Star Island

  The inability to cash in on Jackson's death had scarred Bang Abbott, and he resolved not to miss out the next time. Of all the stars who were crashing and burning, Cherry Pye seemed most likely to beat the others to the grave, and for that reason she'd become a focus of Bang Abbott's morbid scrutiny. Although she was neither as global nor as gifted as Jackson, she was a wild, hot babe and would therefore, in his view, be worth plenty of money dead.

  In the meantime, he had bills to pay. As soon as he walked off the flight from Miami, he checked his BlackBerry for overnight messages. A valet from the Peninsula had called to say Katie Holmes was table-dancing in the bar. Next a dry cleaner in Westwood had phoned to say Johnny Depp had personally dropped off a cummerbund for laundering. Then a waitress at Hugo's had breathlessly reported an unpleasant encounter with Star Jones, involving a decaf triple latte.

  Only the Katie sighting sparked any interest from Bang Abbott, and he suspected the tip wasn't true; the source was so hopelessly nearsighted that he'd once mistaken Lyle Lovett for Anjelica Huston.

  Bang Abbott deleted the messages and headed for Holmby Hills, the manored enclave between Bel Air and Beverly Hills where Michael Jackson had taken the big sleep. Cherry Pye was renting a house with eight bedrooms, six baths, a gym with a sauna, a billiards room and a mushroom cellar. The photographer knew this because he'd called up the rental agent and pretended to be interested in buying the place.

  As always, he stopped his car halfway down the block. The Mercedes sedan was an expensive lease for a paparazzo but worth every dollar, for it allowed Bang Abbott to park practically anywhere. Cops in the neighborhood were reluctant to tow an S-Class, fearing it might belong to some Hollywood big shot who'd call up the chief and raise hell.

  Bang Abbott took out one of his Nikons, locked the car and strolled down to the foot of Cherry's driveway. He was alone on the hunt, which was often the case these days. So many younger starlets were unraveling in sensational ways that the tabloids had to scramble to keep up. Consequently, a picture of Cherry Pye on a party spree wasn't as valuable as it once had been, and no longer a lock for the front page. It was a fact that Bang Abbott refused to dwell upon. The new CD and concert tour would boost her back to the A-list, he was certain. When the rabid wolf pack of his peers returned to the chase, Bang Abbott would be miles ahead of it.

  He squatted down to wait in the shade of a ficus hedge. Technically he was trespassing, so he kept alert for police cruisers. An hour passed with nobody coming or going, yet he remained patient. If Cherry wasn't inside the house then she was probably on her way. He wondered if Lev had been telling the truth about getting canned--if so, Cherry's handlers would be hiring a new bodyguard. With a little luck, the man would be more ethically flexible than Lev.

  When a dirty white Land Cruiser pulled up in front of Cherry's house, Bang Abbott rose slowly to his feet. The driver rolled down the window and said, "You're kiddin' me, right?"

  It was another shooter. His name was Teddy Loo, and his biggest score was one of the Britney beaver pics. Bang Abbott flipped him the finger and told him to get lost.

  "If I wasn't such a goddamn humanitarian, I wouldn't have stopped," said Teddy Loo. "I woulda let you sit out here all day and rot like a turd in the sun."

  "What're you talkin' about?"

  "You missed her, dog. She checked into Rainbow Bend about an hour ago."

  "Nice try," Bang Abbott said.

  "I shit you not. I got the pictures."

  "No way. Who tipped you off?"

  Teddy Loo laughed. "Nobody, dude. I was up there chasin' some rock drummer who's discovered the joys of smack. Got a call the guy might be breakin' out of rehab, y'know, so I took a ride and parked in the usual spot. Then, who pulls up in her vanilla-cream Beemer but Cherry and her old lady! No muscle or nuthin, just the two of 'em."

  Bang Abbott felt sick. "You sure it was her?" he asked, thinking of the decoy. "Lemme see the shots, Teddy."

  "Dog, you got beat. It happens."

  "I don't believe you."

  With a pitiful sigh, Teddy Loo shook his head. He took out his camera and beckoned to Bang Abbott, who approached the Land Cruiser as if it were a rancid Dumpster. Over Teddy Loo's shoulder he watched a sequence of pictures flash across the camera's viewfinder, and he felt the iron weight of despair.

  The young woman being hustled into the Rainbow Bend Hope & Wellness Center was definitely Cherry Pye, not an imposter. Teddy Loo had caught her groping in her handbag for a pair of sunglasses. Much to Bang Abbott's misery, Teddy's close-ups were sharply focused, and Cherry's stunning green eyes were unmistakable. She was wearing jeans and a black surf hoodie. As usual, her mother was dressed for a hotel tennis lesson.

  "Don't hate me," said Teddy Loo, grinning. He put his camera away. "You want a lift to your car?"

  Bang Abbott said no thanks. He tried to calm himself with soothing thoughts. He remembered the time that one of Michael Jackson's security goons drove a full-sized Hummer over both of Teddy Loo's feet at the gates of the Neverland Ranch. He remembered Teddy Loo crawling around the pavement and yipping like a crippled hyena while Jacko's gloved hand waved serenely from a window of the departing vehicle. It was classic.

  "Teddy, I don't hate you," Bang Abbott said. "You lucked out today, is all. Some days it's better to be lucky than good."

  "I feel sorry for you, dog."

  "Ha! Don't."

  "You know who just bought that house at the end of the street? The one with the stone gate?"

  "Yeah. Kiefer Sutherland," said Bang Abbott.

  Teddy Loo hooted. "See, that's what I mean, you're like two years behind. Sutherland sold the place to Sandra Bullock and then she sold to Paula Abdul."

  "And that's where you're going now? To shoot her?"

  "I got a tip she walks her pug every Wednesday at noon sharp. You wanna come?"

  "That's great, Teddy, except I wouldn't waste a frame on Paula Abdul if she set her hair on fire at the goddamn Ivy. Second, it's not even Wednesday, you fucking moron."

  Bang Abbott stalked back to his car. He was steaming all the way to Malibu.

  4

  Ann DeLusia was surprised not to wake up in a hospital. Instead she was lying in a car, which she assumed to be the crashed Mustang. Then her vision cleared and she saw that the automobile was old and rusted, and the interior had been stripped bare, and that she was in the custody of a stranger.

  The man stuck his head through an open window and told her to be still.

  "You had a big night," he said.

  Ann nodded, staring. The stranger had to be well into his sixties, with crinkled skin as brown as cured leather. He had one gleaming eye, and a cracked fake that sat somewhat at odds with the form of its socket. On his bald pate he wore a flimsy diaphanous shower cap from which protruded two silvery braids, each strung with red and green shotgun shells. Ann noticed that the caps of the shells had been drilled out so that the hair could be threaded.

  The braids weren't growing from the back of the stranger's head like regulation pigtails; rather, they appeared to sprout sideways at conflicting angles from his baked scalp. The plaited roots were visible through the shower cap, several inches above each ear. It was a nifty grunge look, although Ann doubted that was the stranger's intended effect.

  "You're the guy in the middle of the road," she said through a swollen lip.

  "My hip locked up." His voice was deep and rolling.

  "Least I didn't hit you."

  "You have superior reflexes," he said.

  "How bad am I hurt?"

  "No broken bones but a few bruises. I had to cut you out of the seat belt," the stranger said, making a snipping motion with his fingers. Then he disappeared from view.

  When Ann sat up, she felt sore and dizzy. She wondered how the homeless man could be certain she hadn't fractured anything, unless he'd been an orthopedist back in the productive phase of his life. It was creepy to think of him examining her while she was unconscious.

&nb
sp; He came back with a mug of hot tea. "Homemade," he said. "Local herb."

  "I hurt all over."

  "Understandable." With one arm the man lifted her from the car and carried her to a blanket near a campfire. He propped her upright and helped her sip the tea. She saw that he was garbed in a crusty old trench coat and black high-top sneakers with no socks. Possibly she had the worst headache in the history of humanity.

  "Is that a real race car?" she asked, looking back at the peeling hulk. The sides were plastered with faded decals, and the number 77 was still visible on the hood and sides. She said, "That's pretty cool. Where'd you get it?"

  "Jiffy Lube 300," the stranger said.

  "Were you a driver or something?"

  The stranger seemed to think the question was quite humorous. It dawned on Ann that he was very tall, probably too tall to fit inside a racing car.

  He turned away, tending to a frying pan that was sizzling over the fire.

  "Have I been here all night?" she asked.

  "Correct."

  "Didn't you call an ambulance?"

  "No phone, Ann," the stranger said.

  She saw that her purse and travel bag had been placed on the rust-pocked hood of the race car. Obviously the man had gone through her belongings or he wouldn't have known her name. She wondered why he hadn't used her cell phone to call for help.

  "Do you know somebody with a car that works? Can you get me to a doctor?"

  "Let's have some breakfast and map out a plan."

  "Okay, sure." Ann realized she was famished. "Something smells good."

  "Crocodile," the stranger said.

  She managed a smile, playing along. "Mmm, my favorite."

  "That's what I was taking off the road last night when you almost flattened me. Just a little fella, barely four foot. A FedEx van clipped him, guy never even touched the brakes."

  "Actually, I'm not all that hungry," said Ann.

  The man explained that it was technically illegal to eat a North American crocodile because the species was federally protected. "But it's a goddamn sin to waste good meat," he said. "You can write that down as a natural law, young lady--never waste good meat."

  "There's some aspirin in my purse," Ann said.

  "Of course."

  "And a phone, too."

  He returned with only the bottle of Bayer, tapping three tablets into her palm. She downed them at once and said, "I should really see a doctor."

  "Some call me Skink," the man said. "Or captain. All depends."

  "Do you live out here?"

  "Your car sunk--I take full responsibility. Here, try some."

  The chunks of croc tail tasted all right, Ann discovered. Like overcooked fish.

  "I thought I crashed in some trees," she said.

  "Blasted straight through 'em, like a rocket ship," said the man. "Landed upside down in a crick."

  "Holy shit." Ann shivered, thinking about how close she must have come to drowning. However, it seemed odd that her clothes and bags weren't damp. "Please get me to a doctor," she said.

  "You're going to be fine." His smile caught her off guard. For a homeless dude he had unbelievable teeth, so white and straight; a complete set, too.

  He said, "Here's the situation, Ms. Ann DeLusia. I can't let you go right now."

  "What?" She thought she must have misheard him.

  "I need your help with a project," he said.

  She put down the plate. "Captain, stop. You're freaking me out."

  "When this is over, I'll arrange speedy transit--that's a promise," he told her. "But for a while, you'll have to stay here with me."

  Ann's hands were shaking. "Jesus, are you nuts? That's kidnapping!"

  "Truly I regret the inconvenience," said the man called Skink. "How about some fried bananas?"

  The drummer for the Poon Pilots was Methane Drudge. He refused to admit it was not his baptismal name. The group leader gently chastised him, saying, "We're not going to make much progress unless you choose the path of self-honesty."

  "Yeah, well, you can choose the long hairy path up my ass. How's that?" said Methane Drudge.

  Cherry Pye rolled her eyes, thinking: Another low-rent rocker, covered with cheap Venice ink. How boring. Booorrrr-ing.

  The group leader pressed on. "Methane, you came to Rainbow Bend voluntarily, like everybody else in this room. You signed a pledge to try this our way, remember?"

  Methane laughed hoarsely. "Dude, I was totally baked on China white. I woulda signed a pawn slip for my thirteen-year-old sister."

  "Asshole," Cherry said. This was why she never slept with drummers or bass players.

  It was a small group, only six patients and the therapist. Cherry recognized some of the other addicts from her previous rehabs. One young woman was almost as famous as she was, owing to a co-starring role on a popular cable sitcom. The woman played the perpetually horny neighbor of a beleaguered single mom who was working her way through dental school.

  The group leader said, "Recovery depends on knowing ourselves completely, and we can't know who we truly are unless we shed our disguises. That's why we use only our real names here at Rainbow Bend. We'll come back to Methane later in the discussion. Cheryl, would you like to share?"

