera angles. It’s evocative more than linear.

Oh, Jesus, I just reread that. Do I sound like I’ve gone Valley girl on you? Listen, I am very excited, but it’s not a done deal yet. Marty (that’s me, calling Marty DiGennaro “Marty”!) has said he needs to cast all three of the leads to see how we play off one another, but I should get my agent to begin working on the contract! When I told him I didn’t have an agent, he nearly plotzed! (How many exclamation points have I already used in this letter? I’m afraid more than my quota.) Anyway, he said he’d set me up with Sy Ortis, his agent.
Sy Ortis!
(Absolutely my
last
exclamation point.) Only the most powerful agent in the business.

Anyway, I’ve also heard that Ortis is a lying scumbag, and that he dumps anyone who doesn’t regularly deliver. Not your Mister Rogers type. But, then, the neighborhood isn’t much like Mister Rogers’.

Speaking of neighborhoods, I’ve been looking for a place of my own—just to rent, of course—and Roxanne Greely (the real estate agent to the stars) has shown me a really adorable two-bedroom bungalow overlooking the water. She got my name from Marty. All these famous people seem to know each other. I won’t tell you the rent, because you’d kill me, but I’m not signing any lease until my contract is signed first.

And talk about money—I can’t even imagine it. They’re talking $33,000 per episode, and the contract is for eighteen of them! I can’t multiply that high. The first check I’ll write, though, will be one to finish paying off your fees, and I want to thank you again for waiting and believing in me.

There is one fly in the ointment. I have to sign a contract with Flanders Cosmetics to be their spokesperson. I hate the idea of selling anything, but I have to to get the job—well, they do promise me a quarter of a million dollars to do it!

Dr. Moore—Brewster—you know that I owe all this to you. You know who I really am—fat, plain, old Mary Jane Moran—and so you know all that I owe you. I can never thank you enough.

Right now, the really strangest thing is how this being beautiful works: it’s like having a superpower. Just because of how I look, I’m able to melt barriers, draw people to me, and leap buildings with a single bound. All right, I can’t do that last one, but I sure can do the others. It’s wild.

How is Raoul? Has the reconstruction around his nose worked? The gifts inside are for him. Send him my love. Save some for yourself, and say hello to the other kids for me, too.

Anyway, I feel like a kid—but a happy one—in a candy store. Write!

Love,

Jahne

There are a few restaurants in the studio zone of L.A. that are more theater than the Melrose Playhouse ever was. One, of course, is Morton’s, where the star-makers dine. Word is that Peter Morton loses money on the place, but keeps it running so he can be part of the scene. Then there’s Le Dôme, known to the hipper crowd as “Le Dump.” Very much the center of the gay mafia. The young stars eat at The Ivy—all salads and little vegetarian crêpes at fifty bucks per head for brunch on a Sunday. And then, of course, there’s Spago
.

Tourists are always disappointed by it. After all, it looks a lot like a suburban carpet store from the outside. But inside, the stars do twinkle. And it was where Marty chose to meet Paul Grasso for dinner
.

Marty sat down at the banquette as the headwaiter pushed the best table in Spago back into place. After making the obligatory stops at stars’ and star-makers’ tables, Marty had managed a Hollywood hug for Wolfgang, the owner, and graciously stood until the maître d’ had seated Marty’s date, Bethanie. Only then could he turn his attention to her. “Sorry for the delay, but you know how it is here.” He scanned her perfect face, her shapely shoulders, her deep cleavage, her baby-fresh skin, all lightly, evenly tanned.

“You look beautiful tonight, Bethanie,” he said automatically, thinking once again that they all looked alike, the California wannabes. He was considering her for
Three for the Road
, but he had his doubts. She was pretty, even beautiful, but there was nothing
unique
about Bethanie. He’d just found the blonde—well, Sy and Milton had found her—an incredibly fresh girl, Sharleen Something, and
so
fresh she’d be fabulous. With Jahne Moore virtually signed up and vetted by the Flanders and Banion O’Malley crew, he had a brunette already.
She
was intense and brilliant; she’d be good contrast to Sharleen. Was Bethanie the last member of this trinity? He needed a redhead, and Bethanie was a blonde—but Bethanie would be more than willing to dye her hair another shade. Hell, she’d be willing to
shave
her head if it got her the spot. But she was no virgin in any sense of the word; she had been on several crappy television shows, and he really couldn’t call her a new face anymore. Casting would be everything on this project, and he had to decide, because time
was
running out.

