Star Island

  And now he was on the line.

  "Are you there?" he asked in that volcanic rumble of a voice.

  "I need some help," she whispered.

  "Tell me where."

  To Ann it sounded like he was running in the wind.

  She said, "A Comfort Inn on Miami Beach."

  "Sounds cozy."

  "His name's Claude. He's got a gun."

  "Ah."

  "But I can handle him," she said, "for now."

  "Hang up and call 911."

  "Okay--"

  The door burst open and there was Bang Abbott, crouched and florid, aiming the pistol shakily at her head. "You think you're so damn smart?" he yelled. "Gimme that thing!"

  "Do what he says," said the voice at Ann DeLusia's ear.

  "Okay."

  "Don't worry, Annie. I'll find you."

  "Excellent," she whispered, and dropped the phone between her knees, into the toilet bowl.

  12

  The Larks were fraternal twins, and for the first thirty-three years of their lives it had been easy to tell them apart. Lila was a natural ash blonde with light cinnamon freckles and a thin nose; Lucy had auburn hair and an unmarked complexion and a slightly squared-off chin. They stood the same height and had the same lupine smile, due to oversized incisors inherited from their father, yet the twins were taken for cousins more often than sisters.

  Ever since they were toddlers, the two Larks had longed to be identical. As they grew up it became an obsession that greatly worried close friends and family members. Lila and Lucy were continually on the hunt for a cutting-edge surgeon, and over the years they interviewed scores of candidates. Being perfectionists, the Larks never failed to find a disqualifying weakness. However, there was one doctor who had eluded their dragnet--a Brazilian with fabled flesh-sculpting skills, brilliant and fearless. The sisters tracked him down at a polo match in Wellington, Florida, where he listened to their extraordinary request and examined them side by side in a stable, behind a curtain fashioned from pony blankets. He then quoted them a fee so preposterously out of reach that they simultaneously burst into tears and fell to their knees, splatting horse dung.

  Eventually the Larks' childhood dream was made possible because of Presley Aaron, the troubled country-western star. It was his public tailspin into a haze of dope haunts and riotous whores that ultimately financed the comprehensive transformations of Lucy and Lila, who'd been called in to salvage what remained of the singer's image. At the time, the Larks had not yet achieved the status of legends in the show-biz firmament, although they'd been hired, fired and re-hired by some of Hollywood's A-list flakes and substance abusers. Even as young publicists, the twins had become known as cold-blooded, discreet and impossible to impress. Lucy once made the gossip blogs by walking out on a patio lunch with Tom Cruise because he wouldn't let her light up a smoke.

  The day the Larks first met Presley Aaron was the same day he'd lost his record deal with Maury Lykes. Lucy and Lila listened without judgment to the strung-out musician's tale of woe, and then knocked out a boilerplate press release announcing he had quit drugs and found Jesus Christ. Presley Aaron actually wound up doing both, so the sisters set aside their skepticism and went to work publicizing his heartrending climb from the depths. Their efforts culminated with an interview on 60 Minutes in which even the hard-bitten Steve Kroft was moved to a sniffle.

  Presley Aaron was a bit of a bumpkin, but Lucy and Lila liked the guy enough not to sue him for their fee, which was hefty and three months in arrears. After a lengthy Caribbean rehab, Presley Aaron self-attached the title of "Reverend" and soon thereafter was given his own Sunday television show on the Holy Word Network. The day he inked the contract (a three-year deal providing a cathedral and the use of a Falcon 900), he FedExed to the Larks his outstanding balance, plus a six-figure bonus. He included a note: "Dear L and L, thank you for believing in me. Praise the Lord!"

  As a matter of policy, the twins never believed in any of their clients. They'd always assumed that Presley Aaron, like so many others, would end up jailed, deceased, or featured on a cable reality show for junkie has-beens. The generosity of the singer's payment check was quite startling, and right away the Larks knew how they would spend their windfall. After five fuzzy weeks in Rio de Janeiro, they stepped off the plane at LAX as shining mirror images of each other. Practically every feature was new: noses, cheeks, chins, teeth, breasts, tummies, buttocks and thighs. Their own mother didn't recognize them.

