My Lucky Star (38 page)

“That was you!” I said, recalling the delightful discrepancy, which I’d assumed, in my general flightiness with all matters
financial, to be some sort of script payment.

She would also claim that the price we’d demanded for luring Stephen to the spa included sexual favors from her staff and
that she had film of Gilbert to prove it (this, of course, being the sole reason she’d arranged for his massage to end happily).
This last calumny seemed especially foul, and my head swam at the thought of
National Enquirer
headlines screaming, “Madam Moira: ‘Stevie’s “Pals” Betrayed Him for Sex Freebies!’ ”

As we drove through the Pinnacle gates, I wanted desperately to go straight to Claire and seek her counsel, but I was due
at Lily’s and felt too guilty over yesterday’s heinousness to keep her waiting. I arrived in Los Feliz at noon, returning
everything I’d taken from Lily, who greeted me with shaming effusiveness.

“Glen, my angel! How good to see you! Mwah! How clever you were to take this all away when you saw that man in the bushes!
But do leave a note next time! I was beside myself and the fear gave me a splitting headache! Didn’t I warn you there were
those who’d try to stop us? You didn’t believe me, but now you know!”

It wasn’t easy to concentrate on Lily’s ramblings that day, what with dark visions of prison life flitting like bats through
my tortured imagination. I was also bursting to pull Monty aside and ask what havoc he planned to wreak with his new arsenal.
I didn’t get him alone till six-thirty, when Lily withdrew to dress for her weekly night out with the girls. I decided to
come clean about everything, starting with my real name and my history with Stephen and Diana.

“Good lord,” he said, flabbergasted, “you were in cahoots with them before we even met?”

I apologized abjectly for my duplicity, laying great emphasis on how desperate we were not to lose our first screenwriting
gig.

“And, of course,” I confessed, “there was Stephen.”

“Gave you the look, did he?”

“Huh?”

“The look,” he repeated. “That languid, smoldering, surrender-your-genitals stare. I know it well, having watched him devise
and perfect it in this very house the summer he turned sixteen.”

“Yes, he did. But still, I can imagine what you must think of me.”

“Don’t be silly! If anything it makes me fonder of you.”

“Huh?” I said, flummoxed.

“Before this,” he explained, “I’d assumed you’d turned on us after you’d already known us for weeks. I understood and forgave.
Were Stephen not kin I’d betray any number of old ladies for him, but I can tell you, it stung. But now I find you’d signed
on to do us dirty before we’d even met, back when you assumed us to be the baby-munching grave robbers my loved ones no doubt
painted us as. It was only after you’d pledged your fealty to them that you came to see what splendid creatures we really
are.”

“Exactly!” I said, grateful for this magnanimously proffered loophole. “And once I did, I felt
awful.
But what could I do? I’d given my word! It seemed dishonorable to renege.”

“And you wanted to screw Stephen.”

“Well, that too, of course.”

“And you did,” he laughed, slapping my knee. “And with cameras, yet, which was good news for me. So there, you see, Glen—
Philip?—what
are
we to call you?—all’s well that ends well!”

I said that all had not yet ended and the odds of it doing so well were growing remoter by the hour. I breathlessly described
our run-in with Hank, a tale which, to my surprise, did not alarm Monty in the least.

“Mere saber rattling. If they had any proof they’d file charges. Besides, Moira’s far too clever to get herself caught. She
thinks things through, that girl. She anticipates contingencies. Well, look who I’m telling—she stapled your lips well in
advance of need. Buck up, dear. Have faith as I do in her evil genius.”

I asked what he planned to do with the DVD.

“Fear not,” he said cryptically. “All will be revealed shortly. And I promise you a front-row seat for the proceedings.”

“Proceedings?” I said, not liking the word one bit. But then the doorbell rang and Monty sprang limberly to his feet.

“That will be Rex. We’re painting the town pink if you care to join us.”

I said I doubted Rex would relish my company as the last time I’d seen him he’d been using a strapping black youth as a pacifier.
I contemplated a swift retreat through the French doors but then Rex’s belly entered the room followed shortly by Rex.

“Well, look who’s here,” he said with a dainty sneer. “It’s the
voyeur!
”

I rose with the serene smile of a boy who has his exit line.

“
Former
voyeur, Rex. You’ve cured me.”

M
Y MOOD AS
I departed Lily and Monty’s was at least a shade less funereal than it had been on arrival. Though I could not share Monty’s
hey-diddle-diddle outlook on the Grimes menace, I did feel that doom was, perhaps, not quite so inevitable as I’d feared.
Hell, even the jumper had survived.

But the lightening of my mood was mainly the result of having finally laid Glen to rest. The ongoing deception had weighed
increasingly on my conscience and as I drove west I felt that proud glow that only steals over me when the better angels of
my nature have scored one of their rare victories.

T
HAT NIGHT
G
ILBERT AND
I dined at Orso with Claire, who strongly urged us to lawyer up and tell all in exchange for immunity.

“For God’s sake,” she whispered, “save yourselves while you can! Trust me, it’s all
going
to come out. Too many people know about it. The first ones to cooperate will get immunity and everyone else will be thrown
to the wolves!”

