Star Island (13 page)

After dinner he hurled a stump of dead buttonwood on the fire and fitted one of his prized cassettes into an old battery-powered boom box. Then he pulled on his plastic bath cap and lay down naked in the leaves and sang along to the Buffalo Springfield, wondering in spite of himself about Ann DeLusia—what her real story was, and if he’d ever see her again.

The former Cheryl Bunterman had never met her paid imposter, and was in fact unaware that Ann DeLusia existed. She’d been completely truthful when she told Bang Abbott that she didn’t know what he was talking about.

Janet Bunterman believed it would upset her daughter to know that a full-time decoy had been retained for public-relations purposes due to the episodic frequency of Cherry’s “gastritis.” There was little danger of the star’s learning about the ruse, because she never read the tabloids and seldom watched the celebrity TV shows. On the occasions when she came across a photograph or video clip of herself ducking into a glamorous soiree that she couldn’t recall, Cherry assumed that she’d been fried at the time and had blacked out the whole evening.

As an actress, Ann DeLusia was naturally curious about the woman whom she portrayed. Yet the only opportunities she had to observe Cherry in person were when the singer was being hustled out of vomit-smelling hotel rooms while Ann was being hustled in. Invariably Cherry was either unconscious or delirious, and strapped to a stretcher. Such scenes didn’t give Ann much to work with, Method-wise. Dutifully she had studied all of Cherry’s music videos, and even watched a stultifying reel of red-carpet interviews, in case she ever had to actually speak during one of her nocturnal masquerades.

So far, Ann had seen nothing to suggest that the former Cheryl Bunterman was complicated, misunderstood or even slightly exploited. Rather, the woman appeared spoiled, vain and empty-headed. The tattoo did not change Ann’s opinion.

“Very classy,” she said when Janet Bunterman showed her a Polaroid. “It looks like gonorrhea through a microscope.”

“That’s Axl Rose.”

“Get out!”

“See, he’s like a centaur,” Cherry’s mother explained, pointing at the picture. “It’s supposed to be a zebra’s body.”

“I see the cock, Janet, but where’s the tail? I mean, the thing has no rear end.”

“The tattoo man didn’t have time to finish.”

Ann said, “Lemme guess. Visitation was over.”

Janet Bunterman dourly snatched a cup of coffee from the room-service tray. The entourage was back at the Stefano, regrouping. Ann sat cross-legged on the bed in her room, eating a sesame bagel and poking through
The Miami Herald
.

Cherry’s mother said, “The tatt’s in a bad spot.”

“What about makeup?”

“She’s so pale and the darn thing’s so loud—it’s impossible to hide it unless we dress her in turtlenecks.”

“Or a cool scarf.”

“The Larks know a doctor in Santa Monica who specializes in laser removal. He’s the one who burned Billy Bob off Angelina’s arm,” said Janet Bunterman, “and most of Johnny’s Winona. Unfortunately, Cherry’s being difficult. She says she wants to keep it. Maury’s going to speak with her, but in the meantime—”

“No way!” Ann bounced off the bed, scattering the newspaper. “Do
not
even go there.”

“Take it easy. We’ll do it in henna,” Cherry’s mom said. “I got the name of a Pakistani lady in the Gables who’s supposed to be amazing. You can scrub it off as soon as this nonsense is over.”

“But I don’t want that gross thing on my neck,” Ann protested. “People are gonna think it’s an infected hickey.”

The door of the hotel room opened and a tall man entered holding a key card. He approached Janet Bunterman and grumbled
something about breakfast. Ann DeLusia wasn’t listening; she was gawking at the man’s face. It was the worst chemical peel she’d ever seen.

Cherry’s mother said, “Annie, this is Chemo. He’s the new bodyguard.”

“Hullo,” said Ann, her voice barely above a whisper.

The man leaned over. “The fuck are you starin’ at?”

“I’m sorry, guy, but … I mean, holy shit.”

Janet Bunterman broke in: “Annie, please.”

“No offense, but somebody did that to me? I’d get a lawyer.”

Chemo blinked coldly. “I took care of it a different way.”

“What’s the deal with your arm?” Ann asked.

He turned to Cherry’s mother and said, “Don’t tell me she’s part of this goddamned circus, too.”

