Glamorama (72 page)

When Tammy is told she gazes at Bobby vapidly, puzzled. On cue Jamie takes the lilies out of Tammy’s hand as it relaxes, losing its grip. “Liar,” Tammy whispers and then she whispers “Liar” again and after she’s able to process Bobby’s weak smile, the French crew standing behind him, the camera filming her reaction, she feels like she’s dropping and in a rush she starts screaming, wailing interminably, and she’s not even wondering anymore why Bobby walked into her life and she’s told to go to sleep, she’s told to forget Bruce Rhinebeck immediately, she’s told that he murdered the French premier’s son, she’s told that she should be grateful that she’s unharmed, while Bentley (I swear to god) starts making a salad.

19

Preoccupation with the fallout from Bruce’s death reverberates mildly throughout the house in the 8th or the 16th and because of this there are no errands to complete and everyone seems sufficiently distracted for me to slip away. Endless conversations concern title changes, budget reductions, the leasing of an eighty-foot-tall tower crane, roving release dates, a volatile producer in L.A. seething over a rewrite. Before leaving I shoot a scene with Tammy concerning our characters’ reactions toward Bruce’s death (motorcycle accident, a truck carrying watermelons, Athens, a curve misjudged) but since she’s not even capable of forming sentences let alone mimicking movements I shoot my lines standing in a hallway while a PA feeds me Tammy’s lines far more convincingly than Tammy ever did (cutaways to Tammy will presumably be inserted at a later date). For the scene to end, a wig is
placed on another PA’s head and the giant Panaflex dollies in on my “saddened yet hopeful” face while we hug.

Jamie is either pretending to ignore me or just doesn’t register my presence while she’s sitting at the computer in the living room—vacantly scanning diagrams, decoding E-mails—as I try to walk casually past her.

Outside, the sky is gray, overcast.

An apartment building on Quai de Béthune.

I’m turning the corner at Pont de Sully.

A black Citroën sits parked at the curb on Rue Saint-Louis-en-l’Isle and seeing the car causes me to walk faster toward it.

Russell drives us to an apartment building on Avenue Verdier in the Montrouge section of the city.

I’m carrying a .25-caliber Walther automatic.

I’m carrying the
WINGS
file printouts, folded in the pocket of my black leather Prada jacket.

I swallow a Xanax the wrong way then chew a Mentos to get the taste off my tongue.

Russell and I run up three flights of stairs.

On the fourth floor is an apartment devoid of furniture except for six white folding chairs. The walls are painted crimson and black, and cardboard storage boxes sit stacked on top of one another in towering columns. A small TV set is hooked up to a VCR that rests on top of a crate. Darkness is occasionally broken by lamps situated throughout the apartment. It’s so cold that the floor is slippery with ice.

F. Fred Palakon sits in one of the white folding chairs next to two of his associates—introduced to me as David Crater and Laurence Delta—and everyone’s in a black suit, everyone just slightly older than me. Cigarettes are lit, files are opened, Starbucks coffee is offered, passed around, sipped.

Facing them, I sit in one of the white folding chairs, just now noticing in a shadowy corner the Japanese man sitting in a white folding chair next to a window draped with crushed-velvet curtains. He’s definitely older than the other men—flabbier, more listless—but his age is indeterminate. He slouches back into the shadows, his eyes fixed on me.

Russell keeps pacing, talking quietly into a cell phone. Finally he clicks off and leans in to Palakon, whispering something displeasing.

“Are you certain?” Palakon asks.

Russell closes his eyes, sighs while nodding.

“Okay,” Palakon says. “We don’t have much time, then.”

Russell brushes past, taking his stance at the door behind me, and I turn around to make sure he’s not leaving.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Ward,” Palakon says. “You followed directions splendidly.”

“You’re … welcome.”

“This needs to be brief,” Palakon says. “We don’t have much time here today. I simply wanted to introduce my associates”—Palakon nods at Delta and Crater—“and have a preliminary meeting. We just need you to verify some things. Look at a few photographs, that’s all.”

“Wait. So, like, the problem, like, hasn’t been solved?” I ask, my voice squeaking.

“Well, no, not yet .…” Palakon falters. “David and Laurence have been briefed on what you told me two days ago and we’re going to figure out a way to extract you from this …” Palakon can’t find a word. I’m waiting. “This … situation,” he says.

“Cool, cool,” I’m saying nervously, crossing my legs, then changing my mind. “Just some facts? Cool. Some photos? Okay. That’s cool. I can do that.”

A pause.

“Um, Mr. Ward?” Palakon asks gingerly.

“Uh, yeah?”

“Could you please”—Palakon clears his throat—“remove your sunglasses.”

A longer pause, followed by a realization. “Oh. Sorry.”

“Mr. Ward,” Palakon starts, “how long have you been living in that house?”

“I … don’t know,” I say, trying to remember. “Since we came to Paris?”

“When was that?” Palakon asks. “Exactly.”

“Maybe two weeks …” Pause. “Maybe … it could be four?”

Crater and Delta glance at each other.

“I guess, maybe … I don’t really know … I’m just not sure …. I’m not good with dates.”

I try to smile, which just causes the men in the room to flinch, obviously unimpressed with the performance so far.

“I’m sorry … ,” I mutter. “I’m sorry .…”

Somewhere a fly buzzes loudly. I try to relax but it’s not happening. “We want you to verify who lives in the house with you,” Palakon says.

“It’s a … set,”

I’m saying. “It’s a set.” Palakon, Delta, Crater—they all stare at me blankly.

“Yes. Okay.” I keep crossing then recrossing my legs, shivering. “Yes. The house. Yes.”

Palakon reads from a page in his folder. “Jamie Fields, Bobby Hughes, Tammy Devol, Bentley Harrolds, Bruce Rhinebeck—”

I cut him off. “Bruce Rhinebeck is dead.”

