Not One Clue (19 page)

“I thought I could maybe ascertain who’s been sending it to her.”

He nodded. “So you want to see what’s shakin’.”

I thought about that for a moment. “Yes, but I …” I took a deep breath, and now I
did
run my hands nervously down my body. “I don’t want anyone to recognize me.”

“You do that a couple a times, nobody’ll get their eyeballs above your tits.”

I actually didn’t know if I should be offended or flattered. Inside me, there is sometimes an odd mix of the lady and the tramp.

“So you’ll help me?” I asked.

He shrugged, a casual lift of linebacker shoulders. “I’m here, ain’t I?”

“Yes, you are.”

“You well known at these Hollywood gigs?” he asked.

“Not really, no. But I don’t want anyone to associate me with my friend, so I’m … I’m kind of going in disguise.”

“Disguise.”

“Yes.”

“Are all you white chick psychologists so crazy?” he asked.

“Maybe,” I said, and he nodded.

“Okay,” he said, and after an elongated moment of discomfort, I turned away. I didn’t look back as I crossed the living room, but I was pretty sure his gaze never left seldom-visited-land.

19

I don’t want any yes-men around me. I want everybody to tell me the truth even if it costs them their jobs.

—
Samuel Goldwyn—neatly
summing up the
entertainment business

I
had been to a number of Hollywood afterparties with Laney so I thought I knew what to expect. But upon retrospection, I realized the events I had previously attended had come about before she had reached stardom, before she had begun truly mingling with the rich and bizarre. She was on a whole new level of weird now.

As the limo pulled up to the curb near the almost circular DGA Complex, I realized that instead of discussing a game plan, Vincent Angler and I had been reminiscing about our native lands. As it turns out, Vincent had grown up in Cicero, not far from my own roots, and had visited my old place of employment, the Warthog, on more than one occasion. The entire conversation had helped me relax. But as I glanced out the window at the milling crowds confined behind a roped-off section of sidewalk, I felt my nerves crank up. Vincent grinned at me, then stepped out of the car. Flashbulbs flashed. He waved a hand as if he were a prodigal princeling, then reached inside for me. My mouth felt dry as I stepped into the strobe lights and hot-fired questions.

“Mr. Angler, which is worse, directors or coaches?”

“What do you think about the new Lions roster?”

“How’s your knee?”

“Who’s your date?”

One reporter pressed in a little closer than the others.

“What’s your name, honey?”

I opened my mouth for my latest lie, but nothing came out. I realized, rather belatedly, that I hadn’t covered this eventuality with my escort.

“This is Jessica,” Vincent said.

Reporters were scribbling wildly.

“Jessica who?”

“Jessica Rabbit,” Vincent said, and putting his hand on my back, ushered me through the pandemonium. He towered over me. Not an easy feat with me in four-inch stilettos, but one I appreciated considerably more than the new nomenclature.

“Jessica Rabbit?” I said, tone dry as a martini.

“I panicked,” he said.

I glanced up at his face. Panic was nowhere to be seen. In fact, his expression was totally unchanged. Probably the same when he was napping as when he was being targeted by a four-hundred-pound nose tackle. But maybe there was a little something in his eyes. His fingers were now spread across my back. My notably
bare
back.

“Mr. Angler!”

“Mr. Angler!”

Reporters were still slavering like junkyard dogs, leaning in, snapping pictures, yelling questions. It was then that the truth dawned on me.

“You already planned on coming here,” I said.

“What’s that?” He leaned down without taking his attention from the salivating paparazzi.

“This was the event you were planning to attend all along,” I said, and for reasons quite unknown to me, the idea made me angry.

One corner of his mouth jerked up a little. “The producer’s a fan,” he said. “We’re talking movie deals.”

“Are you serious?”

“Do I look serious?”

As a Michael Moore documentary. But that seemed to be his only expression. “You could have told me earlier.”

Ushered into the inner sanctum, the first thing we saw was a movie poster featuring Wesley Donovan wearing little more than a fine sheen of sweat and a grim expression. But I wasn’t given much time to appreciate the marketing genius. A moment later we were milling in a sea of bling, angst, and beautiful faces. A place where cellulite was treated like the Black Plague and silicone was as common as the proverbial cold.

