CoverBoys & Curses (10 page)

Chapter
Twenty-Nine

Fresh
Cherries

FOR
A SECOND TIME I cancelled my plans to meet Carly and Sterling for lunch. Too
much to do. Too much to avoid. The dream was forever on my mind. I tried to abandon
all consciousness of it but it permeated my life. The best way I could protect
my best friends was to stay away from them.

I
REMEMBER THE STAFF meeting well. We had gathered around our small but
functional conference room table. Up for debate, the entire expose on plastic
surgeons. And the naysayers spoke up with the same old objections that I was
running old stories past their prime.

“You’re
right. Everyone has heard of Cat Woman and the Barbie Doll. So what else do we
have?” I asked.

One of
my new staff writers spoke up. He probably had figured out his position was
tenuous and I was the boss. It was no guts, no glory for him. “We all know that
there’s a lot of genital mutilation. Last month’s story on Dr. Dhurra only
scratched the surface. Does the general public know about the plastic surgeons
out there making zillions of dollars doing clitoris cosmetic surgery?”

His
knees shook, only visible because I preferred glass tables. This new guy dared
to speak up and claim his turf. He was there to write, and writers brought
facts to the table that turned into stories if they were any good.

“Tell
us,” I said.

“They’re
most often called vulva beautification procedures. Labia
minora
reconstruction. If the need dictated—and it was always purported as a need,
thin labials were fattened up with injections, while if patients come in with
too thick of pubic fat pads, they’ll be happy to reduce them with liposuction.”
           
“That can’t feel too good,” a
female writer added as she squirmed her own butt deeper into the chair.

“And
then there’s clitoral
dehooding
.”

I smiled
at my young protégé.

“And
there’s a helluva lot subscribers that have never heard of
revirgination
,”
the new writer added.

My token
naysayer and favorite critic shut up. I wondered where the hell the writer came
up with this stuff and what he did on the weekends.

“Women
are going in for elective surgery to get plastic hymens implanted.”

“I’ve
heard of it,” another writer said. “Like, with blood bombs and all.”

“That’s
right. Gel sacks full of fake blood. So the guys can get the cherries they
cherish”.

My small
audience spoke nothing. “I want to know why. Is it a woman with one big fat lie
because she’s no virgin? Is it a woman, submissive to her man’s pleasures, or
is it something else? A couple seeking something new and different?”

My senior
writer was the first to speak. “It sounds like major surgery to me. Not your
ordinary sex toy. And for the record, I’ve never heard of it.”

I said, “Get
their stories. I want to hear from the patients, anonymously, of course. But as
for the doctors—”

“I know
the drill,” said my junior writer. “Print the names of these fine plastic
surgeons. But first, get their ‘no comment’ comments.”

TWO
WEEKS LATER I was still debating what ‘a couple’ meant, for that’s when Jack
Helms had told me to call him back. I’d picked up the phone a good ten times
but never dialed his number.

My
insecurities insisted that maybe he wouldn’t even talk to me. I phoned him only
after preparing myself to hear his voicemail. Or some call screener. That might
be better than listening to his morbid thoughts about missing children, because
maybe he
would
take my call.

He
responded via webcam. Away in Italy, he thought I might be interested in
another story idea.

“There
are certain provinces here where wives are still regarded as property,” he said.
“The women sit on front porches with their husbands, forced to face the walls
of their home. They can’t look out on the street.

“They
can only listen as their husbands choose to describe to them what they see. Or
conversely, choose what to censor. Anything and everything. Passersby,
activity—anything, Lauren. This prevents the women from making forbidden
contact with other men.”

“It
sounds good. I mean bad, but good,” I said.

Helms
was researching yet another documentary idea.

“I have
that last issue of yours,” he said. “I think you should show the full cheese.”

“What?”
He caught me off guard.

“The
entertainment biz is about dichotomy. You have your exposés going for you, all
juxtaposed next to dirt-ass fucking male models. I’m just saying do more with
the skin thing and the male models. It sells. Women keep getting all the glory
these days.”

I didn’t
exactly want to be known as the next Bob
Guccione
and
his
Penthouse
.

“Can I ask
you about your project? The missing children?”

“Fire
away.”

“I’ve
been looking for a missing child. My friend’s brother. It’s been years. She
hired a private investigator and all that stuff.”

