CoverBoys & Curses (9 page)

Chapter Twenty-Five

For
Better or Worse

MY
WEDDING DRESS. AGAIN. Cut low in the back. Braided silk pulled tight across my
waist. The gown cascades to the floor in layers of scalloped edging.

I can’t
make out who is walking me down the aisle. My father’s dead. It can’t be him.

The
music is too loud.

My wedding
dress is made of paper.

Please!
Please! Who is walking me down the aisle? His face is blurred. His
body—abstract.

The tang
of smoke fills my lungs. The funneled wind fuels the flames of fire. My escort
drops my arm and falls away from me, engulfed in a bonfire of human flesh.

Why am I the only one not
burning?

The
phone rang and I reached for it, grateful for the interruption from the nightmare
even though receiving a call at three in the morning is most always unwelcome
news.

“You’re
in danger. If you keep at it you’re the only one to blame.”

The line
went dead. I checked the caller I.D. and it read Pay Phone. It also showed a
number. I called it back only to have it ring and ring. The area code smacked
with familiarity. Chicago.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Prime
Rib and Cacti

GABRIELLA
CRISCIONE HELD her legendary dinner parties four times a year, always avoiding
any major holiday. She wanted no competition. Nothing to detract from her
imprint as the fairest real estate agent of all. And four times a year even
some well-known celebrities found themselves rifling through their mail and
making last minute pleas or bribes if they didn’t make the guest list. She knew
if such a thing existed she would own the Oscar for dinner parties.

For
those that might arrive without a chauffeur the valets lined up in front of
Gabri’s digs, hustling keys and cars in a stream of headlights.

I never
flourished in a flowing gown the way a woman should. Or better put, I
languished without a man at my side. Don’t ask me why. Ego. Loneliness.
Abandoned by an always elusive love. Or a dead one. I took a deep breath and
told myself I wasn’t just a sketch of a figure in an artist’s pad of forgotten
drawings. I was real. Full color. Three dimensional.

Reaching
to accept the hand of the valet as I stepped from my car, a second hand
appeared.

“What a
nice surprise, Dr. Coal,” I responded to his touch. Uncomfortable in my choice
of dress in front of him—a clingy red off-the-shoulder number, with the CFM
shoes to match. Thank god I had left the boa at home.

Coal
didn’t stray from his casual whites, although again I noticed his sunglasses.
It reminded me of something. Someone. His sandals were replaced with white
loafers. No socks.

“Don’t
you think you should call me Harlan tonight? It would be less awkward for both
of us.”

Harlan. For the night.
“I didn’t realize you were a
friend of Gabri’s,” I said.

“I’m
not. Not really. She helped your friend Carly close escrow on her home with us
at The Centre. To tell you the truth, I think our hostess
du jour
is doing a little background investigation as far as I’m
concerned.”

He must
have seen the probing question in my eyes.

“No
problem,” he added. “I understand she’s just concerned, and I think I’ll pass
her test just fine.

“You
look beautiful tonight, Lauren.”

The
flattery caught me off guard. I must have blushed to a shade more crimson than
my dress but he didn’t seem to notice. He took my arm, escorting me through
Gabriella’s massive double door entry.

I didn’t
care much for Gabri’s taste in decorating. She seemed to be stuck in some
Gothic romance novel, starting with the moat that surrounded her home, and then
there was the full suit of armor that greeted guests in the darkened gray
entrance. Not exactly a warm welcome. Cold slate floors and dark walnut walls
completed the sense of austerity. Dark low ceilings with cavernous hallways
added to the gloom. The severe ambience never seemed to fit with the feisty
Italian woman that was worth a laugh a minute. Instead, I saw haunted halls.

“You’ve
come together!” Gabri squealed upon seeing us.

I shot a
glance at Dr. Coal—
Harlan
, who
quickly informed our hostess that we’d only met outside.

“Call it
intuition, but I must have known something, darling,” Gabri said to me with a
wink, “as I’ve seated Dr. Coal between you and me at the dining table.”

In all,
thirty-two of us gathered around Gabri’s dinner table. It could have seated
more, and had on many occasions. The aroma of prime rib, divine
polenta
bathed in garlic, and the faint
but deliciously sweet scent of sinful desserts greeted us as we took our
appointed chairs.

