Star Island

  "One day? To do what?" Maury Lykes asked.

  "Take her picture, is what he says. But come on."

  Like her sister, Lila Lark was conscious of her pulse skipping in Chemo's presence. She composed herself and said, "People, can we backtrack for just a moment? Even if there was a straight ransom demand, the odds of us pulling this off without somebody leaking something to the media are about a billion to one. Once Annie's name gets out, once the tabloids dig up the whole story, there's no keeping her on the reservation. When People magazine calls, Maury, you seriously think she'll say 'No thanks'?"

  "Shit," the promoter muttered. He wondered if this was what they called a "moral quandary."

  Not to be outdone in the dire-scenario department, Lucy Lark said, "Imagine what our sensitive young client's reaction would be, she turns on TMZ and here's some hot chick named Ann DeLusia talking about how she got paid to dress up and go out as Cherry, talking about all those times Cherry pulled a Winehouse and got shipped off to rehab--"

  "Dietary camp," implored Janet Bunterman.

  "--some girl Cherry's never even seen before, talking about how she was kidnapped and held hostage by a gun-toting stalker who mistakenly thought he was snatching a superstar. It would be an ultra-humongous story," Lucy Lark pressed on, "way bigger than Cherry's new album, Maury. Bigger than the tour."

  Maury Lykes held up his hands in the shape of a T. "Thanks for that rousing pep talk," he said. "Now, just out of curiosity, can anybody please tell me how the hell we got caught in this particular shitstorm--like, for instance, what's the connection between our self-destructive starlet and this psychotic photographer?"

  The Larks turned to Cherry's mother, who tightly said, "Apparently, he's the person she brought with her to Miami."

  Maury Lykes winced in disgust. "On the Gulfstream? Good Christ."

  "She screwed him, too," added Lila Lark.

  "Naturally." The promoter took out a toothpick and dealt with more sesame seeds in his bridgework. "Janet, it sounds like you're doing your usual stellar job of parenting."

  "The man's obviously hallucinating. It never happened," Cherry's mother insisted.

  Maury Lykes reflected upon the many emergencies that had sprung up during his long association with Cherry Pye--the meltdowns, disappearances, drug binges and sex sprees. All those potentially career-smothering incidents had proved manageable, and in a few cases had even served to rekindle the public's waning interest in his minimally talented ward.

  This new crisis, though, was different. Cherry was not at large; she was more or less in custody. What worried Maury Lykes was the decoy, this missing Ann person, whose reliability under duress was an unknown variable. An actress, for God's sake! As for the deranged paparazzo, Maury Lykes felt confident in assuming the worst. It wasn't hard to imagine the lurid kind of photo session he had in mind for Cherry, and how much money he would demand in exchange for keeping the pictures out of circulation.

  That Cherry herself was oblivious to the mayhem she'd caused was ironic, though hardly surprising. What kind of drooling half-wit fucks a freelance photographer? Maury Lykes wondered.

  "Our professional advice," one of the Larks was saying, "is to sit tight for now. See what this madman tries next."

  "And no cops," the other sister added, "unless you want it smeared all over the news."

  Maury Lykes asked if the kidnapped actress had any immediate family, but nobody could give him an answer.

  "Boyfriend? Ex-husband?" The promoter caustically raised his palms. "Anybody close, who might be aware that she's working for us?"

  In her most assuring tone, Janet Bunterman said, "Annie signed a confidentiality agreement."

  "Which might be a useful document," said Maury Lykes, "if we happen to run out of toilet paper. My concern, people, is that someone will come looking for Ms. Ann DeLusia, even if we don't. Did that not occur to anybody else in this room?" He drilled the Larks with a glare. "Young women don't just disappear without a ripple, especially young women with SAG cards. Sooner or later, her absence will be noticed."

  Chastened, the sisters sucked in their cheeks and went rigid. Janet Bunterman nervously tore off half a bagel and smeared it with cream cheese.

  Chemo spoke up. "It's like a tickin' bomb."

  Maury Lykes sagged with exaggerated relief. "Oh Lord, let there be light."

  "I think I know the dickwad's name," Chemo said, peeking over the rims of his Sarah Palins.

  "Yeah? Who is he?"

  "I got a cell number. Lemme take a shot."

  "Can't hurt," Maury Lykes said. "Go for it."

  Chemo stood up and stretched. His gummy red eyes settled on Janet Bunterman. "I can't believe you were gonna cut the girl loose," he said. "Weren't for her, your dumbass daughter would be the one who got grabbed."

  As he walked out of the room, Chemo shrugged at the breathless Larks.

  * * *

  The first single from Skantily Klad was a cut called "Jealous Bone," which was chosen as the visual theme of Cherry Pye's cover shoot for Us Weekly. The photo director proposed that she be costumed as a sultry cannibal.

  "What's a freakin' cannibal wear for clothes?" Cherry asked.

  Her hairdresser, Leo, was also perplexed. "The song is about boning someone else's man," he pointed out, "not barbecuing him."

  The photo director presented a leopard-print loincloth with a matching halter that barely covered Cherry's augmentation scars. She emerged from the dressing room wearing a broad smile and reeking of weed. The photographer, a young Belgian with numerous magazine covers to his credit, said she looked totally fabulous. But when the makeup artist attempted to conceal her new tattoo beneath a spray-on tan, Cherry slugged him in the sternum. After a thirty-minute break, during which she bummed a Kool and two Valiums off the catering guy, the shoot resumed.

  At Cherry's insistence, the tatt on her neck became a focal point of the photographs, and Leo dutifully styled her locks in a fashion that gave generous display to the Axl-faced, half-assed zebra. At noon, Tanner Dane Keefe showed up on the set with a DVD containing all his scenes from the upcoming Tarantino film in which he portrayed a corpse-diddling longboarder with the soul of a poet. He and Cherry disappeared into her dressing room for nearly two hours, emerging only when the photo director banged on the door and threatened to give away her cover slot to Christina Aguilera, who also had a red-hot new CD on the way.

  After Tanner Dane Keefe departed, Cherry was coaxed back to the set, where she was positioned suggestively astride a skeleton, in keeping with the kinky cannibalism motif. She lasted only a few minutes before emitting wails that pierced the studio, something about a "death vibe" choking the breath from her body. At that point, Janet Bunterman was contacted and a substitute security man was sent, Chemo having been assigned to deal with Ann DeLusia's abductor. The new guy's name was Kurt, an immense, gym-ripped African-American who had once played right tackle for the Atlanta Falcons.

  At the sight of him, Cherry brightened. "This is more like it," she said, "but he's supposed to be bald." She turned to Leo. "You take care of it, 'kay?"

  The hairdresser picked up his electric clippers and took a tentative step toward Kurt, who raised a large hand and said, "Back off, little bug."

  Cherry staged a tantrum and fled to her dressing room. Leo brought Kurt a hot Cuban press, which was delicious. Over lunch, the security man offered a bit of history: "Lady Gaga didn't make me shave my damn head. Anne Hathaway didn't make me. Tara Reid, okay, she tried--the girl had a thing for Ving Rhames, and you know I like Ving personally, but that just ain't my best look. Bald, I'm talkin' about."

  "It's been overdone," Leo agreed.

  "Now, the lady here, she needs to quit this foolishness and get her ass back to work," Kurt said sternly.

  "Do what you have to, brother."

  The security man went to the dressing room, where Cherry had splayed herself immodestly on a couch. She was drinking a Red Bull while listening to the album cut of "Jealo
us Bone" on her iPod, attempting without success to nail the lip synch. Kurt plucked out her ear buds and said she had exactly three minutes to return to the set before the photo director canceled the cover.

  "You believe in reincarnation?" Cherry asked.

  The dressing room smelled like grass; Kurt glanced around and spotted a half-smoked doobie balanced on the rim of a veggie platter.

  "I wanna come back as, like, a bird-of-paradise, or maybe a seashell," Cherry said. "What about you?"

  "I want to come back as Beyonce's bicycle seat," said the security man. "Now let's go."

  The shoot slogged on for another hour, until the Belgian photographer signaled with a mimed self-strangulation that he'd had enough. On the ride back to the Stefano, Cherry became upset when she learned that Kurt was only on loan, and that he wouldn't be replacing Chemo full-time.

  "That fuckin' freakazoid, he's not even human!" she cried.

  Kurt said he didn't know the man. "But I already got a job," he added.

  "With who?" Cherry slid closer and touched his arm.