“Annie is my daughter’s, uh, stand-in. Sometimes you’ll be accompanying her in public, as if she were Cherry. It’s a little game we have to play to deal with the media.”

Chemo grunted. “I smell another raise.”

As soon as the man went downstairs, Ann asked Janet Bunterman what planet he was from.

“Maury hired the monster. We had no choice.”

“What does Cherry say?”

“Cherry’s not happy. She had her heart set on an African-American martial-arts master, because she thinks that’s what Britney’s got—although I don’t believe it’s true. I think Britney’s main guy is from Fiji.” Janet Bunterman seemed to be talking to the coffee cup. “So now Cherry’s locked herself in the bathroom. Do you have your little black dress?”

“Why?” Ann asked warily. “It’s at the bottom of the swamp, with the rest of my stuff.”

Cherry’s mother looked puzzled.

“The car crash, remember?” Ann said.

“Oh, right. Well, then, you should go to Bal Harbour this afternoon and get some new clothes, after your trip to the Pakistani. The Olsens are giving a major party tonight at Pubes—it would look good for Cherry to show up.”

“But she’ll be busy.”

Janet Bunterman nodded. “Getting fitted for her act, God willing. This designer charges something like three grand a day, and he’s such a pain. But Maury says he did Celine’s show in Vegas.”

Ann DeLusia wasn’t opposed to the idea of a new dress, even though no one would see her in it except the paparazzi outside the club and the wait staff inside. Maybe someday she’d actually get to hang out at one of these events and have a few laughs, instead of being hidden away in a back room until it was time to split.

“Is he coming along, too—the new bodyguard?” Ann asked.

Cherry’s mother sighed. “Don’t piss him off, okay? He’s not like Lev.”

“No sense of humor, huh?”

“Zero. I mean, look at the man.”

Ann said, “So, what’s that big thingie on his arm?”

Janet Bunterman told her.

“Wow.” Ann found herself intrigued by the concept.

“I don’t know what Maury was thinking,” Cherry’s mother muttered.

Ann suspected that the man named Chemo had a colorful story to tell. “I’m gonna ask him to show it to me,” she said mischievously, “that crazy rig.”

“Only if you want a new haircut,” warned Janet Bunterman. From her wallet she removed five one-hundred-dollar bills and counted them out. “Here—and don’t forget to save the receipts.”

With a doubtful smile, Ann eyed the money. “So I guess I’m not shopping at Tory Burch.”

“Lord, you’re worse than my daughter.”

“Not even close,” Ann sang out, and went to call for a cab.

Bang Abbott parked on the street, two blocks from the hotel. He had armed himself with a secondhand Pentax, which he’d bought at an all-night pawnshop in Hialeah. The camera was digital and the motor drive still worked, so what the hell. With any luck he’d soon recover his Nikons, and more.

Although he hadn’t slept since arriving in Florida, he didn’t feel tired. This was typical of stalkers, although Bang Abbott would never acknowledge that was what he’d become. He left the camera in the car and scouted the lobby, where he spotted the scrawny bellman and pulled him outside.

“She’s here, bro! Room 602. I called chu like five times, why the fuck chu don’t call me back?” the bellman whined.

“Somebody stole my goddamn phone,” Bang Abbott said. And the numbers of all my sources, he thought bitterly. The cameras were replaceable, but losing the BlackBerry was a major hassle. He hoped Cherry Pye hadn’t lost it, or thrown it away.

“She’s up there now,” the bellman whispered. “I heard the concierge calling for a locksmith.”

“For Christ’s sake. Is she toasted again?”

The bellman said he’d try to find out. Bang Abbott gave him fifty bucks and the number of his new cell, another pawnshop bargain.

“Let me know when she’s on the move,” the photographer said. “There’s another hundred in it for you—and tell those other monkeys, too.” Bang Abbott had gone to an ATM and gotten a fat wad. “I won’t be far,” he said, pointing down the street.

The rental car was a blue Buick compact. Roomy it was not, especially for a person of Bang Abbott’s circumference. The morning air was chilly, so he rolled up the windows and kept the engine running and tried not to think about the sex with Cherry. Soon he had a rubbery hard-on, which he would have tended discreetly if only the snug steering wheel hadn’t impeded his frontal access. With design flaws like this, Bang Abbott thought, it’s no wonder GM is going tits-up.

