The Big Bamboo (2 page)

The latest about-face came during a Sunset Strip altercation in the trendy Viper Room, where a melee broke out during a private party thrown to celebrate the star couple’s reconciliation. The exact order of events is unclear, but witnesses generally concur Passious sparked the donnybrook by flirting with archrival boy-band singer Frankie Flatone. Before anyone realized what was happening, Passious and Geddy had both removed their matching Rodeo Drive belts with each other’s name encrusted in diamonds, and began horse-whipping each other in front of the stage.

“It was like The Passion of the Christ, but worse,” said one unidentified observer. “Everyone wishes them the best.”

Bodyguards quickly separated the couple as members of the entertainment press rushed out to report that the volatile relationship was off again. Soon, however, the couple was observed sloppy-kissing on the dance floor, and journalists quickly refiled that the rocky courtship was back on. That’s when Flatone asked to cut in and sustained blunt head trauma from a golf club. Accounts vary greatly, from a three iron to a sand wedge, but emergency room personnel place the official number of stitches at 36. Passious fled the lounge in tears with a support entourage of unemployed models and/or drug connections.

“I overreacted,” said Geddy, wiping the end of the club with a bar napkin. “I guess I should send him something.”

Just after midnight, Passious’s publicist called a hastily arranged news conference and blamed the media. She attributed her client’s behavior to “professional exhaustion” and pleaded for everyone to respect the star’s privacy in high-profile nightclubs.

The couple’s earlier troubles have been well chronicled in the celebrity press, particularly Geddy’s volatile temper and intense hatred of paparazzi. Several lawsuits had been settled out of court before it came to a head last August, when Geddy was sentenced to a year’s probation after a pistol registered to him discharged six times poolside at the Argyle. Fortunately, Geddy was holding the gun sideways to look cool, and didn’t hit anything.

“It was a misunderstanding, as well as an accident,” said Geddy’s celebrity attorney, Calvin Sass. “He’s become very respectful of firearms.”

Then, of course, was February’s infamous 72-hour weekend in Las Vegas that resulted in the panicked pair racing down to the courthouse Monday morning for an annulment, which was denied on the grounds that they had forgotten to get married in the first place.

“It was supposed to be an innocent joke,” said Passious. “But it went too far.”

Added Geddy: “That’s what happens when you drink for three days without eating anything.”

Just after dark, an endless convoy of stretch limos cruised down Sunset Strip with precision and social urgency. The vehicles were soon backed up for blocks, waiting to burp passengers onto the sidewalk at 8440, the address of Ian Schrager’s landmark Mondrian Hotel.

The hotel was famous because it was the home of Skybar, the nightclub that was famous because you couldn’t get into it. If you could get inside, you might see Cindy Crawford or Tom Hanks or Cher, but you couldn’t.

The club’s entrance was defended like the gates of a U.S. embassy in a refugee crisis, which described every night on the strip: dumpling-shaped tourists with Instamatics, autograph hounds with maps of the stars, barefoot street musicians, runaway wolf children, meth-monkeys, winos. A riot formation of block-shouldered bouncers in black dress shirts stood fast and held the Maginot Line, waving through the cultural elite with air kisses.

Tonight, Skybar’s admittance policy was even more rigorous. The “midpoint” party for the runaway-train-wreck
All That Glitters.
A private function, which meant The List. Cast members, movie moguls, entertainment press and lower-rung studio employees who wangled extra invitations that floated around the soundstages like a separate form of currency.

Another limo pulled up. Paparazzi pounced. They’d been alerted by the studio, then reminded. The backdoor of the stretch opened. Cameras flashed. Which alerted more tourists.

“Look!” yelled a fan from Toledo. “It’s Ally Street!”

Another limo. Sightseers stampeded across the boulevard. Traffic screeched.

“And there’s boy-band heartthrob Jason Geddy!”

More photo flashes. More tourists flocked and fused tightly into a single screaming blob. More limos. The Brylcreemed tumor of Middle America pulsed forward. Bodyguards pushed back. VIPs shielded their eyes and ducked inside.

Next limo.

“It’s the Glick brothers!”

