Burn (13 page)

When she was gone, Marvalis smirked in Todd's direction. “This ought to be good.”

“Hey, Rod. Take a load off.”

As Marvalis plopped himself down, Todd assumed Sheri's still-warm chair.

“Sheri called, ” he said.

“I figured that much all by my lonesome. What's up her ass this time?”

Todd grinned. “Before we get into that, let me just ask. Are you okay? You're not having any kind of trouble, are you?”

“Trouble.”

“I don't know, Rodney. You tell me. It's not anything … transmitted again, is it? I'm not judging, you ought to know that by now. It's just that I can see you haven't been sleeping well.”

“I've been sleeping like a baby thanks.”

“I guess what I'm trying to say is that you're part of the Lomax Enterprises family, Rod. We take care of our family.”

“That's nice to know.” Rod propped a cross-trainer on the edge of Sheri's desk. He pushed back, balancing on the back legs of his chair as he dug into an open Doritos Big Grab with two fingers. He had orange nacho cheese dust at the corners of his mouth and crumbs all over his black Club Maximum tank top. “But I'm peachy.”

Todd looked at him closely.

“What did you need, Todman? I have a massage in ten minutes.”

“You're four and a half hours late to work. I think your daily back rub can spare a few minutes.”

“It's not a back rub, ” Marvalis said. “It's physical therapy. I have a note from the doc. And Cinnamon doesn't like to be kept waiting.” Rod referred to the club's in-house chiropractic specialist. He sucked cheese powder from the tips of his fingers and offered a grin full of innuendo.

“Cinnamon is skilled, ” Todd said.

“You don't need to tell me.”

“But her first obligation during regular business hours is to the paying club membership.” Todd leaned in. “Now, maybe I'm off base. But it occurs to me, Rod, that maybe I need to remind you that yours is, too.”

“Christ, ” Rod said. “Here we go.”

“Listen, ” Todd told him. “I didn't come all the way down here to bust your hump.”

“Oh, no?”

“Try to look at things from my perspective.” Todd opened his hands. “Never mind that I've got enough to worry about at the moment without taking time out for this nonsense. You're our marquee name now. As far as I'm concerned, you're entitled to some latitude. Sheri Forman is just going to have to learn to accept that.”

“Couldn't have said it better myself.”

“But.”

“Christ, Todman, you're wearing me out already. What's the goddamned emergency? Next week's show is in the can. We don't tape again until the day after tomorrow. And we wrapped the stupid video yesterday.”

“After I had to send Denny almost to Malibu in the
middle of the morning while a full production crew stood around charging us union rates by the hour, ” Todd reminded him.

Rod cocked back his head, opened his mouth wide, and upended the Doritos bag into it.

“The point I'm trying to make, ” Todd went on, “is that whether we're scheduled to tape the daily, or to shoot a special project, or whatever the case, the very least we need from you is a degree of professionalism. I mean come on, Rod. This morning. You couldn't have put in a call? Do you even know your own schedule anymore?”

“I'm sure you're about to refresh my memory.”

“I certainly can if you need me to.” Todd checked the weekly calendar Sheri had left open on the desk for him. “According to this, you have a low-impact, a high-impact, and an advanced Pilates class on Wednesdays. All before lunch. And every one of them has a waiting list as long as my arm.” Todd closed the book. “We had to cancel your eight o'clock and scramble to cover the other two. And don't think there weren't complaints. These people pay top dollar for Rod Marvalis. They expect Rod Marvalis at the front of the room.”

Marvalis seemed to soak up this information like a sponge. There was no limit to the man's powers of self-aggrandizement, no matter what the specifics of the situation.

Rodney Marvalis—now a decade and a half and counting past his Heisman-candidate glory days as the slipperiest scrambling quarterback in USC history— had come into the Lomax fold as part of a product acquisition a little over a year ago.

Despite solid numbers in the Tavlin line, overall growth in the company's retail division had flattened in
recent quarters. In hopes of jump-starting the projections, Doren had put together the buyout of a promising start-up called LifeRite, Inc. LifeRite had been climbing the mail-order charts with a little product they called The Abdominator.

Said product's face man, of course, had been none other than Rod “The Bod” Marvalis, whose twinkling wink and movie-star grin was proven to keep callers— primarily middle-aged women with one to three children—on hold with credit cards in hand.

The whole thing seemed like an iffy move, in Todd's professional opinion. In the years following his college football career, Rodney Marvalis had added little to his résumé beyond washing out of the NFL after a single injury-riddled season; costarring in one straight-to-video, now out-of-print action flick opposite Arsenio Hall; and pissing away most of his earnings on a string of paternity suit settlements. The fact of the matter was that Rod Marvalis had only landed the Life Rite gig in the first place by dint of his connections with the USC alums who had founded the company. There just wasn't much to work with.

But Doren had seen things differently, and when Doren made up his mind, he made up his mind. He believed that when it came to leveraging a customer base, it paid to stick with the face the base already knew. No sense throwing out the Bod with the bathwater, as it were.

So Todd—as always—had rolled up his sleeves. He'd never complained. Not one time. Another challenge, another opportunity.

And until now, he'd always thought of Rodney Marvalis as a creative work-in-progress bordering masterpiece territory.

Because any common hack could sell a Gregor Tavlin.

A Rod the Bod? This took more than craftsmanship; it even took more than art. This took genuine wizardry.

Lately Todd was beginning to imagine how Dr. Frankenstein must have felt.

“So who'd you find for a stand-in, anyway? Landon?”

Brad Landon, if Todd remembered correctly, was one of the regular staff instructors at the club. A hardworking, fatally uncharismatic fellow.

“Bet that made the little pissant's day, ” Marvalis said. “He's convinced he should have my job anyway. I'd like to see that mutant on camera.”

“Actually, ” Todd said, “I convinced Sheri to go another way. A little trial run I've had in mind.”

Rod raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Who else? Don't tell me you stuck that bull dyke Sawyer in front of my room. I'll be undoing that damage for a week.”

“No, Rod. Not Sawyer.” Todd had no idea who Sawyer was. “We gave Luther your classes this morning.”

“Who?”

“Luther. Luther Vines.”

Rod's eyes widened at this. “You jest.”

Todd folded his hands and waited.

“Vines?” Rod's laugh came out like a belch. “Seriously. You're yanking my chain.”

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

Marvalis shook his bottle-bleached mass of hair and looked at the ceiling: delighted, disbelieving. “Luther Vines? You really put that animal in a soundproof room full of Beverly Hills housewives? Oh,
Christ,
but how I'd love to have seen that. I love it! Luther Vines.”

“From what I'm told, ” Todd said, “Luther handled himself quite well.”

“Shut up.”

“And I'll let you in on something else. Brad Landon isn't the only one who likes the look of your job. Just so you know, Luther has approached me more than once along those lines.”

Marvalis pretended he hadn't just sat up a notch. “Has he, now?”

“I know, ” Todd said. “He's plenty rough around the edges. But believe it or not, for a security man, Luther actually has some interesting ideas about strength and cardio.”

“What are you trying to pull, Todman?”

“Excuse me?”

“Don't insult my intelligence, ” Rod said. “What. I'm supposed to get all worried and start high-stepping my ass off just because you let some low-rent Billy Blanks wannabe sub in for
me
for a day? You really think I'm too stupid to see the game you're playing?”

“Game?” Todd raised his palms. “Rod, all I'm trying to do is keep the offense running around here.”

“Wow, Coach. Great metaphor.” Rod yawned. “Very inspiring.”

“I'm glad you enjoyed it, ” Todd said.

“Tell you what. If that's the end of the pep talk, I'll be off to enjoy my back rub now.” Marvalis removed his foot from the desk and stood. “But do me a favor and keep one thing in mind. You're not dealing with a gum-drop like Gregor Tavlin anymore. We've got all kinds of time before
my
contract comes up, so you can go ahead and get off my ass. In the meantime, you'd better make sure your big, bad security man knows what's what and who's who around here. I'm beginning to think he might not be completely clear on that.”

“Don't worry, Rodney.” Todd smiled. “I try to go
out of my way to make sure everybody knows exactly where they stand.”

Marvalis gave a dismissive snort as he brushed Dorito crumbs from his person and tugged his tank top smooth over his waist.

“As long as you bring up your contract, ” Todd said, “maybe now is a good time to revisit one small point.”

Marvalis looked back over his shoulder. “Oh, pray fucking tell, Todd.”

