True Hollywood Lies (21 page)

“Hell, no, of course not. It’s just that, well, I always find location shoots to be much more, shall we say, ‘professionally stimulating’ if my leading lady—particularly one as mad hot as that one—will at least
act
as if she wants me in her knickers.”

“Oh, she’s a pretty capable actress. I’m sure she’ll be able to pull it off somehow.”

“Sarcasm does not become you, Hannah,” Louis growled. “Blimey, what a
waste!
Say, you don’t think that I could . . . nah! Forget it. I’ve tried conversions before—I even did two simultaneously. But, alas, they never seem to stick.”

He was straightening his collar, which had been mussed during the altercation with Marcella’s PA, when another thought hit him.

“By the way, sometime in the next couple of days, see if you can get the name of Marcella’s publicist from that cow she’s got guarding her. Anyone who can keep the lid on
that
secret should be on my payroll, too, don’t you think? Not that
I’ve
got anything to hide from the press, right?” He gave me a wink. “But don’t feel you have to go ‘beyond the call of duty’ to get it, know what I mean? Um, that is, unless
Marcella’s
involved. Then call me. That way, at least I can watch.”

I called him, alright, but from his expression, it was not a name he had ever been tagged with before.

At least, not to his face. Before this project was over, however, other voices would be joined with mine in a hallelujah chorus against Louis’s lunacy.

Including that of his idol, Sir Barnaby Chadwick.

Sir Barnaby had earned his knighthood the old-fashioned way: one Old Vic play and classic BBC television production at a time. As a teen, Louis’s first taste of legitimate theatre had been Sir Barnaby’s stately yet electrifying rendition of Shakespeare’s
Hamlet
and, according to Louis, it was why he’d chosen acting as a career—and why he had agreed to do
Killer Instincts
in the first place: because the director had been able to get Barnaby to sign on as well, for the role of the father to Louis’s character.

It was also why Louis was letting his insecurities get the better of him. The last thing he wanted to do was blow this opportunity to impress his idol. That said, after introducing himself to Barnaby, Louis made pointed jokes at everyone else’s expense—Marcella, the movie’s screenwriter, Begley Holt, even one of the film’s many hovering associate producers. He then proceeded to chastise the director, Ben Grisham, in front of the whole production crew for allowing the extras, many of them locals, to strike up conversations with the cast’s leads.

His audacity had the opposite effect on Barnaby: the commanding but soft spoken man, who always went out of his way to treat the whole cast and crew with an appreciative deference, blanched visibly and retreated to his trailer at every break.

Needless to say, this affected Louis immensely. In fact, it made him work all the harder to prove that he was a star, with a capital S.

The cast and crew, all one hundred or so of them, willingly granted him that capital S. In fact, they did so every time they called him “Shithead” behind his back.

They treated me no better, particularly since it was I who did Louis’s bidding. At the start of each day, I was sent forth to negotiate a fresh set of irrational demands, each more outrageous than those made the day before, with Ben, a director who was legendary for the insightful way in which he dealt with his actors, and who enjoyed the undisputed loyalty of those lucky enough to be a part of his crew.

To my immense regret, in time Ben grew to dread the sight of me. It wasn’t the request for certain delicacies from Louis’s favorite Los Angeles restaurants that had him scowling even before I’d opened my mouth; or Louis’s demand for a larger, more ostentatious trailer than the other actors, tricked out with, in Louis’s words, “the necessary accoutrements to turn this hellhole into a livable ambiance,” including a Cal-King Dux bed with the requisite 700-count sheets and four cashmere throws on top of that, and of course, a Universal gym. No, it was Louis’s whim for the daily delivery of water from the frigid prehistoric Crater Lake some 121 miles away—which was to be specifically used for his daily bath, since its unique “oxygenation” was supposedly blessed with incredible healing and age-reducing properties—that sent Ben over the top.

“He wants to sit in fucking
ice water?
What, is that supposed to be some New Age way to shrink that supposedly mammoth cock of his, or something?” yelled Ben, running a hand through what was left of his graying hair. “Jeez, that boss of yours is some whack job! Look, I don’t believe in shooting the messenger, so I’m going to level with you: feel free to grab a bucket and pull as much ‘special water’ as you need out of the river there.”