“And you
got
zippo
, right?”

“Right.
He just disappeared. They somehow determined he was a runaway of his own accord.”

“It’s
kind of like the missing prostitutes. They make for an easy mark because no one
reports them missing.”

A man
called out from the background, “It’s show time, Mr. Helms.”

“
Gotta
run, but send me what you have on this kid,” he said.
“I have sources. Oh, and as far as Gabriella Criscione and any stalker goes,
it’s nothing.”

“The
painting was nothing?’

“Nothing
that my guys could come up with and I’ll take their word over the L.A. cops any
day of the week. Let’s just say she has enemies, but no one wants her dead. At
least not yet.”

DR.
COAL LEFT ME three messages. I ached to return them. I needed to schedule
another appointment with him. It was time to figure out my life and why the
Lauren Visconti Curse made love a certain death threat. I just didn’t have the
time.

And I
was afraid.

Chapter Thirty

Let’s
Ride a Pony

GEOFF
RELISHED THE limelight and the new backdrop of the city of angels agreed with
him. Some critics had called Sukie’s artful portrayal of the male body as
something akin to Rodin’s masterpieces. Geoff chimed in that he would go down
in history as the conclusive reason behind Mona Lisa’s mystifying smile.

We’d
been friends too long for me to turn down his offer to meet me at the Santa
Monica Pier. True to his word he was easy to spot in front of the arcade and
dropping handfuls of quarters into pinball machines for eager children.

“Not how
I usually spend my workday,” I hollered in between whirling bells and the
cling-clang of metal balls slamming against rubber bumpers.

“Hey,
Babe, you
ain’t
lived until you played hooky at the pier.
I figured that out the first week we started operations down here.”

“If you’re
setting me up for a raise your plan is seriously flawed,” I laughed.

Geoff turned
away from the children, willing to forgo the anxious faces of their faces
already pitting skills against one another at the arcade
.

My
beautiful puerile friend announced, “Let’s go ride a pony,” he said. He led me
over toward the historic carousel.

I began
to suspect I was in for more than a pony ride, but if it wasn’t a raise he was
looking for I was duped.

We
stopped long enough for me to purchase a bag of caramel corn.

“Breakfast
of champions,” I explained as we gave the ticket taker our red coupons. “Now
tell me, is this a pony ride or a phony ride. Just why are we playing hooky?”

“It’s
bad, honey,” Geoff whispered in a hoarse voice. We had just taken our seats in
a golden chariot for two; two magnificent white wooden Clydesdales prancing us
through the woods, or at least up and down through a fading forest mural scenery.

“Our
reviews?” I gasped. “No way! We’re on top!”

He
ignored my mock horror and looked away. “Remember your doctor from
Afghanistan?”

“Of
course I do. Brave female doctor. She’s coming to L.A. to do some more photo
work with Sukie. She’s a guest speaker at some huge women’s conference this
weekend.”

“She’s
already here. She was here.”

“What do
you mean?”

“There’s
no easy way to say this, Laurs. She’s dead. She was killed.”

“What?”

“Rumors
are already flying. Not sure if it was crazy L.A. locals or her own government.
Word got out quick about our article. Maybe to the wrong people.”

Geoff
reached into his linen shirt pocket and pulled out a package of mini-tissues,
prepared for my emotions to gush the tears that would stream down my cheeks in
two rivers.

I shook
my head. “We don’t know that. It’s L.A. Anybody could have done it. A robber. A
doper. Anybody.”

“It
looks personal. That’s all I’ve learned. She was knifed eighteen times. The
detective I spoke with said that ranks it up there as a likely crime of
passion.”

“Why am
I just hearing of this now?”

“Because
I stepped in. I wanted to be the one to tell you.”

My
throat felt lined with something the thickness of creosote. “But she doesn’t
know anybody in this city.” I pulled at another tissue only to blacken it with
streaming mascara. “Geoff. Oh, no, Geoff. Are you saying our story killed her?”
I finally managed.

The
chiming music from the carousel became distorted. The display of bright lights
became dizzying.

“A crime
of passion means someone probably knew her, Laurs. And if not, it was a bad
society that killed Dhurra. She knew what she was doing. Taking risks. In the
long run, by her talking to us, maybe she knew she could save more lives than
she could have, ever, in any medical practice.