  "Not really." Cherry detested being called Cheryl.

  "Please," the group leader said. He was new to the clinic. For being such a high-end nuthouse, Rainbow Bend had a serious problem with staff turnover. Apparently it was difficult finding counselors at any salary who could tolerate a clientele of spoiled show-business fuckups.

  "Cheryl, please get us started," the group leader prodded again.

  "Yeah, whatever." Cherry had gone through the drill dozens of times, but still she would have killed for a cigarette. "Okay, so, things are goin' supergood. I got a new CD coming out in a few weeks, which is incredibly hot. It's called Skantily Klad, with all k's, and I'm doin', like, a hundred-city tour. Plus I had a walk-on for Kid Rock last month in Vegas, and he is so smokin'. And what else--okay, I've probably been partyin' a little too hard, on account of all the pressure. Tryin' to finish the album, you know, plus gettin' ready for the road. There's, like, eighteen songs to learn and they're all different. Plus I hadda fire two of the backup singers because they weren't givin' me my righteous space, y'know. They had, like, zero respect. So I had to cut those bitches loose and audition some new ones--"

  "Excuse me, Cheryl," the group leader interrupted. "Can you rewind and talk a little more about the partying?"

  Methane clapped his tattooed hands. "Yesssss! We wanna hear it all."

  Cherry Pye fidgeted in her chair. "Same old shit. I get with certain people, y'know, then it's back to the evil old ways. You guys can relate, right?"

  All the other patients nodded knowingly, except for Methane, who was slapping his kneecaps with both hands, keeping the beat to a song that only he could hear.

  The group leader said, "Does it always start with the alcohol, Cheryl?"

  "Nah. Whatever's on the table."

  "So you don't have a particular drug of choice."

  Cherry shook her head. "I go with the flow. It's all good."

  "But the results aren't so good, are they?" the group leader said. "That's how you wound up here."

  "Hey. You don't know what it's like to be me."

  Methane groaned. "Now she's poachin' from Tom Petty. Gimme a fuckin' break."

  "Don't be such a dick," Cherry told him.

  The group leader thanked her for sharing and said, "Who wants to go next?"

  "But I'm not done," Cherry complained.

  "We have to make time for everybody."

  "Yo, she can have my goddamn turn," Methane volunteered.

  "Cool," Cherry said. Then, re-addressing the group: "I just had one more thing to say: I'm gonna change my name to Cherish."

  "Cherish what?" the sitcom actress asked.

  "Just Cherish. One word. I picked it because it sounds, like, totally pure."

  The group le
ader clucked disapprovingly. "Cheryl, you're just creating another facade to hide behind. That's not a path to self-honesty."

  "Let's take a vote," she said. "Everybody in favor of Cherish raise your hand."

  "Hold on--there's no voting in therapy!" the group leader protested.

  Four of the five other patients raised their hands. Only Methane Drudge voted no. He said Cherish was bogus. He said it sounded like a brand of lame perfume. Cherry ignored the comment.

  "I'm also thinking of getting bigger boobs," she told the group.

  This time the vote was 4-0 against. Everybody except Methane Drudge said Cherry's current boobs were lovely. The drummer abstained, insisting he had to see them in the flesh before he made up his mind.

  "Pervo," Cherry muttered, folding her arms.

  The group leader rose, plainly annoyed by the shift in the discussion. "Break time," he said curtly, and walked out.

  Rainbow Bend had a shady serenity garden surrounded by ivy-covered walls. Cherry found a patch of sunlight and sat down cross-legged in the soft grass. Methane walked up and offered her a Camel. The smoke irritated her throat, which was still raw from the Miami vomitfest. Methane asked how many times she'd been rehabbed and she said four, counting this one.

  "It's all a bunch of horseshit," he said.

  Cherry laughed acidly. "Ya think?"

  "What would they do if you said fuck it and then bailed?"

  "I dunno. Bill my manager for the whole week?"

  Methane said, "Hell, I'm supposed to be stuck in this hog farm for thirty days. There ain't no way."