“But we haven’t done anything wrong!” protested Gilbert.

“That’s not what Moira will say. Just play ball. Tell them the truth—she was blackmailing you over the screenplay.”

“
What?”
I said, choking on my carpaccio.

“You want us to ruin our careers?!”

“And what sort of careers do you think you’ll have in
prison?!

Wake up! This isn’t
The Producers!
They don’t do musicals in there!”

I said that while I valued her advice, she was, I feared, underestimating the harm that could be inflicted on us by an enraged
and vindictive Moira, whom I frankly feared more than the police. I also pointed out that the Grimes brothers had formed robust
dislikes for me, and their bona fides in any negotiation could not be assumed. Besides, there was no guarantee anyone else
would come forward. The clients had much to hide and the working boys, fearing for their safety, had largely dispersed to
other cities. By talking we might be
creating
a case that could have been avoided had we just kept our mouths shut. Gilbert declared my logic impeccable, which, needless
to say, troubled me deeply.

Truth to tell, my main reason for rejecting Claire’s advice was one I left unspoken so as to spare myself the howls of ridicule
it would have prompted from both my companions. That reason was Stephen.

Granted things hadn’t ended well between us and his behavior toward me had fallen short of the highest standards of chivalry.
But did I really want to be the cause of his downfall? To deliberately drag him into the mire of scandal and global mockery?
I recalled our first meeting with the bully Grimes, how bravely we’d stood shoulder to shoulder and crossed swords with the
foe. How could I now deliver him to that gay-baiting plug-ugly? No, I could bear to be Stephen’s love-struck pawn, his ill-used
ex-squeeze, but I would not be his Judas.

T
HE NEXT FEW DAYS
proceeded without incident. Claire lit out for parts north while Lily and I did our best to spice up the details of her threadbare
midlife career. Then Friday morning Monty phoned to inform me there’d be no work that day as he was treating us to a festive
lunch. He told me to don my spiffiest suit and meet them at twelve sharp at the Beverly Hilton.

“Can I come?” whined Gilbert as I jotted down the address. I asked Monty, who said, “By all means! The more the merrier!”

On reaching the Hilton we found ourselves trapped in a long caravan of limos at the end of which was a red carpet. The carpet
was lined with a great noisy rabble of reporters, all shouting and elbowing one another aside in their frenzy to get a glance,
a smile, a comment from the arriving luminaries. A large banner over the press line read
FILMFEST LA
and I suddenly recalled
that Stephen had mentioned the event some weeks ago, saying he was to be honored as the Entertainer of the Decade. My heart
fibrillated even as my breakfast petitioned for early release, for I realized at once that Monty had chosen this diabolical
moment to pounce.

For those of you unfamiliar with it, FilmFest LA is an annual confab of producers, distributors, and deal makers who gather
to flog their wares and bestow a dozen or so spectacularly ugly trophies. Unlike the Oscars, which ostensibly celebrate excellence,
or the Golden Globes, which, whatever their stated mandate, celebrate Heat, the FilmFest unabashedly honors commercial success.

Back in the seventies they started giving an Entertainer of the Year Award to add more star power to the proceedings. It worked
so well they began offering an Entertainer of the Decade Award every five years, justifying the double-dipping by alternating
male and female performers. The Decade Awards draw the starriest crowds, and the red carpet along which we made our unhectored
way seemed thronged with every actor who’d ever worked with Stephen or hoped to. We jostled past them, soon reaching a checkpoint
where we were mercifully refused entrance owing to our lack of tickets. I was trying to convince Gilbert that we’d be better
off heading home and donning our Hazmat suits when I heard Monty shouting my name.

Turning, I saw that he and Lily were making their way down the carpet. Monty sported a stylish pin-striped suit and carried
a leather shoulder bag the contents of which I could only surmise with dread. Lily, her face’s taut translucence concealed
beneath a thick coat of maquillage, wore a chic green Chanel suit and looked happier than I’d ever seen her, vamping and posing
up a storm for the stymied paparazzi, some of whom took her picture anyway, figuring they’d sort it out later.

“Isn’t it exciting, Glen!” she twittered on reaching us. “Oh, forgive me. I keep forgetting you’ve taken Philip as your nom
de plume.”

“Gilbert, I presume,” said Monty, pumping his hand. “Are you two an item?”

“Ages ago,” said Gilbert. “Now we’re just collaborators.”

“I see—though not right together, nonetheless you write together.” He addressed the gatekeeper. “Hello, Monty Malenfant here.”

She asked to see tickets and he explained that they were the aunt and uncle of the honoree.

“Well, she knows
that!
” laughed Lily, shooting the bewildered ticket taker her “Yes-dear-it’s-me” smile. Monty, doubting if the lass had sufficient
clout to assist us, asked to speak to her superior or anyone able to establish contact with Stephen. At length an officious
fellow with a clipboard appeared and curtly informed us that Stephen was upstairs in a hospitality suite and could not be
disturbed. Monty politely insisted that a message be conveyed to him, assuring Clipboard that Stephen was waiting for it and
his failure to deliver it would earn him the star’s lasting ire. The message was that his uncle Monty and dear friend Oscar
were there, as arranged, to see him. Were Stephen too busy to see us just now, