"And you can kiss my balls, fat boy."
"Now, wait--"
"I got orders," Chemo said, thinking: The dumbass, he doesn't know the half of it.
"Then I'm gonna have to frisk you," said Bang Abbott.
The bodyguard simultaneously raised his good arm and his prosthesis. The shadow he cast on the white wall looked like a crane with a bum wing. As the paparazzo nervously patted him down, Chemo whispered, "We'll talk later, just you and me."
Bang Abbott had been awaiting the threatened shakedown, the thug expecting money for some imagined service or favor. "Sure. Whatever," Bang Abbott said.
"Where's the actress?"
"On her way back to the hotel."
"In one piece?" Chemo asked. He wasn't sure why he cared.
Bang Abbott nodded. "Bitchy as ever. They sent a car to pick her up."
The Buntermans came in, clearly rattled.
"Now what's wrong?" Chemo said.
Cherry's mother waved him off. "Nothing. It's all good."
"The fuck happened to your ear?" Chemo asked Ned Bunterman, who shrugged peevishly and looked away.
Cherry told her parents that she couldn't possibly start the photo shoot without chilled Pellegrinos and a bowl of blue M&M's. Janet Bunterman hurried to the kitchen and returned with two bottles of Aquafina and a box of Triscuits. Cherry made a face and pretended to gag herself with two fingers.
Bang Abbott said, "Nothing until lunch! I want her looking lean and hungry."
"But Mom!" Cherry protested.
"Sweetie, please? Do what the man says. He's the pro."
Ned Bunterman said, "Cherry, come on, it's the cover of VF. This is huge."
"But I feel like crapola."
"Well, you certainly don't look like crapola. Does she, Mr. Abbott?"
The paparazzo held out his arms and framed her face with his fingers. "She looks golden to me," he said.
Cherry snorted, but Bang Abbott could tell she was pleased by the compliment. He told her parents it was time for them to go. When they reached the marble foyer he dropped his voice: "You think I'm Ted Bundy, Jr., but wait'll you see how these shots turn out. It's gonna be legend."
Ned Bunterman was still grappling with the idea that his famously hot daughter had humped such a homely wanker. Was this her way of rebelling, he wondered, or was she just a tramp at heart?
"Don't try anything porny," he told the photographer, "or the deal's off. Mr. Chemo knows what to do."
"No worries, Pop." Bang Abbott chucked him on the shoulder.
Chemo gave a sober nod to indicate the situation was under control, so Ned Bunterman turned and followed his wife out the front door.
Back in the living room, Cherry was pitching a minor snit. "What'm I supposed to wear? I hate this!"
Bang Abbott presented Ann's little black dress. She held it up, sneering at the label.
"It's all wrinkled and funky," she complained.
"That's the concept, honey."
"Gross!"
"Put it on. You will positively rule."
"But I want Versace, goddammit. We're in freaking Miami!"
The paparazzo placed both hands over his heart. "Trust me, Cherish. Please?"
She smiled at the sound of her future name. "I can't believe you, like, totally remembered."
From across the room, Chemo barked, "What'd you say, girl?"
Although the bodyguard had left the livestock prod in his car, Cherry reflexively amended her grammar. "I said I can't believe he remembered."
Bang Abbott winked. "Hey, I remember everything."
"Me, too," Cherry said, with a sly wink of her own.
"Seriously?"
"What happened on the G5? Dude, I haven't stopped thinkin' about it."
It was purely idiotic to believe her, but Bang Abbott was nudged in that direction by a stirring in his flab-shaded loins. He did not often hear unpaid women remark favorably upon his sexual prowess.
"Did I hear dude?" It was the bestumped bodyguard, calling out Cherry again.
"I said 'Claude,' 'kay? God, would you lighten up!" She rolled her eyes and whispered to Bang Abbott: "Superfreak. Major."
"Tell me about it."
She reached for his wrist and held up his hand, studying the bandaged finger. "Who bit ya, dude?"
"Shakira," he said. "Let's put on some music."
"I was in a Nickelback video. You ever see it? The one where I'm a astronaut?"
