A Talent for Murder (2 page)

Placenta added, “Your pigheadedness is why Jamie Lee Curtis won’t play Scrabble with you anymore. There’s no such word as
glurge
!”

The great room was quiet for a long moment. Polly, Tim, and Placenta thought about the phenomenon known as “reality shows.” With the airing of every new program, Z-list celebrities were instantly created. They achieved quickly fleeting fame for doing things as brainless as dating a dweeb or having Tyra Banks judge how well they performed bikini waxes.

Will my conscience allow me to encourage vain acts of hedonism such as fashion and grooming? Polly thought.

Polly Pepper sparring with cranky judges is likely to make the show a watercooler hit! Placenta considered.

I’d better take ballroom dance lessons in case I run into one of the studs from Dancing with the Stars, Tim daydreamed.

Their reverie was shattered by the sound of the telephone ringing. “Oh, let the machine pick up,” Polly moaned. “I’m not in the mood to negotiate with J.J.”

The trio listened. “Honeybabycookiesweetie! It’s Phil. Just heard about your new job offer! Listen. I’m awaiting a new trial. I suppose you’ve heard about that dead wannabe actress playing with my shotgun. Nobody believes that she was cleaning it… with her tongue. I’m a rotten judge of women, but I still have a darn good sixth sense about talent. So if you decide not to do the show, please put in a word for me.
Ciao, bella
!”

“Oh Lord,” Polly snorted. “Next we’ll be hearing from Bobby Blake!”

Again, the telephone rang.

As the elevator doors opened onto the foyer of J. J. Norton and Associates, Polly Pepper threw out her arms and sang in her powerful imitation of Ethel Merman, “There’s no business like show business …!” With Tim and Placenta in tow, she confidently walked across the blond hardwood floor to the reception desk. “You’re new.” She smiled at a young man wearing tortoiseshell eyeglasses, a white oxford cloth button-down dress shirt, and a conservative striped tie.

He was startled by Polly’s sudden appearance.

“This place is like Oz,” Polly said. “People come and go so quickly here.”

“My agency offered me combat pay if I could last until Friday,” the receptionist admitted.

Polly reached out and caressed the young man’s smooth cheek with her hand. “Poor baby,” she cooed. “J.J. can be a beast. The only way for a boy of your angelic beauty to survive is to … Well, never mind. You’re safe as long as you sneeze a lot.”

“And make a point of scratching as if you itch all over,” Placenta added.

Polly turned to Tim. “Don’t you think so too, dear? Isn’t he adorable?”

“Absolutely,” Tim said, appraising their host.

“What’s your name, dear?” Polly asked, holding out her hand to shake.

“I’m not supposed to give out my name or become friendly with clients,” the young man said, looking around to make sure that he wasn’t being observed interacting
with guests. “Mr. Norton is very strict. I had to sign a confidentiality agreement and swear that when I leave each day I’ll forget all the celebrities who may have come to the office.”

Polly rolled her eyes. “One can never forget
moi
, dear,” she said. “As you know, I’m—”

“Polly Pepper!” the receptionist said.

“He’s smart, too!” Polly said, looking at Tim. “This pet you can take home and keep.”

“You’re younger than Mr. Norton described you,” the receptionist said.

Polly blanched.

“Take a deep breath,” Placenta coaxed, as she patted Polly on the back. “Reel yourself in, honey. Don’t succumb to J.J.-bashing in public.”

Polly found the breath to speak. “Where is dear Mr. Congeniality, anyway? We have a luncheon appointment.”

“He had an emergency meeting with a potential new client,” the receptionist said.

“Potential?”
Placenta tsk-tsked.

“The Best Western down the street again?” Tim sniggered.

“His usual room?” Polly suggested.

“Mr. Norton wanted me to personally hand this envelope to you,” the receptionist said.

“J.J. didn’t have the decency to call before I had to battle midday traffic to get here,” Polly said, trying not to sound too perturbed. “What’s in the package?”

Everybody watched as Polly opened the large manila envelope and withdrew what appeared to be a script.
“I’ll Do Anything to Become Famous
,” she read from the cover page. “I thought these programs weren’t scripted.” Polly flipped through the pages and discovered that it
was a breakdown of the show, complete with bios of the contestants and judges. There were suggested words and body language to use when evaluating a particularly pitiful performance. Polly looked aghast. “I can’t say such things to those poor sweet and probably embarrassed innocents.”