  "I can't tell ya."

  "What's she pay? I'll give you more."

  Kurt said, "The pay's damn good, but thanks just the same."

  Cherry pressed a cheek against his shoulder. "Ever heard of fringe benefits?"

  "Those I already got." Kurt smiled.

  "No way!"

  "Every night, girl. But I appreciate the thought."

  Livid, Cherry pushed herself away. "It's totally not fair. My mom promised me a big black dude," she said bitterly, "just like you."

  "Yeah, well, get in line."

  "Is she a singer, or a movie star, or what?"

  Kurt said, "She's in film."

  "Then you're a stone liar, man, 'cause movie actresses won't do the help," Cherry said. "That's a known fact." She was digging through her purse, searching for something. "I hate this goddamn bag!" she exclaimed.

  "Whassa problem now?"

  "I lost my BlackBerry."

  "And what's that?" Kurt pointed. "You blind, girl?"

  "No, that's an iPhone. God!" Cherry got down and groped the floorboard of the SUV. "I really, really, really need the BlackBerry--it's, like, bright orange. C'mon, dude, help me look."

  But the missing smart phone wasn't in the vehicle. Cherry punched the seat and shouted, "This is the worst fucking day of my whole fucking life!"

  The driver glanced uneasily over his shoulder. "Don't worry about her," Kurt advised.

  "You shut up," Cherry said. "Maybe I need somebody to worry about me, for a change. Maybe that's what's, like--hello?--wrong with this picture? Too many people aren't worrying about me!"

  The security man checked the time on his Rolex. He felt sorry for the poor sucker who was stuck with the job of bodyguarding this bitch.

  "Hey!" Cherry barked at him. "Are you even listening?"

  Kurt leaned forward and told the driver to step on it.

  After their hurried departure from the Comfort Inn, they spent the rest of the night in the rental car on the third floor of a covered parking garage, not far from Lummus Park. Ann DeLusia dozed on and off. She considered trying to escape but the photographer managed to remain awake, watching her like a hawk. As a visual warning he left the barrel of the handgun protruding from under the front seat, between his feet. Based on what she'd seen, Ann had no reason to believe he was an expert marksman, but even a putz could get lucky. She decided to sit tight.

  By sunrise, the deodorizing effects of the photographer's shower had worn off and the interior of the Buick smelled like a wrestling mat. Ann herself felt sticky and vile. Diving into the ocean seemed like a grand idea, but Claude the kidnapper said no way. He stepped out of the car to take a "super important" phone call, carelessly leaving his hostage alone with the pistol. Ann lifted it off the floor and fitted her right hand around the grip, her forefinger resting as lightly as a spider on the trigger. For a while she had dated a Los Angeles robbery detective who would take her to the shooting range on weekends. She'd gotten pretty good with a Glock 19 before the cop broke up with her and married his Korean manicurist.

  Ann was still holding the photographer's gun when he sat down in the front seat and took it away from her.

  "So that's how things are," he said with a raw laugh.

  "What are you talkin' about?"

  "You're not goin' anywhere, are you?"

  "Claude, you're so full of shit." She felt herself redden.

  He laughed again. "No, you're dying to see how all this plays out. I like that."

  Ann began to cry. It was a ridiculous thing to do, but she wasn't acting. Could this A-hole possibly be right?

  "You think I'm enjoying this?" she said. Exhaustion was to blame; obviously she wasn't thinking straight. For God's sake, she'd had the damn pistol in her hand.

  He said, "You're as smart as I think, it won't be long before the paparazzi will be chasing you. Trust me, I know the game."

  "I don't want to be famous," Ann sniffled, "not like that."

  "Of course you don't. What an awful life. Who wants to be rich and beautiful and desired?" He waggled the Colt at her. "Now, I've gotta go meet with a guy, so be a good girl and hop in the trunk."

  "I'll do no such thing. You'll have to shoot me first."

  "Oh, for Christ's sake."

  "Take me along. I'll behave."

  "You want some breakfast?" Bang Abbott asked.

  "Sure. Absolutely." Ann was as hungry as she was tired.