Out came Ian and Mel, owners of Vistamax Studios and coproducers of
All That Glitters
. The Glicks had earned their way to the top of Vistamax by being born to the previous owners. Identical twins, the brothers exited the limo in identical, untucked white linen shirts, loafers and no socks. Their short, gelled black hair stood up in a crop of tiny stalagmites. Thick-rimmed reading glasses. In addition to being power players, the Glicks were style setters, and their sense of chic had become the gold standard. They understood that “hip” was a rapidly repeating cycle, and the brothers stayed so far out in front on the trend track that they often lapped those in the rear of the herd. Like tonight: All the fashion observers were uniformly wowed by everything the brothers had going on. They’d done it again, way, way ahead. Others at the party had the same look, but it was because they were so far behind, and they were aggressively shunned.

The brothers turned around one last time at the entrance, smiling and waving to the little people, then darted inside to more photo flashes.

Next: a crammed Malibu convertible. Five guys from the props department who roomed together and scored invitations from a third executive producer who hung out on the back lot with no obvious duties. The paparazzi didn’t recognize them but took pictures in case. A bouncer found their names on The List and inside they went. Or
out
, to be more accurate. Because Skybar was located under the stars, spread across a poolside patio where unnatural concentrations of supermodels lounged with the sultry, bedroom eyes of people coming around after surgery. The decor was minimal, the big color white, lots of candles. The Hollywood Hills dropped off steeply behind the hotel, and the back of the club appeared to rest on the edge of a cliff, overlooking the vast, twinkling grid of greater Los Angeles, where the night air seemed to conduct voltage; the thick daytime haze, now invisible, trapping various wavelengths from fluorescent streetlights that gave the palm trees a slimy glow like low-budget porn.

The props guys couldn’t hide their surprise. Despite countless attempts, they’d never made it inside Skybar before.

“Damn!” said Mark, the one with sideburns. “I can’t believe we’re in the movie business!”

“You mean
you
are,” said Ford.

“Sorry, forgot about you getting fired,” said Mark. “Let me get you something to drink.”

“You know I don’t drink.”

“You should start. Take your mind off it.”

Ford glanced around. “I just know I’m going to get thrown out. As soon as the Glicks notice I’m—”

“They’re too busy figuring out who they’re going to nail,” said Mark, turning toward the loudest section of the party, where bookend vixens were fighting off all comers to stay attached to the Glicks’ arms. The competition was fierce, despite—and because of—the brothers’ reputation for spiking drinks and tag-teaming unconscious ingenues, who landed juicy movie roles in exchange for not going to the authorities. The brothers considered themselves fair men.

“Look at those jerks,” said Ford. “I still can’t believe what they did to me.”

“You’ll find another job. Besides, who’d have thought we’d make it this far?”

Indeed. A mighty long way for two guys who’d begun the year wearing paper hats at a Pretzel Depot in the food court of a deserted mall in unincorporated Zanesville, Ohio. Ford Oelman and Mark Costa. Both on the thin side with extra-young faces that suggested childhood histories of being picked on.

But they had dreams. Ford wanted to be a writer; Mark, an actor. The pair spent many an idle evening in the food court sharing a love of cinema, elaborately planning their shot at stardom. And that’s as far as it went. Months passed. Inertia set in. Ford eventually worked his way up to interim weekend night manager before mall occupancy fell below ten percent and the shopping center was slated for demolition to make way for a new empty field.

Mark was crushed, but Ford saw the silver-screen lining. He knew opportunity when it knocked. That’s right: Pretzel Depot had several franchises in southern California.

Westward ho! They landed evening gigs in a Burbank food court, where they served a steady stream of stagehands from Vistamax Studios across the street. Ford and Mark followed them back across the street one day and applied for jobs. Their big break came from the props department.

The enormity of the warehouse blew them away, like that scene with all the crates at the end of
Raiders of the Lost Ark
. It was a converted blimp hangar with endless, cavernous, interconnecting rooms. Hundreds of oil paintings, thousands of Tiffany lamps, two separate rooms for musical instruments, string and wind. They couldn’t have been happier, zipping around the studio in golf carts full of wax fruit, fireplace pokers, caveman clubs, yacht pennants, cowboy spurs, sousaphones and leather-bound books with spray-on dust.