  From then on the sisters were unstoppable, the go-to team for celebrities in mid-flameout. When Cherry Pye's high-paid publicist jumped ship--after accompanying her to an NPR interview in which she pretended to deep-throat the microphone--the rocket ship was already on fire. It was Maury Lykes himself who called the Larks, asking for help. When he sullenly agreed to their outlandish fee, Lila and Lucy put on hold their current project--a fifty-four-year-old actor who'd recently become a sex addict in order to revive his career--and dedicated themselves to stabilizing the nose-first descent of the former Cheryl Bunterman.

  "What now?" asked Cherry's mother, minutes after the carjacking.

  She sat pondering a watery Bloody Mary while the Larks paced the suite and chain-smoked brazenly, the latter to underscore the seriousness of the situation.

  "This one has the potential for ruination," Lila declared.

  "It's beyond the pale," Lucy agreed, which was code for "Wait until you get our next bill."

  Janet Bunterman coughed glumly. She was still grappling with the notion that a paparazzo had snatched Annie DeLusia. The new bodyguard had recognized the chubby maggot from a previous encounter. Undoubtedly, the intended quarry was Cherry.

  "We'll have to call the police soon," Janet Bunterman said. "The limo company will be missing their Suburban."

  As they passed each other on the carpet, the Larks pivoted and sniffed at the unseemly task confronting them. Lucy said, "First thing we do is pay off the driver."

  Cherry's mother frowned. "For what?"

  Lila impatiently swirled one hand in the air. "To lie to the cops, of course. To say there was no passenger on board when the SUV was jacked."

  "But what about Annie?"

  Lucy tapped her cigarette ash into a dish of stale cashews. "Annie who?" she said.

  Janet Bunterman sipped her drink and fell silent. The Larks had a point. If it became known that Cherry Pye's organization employed a full-time look-alike to help cover for her skanky romps, the publicity would be disastrous. The new CD would immediately become suspect, and the concert tour would turn into a media smackdown. Maury Lykes, ever true to his word, would cut Cherry loose and then sue the piss out of the Buntermans.

  Lila said, "If this psycho lets Annie go--and let's pray he does--we'll pay her off and put a muzzle on her. But if he should kill her, well--"

  "Then there's only the chauffeur left to dispute your story," said Lucy.

  Cherry's mother could hardly believe what she was hearing, although she had to admit it made sense. As soon as the deranged photographer figured out that he'd grabbed the wrong blonde, he would either free Ann DeLusia or murder her and dump the body. She wasn't the least bit famous or important, and therefore had no value as a hostage.

  "This sucks," Janet Bunterman said. "I really like Annie. She's a good kid."

  The Larks agreed in unison, although their Botoxified features made it difficult to gauge the depth of their sincerity. Sometimes Janet Bunterman felt like reaching out and tapping their faces, to find out if they felt as laminated as they appeared.

  She said, "Here's another idea--we could put out a release saying a 'valued employee' of Cherry Pye was abducted, and then we post a reward. Nobody knows that Annie works as Cherry's double--she could be a PA, or a dresser."

  Lucy crossed her arms as she turned away, and in profile Janet Bunterman noticed the carved resemblance to a sphinx. From the other side of the room, Lila said, "And what happens if the police catch the bad guy and rescue Ann? Think of
the downside, Janet."

  "Downside?"

  "Annie becomes famous overnight is what happens," Lila went on. "The morning shows, Access Hollywood, ET, you name it. It would be a distraction that your daughter definitely doesn't need, not while she's out promoting a new CD."

  Lucy said, "Not to put too fine a point on it, but there's no room on this ark for two hot babes. Annie's an actress, Janet. She gets a whiff of the limelight, it's game over."

  They're brilliant, these twins, Janet Bunterman thought. Sneaky, but brilliant.

  "All right, how much do we pay the driver?" she asked.

  Lucy held up one finger. "A grand, tops."

  "Not a dollar more," her sister agreed. "Go too high, he'll get wise and put the squeeze on you."

  Janet Bunterman took a thousand in hundreds out of the room safe, and sent one of the Larks downstairs to take care of the frantic chauffeur. Then she tried to call Ann on her cell phone, but nobody answered.

  "Know what's super-scary?" Janet Bunterman said to the remaining twin, who happened to be Lila. "This maniac was after Cherry tonight. What if he comes back?"