The receptionist looked around the foyer again for eavesdroppers. “I could get fired on the spot for this. But since I Googled you this morning and remembered you’re the star my grandparents used to love, I’ll take a chance.”

“Grandparents?” Polly raised an eyebrow. “How old are you?” She and Tim and Placenta leaned in closer as the receptionist whispered, “If it’s any indication of what you’re in for, the FBI used the casting call as a sting operation to round up a horde of fugitives. They got a whole lot of criminals who responded to the
Craigslist
ad that called for contestants who would be willing to do anything, and it stressed
anything
, to become famous. Also, the six who were selected had to go through a mental evaluation to make sure they aren’t dangerous to the judges.”

Polly swallowed hard. She then straightened her posture, squared her shoulders, and pasted a smile on her face. “Sweetums, the moment that Mr. Norton returns from his emergency
mating
, would you please tell him to ring me? Contract or not, there are still a few things to hammer out. It was lovely meeting you. Good luck with your combat pay.”

As Polly turned to leave, the receptionist called out, “Please don’t tell Mr. Norton that I spoke to you!”

“My lips are sealed. And tell your
grandparents
that Polly Pepper sends kisses.”

“They’re dead.”

“That happens a lot.”

When the elevator car arrived, the trio stepped in and Tim pushed the button for subterranean parking. As they dropped through the shaft, Polly clutched the show material to her chest and silently stared at the digital readout as they passed each floor. It was only when Tim was driving his mother’s Park Ward Rolls-Royce down Sunset Boulevard toward Beverly Hills, with Polly and Placenta buckled into their seats behind him, that Polly emerged from her silence. She retrieved the synopsis of the show and began to read aloud:

“‘A fusion of
American Idol, Celebrity Detox
, and
The Miss America Pageant, I’ll Do Anything to Become Famous
is a high-octane laser light show of a talent competition program with one major difference from others in this genre glut. While contestants are encouraged to give the best artistic performance, they also have to convince the judges and the voting television viewing audience that they understand that talent isn’t enough. To be a success in Hollywood, one must be as nefarious as Glenn Close on
Damages
. They’ll have to literally do as the title of the show suggests
—anything
—in order to become the next Dina Lohan, Denise Richards, or the Geiko gecko.

“‘When each week’s remaining wannabes reach the interview segment of the program, the judges pose
Truth or Dare-like
questions about celebrity ethics and morality. The answers and the lengths to which each contender says he/she would go to become a star will help decide the ultimate winner.’

“My stars!” Polly sighed. “This is
America’s Got Talent
for the Menendez brothers!”

Tim looked back at his mother through the rearview mirror. She was lost in a fog of thought. Then he looked at Placenta, who was beaming. “Why the smile?” Tim asked.

“‘Cause this show is going to be a hit!” Placenta said. “Who wants to see boring singers and dancers with nothing more on their mind other than emulating whoever is on top at the moment? This show’ll give the public a look at how mean and cunning some people are. I hope it gets nasty. Every looky-loo loves a train wreck!”

“It’ll be a lot harder to be the ‘nice’ judge if the contestants are undisciplined thugs,” Polly countered. “I don’t want to jeopardize my public’s opinion of me! I can’t let happen to me what happened to Bing Crosby’s widow. One appearance on Johnny Carson and poof, she was instantly recognized as not so grieving.”

“Who are the contestants?” Tim asked.

Polly riffled through the papers for the bios. “These are more like personality evaluations. Yikes! Listen to this: ‘Ped-Xing: A surly self-absorbed rapper thug. Short on vocal agility but long on intimidation. Observed during auditions bullying others and sharing body-piercing horror stories. A-plus among the three thousand applicants.’ “

Placenta cackled. “Would one call him ‘Ped’ or ‘Mr. Xing’? I’ll never understand the crazy names these so-called artists make up for themselves! ‘50 Cent, Pitbull, Bow Wow,’ indeed!”

“‘Amy Stout’,” Polly continued. “‘A Miley Cyrus clone. Southern drawl that comes and goes like the color of a mood ring. Has at least two faces: Ellen De-Generes fun, and Lily Tomlin caught in an
I Heart Huckabees
soundstage snit, when she doesn’t get her way. Disingenuous, but has a lovely voice.’