He removed a silver cigarette case, the one actually used by Cary Grant in
The Philadelphia Story
, took out a Dunhill, tamped it on the antique cover, and placed it between his lips. Marty didn’t actually smoke, never inhaled, but he’d always loved props. A flame appeared at the cigarette’s tip, held by the lurking captain, and he pulled at the end enough to light it.

Tonight was going to be quick and easy, for old times’ sake. It might even be fun. He made it a point to keep up his old friendships—no one would ever be able to say that Marty DiGennaro had forgotten his old pals—but lately he preferred not being around Paul Grasso. Paul’s gambling had gone too far, it had begun to show on him, the way an alcoholic’s drinking inevitably became apparent. Marty had seen enough, in this town of swingers on the decline from too much drugs, sex, money, and the wrong people in their lives, to be surprised by anyone’s skid. But with Paul, it was different. He had known him from the old neighborhood, back when they were kids. So he tried a little harder with Paul, although he knew from experience that no one could stop a skidder.

Paulie could still make Marty laugh, however. That was the one thing that Paul consistently gave Marty: funny stories, and hilarious memories. And since Paul hadn’t asked him for anything on the phone when he’d called, Marty was going to assume the best: Paul just wanted a night out with an old friend. Paul had never begged Marty for work. He had too much pride, and he knew the risk he ran if he tried that.

Also, Paul had reassured Marty that Paul’s date was not a wannabe. Paul raved about her beauty but emphasized that the kid was wealthy in her own right and, being from some family in the Industry, hated the business. Paul just wanted to get in her pants. Typical Paulie Grasso. If she’s as beautiful as Paul says she is, he should be peddling her to every producer in town instead of spending all his energy trying to fuck her.

Bethanie broke into Marty’s thoughts. “Who else is coming, Marty? Anyone I know?” What that translated into was “Anyone who can help me? Anyone I can use?” But Marty could be tolerant of a woman, as long as she was beautiful. And Bethanie
was
beautiful.

“No, I don’t think you know him. An old friend, Paul Grasso, and his date.” You wouldn’t know him, Bethanie, because he hasn’t done anything for anyone for a long time.

Marty looked at the old gold Patek Philippe watch, the one he’d bought at the Errol Flynn estate sale. On the back was engraved “To E.F. from his S.T.” He’d often wondered who the S.T. was. His most amusing conjecture was Shirley Temple. As he looked up, his attention was drawn to the entrance to the room, the direction, he noticed, in which the other diners were also looking.

A woman—a very beautiful woman—was standing alone, her small black silk bag held in two hands in front of the skirt of her black chiffon dress. She at first appeared to be all magnificent legs, the illusion, to his trained eye, created by the shortness of the dress, the subtly shaded sheer black hose, and the dyed-to-match black
peau de soie
shoes. But she was also tall—God, so tall she made him hard! The top of her dress had a tight, low bodice, held up by the flimsiest spaghetti straps, straining at the fullness of the breasts. And, God, she was tall! Six foot, maybe, but a lot taller in those shoes. And what color would you call that hair? Not red, not
just
red. Her hair was deeply toned, but much more alive than any auburn. Her only apparent jewelry was a single diamond on her neck, and sparkling diamond earrings. In a town where beautiful women were a dime a dozen, where every waitress had been a Miss Tennessee runner-up, where perfection was ordinary, she was a knockout, a heart stopper. There was also something familiar about her, something that he knew. Had they met? Surely not—Marty never forgot a face. And certainly not one sculpted as cleanly, as precisely, as that.