I tried
not to look at Sterling and Brock, sitting next to one another. Had Gabri known
this would be like a knife to my back? Of course not. That was my choice. I
dismissed the idea.

A full
slab of prime rib arrived by servants. Gabri eagerly stood to receive the
carving knife.

“My
father was a surgeon,” she laughed. “Only I carve the meat at my table.” She
finessed the beef in such a way the rest of us sat in full appreciation of her
skills.

“Dr.
Coal, tell us about yourself,” Gabri engaged everyone’s attention from the head
of the table as the meat was portioned out to the guests by the staff. Indeed
Harlan Coal would be put under the microscope for the evening.

“I’m
afraid I’m a little boring, Ms. Criscione, considering this magnanimous
audience. What about you? How is it you came to be one of the top real estate
agents in the country?”

Gabri
didn’t miss a beat to talk about herself. “That’s easy. I’m old and I’m fat, so
my looks aren’t threatening to the Hollywood wives, even though I have a pair
of the only real boobs in California.”

“Not
exactly true,” flat-
chested
Sterling piped in.

Gabri
continued to probe Coal but received little back. He skillfully turned the
conversation around every time she asked a question of him. I delighted in his
ability to frustrate the hell out of our nosey hostess. I guessed it to be in
the nature of his work that made him the superior inquisitor.

He
turned the attention toward me. “Tell us about your magazine. What’s new?”

“The
current month’s issue is out. All produced here in Los Angeles and from our new
headquarters. But for most, it will seem old news,” I said. “My photographer,
Sukie Fields, offered to take one more traveling gig. A big one. She went
on-location to Afghanistan. Plenty of women’s issues there. We arranged for an
interview with a woman of blighted power.”

“Pretty
easy thing to do,” Brock said, as if he hadn’t heard about the story before.

I
ignored the comment. “A doctor. She put herself in great danger by even seeing
us, and we all knew it. We have photos. We have storylines. We have names.

“The
response has been huge. I think she’ll be coming here to L.A. soon for a
lecture tour at some of the major universities.”

Suddenly
embarrassment flushed and marred my face. I was sitting across the table from
the famous documentary movie producer, Jack Helms. Doubt began turning my color
to gray as my words turned to mush. Here I was, a lowly publisher, pitching my
magazine in front of one of the most respected producers in Hollywood. “But
surely some of you have more fascinating stories to share.” I deferred my gaze
over to Helms.

Helms
jumped at the chance to seize and dominate the conversation. I might have
regretted letting go the spotlight if I’d only known how far he would run with
it.

 
He sat next to Carly. It appeared to me that
pure instinct told him getting lucky with Carly would not be in the cards. He
turned his shoulder away from her and more toward the other females at the
table, me included.

“My new
film project is up and running. Anyone care to hear?”

Applause.
Applause. Hollywood style. From our chairs we all blew kisses to his cheeks. I
had no doubt he imagined those kisses landing on other more prominent body
parts.

He
waiting with great pause for the quiet of anticipation, then whispered in a
husky voice, “Missing Children”.

“Not
exactly a new subject,
Jacko
,” another guest jeered.

“This
will rock and shock,” the producer barked back. “Documented death. A blind eye
to the worst secrets you can imagine. Even those of us without children—we fear
it but we never face it unless it faces us and takes up residence in our souls.
Hell, each and every one of us sitting here even helps cause it. I’m telling
you, there’s a rhythm to it I will set to music.”

“You can
be a prick, Helms,” Gabri said.

“Yes. A
fucking cactus in the middle of the desert,” Helms replied to our hostess, “but
I’m one of those rare giants, you know. The saguaro, with looming arms full of
those pricks.”

Cactus.
Saguaro. Tucson. Payton.

Nausea
engulfed me. Gabri’s succulent prime rib suddenly looked like human flesh and
body parts.

“Excuse
me, I said, and departed the table.

When
finally I emerged from the powder room Harlan Coal was sitting on the slate
floor in front of me. He looked up with an engaging smile. He held up two glasses
of warmed brandy and swung his head to one side, indicating a spot next to him.

I kicked
off my pumps, hiked up my red gown, and sat on the cold surface of the floor
next to him.