  "Maybe you need more than one bodyguard--Carrie Underwood's got two, you know."

  True, thought Janet Bunterman, but Carrie Underwood could afford it. Carrie Underwood could sell out the Hard Rock for a year, if she wanted.

  "Have you met the new muscle?" Janet Bunterman asked Lila.

  "Not yet. Is he bigger than Lev?"

  Cherry's mother polished off the Bloody Mary and said, "You should ask him for a demo."

  "A demo of what?"

  "The man could seriously prune your trees," Janet Bunterman said. "Listen, I'm not up for chatting with the police. Do you mind calling in about the Suburban?"

  Lila Lark almost smiled. "No problem. You go on to bed."

  They went out through the Stefano's kitchen exit and climbed in a charcoal-black minivan. The chauffeur spoke with a Brooklyn accent--a young guy, smooth-shaven and thin.

  Said his name was Thad.

  Said he was into modeling.

  "Who besides your mother gives a flying fuck?" Chemo growled.

  Cherry Pye jabbed an elbow into his ribs. "What crawled up your ass and died?"

  Chemo said nobody in Brooklyn would ever name their kid Thad.

  The driver raised a hand, seeking permission to speak. "He's right. My real name's Lou. The modeling agency, they made me change it."

  Cherry leaned forward. "Well, I like Thad. It's very sexy."

  "Yeah?"

  "My name's Cherish," she said.

  Chemo grimaced. "Stop now," he told her.

  It had been a bad night. Maury Lykes himself had called to chew Chemo out for losing the actress, and to warn him to keep quiet about it.

  "Hey, what happened to your hot date?" Cherry needled. "Is that why you're in a crappy mood--she was a no-show?"

  "Yeah. That's it," Chemo said. Maury had told him to get Cherry out of the hotel until the cops were gone, but now what?

  "My tatt's sore," she complained. Leaning forward, she spoke to the back of the driver's head. "Hey, Thad, where can I score some X?"

  "For real?" he asked.

  "No, not for real," Chemo cut in.

  "Because I know a guy--"

  "No thanks, dickwad. Keep your eyes on the road." With his only hand, which was exceptionally strong, Chemo squeezed one of Cherry's arms. "You've got no fucking idea who you're dealing with," he said.

  "Ow! You're hurting me!"

  "One time, lady called me a name and I drowned her. This was the middle of Biscayne Bay," Chemo said. "I still got the clipping from the newspaper."

  Cherry shook free. "Stop! I didn't call you a name!"

  "Yeah, you did. 'Waffle Face.'"

  "The other night? Omigod, are you serious? I was, like, totally wasted--"

  "And I cut you a break," Chemo said. "Doesn't mean I forgot about it. Then tonight you go and tell your mother I copped a feel. Trying to get me canned, remember?"

  Cherry struck a sulky pose; he could see it in the light cast by oncoming cars. She said, "Sorry, 'kay? I'll never do it again. Geez."

  Chemo noticed that the driver was listening in and cuffed the side of his head.

  "You want one?" Cherry whispered.

  "One what?"

  "A feel, man." She nudged Chemo with a breast. "Go on. Then we're even."

  He didn't take his oozy eyes off her face, nor did he move to touch her. He said, "This lady, we were on a boat together. Just me and her."

  "Was it, like, a date?"

  He sneered. "We were out lookin' for her ex. Anyway, she calls me this nasty name so I toss the anchor on her lap and over the side she goes. Bubble, bubble, bubble--yakkin' the whole way down."

  "Dude, that's so not funny."

  "Point is, don't push your goddamn luck."

  From the front seat, Thad spoke up in an apologetic tone. "I gotta turn either left or right at this light. Does it matter to you guys which way?"

  "Go right," Cherry said, "to the causeway."

  Chemo shot her a look. "What's right?"

  "Star Island," she replied. "Where Tanner lives."

  "Who?"

  "My boyfriend, remember? God!"

  Thad eyed them anxiously in the rearview. "Light's green," he said.

  "What the hell. Hang a right," said Chemo. It was better than riding around in circles all night long with this ditz. He was hungry, too, and he figured that anybody living on Star Island was sure to have decent food in the house.

  The guard at the gatehouse was gabbing on the phone, and he waved the minivan past with barely a glance. Cherry immediately began pointing out the mansions of celebrities--P. Diddy, Julio Iglesias, A-Rod, the Estefans, Shaq's ex.