"Duh. I only got it saved on my iPod."
"Get outta town!"
There was a Jack Johnson CD in the sound deck and Bang Abbott turned it on. He would have preferred something raunchy but he didn't want to waste time rummaging through the stereo cabinet.
"Go get dressed," he said to Cherry.
"Hey, round dude, you got any homegrown?"
"Sorry, babe."
"Medicinal?"
"Nope," he said. "Powder room's down the hall. You can change there."
She grinned, and right there began stripping out of her sweatshirt and jeans. Bang Abbott was so flustered that he forgot to remove the lens cover from his camera. By the time he collected himself, Cherry had wriggled into Ann DeLusia's black cocktail dress. It fit her fabulously.
She said, "Tanny's got some Lortabs stashed under his bed."
"Breakfast of champions," said Bang Abbott. "Maybe later."
He positioned her in the chair and snapped a handcuff on one wrist, letting the open cuff dangle like bling. Cherry giggled and said, "I likey."
Chemo put down his magazine and moved closer to supervise. Bang Abbott showed him the Colt, spinning the cylinder like they did in old Westerns. "Don't worry," he said, "it's empty."
The bodyguard uncloaked his motorized lawn trimmer and let the cover drop to the floor. Bang Abbott twitched. "Listen, man, you gotta chill or I can't work my magic."
"I invented chill," said Chemo, and ambled toward the kitchen in search of pastries.
Bang Abbott found himself alone, completely alone, with Cherry. Overcome by a swirl of clashing emotions, he started panting like a Saint Bernard. A flush of perspiration dampened his shirt as he plopped to his knees beside her chair.
"I've got somethin' to show you," he said.
"'Kay."
He struggled to steady the Nikon so that she could see the photograph displayed on the viewfinder. She chirped, "Oh, yeah, I 'member that day!"
It was one of the self-portraits she'd taken with his camera at the Stefano, the shot in which she was crossing her eyes and sticking out her tongue.
"Why?" Bang Abbott demanded.
"Why what? You mean the tatt?" Her uncuffed hand went to her neck.
"No, I mean that face," he said. "The face you're making! Where do you get off?"
The former Cheryl Bunterman stared at him with crystal perplexity. Claude seemed really upset.
"It was my camera," he went on, red-faced. "You knew I'd find this awful picture, right? You had to know! So this was some kind of snotty little joke, correct? 'Even though we screwed our brains out on the airplane, here's what I really think of you, asshole.'"
"Whoa" was all she could say.
Among the benefits of undeserved wealth and fame was never having to deal with the hurt feelings of others. Those duties were always handled by someone else, in order to spare the star from distracting outbursts of tears or recriminations. Consequently, Cherry Pye was left adrift by the photographer's mystifying reaction to her cross-eyed pose, which had been nothing more than a hoot. She had no idea why it upset him, how it was remotely connected to their forgettable speed fuck on the Gulfstream, or what to say.
"The picture wasn't for you," she told him. "It was for, like, nobody."
"Bullshit."
"Jesus, Claude, I was probably toasted."
He rose up, sucking in a deep, raspy breath. His heart was pounding so hard that his moobs were jiggling beneath the bowling shirt. He thought: What the hell's happening to me?
Cherry said, "How
trashed I was? I even put one of those stupid photos up on MySpace."
Bang Abbott grunted. "Yeah, I saw it. Least you kept your tongue in your mouth."
"You went on my page?"
"I told you I was a fan." He used the baseball cap to mop his brow. "Why'd you crop out your boobs?" he asked.
Cherry sighed crossly. "Wasn't my idea. It was Mom's."
Bang Abbott heard himself say: "The truth? The one you posted, that was a pretty sexy shot."
She glowed. "I was just goofin' in the bathroom mirror."
"We can do way better."
"Seriously?"
The paparazzo didn't like anything that reminded him of a beach, but the ultra-mellow surf music coming out of the speakers seemed to have a leveling effect. He felt his pulse begin to quiet and his focus return.
"I can make you look so damn hot," he said to Cherry, "they'll all be blown away. I mean speechless."
"Yeah?"
