Star Island (14 page)

“What’s your name, dude?” he asked the bodyguard.

“Chemo.”

“Is that, like, French or somethin’?”

“You ever call me ‘dude’ again, I’ll peel your fat head like a goddamn apple.” The bodyguard blinked and sipped his juice.

Bang Abbott was determined to make a personal connection. The man wasn’t particularly sociable but, unlike Lev, he seemed open to cash incentives. The photographer was thinking ahead to future services beyond the retrieval of his camera bag. Cherry Pye could become his exclusive celebrity property, if Chemo could be bought off.

But the guy was an authentic hardass, possibly even an ex-con, so Bang Abbott knew he must be patient—and extremely careful—with his approach. “What’s Cobra Golf?” he inquired innocently, nodding toward the bulky zippered bag on the bodyguard’s left arm.

Chemo sniffed the air. “Jesus, what died?”

The photographer pressed on, searching for common ground. “When I was a kid, I fractured my ulna in two places—fell out of a tree house. Had to wear a cast for three months.”

“This ain’t a cast.” Chemo raised his bagged limb.

“Oh,” said Bang Abbott. “Man, I’m sorry.”

“What for? It wasn’t
your
arm that got ate.” With his good one, the bodyguard signaled to a waitress, who came over and took his order: four eggs, sunny-side up, and a stack of multigrain toast.

When the waitress turned to Bang Abbott and asked what he wanted, Chemo cut in: “Don’t bring him nuthin. He’s hittin’ the bricks.”

The photographer smiled wanly and stood up. “I guess I am. Give me a call when you find my stuff—”

“That was the deal.”

“—then we can meet up … wherever.”

“Right,” said Chemo. “You know, they got this slick new invention.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Called soap. Maybe you heard of it.”

Bang Abbott felt his neck turn hot. “Later,” he said, and shuffled out of the restaurant.

•   •   •

The former Cheryl Bunterman sat on the toilet seat in the bathroom of Suite 602 with her bare feet propped on the paparazzo’s camera bag. Her mother was rapping on the other side of the door, warning that the hotel locksmith was on the way.

“Cherry, we can do this the hard way or the easy way.”

“It’s
Cherish
. And I’m not comin’ out till you fire that disgusting A-hole and get me a black super-karate dude like Britney’s.”

Janet Bunterman said, “Sweetie, I checked with her people. The bodyguard’s from Samoa.”

“That bald guy? No way, Mom. He was on the Raiders.”

“Samoans play football, too,” Cherry’s mother pointed out.

“Just get rid of that freak, okay? He scares the pee out of me.” Cherry and her molten hangover had been locked in the john for more than an hour. She’d passed the time by toying with the photographer’s fruity-colored cell phone, reading his text messages and listening to his voice mails.

“Hey, Mom, guess what? The Olsens are having a thing at Pubes tonight.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Kanye might be there!”

“Where’d you hear that?” Cherry’s mother demanded through the door.

“And David Spade’s staying at the Standard—he checked in as ‘Bubba Gump.’ What else … Oh, Ellen and Portia canceled their reservations at the Forge.… Uma’s having brunch at the News Café with some dude in a cowboy hat.… This is
so
cool.”

Janet Bunterman pounded harder. “What are you doing in there?”

“Hush up, Mom!” Cherry Pye was checking a fresh voice mail on the photographer’s phone. It was about her—some guy with a squeaky Cuban accent saying she was at the Stefano. He even knew the room number.

Cherry was positively tickled. Balancing on the porcelain lip of the claw-footed tub, she peeped out the window, which offered a partial view of the pool. Sunbathing couples could be seen snuggling
heedlessly, indicating to Cherry that no cameramen or video crews were lurking among the cabanas. Maybe they’re waiting out front, she thought, near the lobby.

“Cherry, honey?” A man’s voice at the door.

“Oh shit,” she whispered to herself. Then: “Maury, leave me alone!”

He said, “I’m counting to nine.”

She shoved the BlackBerry into the camera bag. “Go away! I’ve got the runs!”

“Tell me—do you enjoy this pampered life of yours?”

What was
that
supposed to mean?

She unlocked the door. The promoter came in and closed it behind him. His calm demeanor was intimidating.