Though he could see she was completely aware of the attention she was getting from the room, he could also see that, unlike the beautiful women he had known and observed, she truly seemed not to care about it. There was a calm—no, an aloofness—that held her apart. Then a man turned away from the maître d’s desk and took the woman by the elbow as they were led into the room.

Holy shit! The man, Marty realized, was Paul Grasso.
She’s
with Paul Grasso? Marty laughed quietly to himself, keeping his eyes on them as they came toward him. Why, that old son-of-a-bitch! This one was definitely
not
Paul’s usual—typically, a Las Vegas showgirl or a tart just off the bus from somewhere. Paul’s definitely in over his head. And as Marty stared, once again came that nagging familiarity. I know her
somehow
, he thought, or maybe I just want to.

Bethanie, along with every other pretty woman in the room, had watched the spectacular entrance. Now she was talking to him. Babbling on and on.

“What?” Marty asked.

“I
said
, ‘Who are those people who just came in?’” Bethanie knew she couldn’t afford to whine, but she almost was. After being dumped by that bastard Sam Shields, she had no intention of letting Marty get away. She knew the rule of Hollywood survival—“Fuck upward.” Only someone as powerful as Marty could afford to fuck someone beneath him. She and Sam, just breaking through, needed more powerful partners, like Crystal Plenum and Marty DiGennaro. What she didn’t need was competition from this Amazon.

“Why don’t I introduce you?” Marty stood, extended his hand to Paul, and kept looking at the young woman who reminded him of someone. “Paul, good to see you. This is Bethanie Lake, Paul Grasso. He’s one of my oldest friends.”

Paul’s handshake was vigorous, his good mood apparent. “Marty DiGennaro, Lila, and Bethanie…Lake, right?”

“Yes,” Bethanie answered, but her displeasure was evident in the way she bit the word off. Shit! Who needed a bitch who looked like this one sitting across from Marty all night? she asked herself. Why was she so unlucky?

The maître d’ had pulled out the chair for Lila opposite Marty, and she smoothly slid into it.

“I have to apologize for making Paul late, Mr. DiGennaro.” She turned her eyes to Bethanie, then Marty, and smiled.

“Marty. Please call me Marty, Lila. And it’s very nice of you to take the responsibility for Paul’s lateness. Except I expect him to be late.” Looking at Paul, smiling, he added, “Paul and I go back a long time.”

Marty noticed Lila looking intently at Bethanie, who was now sitting up stiffly on the banquette. “Bethanie Lake. Didn’t you create the role of Leora in
Houston
last season?” Bethanie nodded, perhaps a bit defensively. “You left that show just in time,” Lila continued. “After that, the writing went downhill.”

Marty noticed Bethanie relax slightly beside him, but he kept his eyes on Lila. In fact, he couldn’t take them off her. Gracious, very gracious, he thought. Everyone knew that it was the stupidest move Bethanie could have made, to leave a successful TV series to try to do a mediocre movie that fell apart. Her agent and manager tried to talk her out of it, advising her to wait another year. But she wouldn’t listen. A standard case of biting off more than you can chew. Bethanie
wasn’t
ready, and it had really fucked up her career. Unless he gave her another shot. As he looked at the divine redhead, he suspected Lila knew that, too.

Marty forced himself to speak. “I’ve ordered a California merlot, if that’s okay with everyone,” he told them, as the waiter poured.

Lila held her hand over her glass. “Actually, I’d prefer a Manhattan, if it’s all the same to you.” She turned to the waiter and said, “Straight up, with a twist,” then dropped her eyes and snapped her purse open. Marty nodded to the waiter, then noticed the cigarette Lila held to her bow-shaped lips in the long fingers of her left hand. Nobody smoked in California anymore! She was a trip. He immediately pulled out his rarely-used Dunhill lighter, and beat the waiter’s hand to Lila’s cigarette.

She inhaled deeply, holding her cigarette hand straight up with its elbow cupped in her other. Where had he seen that gesture? God, it was driving him nuts! She raised her face to the ceiling and released a long, slow stream of white smoke, then dropped her head and stated to no one in particular, “I hope no one minds if I smoke.”