  Chemo yawned and said, "I am so excited."

  "Know what? Screw you."

  Tanner Dane Keefe was renting a house once owned by either Rosie O'Donnell or Al Capone, depending on which real-estate agent was showing it. Cherry knocked for a while before a young woman wearing red Sarah Palin-style eyeglasses opened the door. She identified herself as Tanner Dane Keefe's personal assistant, and said he was asleep upstairs.

  "Tell him I'm here for a playdate," Cherry bubbled.

  "But it's two in the morning."

  "Really?" Cherry slipped past the woman and entered the foyer, calling Tanner's name.

  Chemo made his way to the kitchen and piled some smoked turkey on rye bread with tomatoes and buffalo mozzarella. He was slathering the mustard when he heard yelling. He hurried up a marble stairwell and found Cherry in a high-ceilinged bedroom overlooking the bay. She was hopping up and down, shrieking at a young man whom Chemo recognized as her wimpy companion at the tattoo parlor. The man was sitting in bed with a sheet pulled up to his armpits. Beside him, motionless under the covers, was an elongated form.

  The woman in the Palin frames pleaded with Cherry to go downstairs, but Cherry grabbed the sheet and furiously tried to yank it off the bed. The unidentified shape next to Tanner Dane Keefe drew itself into the protective shape of a comma.

  "Quit hiding, you slut!" Cherry hollered.

  Chemo slung his good arm around her waist and pulled her away. She was thrashing and spitting like a cat.

  Tanner Dane Keefe had a policy of avoiding violence, which he saw as a threat to his handsomeness and therefore his future in film. He urged Cherry's bodyguard to stay cool.

  "It's not as bad as it looks," the actor insisted, though the form huddling next to him convulsed in alarm. Moments later, a sweaty feline head popped out of the covers. It belonged to Tanner Dane Keefe's personal trainer, a female high jumper on loan from the Syrian national track-and-field squad.

  Cherry emitted a whoop of outrage. The woman jackknifed nude from the bed and disappeared out the doorway.

  "She was working on my hamstrings," Tanner Dane Keefe declared.

  His personal assistant quickly excused herself.

  Cherry Pye shook a fist. "Tanny, I can
't freaking believe you'd do this to me!"

  "Come here. Lemme see the new tatt."

  "No way," Cherry said. "How come you didn't text me back?"

  The actor patted the covers. "C'mon, Cherish. Don't be like this."

  At the sound of that name, her anger melted. She leapt to the bed and crawled in beside him.

  "See, I even wore a rubber," he said, lifting the sheet.

  "Aw, baby. I love you."

  While the two morons snuggled, Chemo confiscated a prescription bottle of pills from the nightstand and another from the bathroom. Then he walked downstairs, where the actor's personal assistant brought him a cold Miller Lite.

  "Your friend 'Cherish' dropped this on the floor. It's ringing." She held up a brightly tinted BlackBerry.

  Chemo peered. "What do you call that color?"

  "Melon?"

  "Nah, I don't think so."

  The woman shrugged. "Tangerine?"

  "Lemme have it."

  When he pressed the Connect button, a gravelly voice on the line said, "Abbott?"

  "Yeah."

  "Timberlake just checked in at the Mandarin. You want the room?"

  "Sure."

  "Fifty bucks?"

  "Not a problem."

  "He's in 710. And Taylor Swift, she's in 714. I shit you not, brother."

  "Nice." Chemo hung up. At least he had a name for the kidnapper: Abbott. Somewhere he had a number, too, left over from the camera transaction.

  The BlackBerry chimed twice. Chemo held it up and saw a text: kanye just split from pubes, alone, plum bentley.

  Now he understood why Cherry had hung on to the photographer's smart phone--to someone like her it was golden, a streaming voice-guide to the party circuit.

  Tanner Dane Keefe's personal assistant asked, "Are you her bodyguard, or what?"

  "More like a life coach," Chemo said.

  "She needs one. You think they're screwing? Even after what happened?"

  Chemo said it wouldn't surprise him. "Unless your boy's too stoned to get it up. I could go for an eclair."

  The personal assistant smiled. "In the fridge, top shelf. How'd you know?"