“Another A-plus score,” Polly noted. “And how rude of them to bring up my darling Lily’s little diatribe on that movie set. She wouldn’t have been so nasty if she’d known that some meany was videotaping her tantrum for an axe-grinding broadcast. Poor baby!”

Tim smiled. “She’s always been nice to me. But I still have fun watching her meltdown! Pretty scary stuff. Like Bill O’Reilly!”

“Who are the other Antichrists on the show?” Placenta asked.

“Um, let’s see. Oh, here’s one. Miranda Washington. ‘Strong and cultivated voice, reminiscent of Broadway legends.’ Finally, someone with talent!” Polly read on. “‘Contestant is more likely to become a maximum-security penitentiary guard than a recording star. Audition interview responses often peppered with colorful expletives. Be prepared to bleep during broadcasts. A-plus’.”

Tim drove past UCLA and approached the Bel Air gates. “This show is
Jerry Springer
meets
Sweeney Todd
. Who are the other judges?”

Polly shuffled through a few more pages. She stopped and smiled brightly. “Me!” she said. “My standard bio. Nice to see it’s been updated to include my Ovation Award nomination for last year’s production of
Mame.”

“The other judges?” Tim prodded.

“Nobodies,” Polly said, skimming the pages. “Or at least not somebodies. A Brian Smith. It says he was once a Pip, dancing behind my eternal love, Gladys Knight. The other is someone named Cornwall. Thane Cornwall.”

“Thane Cornwall?” Tim and Placenta simultaneously barked.

“Not ‘The Royal Pain of England’!” Placenta said.

“‘The Terror From the Thames’!”

“ ‘The Nut Job of Nottingham’?”

Polly was incredulous. “Terror? Nut job? Who is this creep?”

Tim sighed. “You do too know Thane Cornwall!”

“Not even if you put a gun to my temple.”

Placenta prompted, “Made Barbara Walters cry on her network interview special last year.”

“Where was I that night?”

“He’s considered almost as venomous as that rabid rodent Ann Coulter. Famous for his put-down phrase, ‘From which medical research lab did you escape, monkey moron?’“ Tim said.

Polly bit her lower lip. “I do seem to remember reading something in the
National Peeper
. “He’s that actor whowife for a
—”

“Yep!” Tim said, anticipating his mother’s recall.

“—put his fist through his dressing room wall in a London theater just because the air-conditioning wasn’t cold enough,” Polly said.

“No! Well, yes, but that’s not what he’s most noted for,” Tim countered. “Don’t you remember? Before Thane Cornwall became famous, he was living off a very rich wife. He was often seen insulting her in public. And the tabloids said that he neglected her privately.”

“Didn’t two of his wife’s lovers go missing?” Polly asked.

“According to the
Peeper
, Scotland Yard couldn’t prove foul play,” Placenta added, “but those two guys have never been heard from again.”

“Could be that they just moved on to other people,” Polly said.

“Sure,” Tim conceded. “But I’ve heard that Thane left England because the whole country thinks that each time he found out that his wife was playing around, he got rid of the Lotharios to ensure that he didn’t lose his meal ticket.”

“The irony,” Placenta said, “is that as soon as Thane became rich and famous himself, he traded in the starter
wife for a supermodel he’d been boinking for years. Then she dumped him.”

Polly exhaled loudly and shook her head. “I’ll have no problem being the ‘nice’ judge compared to a guy who needs anger management classes, and probably a healing purple pill!”

W
hen Polly, Tim, and Placenta arrived for the first
I’ll Do Anything to Become Famous
production meeting, the conference room in the Writers Building on the Sterling Studio’s lot was already crowded with network executives and the show’s judging panel.

Standing in the doorway and posing as if she were on a red carpet entertaining paparazzi, Polly made her entrance. With her hands on her hips, her head tilted up at a forty-five-degree angle, and her camera-ready smile beaming toward Jupiter, Polly sang out, “I’m hee-er!” All eyes instantly focused on the lady in the red Armani pantsuit.

Polly was effulgent. However, when she spied an impossibly handsome twenty-something young man occupying the chair at the head of the conference table, she suddenly felt like an ugly stepsister sentenced to the plus-size dress department at Neiman’s. Polly swallowed hard, as the poster boy for human genetic engineering stood and offered a wide and enthusiastic smile. “You’re the famous Polly Pepper. I’d recognize you anywhere.”