Famous (20 page)

Q: What happened next?

A: Sam Russell came over and told him to leave immediately. But Mr. Hildebrandt started yelling that Sam was incompetent and did a terrible job of protecting Ms. Twine and that anyone could just walk up on the street and stab her.

Q: He used those precise words?

A: Yes. He said anyone could just walk up and stab her. Sam again told him to go away, but Mr. Hildebrandt kept telling Sam what a bad job he was doing and how he, that is, Mr. Hildebrandt,
would have done such a better job at protecting Ms. Twine.

Q: What happened next?

A: A car drove up. It was someone Ms. Twine wanted to see. We wanted to open the gate to let the car in, but we couldn't with Mr. Hildebrandt there. Sam asked him to leave again, but Mr. Hildebrandt became aggressive. He asked Sam if he knew who was in the car and why they were there. Then he said that if Sam wasn't going to search the car, he would. Well, of course, the people in the car had no idea what was going on or who Mr. Hildebrandt was. And that was when Sam went out and escorted Mr. Hildebrandt away.

Q: Can you tell us how he escorted Mr. Hildebrandt?

A: Mr. Hildebrandt refused to cooperate, so Sam had to twist his arm behind his back and walk him away.

Q: Mr. Hildebrandt has claimed that Mr. Russell assaulted him. Did you see anything that in your mind constituted an assault?

A: All I saw was Sam holding Mr. Hildebrandt's arm behind his back and escorting him down the road until they were out of sight. I didn't see anything that looked like assault.

I'VE GOTTEN OVER THE WALL AROUND WIILLOW'S PROPERTY, PAST THE
weirdo, and am at the corner behind the blonde joggers when Sam's car flies past and I could swear he looks right at me. But the car keeps going, going . . . gone.

The light changes and the women jog across the street, but I stand there, confused. It doesn't make sense. Sam stared right at me. He had to have seen me.

Or maybe not. Was he distracted by the women in their skintight Lycra? Was he just so fixated on getting to Willow's that it didn't register?

Or did I just get incredibly lucky again? It doesn't matter, I just have to keep moving.

Starwood, the showbiz-kids condo, is surrounded by lush green landscaping, towering palms, tennis courts, and swimming pools. I have to smile to myself. Only Avy could get himself set up in a place like this.

But when I ring the door of the apartment where he said he lived, a blond sevenish-year-old girl answers, and her mother tells me they've lived there for two months and don't know who lived there before them.

Moments later, in the condo office, I get Avy's forwarding address. His new place is in Inglewood, and the first three cab companies I call say they don't have any cabs available, which seems odd for the middle of a warm sunny day. The cabby who finally does take me says he'll drop me on a corner along West Manchester Boulevard but won't drive down any side streets. I get the feeling we're headed toward the wrong side of town.

“Why do you want to go there, anyway?” the cabby asks as he drives.

“I'm trying to find a friend.”

He glances at me in the rearview mirror, and I have to believe he's thinking that I don't look like the kind of girl who'd have friends in Inglewood.

When I finally do find the two-story apartment building, it's scary run-down. Broken glass is scattered on the walkways. Tall, dry-looking brown weeds grow from the flowerbeds. About a foot of horrid green gunk sits at the bottom of the swimming pool.

I climb the cracked concrete steps to the second level. The door to room 239 is dented and scratched, as if someone once tried to kick it in. Instead of a curtain, a stained and torn green blanket covers the window. A rusty old air conditioner rumbles and drips water onto the walkway.

A television blares loudly inside. The doorbell doesn't work, so I knock. With all the noise from the television and a/c, it's difficult to hear, but through the door come sounds of hushed voices, clinking glass, and scurrying. “Just a minute!” a voice—not Avy's—calls.

More scurrying and hushed voices. Then someone calls out, “Who is it?”

“My name is Jamie. I'm a friend of Avy Tennent's.”

The scurrying stops, but the hushed, unintelligible voices continue. A moment later the doorknob turns and the door opens a few inches. The apartment exhales sweet smoke and the stink of rancid garbage, and there's someone looking at me. His hair is dyed black and has that stiff, rigid look that overly processed and straightened hair gets. Skin so pale it's almost translucent, sunken eyes, a boy nearly emaciated in a stained baggy white T-shirt and dirty jeans. Behind him the dim apartment is lit by a three-bulb floor lamp, but only one bulb works. Two guys and a girl sit on a couch. The coffee table and floor are strewn with empty bottles, cans, takeout containers.

The guy in the doorway blinks in a way that makes me wonder when he last saw daylight. “Jamie?”

The voice sounds like Avy's and the eyes look familiar, but it's not the same nose. Like his face, it's much thinner. And the lips seem wrong, as if they're swollen unevenly.

“Don't you like it?” he asks.

Like what?
Ohmygod! Suddenly I realize it
is
Avy. He's asking whether I like his new postsurgery “look.” I'm in shock. He looks awful. “It's . . . uh . . . . Yes! . . . I'm just surprised. You're so . . . thin!” It's the only thing I can come up with that sounds remotely like a compliment. An overpowering urge to cry wells up inside me.
What has he done to himself?
I choke up and feel tears burst from my eyes.

“Jamie, what is it?” he asks.

“Avy,” one of the guys grunts from inside the apartment, “close the damn door.”

Avy steps out onto the walkway and pulls the door closed behind him. I cover my face with my hands and can't stop bawling. It's Avy, my best friend, but he's mutilated himself. I want to ask him why, but I can't.