  The photographer drove to a spiffy new McDonald's, where Ann was one of two breakfast customers wearing a short black party dress. The other was a muscular transvestite in a Fanta-colored wig. Bang Abbott ordered three pungent burritos, while Ann asked for an Egg McMuffin. Bang Abbott told her she had exactly four minutes to use the bathroom, during which time he crushed two Ambiens and stirred them into her orange juice.

  After she returned, he said, "Now this is important--who's gonna freak the most, they don't hear from you for a couple days. You got a boyfriend?"

  "Nope," Ann said through a dainty mouthful of food.

  "Mom and Dad?"

  She shook her head. "Negative."

  "Are they both dead or something?"

  "You missed your calling, Claude. You should've been a grief counselor," Ann said. "No, they're not dead. I never met my father, and Mom and I are what you call 'estranged.' She wanted me to be a teacher."

  The paparazzo grunted. He had effortlessly fit an entire burrito into his cheeks.

  "A Sunday school teacher," Ann added. "Her religion treats the theatrical arts as pagan foolery. That includes television."

  Bang Abbott wiped his fingers on his shirt.

  "Everything was more or less okay until one of my mother's so-called friends called her up after she saw me on a Maxipad commercial," Ann went on, "and ever since that day, proper Rachel DeLusia has not spoken to her wayward daughter. I guess I should have taken that Duncan Hines booking instead--Mom can seriously pack away the brownies."

  "So, what you're sayin' is, nobody's gonna miss you for a little while if you don't answer your phone--"

  "Which fell in the motel toilet--"

  "What about your friends?" Bang Abbott asked.

  "They've pretty much given up on me."

  "How come?"

  "'Cause I don't tweet and I don't text."

  The photographer raised an eyebrow. "Oh, you're one of those."

  "So the answer is no, nobody's going to miss me."

  "Okay, then, good."

  "Yeah, fantastic. Twenty-four years old and I could fall off the planet without a soul noticing." She didn't mention the crazed homeless dude from Key Largo who'd promised to come rescue her--a noble offer, but really ...

  "Claude, I'm getting awful tired."

  "Finish your juice," he said.

  She was snoring like a bear by the time Bang Abbott got back to the parking garage. He drove up to an empty floor and put the Buick at the far end. After locking Ann in the t
runk, he huffed to the elevator where he finished his last McSkillet on the ride down, crumpling the empty wrapper and tossing it on the floor. The sunlight blasted him in the face when he walked out of the garage, so he pulled down his brand-new Miami Marlins cap and aimed himself for the park.

  The man called Chemo was waiting by the volleyball nets. He was wearing a loose black warm-up suit with one sleeve cut off, and gay squared-off eyeglasses. "Let's take a walk," he said.

  They headed down the beach--the dumpy, shuffling paparazzo and the gangly, lopsided bodyguard--drawing stares from even the jaded South Beach regulars. Chemo seemed oblivious to the attention, but Bang Abbott felt uncomfortable. He was accustomed to being the peeper, not the peeped at, and he felt naked without his cameras.

  "I found that item you were lookin' for," Chemo said.

  Bang Abbott tried to conceal his elation. "Yeah?"

  "You're a busy beaver, Slim. Damn thing rings 24/7."

  "How much you want for it? I'll give you five hundred."

  Chemo stopped to admire a topless Latin woman who was playing Kadima with a small boy. It was a nice scene, a long damn way from the prison yard at Raiford.

  The Kadima ball landed in the sand at Chemo's size-fourteen feet, and the youngster ran up to fetch it.

  Oh Jesus, the photographer thought. That poor kid'll be sleeping with the lights on for the rest of his life.

  Yet when Chemo handed him the ball, the boy looked up, waved his paddle and said, "Gracias." He didn't appear even slightly traumatized. Bang Abbott was amazed--the little gerbil must be farsighted.

  Chemo resumed walking. "I been authorized to negotiate for the girl," he said over his shoulder.

  The bodyguard had a large stride, and Bang Abbott hustled to keep up. "Negotiate what? I get an all-day shoot with Cherry, they get their cute little imposter back, safe and sound."

  "No deal. Twenty-five large--the money for the actress chick, straight up."

  "You crazy?" Bang Abbott blurted.

  "Plus, maybe I'll throw in the BlackBerry."

  "Do I look that stupid?"

  Chemo's cheerless smile exposed the dingy nibs of his front teeth. "A fat perv is what you look like to me," he said.