Flavor of the Month (72 page)

Aunt Robbie had called and asked to come over. This wasn’t going to be just a friendly visit, Lila was sure of it. His tone told her something was up. But, whatever it was, Lila didn’t give a shit.

Lila stretched out on the lounge, her body glistening under the sleek film of oil. Beyond her, Malibu Beach also stretched out, glaring white in the sun, while the waves rolled relentlessly. She felt the knots of stress begin to uncurl, and willed the muscles in her body to soften. She heard the clomping on the steps to the deck, then opened her eyes to see Aunt Robbie’s huge form lurching around the corner of the house. “Where’re your skates?” she called out to him as she settled back and closed her eyes again. “Let me guess. José?”

Lila heard Rob waddle over to the other chaise and flop down with a grunt. “That queen Krazy-Glued the fucking wheels. Tight as a frog’s ass.”

Lila opened her eyes and sat up, pulling the backrest of the chaise into a sitting position. She picked up the towel at her feet and dabbed at the perspiration on her forehead. “If you want something to drink, you’ll have to get it yourself,” she said. “
And
bring me a Diet Coke,” she added, as if she’d just thought of it.

“Where’s Yolanda?”

“Catch up, Robbie. Yolanda was three or four wetbacks ago. I fired the latest lazy bitch this morning. Carmen or Carmela, or whatever.”

“Why? Caught her trying on your crown or something?” Robbie snapped as he went in to pour their drinks.

That had a little too much edge to it to suit Lila. She felt her muscles tensing up again. She’d just have to get rid of him. She waited until Robbie returned. “I just like my privacy. If I tell them not to go into a room, they go into it. If I lock a drawer, they want to find out why.” Lila sighed. “So, Robbie, if you have something on your mind, just spit it out, for chrissakes. I hate those sideways jabs you give. It reminds me too much of someone I used to know.” She watched Robbie’s expression change from feigned surprise to resignation.

“Okay,” he said, and took a sip of his vodka Collins, as if to lubricate his vocal cords. Lila waited.

“I saw your mother,” he said, and paused, as if Lila gave a shit.

“She’s not dead yet?” Lila asked.

“She’s in a bad way, Lila. She’s fallen apart.”

“So’s the Soviet Union. I could not care less about either of them.”

Robbie got up and came and sat at the foot of Lila’s chair. “Lila, I need your help in pulling her together. She’s killing herself, and Kevin is helping. Please, Lila. It’s not like you didn’t have something to do with the fall.” He took another sip of his drink, then held the frosty glass out in front of him, looking at it. “And, after all, you
are
her
daughter
.”

Lila didn’t have to stop to think about it. She raised both feet and kicked Robbie hard enough to knock him off the lounge chair, right on his fat ass on the wooden deck. She couldn’t see the shock in his face; she could only feel her own rage. “You fucking hypocrite,” she screamed, now standing over him. “You are just jealous that she spends more time with Kevin than with you, and then you have the balls to pull the oldest guilt trip on the planet on me? Like your own fucking mother isn’t living on welfare somewhere in Minnesota—you don’t even
know
where—and you have the nerve to tell
me
what
my
responsibility is? Well, I’m
not
her daughter. You get that? I’m not and I never was!”

Robbie struggled to his feet while Lila strode over to the gate. But he still whined. “I can’t take it alone, Lila. She needs help, and there’s no one to help her except you and me. Ken won’t go near her, won’t have her in the house anymore. You’ve got to…”

“I don’t got to do shit, Robbie. Do you hear me? Not
shit
. She’s
your
friend, not mine.” Lila whirled around and through the door into the house, Robbie on her heels.

“If you don’t do something…”

“What? If I don’t do something,
what
, Robbie? What could possibly happen to Lila Kyle if I don’t do something for Theresa O’Donnell?”

Robbie was rubbing his ass where he had fallen. “See her, Lila. Make contact with her. She loves you, Lila, in her own way. And she misses you.”