“Where’s my mom?” Cherry asked.

“Let’s see the tatt.” Maury Lykes put on his wire-rimmed glasses and skeptically examined her neck. “Yeah, that’s gorgeous—and just in time for the
Us Weekly
cover shot I got lined up for tomorrow.”

“Well, I don’t care what you say—I totally love this tattoo. It’s a zebra-man Axl!”

“Who is …?”

Cherry knew Maury was testing her.

He said, “Come on. Hundred bucks if you can name the band.”

“Blood, Sweat and Roses?”

The promoter removed his glasses and hooked them through an open buttonhole of his polo shirt.
“Skantily
is your last big shot, honey. You blow this tour, say adios to the good stuff. Because Cherry Pye as a brand is over, understand? Done.”

“Awesome!” she cried defiantly. “’Cause from now on I’m gonna be called Cherish.”

“How about ‘Bankrupt’? You like that name? The Artist Formerly Known as Solvent.” Maury Lykes wore a heartless smile. “Because, honey, I’ll sue your thong off.”

“For what?” Cherry asked in a wounded voice.

“Breach of contract. Misappropriation of funds. Whatever else my sharks come up with.” Maury Lykes stood at the mirror and picked a sesame seed out of his teeth. “You skipped out of Malibu
rehab, so now it’s time for Maury rehab. You’re grounded from all parties until further notice,” he said. “Rehearsals start next week—I’ll e-mail the song tracks from the show so you can start practicing your legendary lip magic. The lyric sheets are on the way.”

“So now I’m, like, a prisoner? This is
not
happening.”

“Friend Chemo will accompany you wherever you need to go.”

“No, Maury! He’s horrible!”

“A nightmare,” the promoter agreed. “And don’t think you can fellate your way to his heart—he doesn’t have the same weaknesses as Lev.”

Cherry raised her eyebrows. “You mean he’s gay?”

“No, I mean he’s cold. Maybe the coldest sonofabitch I ever met.”

Janet Bunterman tapped on the bathroom door and asked if everything was all right. Maury Lykes called out, “Just peachy!”

Cherry lowered her voice. “But he knows who I am, right?”

“Chemo? Oh, he couldn’t care less.” Maury Lykes turned away from the mirror. “Honey, don’t take it personal. Middle-aged psychopaths, they don’t keep up with the music scene.”

It was eating at Cherry, the idea of being seen in public with such an unattractive and possibly unfuckable bodyguard. “So, how’d he find me and Tanner last night?” she asked in a sulk.

Maury Lykes told her that Chemo had called all the beachside limousine companies and pretended to be the young actor’s personal pharmacist, late with an urgent delivery. One of the dispatchers remembered a Star Island pickup and radioed the driver, who reported that he was parked outside a tattoo parlor on Washington.

“That’s so freaking scummy!” Cherry exclaimed.

“More like brilliant.” The promoter kissed her on the chin. “Don’t forget what I said—if you fuck up this project, all major fun in your life is over. Be a good girl, we’ll make you ‘Cherish’ on the next album.”

She threw her arms around his neck and pulled him extra close. “Don’t ever leave me, Maury. You gotta promise.”

Bang Abbott would never starve. Even with a used Pentax he could always make money.

A few years earlier, a particularly lean streak on the L.A. club circuit had forced him to the beaches of Malibu, where every afternoon he would prowl for sunbathing celebrities. Bang Abbott referred to that summer as his “Cellulite Period,” because the tabloids were paying ludicrous sums for close-ups of famous asses, the flabbier the better. He’d made seventeen grand with one sensationally embarrassing photo of Jessica Simpson, and another six thousand for a wide-load sequence of Tom Hanks, who’d put on thirty pounds for a film about Theodore Roosevelt.

But beaches weren’t Bang Abbott’s favorite place to work. Concealment was difficult, and the lighting conditions were often bright and harsh. Worse, beaches were usually hot, and Bang Abbott was miserable in the heat. He perspired in unnatural spumes, soaking rapidly through his shirt, cap, even his pants. The odor didn’t bother him so much as the stares; it was impossible to be inconspicuous while dripping like a Nile hippo.