“Maybe ‘small’ isn't a fitting choice of words.”

“Do you ever just go ahead and say
anything
without dicking around?”

“Fine, Rodney. I'm talking about the Personal Maintenance clause you agreed to when you signed on here. It's on page six, if memory serves. Items 9.2a and b. If I could make a friendly suggestion, you might want to take a look. Just as a review.”

Marvalis narrowed his eyes. “What are you getting at, pal?”

“I know it's a sensitive area. There's really no easy way to bring it up.” Todd leaned forward and used his most gentle tone. “But I can't help but notice you've put on a few pounds lately.”

Rod's bed-tanned hide creased like cured leather when he squared his shoulders.

“Bullshit, ” he said.

“It's okay, Rodney. We're speaking privately. And believe me, I can understand the difficulties. We're both getting up there.” He shrugged. “But you know the occupational hazards as well as I do. I don't need to tell you the camera can be cruel.”

“Fuck you.”

“There's no need to be abusive, ” Todd counseled. “I'm only looking out for you.”

“You've got a hell of a lot of nerve.”

“Tell you what, ” Todd said. “If it makes you feel better, I'll have the pro shop order you up the next size tank top for the taping on Friday. It'll probably be baggy on you.” He made a point of nodding toward Rodney's belt line. “But at least that… um … back brace you've been wearing won't play so much on camera when you twist and reach.”

Marvalis set his jaw so tightly that a vein began to jitter near his left eye. He didn't utter another word.

Todd was not above admitting it: a small, childish part of him genuinely enjoyed watching Rod the Bod jerk open the office door and stalk through, stung and seething.

He supposed he hadn't done Sheri Forman any favors today.

On the other hand, if poor Rodney happened to cross paths with Luther Vines on the club floor in such a state, the inevitable result of
that
confrontation could only make everybody's job easier in the long run.

Gazing out the window over the lobby, Todd found himself daydreaming about the evening ahead. He wondered what the birthday girl was doing right now. He really was having trouble keeping his mind on the job today.

Todd practically had to force himself to get up from Sheri Forman's desk and move on to the next opportunity.

HEATHER
Lomax drove like a soccer mom.

On the city streets, she observed traffic laws and practiced thoughtful road etiquette. She let people in, yielded to pedestrians, and braked sensibly. She didn't so much as run a yellow light. Plum seemed to have no trouble maintaining the tail.

Princess Lomax opened up a bit on the freeways, but she only took to the passing lane when respectable traffic flow required. Plum kept a couple of cars between them whenever possible.

She led them north on the 405, to the 5, past San Fernando. They followed, racking miles on the odometer as they climbed gradually out of the basin, through the foothills, and into the San Gabriel Mountains. Soon they'd left the shimmering sprawl of Los Angeles proper behind and below.

Andrew could smell the smoke up here even with
the windows closed. Just to the west of them, great dark whorls hung over the landscape. He looked at his watch and realized that it was just about time for the noon Hot Spot. He reached toward the car radio and asked Plum if he minded.

“Knock yourself out, ” Plum said. “Personally, I don't know why they waste the airtime. These fires always go away when they run out of stuff to burn.”

“Folks who live up there probably see it a little differently, ” Andrew said.

“I'm sure they do.”

“You don't sound very sympathetic.”

“Hey. You're dumb enough to live in a tinderbox, what the hell do you expect?” Plum smirked and dismissed the smoke banks with a wave. “Get enough money to live anywhere in the world, and what do these geniuses do? Head straight to an area known for its fires, mudslides, and earthquakes. Find a place right in the middle, and put a house on stilts. How can you not root for Mother Nature?”

“You make an interesting argument.”

Plum wasn't finished with it, either. “That's setting aside the fact that it's tax dollars from working schlubs like yours truly that pay to protect these idiots from the inevitable.”

“They say this one was probably caused by an illegal campfire, ” Andrew said. “Probably started by some tax-paying schlub. What about that?”

“What about it?” Plum faded into the left lane, passed a rumbling eighteen-wheeler, and merged right again three cars back from the Lomax girl. “That's supposed to make me feel sorry for these people? Some hiker flicks a cigarette. Somebody's riding horseback, horse shoes a rock and throws a spark. Lightning hits a
dead tree. What's the difference? This one was just due.”