“What's wrong, Wonder Girl?” he asks again.

My emotions are a totally disorganized jumble, a knot of different-colored threads. I'm on the run from Willow Twine. I don't know what's going on with Nasim back home, but I have a feeling it's bad. I've finally found Avy, but he's done something terrible to himself. If only I'd stayed in touch with him!

His skinny arms go around me. “You're just glad to see me and happy I'm okay, right?”

“Yes.” I sniff and nod. If that's what he wants to believe, it's better than what I'm really thinking. I back away, dry my tears on my sleeve, force a smile. “It's so good to see you!”

“You, too!” He grins. One of his front teeth is chipped. When did that happen?

Next comes an awkward silence. I was planning to ask if I could stay with him just long enough to figure out what to do. But there's no way I'm staying in that smoky rat's nest.

Avy's grin fades, and the skin in the corners of his eyes creases uncertainly. “My parents didn't send you, did they?”

“I'm out here doing a story,” I tell him. “I . . . wanted to see you.”

“What kind of story?” he asks.

Even though I am seriously stressed and should probably be in a hurry to get out of town before Willow has the airport shut down, I feel like I can't leave my best friend like this. It's obvious that he's in bad shape. Suddenly what seemed like a huge problem in my life pales when compared with what appears to be going on in his.

His boney shoulders stick out under the T-shirt. He looks like he hasn't eaten in a month. “Avy, can I buy you breakfast?”

He frowns. “Sure. Only, it's almost dinnertime.”

We walk down the block to a coffee shop. Avy's eyes dart left and right, and every dozen yards he abruptly jerks his head around and looks back over his shoulder. His movements are jittery and apprehensive. It's obvious he's worried about being seen or followed. But why would anyone be following us? Is this a real concern or just in his head?

I try not to stare at him, but I can't help glancing at his reflection in the windows we pass.
Avy, what have you done to yourself ?
I want to ask. You used to be a cute guy. Now you look like a . . . I hate the word that keeps coming to mind because Avy is
not
a freak. He is my closest friend, someone I care about enormously.

I feel tears trying to creep into my eyes again. Oh, Avy, why?
Why!?

“Crying again?” he asks in the middle of lighting a cigarette.

“No, it's just this smog. Doesn't it burn your eyes?”

“You get used to it,” he says, exhaling a plume of smoke.

Back in New York, he never smoked. He said it was a gross, disgusting habit. Forget the health issues. It stained your fingers and teeth and made your clothes stink. That was reason enough not to do it.

In the coffee shop Avy doesn't want to sit near the windows. I don't know if it's because it's too bright or
he's worried someone passing by might see him. Or maybe he's self-conscious about his new appearance? Whatever the reason, we sit in the back, in the shadows. Avy's a mess of jitters and tics. The fingers of his right hand are yellow with nicotine, and his fingernails have been chewed into stubs.
What's happened to him?

The waitress pours coffee. Avy dumps a ton of milk and sugar in his. His hands tremble, and some of the sugar misses the cup and spills onto the table. I'm trying to think of something to say that won't sound totally lame, but it's difficult to collect my thoughts, because I'm still on the verge of bursting into tears.

“So, you're here doing a story?” he asks.

I tell him briefly about my assignment to cover Willow but say nothing, of course, about the most recent developments.

“A week with Willow Twine?” Avy's mouth drops open in awe. “That's amazing!”

Still trying to recover from what happened at her place earlier today, all I can do is shrug. Avy smirks and offers his own interpretation of the gesture. “Yeah, not so amazing for you, Wonder Girl. The photo prodigy, right? Just the same old same old. But seriously, Jamie, you really hung with her? Partied with her? Stayed in her mansion? That's
incredible
!”

Oh, Avy, if only you knew what I know!
But I have to be cool. “It's a job, Avy. She wanted something from me, and
I wanted something from her. I guess you could say we had a deal. That's all it was.”

But even as the words leave my lips, I'm wondering how I could have been such a fool to think Willow and I had become friends? How could I have believed even for a second that it was anything other than business? And again, why would Rex take those photos? And what role am I playing in this crazy mystery?

“Yeah, but think about it, Wonder Girl. You and Willow Twine had a deal going. How many people can say that?” For a second it's the old Avy. Filled with envy and eager excitement whenever I talked about coming into contact with someone famous. But then his forehead creases. He takes an e-cig out of his pocket. Is he so addicted to smoking now that he can't even sit in a coffee shop for half an hour without doing it? He inhales, leans back in the booth, and stares at the glowing red tip. I know him well enough to sense something's bothering him.

“What is it?” I ask, nervously fingering my coffee cup.

“You could've helped me, Jamie.”

“I did.”

Avy shakes his head. “All you did was give me Carla's number. She gave me names of two talent agencies I probably could have looked up myself, and after that never returned a phone call. You could've done more. I mean, you're supposed to be my friend. With all the famous celebrities you've met, you couldn't once have
said, ‘Hey, I have a really talented friend. Maybe you could use him in your next TV show or movie or commercial'?”

That stings. “It doesn't work that way, Avy. I wasn't in a position to ask those people for favors. They're already doing
me
a favor by letting me take their picture. I mean, seriously, you think they care who takes their picture? Today it's Jamie Gordon. Tomorrow it could be Davy Axelrod, or any of a thousand other photographers or videographers. And the one sure way for me to guarantee that it won't be me tomorrow is if I do something to get on their nerves.”