But a man had to make a living, so here he was, scouting the famous topless stretch of South Beach, near Lummus Park. A woman he’d met in line at a Subway shop had claimed to be a maid at the Clevelander and for twenty bucks she’d informed Bang
Abbott that Lindsay Lohan and her latest girlfriend were catching some rays at Fifth Street. He figured what the hell, maybe he could earn some extra coin while awaiting Cherry Pye’s next ambulance ride.

So far, though, Bang Abbott hadn’t spied Lindsay’s bare breasts among the oiled, upright domes that glistened before him as far as the eye could see. The shore was clotted with male and female gawkers, many of them snapping pictures, so Bang Abbott saw no need for stealth as he plodded along the sand. Eventually he recognized a German supermodel and snapped a dozen shots before her swarthy male companion ran him off. A hundred yards down the beach, the photographer spied a woman who looked like Sienna Miller but turned out to be a licensed respiratory therapist from Louisville whose gym-rat husband had no sense of humor. Bang Abbott was in full flight when his cell phone began ringing. He didn’t stop to answer until he made it to Collins Avenue.

“You want your cameras, or not?” It was Cherry’s new bodyguard.

“Fuck yes. Where are you?” Bang Abbott panted.

“The hotel. Meet me in the john by the lobby.”

“I’ll be there in twenty.”

“And bring the goddamn money, Slim.”

Bang Abbott arrived with the cash and also the pistol, in case he was being set up. When he entered the rest room he saw Chemo standing before one of the mirrors, scrutinizing his feral hairpiece. The camera bag was on the floor.

“As promised,” Chemo said, holding out his hand to be paid.

“Hang on.” Bang Abbott hurriedly dug through the bag and found both Nikons and all the lenses—but no BlackBerry.

“Where’s the damn phone?” he asked.

“Don’t ask me.” Chemo’s scabrous features arranged themselves into a scowl. “Now gimme the money so I can get outta here.”

“But I need my phone!”

“Buy a new one.”

“All my numbers, my sources—I’m dead in the water without ’em.”

Chemo shrugged. “My people are waitin’ on me upstairs.”

Bang Abbott was infuriated. Why would Cherry return the expensive cameras and keep the BlackBerry? She seemed determined to mess with his head. He counted out four one-hundred-dollar bills and handed them to the bodyguard.

“You get the other half when I get my fucking phone,” he said adventurously.

“Oh really?” The man called Chemo bolted the rest room door and unzipped his stumped limb, revealing what appeared to be a regulation-sized mechanical weed trimmer. When he turned on the motor, the noise echoed harshly off the tiles.

Bang Abbott retreated into a stall, where he lifted his sodden shirttail to expose the butt of the Colt revolver in his belt. Chemo seemed amused. With a septic grin, he said, “That’s a good one, Slim. Now hand over the rest of my goddamn money.”

The photographer complied. Chemo put away the weed whacker, kicked the camera bag into the stall and slammed the door. “Don’t come out for fifteen minutes,” he said.

Bang Abbott stayed for nearly an hour. The toilet seat was a high-end fixture with a generous circumference, and he fit upon it comfortably. Upon inspection, both Nikons appeared to be undamaged, which was a relief, although one was missing its lens cap. When Bang Abbott scrolled through the contents of the memory file, he saw that Cherry had taken a sequence of photographs, apparently in the bathroom of her suite. In the opening frames she was topless except for a white towel draped around her neck. With one hand she was holding the Nikon over her head, aiming into the mirror while making sultry expressions with her sea-green eyes. Bang Abbott assumed the shots were meant to be private self-portraits, and he felt himself becoming aroused.

Then he advanced to a frame in which she had shed the towel, uncovering a garish tribal tattoo: the face of what appeared to be a yodeling baboon, affixed to a truncated zebra body. In the final shot Cherry was crossing her eyes and sticking out her tongue, and Bang Abbott’s lust turned to fury. He thought:
The little whore is making fun of me!

Instantly, and without a crumb of evidence, he concluded that
Cherry had staged the teasing photographs specifically for him, leaving the images filed on his camera with acid mockery. He studied each picture over and over, his anger swelling, and by the time he emerged from the toilet stall he was irrationally, and fatefully, propelled.