Fake trees hung with vines were interspersed through the cavernous lobby. Jungle music throbbed in the background, and near the distant wall was a buffet table, spread with every possible delicacy, but there seemed to be an invisible shield around it. There was not a soul in the vicinity except a waiter who stood as stoic as my escort, hands clasped behind his back. I wondered a little aimlessly if he was serving the food or guarding it.

I was starting to drool in earnest.
Note to self: When attending a Hollywood event with starlets the width of my pinky finger, do not wait to eat until you get there
. That would be an erro—

Just then, someone approached from behind.

“Hey, Vinny. How’s the knee?”

I glanced up, bug-eyed.

As it turns out, George Clooney
is
a god. He stood to my right, talking to Angler as if they were bosom buddies. But in a moment it was all over. Or maybe his smile had made me disoriented.

“See anyone you know?” Vincent asked.

Clooney was walking away. I blinked and glanced up at my escort. His expression was as animated as an apricot’s. I tried to match his stoicism, but my tongue felt a little blocky.

“I think I recognize a few faces.” I was going for that admirable apricot attitude, but the saliva dripping from my chin might have given me away. Still, I scanned the crowd in the hopes of remaining upright.

Angler chuckled and slipped his hand a little lower, hovering over the swell of my too large ass as my mind did a little exploration into reality. It’s a state I don’t often visit, but I was beginning to wonder if he had lied to the media about his sexual orientation. Before I could inquire, however, he spoke.

“You okay if I leave you alone for a while?” he asked. “There’s someone here I’ve been meaning to terrorize.”

“Sure,” I said. “I’m a big girl.”

“Noticed that,” he said, and smoothed his palm over my behind.

“Vincent?” I glanced up. It was now or never.

“Yeah?” He was glowering into the crowd.

“You
are
gay, right?”

“We’ll see,” he said, and almost smirking, glided away.

I pondered that for a while, but the sea of beautiful people was so intimidating I felt the need to eat. In fact, they seemed to be washing me toward the buffet table. I hadn’t had anything but a dry bagel all day, and even though the other women in the room probably hadn’t eaten since their tenth birthdays, I, for one, was hungry. I was also pretty sure I could take the waiter if his task really was to keep the buffet safe from all comers.

I scanned the table, keeping an eye on the hovering waitstaff. The stuffed shrimp looked fantastic. I could do without the escargot, but the bruschetta called to me. My stomach spoke eloquently of missed meals and the coming seven years of drought. I was just about to fulfill my biblical obligations to store up when a woman approached the other side of the table. She looked vaguely familiar and though I couldn’t put a name to her, she had that sleek, starved look so popular in our overfed part of the universe. She took a radish cut like a rose and two pretzels before moving away. I scowled, wondering grouchily if I was expected to do the same. When in Rome and all that crap …

But just then I saw the kabobs. I would have passed them by as too fattening and potentially mermaid-gown messing, but the center of the friendly little skewer held a pineapple chunk and I hadn’t yet had my daily dose of antioxidants. Fetching a plate, I delicately put the skewer in the center, but it looked a little lonely there so I added a little dab of hummus and a splayed stick of celery. My ensemble then seemed to lack color. It was, therefore, my duty to add flare to the palette. A trio of chocolate-dabbed strawberries did that nicely. Their little green caps looked saucy beside the tiny cream puff I added. Then there were small clusters of red grapes. They had been sprinkled with something. Maybe fairy dust. Maybe sugar. Both were good. I popped one directly into my mouth.

“It’s nice to see a woman eat,” my date said, appearing behind me.

Still masticating, I added a triangular sandwich to my plate. “It’s nice …” I began, but in that moment a memory tripped in my mind. I turned slowly, and sure enough, the newcomer wasn’t my date at all. It was someone blond and yummy with a little boy smile and dimples deep enough to drown in. “… to eat,” I finished numbly.

His grin cranked up another notch, then, scanning the buffet, he snagged an unassuming carrot from the assortment, and tossed it into his mouth. “Enjoy,” he said, and ambled away.