Lila was suddenly very calm. She had thought Robbie understood, but she could see now he didn’t, never had. He’d been on Theresa’s side all along. He was nice to Lila, just to be close to the action, to be able to do what he was trying to do today: get Lila back under Theresa’s talons. “She doesn’t love me or anyone. She just wants a piece of the action. She just wants back into Hollywood. She misses an audience, not a daughter. Go back to the cunt and tell her I said she should die. And while you’re at it, die with her, you traitor.”

Lila walked calmly to the staircase to her bedroom, then turned. “Now get out, Robbie, and don’t come near me again. I don’t want to see you here again, ever. You’re toxic, just like she is.” Lila walked up the stairs, knowing, even before she reached the top, that she was alone in the house.

There may be one thing worse than having a TV show that bombs as big as Neil Morelli’s did: having a hit. If Hollywood hates a loser—and trust me, it does—it hates and envies a winner even more
.

Marty DiGennaro had been big and commercial before, but now he was big, commercial
, and
had to produce a constant string of toppers. Whereas he was used to producing one movie every two years, TV was forcing him to produce the equivalent of a movie every two
weeks.

There were problems with the writers, problems with the locations, problems with the setups, problems with the sponsor, and problems with the suits from the Network
.

Marty was used to dealing with problems, but he had never dealt with such a fast, massive buildup of interest in a project that he was still working on. Usually the media, the publicists, the critics, the money men started in on his work when it was done. Now they were all over him
while he still had a goddamn hour to film every goddamn week!
No wonder David had given up on
Twin Peaks
.

There was so much goddamn interest in the show, he knew he couldn’t top it. And now he’d managed to script an end-of-season cliff-hanger that would have them screaming for more. But so what? Then he was going to have to follow it up with next season’s opening show.

He’d hoped for a hit. He’d gotten it. He’d hoped to change the look of TV, to revolutionize it. He had. He wanted carte blanche, to write his own ticket. He had that. And the pressure was killing him.

Go know.

Worst of all was the situation with Lila. He, Marty DiGennaro, had leverage. He’d already had a string of Oscars, and now, after taking a risk, he’s actually created a
succès d’estime
and an incredible money-spinner for TV, yet he had abso-fucking-lutely
no
leverage with Lila Kyle, the star he’d made, the woman he’d not only cast out of nowhere but given all the best lines, the best shots. Since their first and last date, nothing.

When she raised an objection, he folded. When she asked, he gave. Her picture on every goddamn magazine in the country, more film and public-appearance offers than she and a twin could handle, and she had Marty to thank for that. But she didn’t.

She wouldn’t sleep with him. No, it was worse than that! She wouldn’t even date him!

It’s not like there was anyone else. Sally had checked that out for him. Marty could at least understand if there were. Not
like
it, but understand. A date with Michael McLain. It ended early. Nothing else. Sally followed her everywhere for more than two weeks.
Nada
. Then, relieved at first, Marty thought, Maybe she’s gay? But she didn’t even have any girlfriends. Sally had told him that Lila had
no
friends, at least none who visited her at her house in Malibu.
Marty
had never even been in her goddamn house. Just that crazy old swish, Robbie What’s-His-Name. He was the only one, came and went as if he lived there. But, then, there wasn’t a starlet in the Valley who didn’t have a pet queer.

Maybe Lila was just single-minded, put all her energy into her career, had none left over for anything or anyone. Marty tried to remember some of the other actresses he had worked with.
All
of them had one-track minds, for chrissakes, but he had slept with most of them, at least the ones he wanted. Actually, the ambitious ones were the easiest to lay. So why not Lila?

A religious nut? No way. Lila didn’t have a spiritual bone in her body. Marty knew that much. What, then—celibacy? Fear of AIDS? Coldness? What the fuck
was
it? I’m not
that
ugly, he thought. I have money, I keep my body in fairly good condition, I’m sensitive, unselfish in bed—generous, even. Hey, I’m a fucking Boy Scout.

Once, long ago, Marty had been a nerd kid from Queens, a kid who couldn’t get laid. But that was very long ago. And Marty didn’t like, even now, to remember how it felt to be an awkward, lame outsider with fantasies that would never be fulfilled. Lila made him remember, though. Doesn’t the bitch know I could still make or break her?