“Listen
to me, Laurs. A man can kill a woman there for dishonoring him. Any time. Any
place. Any reason he wants.”

“But she
was on American soil. We should have protected her.”

Death’s
putrid orifice once again came to stare me in the face. But this time I’d
bargained with it. And I’d lost.

“She had
no family. Her husband is dead. No children,” I offered Geoff.

Our
wooden chariot glided up and down the slick brass poles. Relentlessly our
Clydesdales pushed on, in circles, trying to reach to our unattainable
destination.

“God,
Geoff. I thought we were helping her. I thought our article would—”

“Would
what?” Geoff broke in. “Change the world? C’mon, Babe. Hang in here with me.”

“The
thing is Dhurra loved her life. She was allowed to practice some medicine and
medicine was her life.”

“Operative
words there.
Allowed
. And
some
. Dhurra couldn’t travel without a
male escort. She couldn’t vote. She had no rights. Hell, she couldn’t even show
off her beautiful face in public!

“All we
did was let her tell her story, the way she wanted it to be told.”

Tears continued
to stream down my face as our dear Clydesdales came to a rest. Geoff took over
in an unexpected display of manhood, signaling the ticket boy to leave us alone
for another ride on my chariot of gold.

The
music cranked up again as our horses lifted their muscular bodies into mid-air.
A spray of salty ocean water comforted my dry throat. A pesky gull honed in on
my caramel corn but I was in no mood to share it.

I
worried that I would have to postpone any plans to go to Tucson.

Geoff worried
for me, for my friends, and for the future of
CoverBoy
. With an ashen face defying his black skin he told me now
was the time to use the Voodoo potion.

Chapter Thirty-One

Friends
& Foes

I
ANTICIPATED A CALL from Brock. I didn’t expect his phone etiquette.

           
“You need your friends right now,
Lauren, and what the hell do you do? You blow us off!”

           
“You’re compounding my morning
headache and interfering with my ritual of experiencing pain.”

           
“Damn it. Damn you. Turn it over.
Turn it over to God, or Buddha, or Mother Earth. Hell, I don’t care if you turn
it over to Casper the Ghost. Just don’t turn anything over to that creep of a
so called doctor.”

           
I shuffled in the seat of my
Porsche, searching for comfort while at a complete stop on the 405 freeway.
“Let me do it my way, Brock.”

           
“Wheres that sweet little innocent
girl I met in grade school?”

           
“I thought you only remembered the
bad girls.”

           
He continued pounding me with words.
“What was her name? A cute kid with flaming red hair, green sparkling eyes, and
even some freckles.

           
“I’ll tell you. Her name was Lauren
Grace Visconti. She trusted everyone, including herself. She had no fears.”

           
“She also had yet to learn about the
Lauren Visconti Curse,” I said.

           
“You’re making choices here.”

           
“I didn’t choose to be the product of
rape.”

           
“Listen to me. You are a child of
the universe. Innocent. Growing. Living and Loving. People die. Death is a
reality in life. But what you’ve gone and done is given your heart and soul to
it. Just think if you could cast out all that hurt and fear and turn it back
over to the universe. I guarantee you there’d be more room in your heart. Your
mom’s spirit never left you. She’s right there along with your dad and your
fiancé, but you have your soul so cluttered up with angst they can’t reach you.
They can’t reside inside you.”

           
“A woman is dead, Brock. Yet another
woman I loved.”

           
“It’s your decision, Laurs. There
are a whole lot of us walking and living and breathing, and we want to love you
but there’s no room inside.”

FEAR
IS NOT MY FRIEND. It can feel shaky or it can immobilize. It can be butterflies
in your stomach or jagged slabs of concrete.

I knew a
man waited for me inside my office. I knew why he waited. My first clue was his
name was Wray. Detective Tom Wray.

The
press hovered all over it like blowflies on fresh kill. Pretty much
CoverBoy
and Lauren Visconti were that
kill. Only I could handle my own state of vengeful autolysis without their
help, thank you very much.

Runway
model slaughtered. Stabbed to death. Was it self-destruction? She allowed
herself to be doped-up on cocaine and various other pleasures and was a target
for the taking.
CoverBoy
ran the
story.