"We're talkin' iconic."
She wasn't sure what the word meant, but she tossed her hair, licked her lips and said, "All right, baby, let's do it."
"That's my girl." Bang Abbott raised the camera and took aim.
23
"What's that?" Ann asked.
"Lunch."
"Yes, but what?"
"Southern cottontail," said Skink.
Ann remarked that he was probably the only person driving a Jaguar convertible around South Beach who had a roadkill rabbit strung to his trousers.
He said, "Could be worse."
"How'd you find me? You're a long way from home."
"The question is why."
"I suppose," Ann said.
"Because you give me hope for the species."
"Then you're in rough shape."
"I have some bad days," Skink conceded.
"Can we get one thing out of the way? I'm grateful for the ballsy rescue and all, but--"
"No nookie."
"'Fraid not."
He grinned. "Annie, I'm old enough to be your grandpa."
"Men are men." She was thinking of Lawrence, the philandering flutist, and others. "Captain, where's your shower cap? It definitely made a statement."
"Lost at sea," he said.
The cloudless sky was pearly blue, and a cool breeze riffled in from the Atlantic. He had the top down, so they were drawing plenty of attention, even on Ocean Drive. On impulse he recited the haggis poem in his best Scottish accent, which wasn't great. Ann listened politely, then suggested they ditch the Jag and walk to the Stefano. He drove back to the kosher bakery where he'd taken the car from the drunken basketball player and parked in the same spot and wiped off the fingerprints. Then he concealed the sawed-off shotgun in the downspout of a rain gutter. Because he refused to part with the rabbit, Ann buttoned his trench coat to conceal the limp little corpse.
Upon entering the hotel they were accosted by a security man with piggish eyes and a bad buzz cut.
"I have a room here. I'm an actress," Ann said.
The security man, who seemed skeptical of the woman's stodgy attire, turned his attention to her unkempt one-eyed companion.
"And you, sir?"
"I'm a child of the tide," Skink said.
"A what?"
"Cuka-luka-choo."
Ann quickly cut in, "He's with me. We just came from an audition at the Gleason."
She talked one of the desk clerks into giving her a duplicate key card, even though her ID was upstairs. They rode the elevator with Ivanka Trump, whose well-dressed posse shielded her with glowering resolve from the tall bum with ammunition shells dangling from his shorn head. Management would hear about this.
Upon entering the room Ann was pleased to see that her clothes and personal belongings, including her handbag, had not been removed. An enormous basket of fruit, cheeses and wine beckoned from the coffee table, with a chipper card from the Buntermans: "Welcome home, Annie!"
Skink went to a window and looked down with despair at the crowded shore and the crowded water. "It's the second day of spring," he said in a dead voice.
Then he walked into the nearest closet and shut the door behind him.
Ann knocked gently. "Don't worry. We're getting out of here."
She took a four-minute shower, brushed her teeth, pulled her hair into a ponytail, and put on a blouse and slacks. When she came out of the bathroom, Skink was on the balcony, hurling Bartlett pears and Gouda wedges from the gift basket. He had a strong arm, and it appeared that he beaned a volleyball player on the beach twelve stories below. A small crowd was clustered around the Speedo-clad victim while one onlooker pointed upward at the facade of the hotel, in the direction of Ann's room. She tugged Skink inside and moments later they were in the service elevator, a form of covert egress with which Ann was familiar in her role as Cherry Pye.
Once on the street, they merged, more or less, into the throngs of tourists. It could not be said that Skink blended in, but he wasn't the only outrageous figure attracting notice. Although past its heyday, South Beach remained a sun-soaked runway for preening grotesques and needy narcissists.
Ann, on the other hand, seemed to be the only one rolling a travel bag. She grabbed Skink's arm and said, "This isn't going to work."
"I'll be heading south, though not until I have a word with Mr. Abbott."
"Oh, forget about him."
"Too late," Skink said.
"He didn't hurt me."
"Did he--"
"No, captain. I swear."
"Nonetheless."
Ann said, "What are you going to do to a guy like that? He's already pathetic."
"In a herd, his sort would be culled."