On their first Friday, a third executive producer wandered into the break room. “You guys need invitations?”

“To what?”

“Cast party. I got extra.”

“But we’re not cast.”

“Doesn’t matter.” The producer gave them an envelope. “Need coke with that?”

“What?”

“Call me if you do.” He handed out business cards.
Dallas Reel.

The producer was right: All night long, nobody cared they weren’t cast. And what a party it was!

Actually, it was a whole bunch of them. Ford and Mark quickly learned that a single invitation was like an all-day pass to an underground social network connecting the entire L.A. scene in a fluid movement of strangers who came together in brief alliances to locate the next party, where they promptly dissolved to re-form new permutations and so on. The buddies didn’t recognize any stars for the first two hours, then just a bit actor who played a series of O.D. victims during three seasons of
ER
. For the most part, everyone was like them, bottom-feeders on an insatiable quest. But what was that quest? A young gofer from New Line told them: to get a limo. Studio brass were always losing track of them, and you had to be ready.

“Been watching this one for an hour.” The gofer nodded toward the white stretch Hummer in front of a Bauhaus manse on Laurel Canyon.

“Who’s it belong to?” asked Ford.

“That guy.”

A third executive producer trotted down the front steps with a bottle of champagne and a bottle blonde. They hopped in a black Ferrari and zoomed down the canyon.

“To the limo!”

Three young men dove in the backseat. The suspicious chauffeur turned around. “You with the studio?”

“Yeah.”

The driver handed back a pile of stapled pages. “My screenplay. Coming-of-age story about rival chauffeurs…” They sped off.

That was several months ago. Killer parties every weekend. Ford picked up material for his scripts. Mark picked up a hobby. He began collecting phone numbers of actresses and actress-types that he stored in the directory of his cell phone until most of the alphabet was represented. Then Ford got fired. It’s a long story, and we’ll get to that. But right now: Skybar.

The Glicks basked. Supermodels posed. Mark and Ford made their way around the pool to a tiny, tin-roofed bar. Mark ordered an apple martini. Ford asked for a Coke.

“You should get something to drink,” said Mark. “Help you relax.”

“I’m getting something to drink.”

“You know what I mean.”

The pair leaned against a wall outside the women’s room so Mark could lurk. A waiter came by. Ford grabbed two flutes of Dom Pérignon from the passing tray.

“Ford,” said Mark. “You’re drinking.”

On the far edge of the patio, a melancholy young woman stood alone at the railing, gazing out over the City of Angels, her long, wispy hair fluttering in the breeze. Each time she turned around, another blinding burst from paparazzi. So she didn’t turn around much. Ally Street, the newly cast star of
All That Glitters
.

Street was soon joined by another attractive but older woman, her agent/publicist Tori Gersh, the primary reason for Street’s success. The actress had literally come out of nowhere to land the big role, following the heavily reported dismissal of Naomi Passious for creative differences, which meant drugs. The casting of a complete unknown in such a high-profile part triggered an avalanche of media requests and forced Gersh to rapidly compose the fake biography: Born during a West Virginia blizzard that killed her parents and raised by gypsies who sold counterfeit Bon Jovi beach towels in midways along the Atlantic seaboard before escaping to join a breakaway convent in New Hampshire that had rejected Vatican II and was later indicted for an Internet Ponzi scam involving “miracle” wrinkle gel, then three missing years in the Pacific Northwest that she refused to talk about before resurfacing as Guinevere in a renaissance troupe out of Bakersfield, where Gersh’s Volvo just happened to break down. The trades consistently described Street’s rise to fame as meteoric, even though meteors actually fall.

And that’s how she didn’t come to be in Skybar tonight, standing next to Tori at the railing. They looked out over the city and saw a shooting star.

“I hate these parties,” said Ally.

“Just a few more minutes,” said Tori. “For appearances.”

Two people came toward them. One was another publicist. He shook their hands. “Ms. Street, a pleasure. I’m a big admirer of your work. I’d like you to meet my client, Jason Geddy.”

Jason shook Ally’s hand. “Yo, word.”

Paparazzi cameras flashed.

A brief period of very small talk. The other publicist shook their hands again and left.