Dr. A.
D. ‘Dhurra’ Sulayman. From Afghanistan. A promising female physician. Murdered.
Stabbed eighteen times.

An
atrocious coincidence. A nightmare, but a coincidence.

Or maybe
the detective was here about Payton. Of course!

I took one
last deep breath, exhaled both butterflies and concrete, and moved my stiffened
body toward the closed door.

Detective
Wray introduced himself. For every way the joints in my body felt like they
were made of shattered crab shells, Wray exuded
Jello
.
Pudding, maybe. Chocolate pudding. African American. Nice looking. Dressed
well. He could have been one of my star models except for the keloid scar
running thick across his face from his left ear to his lip.

He
caught my stare.

“I could
have the scar removed, you know. Chances are it would come back. And plastic
surgery is not my thing. Going under the knife scares me to death.’

No
longer butterflies in my stomach, the blowflies were gaining weight as they ate
away at me. Had Detective Tom Wray heard about my latest issue? It was at the
presses. He couldn’t have seen the article on plastic surgeons. Exposed. I
didn’t withhold a single shot at the doctors. Sukie’s camera lenses captured
the likes of the Cat Woman. The Barbie Doll. And then she turned to the surgeons,
themselves. Some of the more narcissistic ones even posed for her camera,
almost
as Helm’s had suggested. Almost
naked. It was a killer issue.

So much
for introductions. I didn’t need to say a word. I couldn’t say a word. I
motioned to the deep-seating sofas opposite my desk.

I could
relax. Or at least fake it real good.

I
brought two glasses of water over to the table that would serve as crystal
armor between us. A
Feng
Shui
thing. He watched.

“How can
I help you?” Did he hear the nervousness in my voice as I did?

“I won’t
take up much time, Ms. Visconti. Get right to the point. That’s what we both
need to do. But I’m trying to be the peacemaker here, if it matters to you.”

He was
not irenic. Peace did not exude from the man. In fact, it was exactly as I knew
our meeting would play out as he challenged every word I said with an arrogant
half-smile. What I didn’t expect was for him to splay across my beautiful table
the photographs of my runway model and Dhurra, both sliced into pieces and
lying in pools of blood, with only the bones to still held them together.

My naïve
runway model. My brave Dhurra. So many gashes across their magnificent bodies.
I looked away, one moment from nearly barfing down my blouse or voiding on my
skirt.

Wray
didn’t wince. The barrage of questions commenced without pause.

“Do you
have any idea why these two women would be murdered? You see, as far as I can
tell they share only one thing in common and that would be you. You know I have
to ask”.

I didn’t
know. I didn’t say a word.

“Do you
have any enemies, Ms. Visconti?”

Nothing.
I had nothing.

“Come
on. Give me something. You aren’t a tabloid. I know that. Me, myself? I respect
your work. I like it. You’re doing good things. But your magazine may not
settle in right with some folks.

 
“Ma’am?”

“Please
call me Lauren. And yes. My magazine has and does evoke emotion. Mostly it’s
positive. But, yes, we have our share of those who grow agitated with our
stories. We stand by them. Every word. Every photograph.
CoverBoy
is no tabloid and far from it. And we sure as hell are no
WikiLeaks
. What
we print is common knowledge if anyone would take the time to look and read and
learn.”

His curled
graying eyebrows arched. “If you don’t mind me saying, you sound like that’s a
statement you’ve prepared for the press.”

“Maybe
it’s a little canned, Detective, but it’s the truth. It’s not like this news
isn’t preying on me. I’m deeply saddened.”

“Have
you received any hate mail?”

“Even bloggers
receive hate mail.”

“I take
that as a yes.”

“I
repeat, we get far more support.”

“But,
what? What aren’t you telling me, Ms. Lauren?”

I closed
my eyes. They sealed up with Superglue. I didn’t want to talk. Damn me. And
damn him!

Detective
Wray waited in silence. Did he feel my guilty conscience? You see, I felt my
guilt. I, via an instrument I called
CoverBoy
,
exposed real facts. Bad facts.

How I
wished I could make this visit about Payton. How I wished he would have said he
somehow got involved and was there to tell me I was right. No suicide. They had
found the monstrous thing that had gunned down my beloved friend in her own
home.

I
returned to silence. Dead silence.