“Tragedy
is a fact of life, my dear Lauren,” he whispered.

“I’d
rather pay more taxes.”

He
smiled again, then put his arm loosely around me. We sat propped up against
Gabri’s cold wall.

“But
Helms is right about something,” I added.

I could
barely make out his eyes from behind the shaded glasses but I felt his piercing
stare.

“I’ve
been turning a blind eye.”

He
winced, I think. Did he feel my pain? He said nothing.

Was it
really about my blinded eyes? Was it the subject of missing kids and my memories
of Mike, Payton’s brother?

Chapter
Twenty-Seven

This
Gift Will Keep on Giving

“I’M
SORRY, SWEETHEART,” Coal said. “I have obligations at The Centre. I need to get
back. Would you like me to see you to the valet?”

He let
go my hand. I hadn’t even realized his fingers had laced through mine.

I shook
my head, watching as Brock and Sterling made their way out the front door “No.
I’m a sucker for desserts. I think I’ll stick around and gorge myself.”

I gave
him a peck on the cheek and Dr. Coal stood to leave. The suit of armor no doubt
monitored his exit, if not the innocent kiss.

Engaged
in conversation and perhaps given the mostly narcissistic company, not one
guest seemed to notice my absence. Staff presented domed silver trays around
the table of guests. My coffee had been replenished, another warmed brandy I
did not request nor want, beside it. The moment I sat down, I was served, not
offered, the flaming Baked Alaska. I wouldn’t have said no, anyway.

One of
the servants confronted Gabri as she returned from somewhere down the long
hall
. “Ma’am”, I heard him say, “The package is in the way
of the butler’s pantry. Do you mind if we move it?”

“What
package?” Gabri shrieked with delight. She commanded everyone’s attention.

The
staff member pointed to a large wrapped gift propped near the entrance to the butler’s
galley.

Gabri
feigned surprise. “No card. Now, which one of you brought the hostess a gift?
You know I said no presents allowed.”

No one
confessed to their abuse of the house rule.

The
package proved too enticing to refuse. Thin, and about four feet wide by three
feet high and wrapped in yards of plush burgundy velvet, it blended into the
shadowy background of Gabri’s room. Still, it was hard to imagine no one had
witnessed its appearance. Then again there was that narcissism reigning thick
in the air like banks of neon-backlit slot machines in Atlantic City screaming
‘Choose me. I’m a winner’.

Gabri
asked Jack Helms to help her with it, and he lifted the package to a high
sideboard. With one swift tug, she untied the braided cord wrapped around the
gift.

“Holy
shit,” Helms muttered. Others gasped and cried out, horrified, as the sheath of
velvet slid to the floor to expose the painting for all to see.

I would
have imagined that Gabriella Criscione held a dark side, or at least a tough
side. She had to be tough on the business ladder as she climbed to the top. But
I never guessed her for the offensive goblin that appeared before us.

She
ranted and flared. She tossed her arms out as if the maestro of the ‘Be cursed
and be damned’ to all that bore witness. She rattled off what might pass as
grade school Italian. And then, in a blink of finite time, she transformed into
a weeping child.

Chapter
Twenty-Eight

Art
is Subjective

HELMS
STAYED BEHIND with me as the valets scrambled to bring all the cars up for the
urgent exodus of guests.

I went
to the kitchen and scooted staff out of my way in order to put on a pot of
water for chamomile tea, then I took a serving tray into the drawing room where
Gabri sat curled up into the corner of a garish red sofa.

“Who
hates me this much?” Gabri moaned, hugging her chubby knees close up against
her body from beneath her satin gown.

Helms pulled
the velvet back over the painting and moved with acumen toward the kitchen. He
ordered to Gabri’s chef, “Get it out of here. Stash it in the garage for now.”

Underneath
the shroud of covering, none soon would forget the clear depiction of Gabri,
one of L.A.’s top ten Realtors, captured in timeless oil as a grotesque nude. A
compilation of an ancient Miss Piggy and an equally aged and vulgar Elvira.
Pimpled flesh spilled in fatty folds across the canvas. A swollen hairy arm
held firm around a gleaming medieval suit of armor.

I
proffered Gabri the cup of tea. “Take this.”

She
cowered.

