Hollywood Scandals (9 page)

“
So, what do you do when you’re home alone? Ever spend time online, maybe trying out new programs?” Like Audio Cloak?

She turned away, flipping her hair over one shoulder. “I don’t own a computer.”

I froze. Then blinked at her. “Wait - you don’t own a computer? Seriously? Even African tribesmen own computers these days.”

Again she did the would-be-frown pucker. “They’re trappings of a digitized society. Modern technology is only serving to distance us from the reality of living. I prefer real human interaction. I’m an artist.”

Okay, her plastic surgeon was an artist; Katie was just a movie star.

Unfortunately, she was a movie star who couldn’t possibly be my mystery caller.

Stifling a wave of disappointment, I shoved the dog-eared
Cosmo
back in the rack and slid off my seat just as Fernando approached.

“
Well, great to meet you. Can’t wait for your next pic,” I called as I walked away.

Though I’m not sure it even registered. Katie was once again enthralled with her own reflection as Fernando appeared to fluff her hair into Rapunzel-worthy waves.

Cal followed a beat behind me. “So much for our starlet,” he mumbled.

“
Well, one down, three to go,” I shot back, making my way back toward Marco’s Camelot desk.

“
Sorry, doll,” Marco said, shrugging his slim shoulders as I approached. “I held him off as long as I could.”

“
That’s okay,” I reassured him. “You did great.”

“
Oh, but I’ll call you tomorrow. The Lohan’s coming in for a cut and color and you know there’ll be dirt.” Marco gave me a wink.

“
That’s my boy. Hey, check your inbox for payment later.”

I gave him a wink, as we exited the salon.

I felt Cal shaking his head beside me.

“
What?” I asked.

“
I just can’t believe there are so many people willing to sell secrets to you. You ever think of working for the CIA?”

I grinned, soaking up the compliment. Even if it wasn’t intended as one. “Thanks. But, you know, not all of them do it for money.”

“
Oh?”

“
For some it’s revenge. Some it’s a feeling of importance. Others just like to see their quotes in print.”

Cal gestured back at the salon as he beeped his Hummer open. “So, what’s Marco’s story? He squeal for cash?”

I laughed. “Marco? Heck no.” I looked back at my flamboyant friend. “He’s much easier than that. As long as I send him the weekly Clay Aiken update, Marco’s a happy camper.”

Chapter Six

“
Alright, so who’s next on our list?” Cal asked as he pulled into traffic.

“
Jennifer Wood.”

“
Tell me about her.”

Mental forehead smack. “You don’t know who Jennifer Wood is?”

Cal shot me a look over the rim of his sunglasses. “Humor me.”

“
Fine. Jennifer Wood was a pint-sized singing sensation in her hometown, winning the local cable access reality show
Sheboygan’s Got Talent
at the age of ten. At twelve she went national with her first recording contract, at fifteen her own TV show which exploded onto the tween scene and has been going strong ever since. The girl’s got her face plastered on anything and everything an eight-year-old girl could want.”

“
So, she’s a kid actress?”

“
Correction,” I said. “She
plays
a kid actress. Her character, Pippi Mississippi, is thirteen. In real life, Jennifer just turned eighteen.”

Cal raised an eyebrow my way. “They grow up so fast. So, what’s she been mentioned in your column for?”

“
The usual. Drinking. Drugs. Partying. Flashed her boobs at the cameras two weeks ago as she was getting into her limo.”

“
May I never have a daughter. Alright, let’s go talk to America’s sweetheart.”

“
Great. But first,” I said, glancing down at the clock on his dash, “lunch. I’m starving. Wanna hit a drive-thru?”

Cal gave me a sideways look. “You know, that fast-food stuff will kill you.”

“
So will global warming,” I countered, giving his Hummer a pointed look. “Oh, look, there’s an In ‘n’ Out Burger!” I pointed to my favorite fast food joint a block up on the right.

He made a sort of clucking sound in the back of his throat, but, thank God, pulled into the parking lot anyway. I ordered a double double with grilled onions, fries and a shake. Cal ordered a grilled cheese with no mayo and water.

“
What’s with the girly food?” I asked around a big, mouth-watering bite of burger. A little ketchup oozed onto my chin, and I grabbed a paper napkin.

“’
Girly food?’” he asked. “Isn’t that a little un-PC for a feminist like yourself?”

I shrugged. “I’m a fair-weather feminist.”

“
Hmm. I don’t eat beef.”

“
Why not? It’s yummy.”

He shrugged. “I care about what I put in my body. Most meat is full of hormones, antibiotics, ecoli. Even trace amounts of fecal matter.”

I looked down at my burger. “Fecal matter? As in…”

“
Poop.” He popped one of my fries in his mouth.

“
You’re kidding right?”

He shook his head. “Nope. It’s the way the animals are slaughtered. Generally their bowels are still full when they’re killed. It’s actually incredibly tricky to cut the colon and intestines away from the animal without spilling any of the contents. Cross contamination happens all the time.”

I set my burger down, feeling that last bite stick in my throat. “That is sick.”

“
That
is why I don’t eat beef.”

I picked up my shake, trying to wash down the possibly contaminated double double with strawberry goodness.

“
So,” Cal said, snaking another fry, “where can we find this party girl of yours?”

I tossed my burger into the trash bin to the right. “
Pippi Mississippi
shoots Monday through Friday. She’ll be at Sunset Studios. The only tricky part,” I added with a grin, “is getting on the lot.”

“
Why do I have the feeling you enjoy this sort of challenge?” Cal downed the rest of his water and tossed the cup into the trash.

I felt my grin widen. “Watch and learn, grasshopper.” I slipped my cell out of my Strawberry Shortcake purse as we walked back to his car. Three rings later, Max’s voice croaked on the other end.