"For heaven's sake."
At that moment, the dead rabbit came unhitched from Skink's belt loop and dropped to the sidewalk between his shoes.
"Damn," he said, stooping to retrieve it.
Ann yanked sharply on his coat. "Don't. I'm begging you."
He paused and took note of the surroundings. The air smelled heavily of corned beef because they were standing in front of a busy deli, bursts of customers going in and out the door. A small girl who'd spied the furry brown form on the ground was reaching down to stroke it when she was jerked clear by her mother.
"That's what I'm talking about," Ann whispered anxiously to Skink.
"But it's sinful--"
"To waste good meat. Yeah, I get that." She clamped onto one of his thick wrists and led him away. After a few blocks his gait slowed and his breathing came in gulps. They turned up an alley, where he sat down clutching his head.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"I need a still, dark place."
"Or?"
"Bedlam. Bloodletting. Who can say?"
"Just 'cause I made you lose the bunny?"
"Once all this was mangrove swamp." Skink made a weary sweeping motion with one arm. "Annie, there was no Miami Beach--they dredged up all the sand from the ocean bottom. It's entirely unnatural, an obscene facade. And every few years they've gotta dump more sand, thousands of tons, or else the whole goddamn place would disappear into the sea."
He was whirlybirding his braids, the shotgun shells clicking like dice.
"I'm far out of my element," he added.
"Thanks for the insight." Ann sat down in front of him and with a fingertip lifted his unshaven chin. "Where's your phone, captain?"
Absently he patted the trench coat. "It's here somewhere."
When the call came, Marcus Mink was in a meeting with an actress who had recently changed her name to Tessa Cloudfeather in hopes of landing the plum role of Sacagawea in an upcoming biopic about the Lewis and Clark expedition. Marcus Mink faced the sad task of informing his lissome young client that she'd lost the part to a genuine Native American, and that she should probably go back to being Tessa Grunwald, as casting calls for Indian maidens were relatively few and far between. Tessa had absorbed the news stoically; a quick puke, two rails of blow and she was solid. Marcus Mink told her she h
ad a world-class attitude--good things were bound to happen.
Then he excused himself to take the call from Ann DeLusia, one of his low-maintenance favorites, whom he hadn't heard from in months.
"How's our gorgeous pop stunt double?" he asked.
"Tapped out. I just spent three days being held prisoner by a paparazzo. What else have you got for me?"
"You mean in the way of work?"
"No, Marcus, in the way of lasagna recipes. Don't be a schmuck."
"Girl, I haven't heard that sweet voice in ages."
Ann said, "Gosh, was I supposed to call you? I thought it was the other way around--the agents call the clients."
"Word is, the new album is way lame. Skantily Klad with all k's? I don't think so." Marcus Mink had an ironclad policy against getting to the point, unless there was wonderful news to pass along. "Don't forget to phone me from the road. I want to hear stories."
"I'm not going on the tour. I'm done being Cherry Pye," Ann said.
"The Buntermans fired you? They can't do that!"
"I didn't get canned, Marcus. I'm quitting."
"What happened?"
She said, "Never mind. Tell me what's available."
Marcus Mink spun in his chair and gazed out the window at a verdant sliver of Westwood Village Memorial Park. The lone celebrity grave that he could see from his desk was that of Don Knotts; only the senior agents got a view of Marilyn's crypt. Someday Marcus Mink would have one of those offices.
"Sugar, I'm afraid there's not a whole lot happening," he said to Ann DeLusia. "Some commercial work, maybe a soap opera. You still speak Spanish, right? It's brutal out there."
"No movies?"
"Oh, the usual." Marcus Mink riffled through some call sheets. "Pert but clueless receptionist. Third hooker on bar stool. Pregnant hitchhiking vampire."
"Would I have lines?" Ann asked.
"Just a few. The hooker gets torched in a tanning bed, so they'll want a big scream."
"I smell a Golden Globe."
"Look, I know this Cherry gig isn't megastellar. But it's steady work, Annie, and you're pulling down eight bills a week. Most young actors, be honest, they'd ride that train for as long as they could."