He slid his untoned mass to the passenger side and, using a discarded wax wrapper from a Quarter Pounder, took care of Claude Jr. Yet even afterward he couldn’t stop wondering about Cherry. Why on earth had she jumped his bones? Like most successful paparazzi, Bang Abbott seldom wrestled with issues of self-esteem; he knew his lowly place in the carnal order. What Cherry had done to him, pleasurable as it might have been, was a breach of natural law, like a butterfly humping a cockroach.

Most men of Bang Abbott’s worldliness would have understood the futility of ruminating over the airplane romp, and fondly filed the memory for future fantasies. It was a measure of the photographer’s deepening obsession that he was able to twist a frivolously empty act of intercourse into something calculated and diabolical. At times he was close to convincing himself that Cherry had hatched a dark plan, that she was using him in some cynical way.

Bang Abbott reached under the seat to make certain that the pistol was still there—a Colt .38 Special, with a plastic shoulder holster and three bullets. He’d gotten it for eighty dollars from the same upright vendor who’d sold him the Pentax. Although it was the first gun he had ever handled, Bang Abbott wasn’t nervous. Mechanically the Colt looked simple compared to a camera, and the operative fundamentals were the same: Point and shoot.

Ostensibly he’d gotten the weapon to protect himself from South Florida’s well-known criminal element, but in his daydreams he imagined flashing it casually in Cherry’s presence. Like countless fools before him, Bang Abbott believed that carrying a firearm would make certain persons take him more seriously.

At half-past nine, the bellman called to say that Cherry’s security man was leaving the hotel lobby alone. “What’s he look like?” Bang Abbott asked.

“A motherfuckin’ ay-leen.”

“A what?”

“Chu know—a ay-leen. Like from a UFO.”

Bang Abbott chuckled. “So he’s got, what, antennas coming out of his head?”

“Chu’ll see, bro. He be cruisin’ your way.”

The photographer shrank low in the Buick and peeked over the dashboard. When Cherry’s new bodyguard—and who else could it be?—appeared on the sidewalk, Bang Abbott saw that the bellman hadn’t been exaggerating. The guy was a geek on stilts.

Bang Abbott waited until the man was a full block past him before squeezing out of the Buick and taking pursuit. Because of his height, and the coral iridescence of his toupee, the bodyguard was easy to follow. On Alton Road he entered an organic diner, where he grabbed a breakfast menu and chose a table away from
the window. He said nothing when Bang Abbott boldly sat down across from him.

“You don’t know me,” the photographer began. “I’m a shooter for the tabloids. Strictly freelance. Your client stole my gear.”

The bodyguard didn’t glance up from the menu.

“We took a plane ride together, then she bolts with my camera bag. I couldn’t fuckin’ believe it.”

The bodyguard stifled a yawn.

“I’m talkin’ about Miss Cherry Pye,” Bang Abbott went on, trying not to stare. Up close, the man was a fright show. “Two Nikons and a BlackBerry—I need to get ’em back, the phone especially. And here’s what else: I’ll pay good money.”

Slowly, the man raised his oozy eyes. The sockets appeared to be inflamed, and the hooded lids were mapped with bluish veins. To Bang Abbott he looked like a mutant gecko. And that clunky thing on his arm—was it a cast, or was he packing an Uzi under there?

The paparazzo introduced himself and gamely attempted a handshake. The bodyguard responded by baring his teeth, which were discolored and nubby.

“How much?” he asked Bang Abbott.

“What?”

“To get your shit back. How much’ll you pay?”

“I dunno. Five hundred?” Bang Abbott said. “But that’s only if the crazy bitch hasn’t trashed the equipment.”

The bodyguard said, “Make it eight, unconditional. Shit’s broke, you get it fixed.”

“Six fifty.”

“Go away, Slim.” He went to the counter and returned shortly with a glass of grapefruit juice. “Look at all the fuckin’ pulp,” he remarked with a frown.

Bang Abbott said, “Okay, eight hundred.” He wrote his new cell number on a napkin and passed it to the bodyguard. “The BlackBerry is tangerine-colored. You can’t miss it.” He had custom-ordered a bright one so he could locate it easily in his cluttered camera bag.