But, of course, Lila did. And it was almost like she didn’t care. She even had told him that she was going all out for that April Irons
Birth
remake. And then she had the nerve to ask him to coach her. No other actress had ever treated him like this. They all had responded to his overtures; it was expected in the business. Actresses slept with directors, that was the Hollywood Law. Long ago, Marty had decided not to question actresses’ motives, but to happily accept their attentions. And he got plenty of attention.

But not from Lila. And
that
only made Marty want her even more.

The pressure of a weekly TV taping schedule is beyond the imagination of the everyday TV viewer (what Sy Ortis would call “The Regulars”). The stars and crew spend a lot more time with each other than they do with their own families. Most of their waking hours are spent in each other’s presence. And all the fear and competition, jealousy, insecurity, pettiness—all the ugliness of people under pressure—gets magnified and exaggerated. The behavior on the set almost makes the U.S. Senate look mature
.

Of course, feuds break out despite the work of publicists, and word often leaks to civilians about the bad behavior of the stars on the set. And there’s plenty of it. The women act like children and the men act like babies. But in my experience, when there’s fighting between women, it gets a lot more media attention. Catfights make better news. Hey, who said life was fair? My readers keep reading me, and that’s what counts
.

Sometimes, keeping the peace is easy: Just meet the star’s demands. When there is only one big star, cave in or dump
’
em to keep the peace. On
Dallas,
Larry Hagman had the biggest stick. On
Dynasty,
only Joan Collins played prima donna. And on
Designing Women,
Delta Burke was, in the end, expendable. But on
Three for the Road,
all the girls were necessary, and each, in her way, was difficult
.

Never did bad blood run thicker, never did the competition get sharper, never were the stakes as high as on
Three for the Road.
Back in the days of
Charlie’s Angels,
cast and crew alike were calling one of
those
stars Hate Jackson. But the nicknames on the
3/4
set were unprintable. And by the closing episode of the season, the bile flowed like wine. That was the scene a disintegrating Neil Morelli was so cheerfully walking into
.

Neil stepped off the bus and walked the two blocks to the studio entrance. If he’d still had a car, the trip would have taken only twenty minutes. But by bus, transferring, stopping, and starting, it took almost an hour. The geriatric local. Where do all these old ladies come from? Neil wondered. Are they sent to California by the government when they reach a certain age? There ought to be a law. If it takes more than five minutes to climb onto a bus, you don’t ride.

“Neil Morelli,” he said to the guard, who looked him up and down before peering at his clipboard. “My car’s been seized by DEA agents,” he explained with a smile, while standing in the driveway next to the security booth.

The guard looked up and, now also smiling, said, “Oh, yes, Mr. Morelli. You’re expected. Lot Five. Take a left at the main building.” He tipped his hat as Neil mimed starting a car engine, shifting gears, and, making motor noises with his mouth, driving away, turning an imaginary steering wheel.

This is more like it, he thought as he approached the lot. Back where I belong. Neil had been surprised—no, stunned—when Sy Ortis’ office tracked him down and told him about this gig. He didn’t speak to Sy himself, but maybe the guy
wasn’t
a complete piece of shit. Maybe he was all right. I gotta call him later and let him know all is forgiven, Neil reminded himself. Some of those notes I sent him were pretty rough. But it just goes to show you, you gotta stay on these bastards’ asses to get what you want. Perseverance pays off, especially when you don’t have connections.

The large steel door was open, so Neil walked into the hangar-like building and looked around. The buzz of activity sent adrenaline shooting through his body, almost causing him to walk on tiptoe, he felt so high. “Where’s the second-unit AD?” he asked a technician who was walking past, carrying a roll of cable. The guy motioned with his head and kept walking.

Neil approached the second-unit assistant director, who was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, and holding a clipboard. She was in charge of shooting pickup shots, backgrounds, and some of the extras’ scenes, but she reminded him of a camp counselor. All she needed was a whistle on a cord around her neck. She was standing in a semicircle of what appeared to be Hell’s Angels, but were readily identifiable to Neil as actors in costume. Except for one guy who was more interested in his nails than what the AD was saying, everyone stared passively at the woman as she ran off a list of instructions.

When she dismissed the actors, Neil turned on his best smile. “Hi, I’m Neil Morelli.”