A professional silence. Crater looks over at Delta, and Delta, without returning eye contact and staring straight ahead, just nods.

Palakon finally asks, “You can verify this?”

“Yes, yes,” I mutter. “He’s dead.”

Palakon turns a page over, makes a note with his pen, then asks, “Is Bertrand Ripleis also staying with you?”

“Bertrand?” I ask. “No, he’s not staying in the house. No.”

“Are you sure of this?” Palakon asks.

“Yes, yes,” I’m saying. “I’m sure. I went to Camden with him, so I know who he is. I’d know if he was staying in the house.” I’m realizing at the instant I say this that I probably would not know, that it would be easy not to know if Bertrand Ripleis was living in the house in the 8th or the 16th with us, because of how vast it is and how it keeps changing and how it seems new rooms are being built every day.

Palakon leans in and hands me a photograph.

“Is this Bertrand Ripleis?” he asks.

It could be an Armani ad shot by Herb Ritts—a desert landscape, Bertrand’s handsome face scowling seductively, jaw clenched and lips casually pursed, small sunglasses giving off a skull effect. But he’s exiting a van, he doesn’t realize this picture is being shot from a vantage point far away, he’s holding a Skorpion machine pistol, he’s wearing a Tommy Hilfiger T-shirt.

“Yeah, that’s him,” I say blankly, handing Palakon back the photo.

“But he doesn’t live in the house.”

“Does anyone in the house have contact with Bertrand Ripleis?” Crater asks.

“Yes,” I say. “I think they all do.”

“Do you, Mr. Ward?” Palakon asks.

“Yes … I said I think they all do.”

“No,” Palakon says. “Do
you
have contact with Bertrand?”

“Oh,” I say. “No, no. I don’t.”

Scribbling, a long silence, more scribbling.

I glance over at the Japanese man, staring at me, motionless.

Palakon leans in and hands over another photo, startling me.

It’s a head shot of Sam Ho, with Asian script running along the bottom of the photograph.

“Do you recognize this person?” Palakon asks.

“Yeah, that’s Sam Ho,” I say, starting to cry. My head drops forward and I’m looking at my feet, convulsing, gasping out sobs.

Papers are shuffled, extraneous sound caused by embarrassment.

I take in a deep breath and try to pull myself together, but after I say “Bruce Rhinebeck and Bobby Hughes tortured and killed him in London a month ago” I start crying again. At least a minute passes before the crying subsides. I swallow, clearing my throat. Russell leans over, offers a Kleenex. I blow my nose, mumble, “I’m sorry.”

“Believe me, Mr. Ward, we don’t like to see you this distraught,” Palakon says. “Are you okay? Can you continue?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” I say, clearing my throat again, wiping my face.

Palakon leans in and hands me another photo.

Sam Ho is standing on a wide expanse of sand, what looks like South Beach stretching out behind him, and he’s with Mariah Carey and Dave Grohl and they’re listening intently to something k.d. lang is telling them. In the background people set up lights, hold plates of food, seem posed, talk guardedly into cell phones.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s him too,” I say, blowing my nose again.

Crater, Delta and Palakon all share contemplative glances, then fix their attention back on me.

I’m staring over at the Japanese man when Palakon says, “This picture of Sam Ho was taken in Miami.” He pauses.

“Yeah?” I ask.

“Last week,” Palakon says.

Trying not to appear surprised, I quickly recover from the words “last week” and say, coolly, “Well, then, that’s not him. That’s not Sam Ho.”

Delta looks back at the Japanese man.

Crater leans in to Palakon and with his pen points out something in the folder Palakon has resting on his lap.

Palakon nods irritably.

I start freaking out, writhing in my chair.

“They can alter photos,” I’m saying. “I saw Bentley Harrolds do it yesterday. They’re constantly altering—”

“Mr. Ward, these photographs have been thoroughly checked out by a very competent lab and they have not been altered in any way.”

“How do you know?” I’m calling out.

“We have the negatives,” Palakon says tightly.

Pause. “Can the negatives be altered?” I ask.

“The negatives were not altered, Mr. Ward.”

“But then … who the hell is that guy?” I ask, writhing in the chair, gripping my hands together, forcing them apart.

“Hey, wait a minute,” I’m saying, holding my hands up. “Guys, guys, wait a minute.”

“Yes, Mr. Ward?” Palakon asks.

“Is this … is this for real?” I’m scanning the room, looking for signs of a camera, lights, some hidden evidence that a film crew was here earlier or is right now maybe in the apartment next door, shooting me through holes strategically cut into the crimson and black walls.

“What do you mean, Mr. Ward?” Palakon asks. “‘Real’?”

“I mean, is this like a movie?” I’m asking, shifting around in my chair. “Is this being filmed?”

“No, Mr. Ward,” Palakon says politely. “This is not
like
a movie and you are not being filmed.”

Crater and Delta are staring at me, uncomprehending.

The Japanese man leans forward but not long enough to let me see his face clearly.

“But … I …” I’m looking down at the photo of Sam Ho. “I … don’t …” I start breathing hard, and since the air is so cold and thick in this room it burns my lungs. “They … listen, they … I think they
double people. I mean, I don’t know how, but I think they have … doubles. That’s not Sam Ho … that’s someone else …. I mean, I think they have doubles, Palakon.”

“Palakon,” Crater says. The tone in his voice suggests a warning.

Palakon stares at me, mystified.

I’m fumbling in my pocket for another Xanax and I keep trying to reposition myself to keep my arms and legs from falling asleep. I let Russell light a cigarette someone’s handed me but it tastes bad and I’m not capable of holding it and when I drop it on the floor it lands hissing in a puddle of melting ice.