“
Beacon,” he said by way of greeting.

“
Hey, Max, it’s me. Listen, I have a favor to ask. Any Hollywood old timers depart this cruel world today?”

I heard Max shuffling papers. “Three. Why?”

“
Got names?”

More shuffling. “Frank Jones, did animation with Disney, stroke. Elliot Shiff, ran camera on a couple Monroe flicks, pancreatic cancer. And…”

I held my breath.

“…
Betty Johnson, did makeup for Lucille Ball, lung cancer.”

Bingo.

“
Thanks, Max!” I called, quickly hanging up and dialing a new number as I hopped into Cal’s Hummer. He gave me a sidelong glance but knew better than to ask.

I waited two rings before someone on the other end picked up.

“
Front gate, David speaking.”

I dropped into my lowest register and did my best to channel Mrs. Carmichael’s smoker voice. “This is Betty Johnson in Studio Seven. I have my assistants coming in and I’d like their names on the list, please.”

David paused and I could hear him checking his computer. “Betty Johnson?”

“
Makeup artist.”

David did a few more clicks, checking out my story. I mentally crossed my fingers that news of Betty’s demise hadn’t hit the studios yet. Finally, the guard piped up in my ear again, “Your assistants’ names, Ms. Johnson?”

“
Tina Bender and Calvin Dean.”

“
They’ll be on the list, just have them come to the south entrance.”

“
Thank you, David,” I said, before snapping my phone shut with a click of satisfaction.

I looked up to find Cal shaking his head at me.

“
What?”

“
Do you ever tell the truth?”

“
Once. In fourth grade. It was overrated.”

“
I’m serious. You’re beginning to worry me,” he said as he pulled into traffic.

“
Yeah, like you’re honest
all
the time.”

“
I try to be.”

“
Seriously? You never tell your girlfriend she looks hot in that unflattering dress?”

“
I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“
You never called in sick to work when really you were heading to the Lakers game?”

“
Self employed.”

“
Not once have you ever told your mother that her dried-out Sunday meatloaf was culinary perfection?”

“
Don’t eat beef, remember?”

I slouched in my seat, conceding defeat. “You’re no fun.”

Cal gave me a lopsided grin, his eyes taking on a devilish glint over the rim of his sunglasses. “Oh, trust me, I can be plenty of fun.”

The way my cheeks suddenly filled with heat, I totally believed him. I’m sure there were stick-figure bimbos all over Hollywood who had swooned under that very same grin.

I quickly looked away, clearing my throat. “Well, when we get to the studio, just leave the talking to me, okay, Honest Abe?”

“
You got it, boss.”

* * *

Sunset Studios was like a miniature city plunked down in the middle of Hollywood and enclosed by a ten-foot-high brick wall. Outside the gates, panhandlers, men wearing five coats and pushing shopping carts and ladies of the evening (or in our case, afternoon… somehow even worse) stood at every corner. Inside, the place was so clean and wholesome looking, it fairly sparkled. Which was a sure sign 99% of it was fake.

Cement warehouse buildings squatted down one side of the studio, housing the sound stages of hit TV shows, while the other half of the lot was filled with building facades for movie locations. A New York street, complete with brownstones and subway stairs that led to nowhere. A dusty main street in the Old West, complete with hitching posts. A quaint, tree-lined suburban street where you expected the Beaver to pop his freckled little face out of a tree-house at any second. And through it all a tram full of tourists being given the Sunset Studios tour snapped pictures of every lamppost, mailbox, and production assistant on a coffee run.

Beyond the side gate was a small parking lot where Cal and I traded our gas guzzler for a small white golf cart - the studio’s main mode of transportation. Cal took the wheel and quickly navigated our way through the sound stages until we found one with a huge pink “Pippi Mississippi” sign tacked to the front. Cal parked behind a wardrobe trailer and led the way inside.

The interior of the warehouse was dark, and I took a moment to let my eyes adjust to the change. The place was a maze of ropes, cables, and electronic equipment, all leading to a series of strategically placed sets that looked like oversized dioramas. I spotted the hallway of Pippi’s junior high, her prissy pink bedroom, and the video arcade where she and her girlfriend hung out after school, the latter a buzz of activity as grips positioned lights, sound guys adjusted mics, someone lifted a camera onto a moving track, and no less than three women in overalls fluffed, primped, and powdered the blonde in the center - Jennifer Wood.

Beside her stood her two co-stars: a redhead whose name I couldn’t remember, and a brunette I recognized as being in the backseat of Jennifer’s limo with her when the infamous boob shot had been taken. Lani Cline, reportedly Jennifer’s best friend.

“
That her?” Cal asked, stabbing a finger toward Jennifer.

I nodded.

“
We need her alone. Got any ideas?”

I shrugged. “Give me a minute.”

“
Back to one, everyone,” shouted the director, an overweight guy with glasses and a nose that could rival Dumbo’s. The crew scurried off the stage like cats being doused with a hose. Jennifer walked to a spot on the floor marked with an “X” in blue electrical tape, her co-stars a step behind her.

“
Speed.”

A guy with a black clapboard stood in front of the camera, then dropped the little arm, marking the tape.

“
And… rolling!” the director shouted.

A bell went off somewhere, and silence hit the set, all eyes on Jennifer.

“
Chloe, I can’t believe you told Ryan about my diary,” she said to the brunette.

“
I’m so sorry, Pippi! But I didn’t know he’d read it to the whole school.”

“
Now no one will ask me to the spring dance. I might as well be- God, Lani, you’re doing it again!”

“
Cut!” the director yelled. He slipped off his canvas chair with a groan, slowly ambling up to his star. “Jennifer. Sweetie. What is it now?”