I watched, slack-jawed.

“Yeah, it’s the shits,” someone said near my elbow.

“Was that …?” My voice sounded funny, then gave up altogether.

“Brad Pitt?”

I managed a nod.

He chuckled. “Yeah. For the rest of your life you’ll remember that the only words you ever uttered in his presence were ‘It’s nice to eat.’” He chuckled. “Look on the bright side, though. He probably hasn’t heard that line before.”

I turned numbly toward him. He was young and short and as cute as a baby chick.

“I’m Ethan,” he said. “Ethan Engles.”

I blinked, numbly wondering what the hell my alias was supposed to be.

I guess he misunderstood my silence for star shock because he said, “He’s not
that
good-looking,” in a somewhat insulted tone.

I was going to object, but someone beat me to the punch.

We turned toward the newcomer in unison. He was lean and pale with long-fingered hands and a hooked nose.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” Ethan said to him.

“Kenny Vogue.” They shook hands. “I worked with Pitt on
Troy
. He spent half the time in nothing but a metal skirt. Trust me—he
is
that good-looking. And he kept us in stitches half the time.”

“Looks and personality … there ought to be a law,” Ethan said.

“Amen,” I said.

They looked at me.

“Are you in the business?” Kenny asked.

I swallowed, then daintily wiped my mouth with a napkin the size of a plantar wart. “Ummm …”

“Wait. Don’t tell me,” Kenny said. “Didn’t I see you in—”

Ethan snapped his cute little fingers. “You were in Morel’s movie, weren’t you?
Taken
!”

“The prostitute,” they said in unison.

I choked a little on the first bite of my strawberry. “What?”

“The prostitute that Neeson talks to in Paris.”

“What’s your stage—” Kenny asked, but Ethan interrupted.

“No. Don’t tell me. I never forget …” He paused, then, “Fani,” he said. “Fani Kolarova.”

I gave a laugh and a modest little shrug. I had no idea what they were talking about.

“So you’re French.”

I covered a ladylike cough with my hand.
“Oui?”
I said.

“Too bad you didn’t get more screen time,” Kenny said.

“You did a nice job with the part,” Ethan added.

I cleared my throat. I meant to deny it all. I really did, but my plate was piled up with enough food to feed Indonesia and I suddenly felt the Hollywood angst like a cancer in my throat. “Just a …
petite
part,” I said, demure as a kitten.

“You know what they say … there are no small parts,” Ethan said.

“It’s true,” Kenny agreed.

“I disagree,” someone said. We turned. A woman stood beside me. She was dressed in a red, floor-length sheath that skimmed her well-honed body like a crimson wave. Her hair, dark and glossy as a pampered seal, nearly reached her waist. She brushed it behind one shoulder. Slim muscles flexed gracefully in her arms. “I worked on
Gigli
, remember?”

They laughed. I did, too, even though Ben Affleck was another actor I would be happy to watch gargle. So what if the film had offended half its viewership and put the other half to sleep?

“Nadine, have you met Fani?” Kenny asked.

“No.” She skimmed her gaze up my coppery form and raised her brows when she reached my strawberry blond mane. “I don’t believe I have.”

“Fani Kolarova, this is Nadine Gruber, hairdresser to the stars.”

“And philanthropist,” Ethan added.

She pulled her attention from my lion’s mane. I wondered uncomfortably if she recognized it from
Queen’s
set. “You’re too kind,” she said.

“Nadine is single-handedly saving the California condor.”

“Any publicity is good publicity,” she said, then grinned wryly at herself. “I’m just kidding. I love those ugly birds. I’m just trying to do my part. Those of us in the entertainment business, with a few exceptions, of course, aren’t nearly as self-centered as people believe. Many of us feel the need to give back.”

I watched her. “You are an actress as well?”

She turned toward me again, smiling prettily. She was not a young woman, but she had been as carefully preserved as Grandma’s sweet pickles. I couldn’t even begin to imagine the kind of exercise regimen it would take to keep every muscle so perfectly toned. She’d probably spent half her life in warrior III pose.