He jerked his head toward the raging Rogue thirty feet beyond. “In fact, you can even tell him that I told you to do it, if you want. At this point,
I really don’t give a shit!
Hell, Clive was my first choice for his role anyway. And guess what? Clive’s current project was just put on hold. So, if Louis walks, it’s a win-win for me.”

Of course,
I
cared. And so did all of Team Louis, who would blame me if I allowed Louis to be miffed enough to quit over some damn lake water.

So I nodded resignedly to this alternative, bit my tongue about Louis’s next request, and headed down the road in search of it, or rather, them, myself: members of the Yahooskin American Indian tribe, who were known for the uplifting mysticism (not to mention the innate eroticism) of their incantations.

Louis had dreamed up this latest harebrained scheme after talking to the most buxom and definitely most star-struck member of the local catering service. “She claims their mantras are pure aphrodisiacs! Oh, and most importantly, they should help realign my chakras.” He sighed, as if exhausted from just the thought of going another night in karmic turmoil.

“Louis, you’ve got to be kidding! Where am I supposed to find these—these—what did you call them?”

“Ya-hoo-skins,” he mouthed patiently. “Try the local phone book.”

“Under what, ‘Indian tribes’? ‘Native Americans’? ‘Native tribes’?”

“Bollocks, Hannah, how am I supposed to know? Just Google them!”

Impatiently, he shooed me out the door. “I’d like at least two of those people here, no later than ten every night, as soon as possible. They are to stay at least an hour. That should exorcise the negative karma of this godforsaken place, particularly if the chanters are women . . . yes, I think that would be best. And virgins, preferably.”

Oh, sure. It’s not like I have anything better to do than to turn your trailer into a playpen for an underage harem!

Instead, I’d conjure up a couple of old tribal chieftains in the hopes that Louis would change his mind within a night or two. End of story.

Borrowing a four-wheel-drive vehicle from the production fleet, I drove the fourteen miles of rough hairpin turns to the closest place with a land line and a local phone book, a tiny country store known as the Gas-n-Gulp.

That treacherous dirt lane might have been the road less traveled by others, but I was coming to know it intimately. Maybe it was the river, or its roaring waterfalls, or the adjacent cliffs, or the tall pines that enveloped the location—or perhaps even Louis’s bad karma—but obviously
something
was repelling my cell phone service, and rarely could I make out the frantic phone calls I received almost hourly from Randy, Genevieve and Monique. I found it easier to check in on a daily basis via the Gas-n-Gulp’s land line, for which I was charged a dollar a minute by the store’s enterprising owner, who was smart enough to recognize a desperate sap when he saw one.

He laughed his head off when I asked him whether or not he knew any Yahooskins willing to come to the set after hours and chant.

“Lady, what, are you drunk or something? That casino of theirs rakes in tons of dough. Hell, if they wanted to, they could
finance
several movies!”

Shaking his head in disbelief, he wrote down the telephone number of the tribal council, then headed over to cut a piece of rhubarb pie for the only other customer in the joint, a balding, bearded guy who had walked in not long after I had.

The tribal council’s telephone receptionist seemed to take my request for chanters seriously—that is, until I meekly added that, despite the late hour in which the chanters were to appear, it was preferable that they be underage females. After calling me a sicko and threatening me with a lawsuit, she hung up.

I could now tell Louis I’d done my best to honor his request.

Next I had to appease a very agitated Randy, who warned me that “Marcella’s people have been on the horn, threatening to toss out some embarrassing rumors about Louis if he’s the source of any dirt
at all
about her fuckability. Or lack thereof.”

“Look,” I shot back, “I don’t know what the hell they’re talking about. Okay, it’s true she shot him down. But you know Louis! Do you think he’d want anyone to know that happened? Besides, he’s barely talking to anyone on the set, not even Ben! Besides, Marcella had her reasons—”

“Yeah, I’ll say.” Randy snickered. “Hey, has she come onto
you
yet? Be honest now.”

“Don’t get nasty, Randy, or I’ll hang up,” I said darkly.