“Gabri,
at worst it was just someone’s idea of a harmless joke”, Helms said. “You’re a
tough woman. It’s not necessarily a bad depiction. Maybe it was meant to be
funny. Come on. Political humorists do it all the time,” Helms said.

“Evil”,
Gabri choked.

We all
knew the painting was malicious by intent. That’s why the other guests scurried
out to their fancy cars and off to their fancy houses. Imagined or real sanctuary,
they were off to find it far away from Gabri’s moat-protected castle.

“I’ve
made a lot of enemies over the years,” Gabri groaned, “but I would never have
imagined someone would stoop to this. Real estate is a cut-throat business and
here I am, an old
dago
from Chicago. Honestly, the only way I could make a living in this town was by
being a pain in the ass rather than the typical royal bitch that floats through
life around here. I never thought this—” her voice trailed off.

I didn’t
know her that well but my heart ached for Gabri. I didn’t know she hailed from
Chicago. I wondered why I didn’t recognize her name but maybe she wasn’t doing
real estate back then and there.

“People
adore you. They respect you. There’s a reason for that besides just being
tough. If it isn’t an ill-appointed attempt at critical humor and homage to
your success, then just one person is jealous of you. That’s all,” I said.

I
stumbled for more words. Gabri’s aggressive personality now wilted in my
presence. She was a spirit, broken.

Gabri
asked Jack Helms to fetch her some amaretto. On ice. With a strange veil of
timidity, he obeyed.

“Maybe
we should notify the police,” I blurted out. Oh my god, why did I even think
that?

Gabri
retorted, “So, you do believe it’s a little more than sick humor we have going
on here?”

“Wait a
minute,” Helms said. “The police will find nothing criminal here. They’ll walk
away never to return and you’ll wind up in some cheap tabloid. But Lauren has a
point. You need to notify your security company. And for shit’s sake, ask them
who came by here tonight that wasn’t on your guest list. It’s just being
prudent.”

My mind
still functioned, even after the second brandy. Jack Helms had a profitable
history with Gabri. He’d bought and sold many a home with her and in return
she’d provided top L.A. digs as hot locations for his film projects.

Helms
interrupted my thoughts. “Leave it to me. I’ll take care of it. Let me make
some phone calls.”

A voice
inside me kept guard. Everyone has a dark side. What did I just witness? And
why?

Gabri
grabbed my arm with grizzly force. “Did I tell you I fucked up one of Brock
Townsend’s deals?” Her voice quaked.

“It
doesn’t matter. None of it matters right now. Brock wasn’t behind this. He’s an
asshole, but he wouldn’t do this.”

I knew
the territory. Gabri probably did have enemies. Brock was not one. He flew and
flittered in and out of huge business deals like a bee might sip at moldy sugar
water at a hummingbird feeder. It didn’t matter. He was in. He was out.

“I
probably cost the man a few million, Lauren,” Gabri said. “Not that he doesn’t
have plenty of money but money has a way of pissing people off.”

“Brock
was here. He enjoyed himself.”

“But he
left before this fucking unveiling. He must have known.”

“Not
Brock,” I said.

“Whatever.
Like I told you, I have a lot of enemies.”

I
LEFT GABRI WITH her dutiful staff. No matter how rude she was to them,
ultimately she reeked of something pitiful and they were there for her.

Jack
Helm’s followed me out the door. The valets had dropped our keys onto the
foyer’s marble table. I guessed we had overstayed our welcome. Gabri needed
time to sort things out, on her own, and in her own space I called a dungeon
but she called a home.

“I think
you’re right,” he said.

“About
what?”

“I
didn’t want to alarm our hostess, and for sure the L.A.P.D. has better things
to do than chase down some phantom pervert whose only weapon is a paintbrush.
But I know a couple of guys that can help.”

“With
what?”

“One guy
is in forensics. Another, stalking is his claim to fame. I mean, he
was
a stalker. Reformed, maybe.
Something’s not right here. I don’t think it would hurt to run this evening’s
events past both of them.”

Our cars
had been pulled up near the entrance. Helm’s helped me into my car.

“About
your missing children program,” I said.

“What
about it?”

“Can we
talk?”

“I’m
flying tomorrow. Call me in a couple.”