“Okay, just wondering, no harm in asking, right? But listen, Hannah—the ball’s in your court
. Louis needs this one
. But if Marcella gets pissed enough and walks, Louis may get canned over it. Jasper’s already gotten an earful from Ben, so make sure Louis keeps it together.”

Hanging up, I groaned and plopped down into the portion of the store considered its “diner”: a couple of rickety tables surrounded by a few plastic chairs, where the store’s owner made casseroles created from whatever canned goods were due to expire that month.

At the next table sat the chubby bearded bald guy. He wore tan Dockers and a worn plaid shirt stretched so thinly over his large belly that the buttons were straining not to pop. I’d seen him before. In fact, many times. Gulping down that day’s blue plate special along with whatever pie had been defrosted, he’d pretend to read the same magazine he carried with him at all times: some fly-fishing rag, which was always turned to the same page. It made me wonder if he was in fact listening in on my embarrassingly exasperated remarks to Team Louis.

Maybe I was wrong. I mean, hadn’t I also seen him hanging around the craft table on the set, too?

Aware that I was staring at him, he looked up and grinned broadly, obviously recognizing me, too.

“From the shoot, right?” he said, as if reading my mind.

“Yeah,” I nodded. It was great to see another Industry warrior. “I’m Hannah.”

“Nice to meet you.” He stuck out his hand, wiping it on his khakis first. “Jerry.”

“You too, Jerry.” I took it warily.

Why was he here, and not on the set, like everyone else?

“It’s getting hairy over there, isn’t it?” he said conspiratorially.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I answered. “Par for the course, I guess.” From the snickers that followed in Louis’s wake—and therefore, in mine—I had learned to be cautious of everyone else on the set, including the other PAs. I wasn’t about to break that rule now, even while I was away from that insanity, if only for a few minutes. “Why? What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” He smiled benignly. “I guess your boss keeps you on your toes, eh? Underage Indian chanters? And that fight he had with Marcella—what was that all about, huh?”

I didn’t answer. Something wasn’t right, although I couldn’t put my finger on it.

As if sensing my concern, he grinned broadly and added almost too quickly, “I have to say, though, I’ve got a lot of respect for him.”

“Oh, yeah? How’s that?”
Even after all you’ve heard and seen?
I really wanted to ask.

“Why, the guy’s a—an acting genius! A real pro! He’s going to be the next—I dunno, the next Russell, I guess. Don’t you think so?”

“Probably.”

“Well, there’s one way in which he’s even got Russell beat.” He winked at me.

“What do you mean?” I answered coolly.

“Hey, honey, you got to admit, your man Louis has got quite a rep—in the sack, I mean. Why, that’s one place he even puts
Russell
to shame . . . right?”

“Look, I’ve got to get back.” I started for the door.

“Hey, uh, do you think you could give me a lift back?”

I hesitated. For some reason, I didn’t feel comfortable having him anywhere near me, although I didn’t know why. I looked out at the gas pump. Beyond it was the old truck belonging to the Gulp-n-Gas’s owner, and what was obviously a rental car.

Jerry’s car
.

So, why did he need a lift?

A cold chill went down my spine.

For a minute, I stood there, as if contemplating his request. Then, slowly I turned back to him. “Sure . . . Aw,
shoot!
Um, look, I’m out of cash, so would you mind awfully if I borrowed your cell phone? My service is lousy up here. Can’t get a signal.”

I licked my lips coyly, then smiled at him, all wide-eyed innocence. “It’ll only take a second. I promise! But if I don’t make this call, Louis will be mad as all get-out, ’cause it’s
sooo
important!”

He hesitated for only a second, then grinned. “Sure,” he said, as he tossed his phone to me.

I held up a finger apologetically, pretended to dial a number, and sauntered slowly out the front door. Glancing back at him, I saw a look of disappointment flash over his face because I’d be out of his hearing range. He waved, though, to indicate that he was fine with granting me these few seconds of privacy.

By the time I’d made it to my car, I had reviewed the last five or six photos he had taken with his phone—of Louis, Marcella, and Barnaby, but he also had a couple of Louis with me.

As I’d suspected: Jerry was paparazzi.

And he’d heard everything I’d said. About Marcella. And the chanters.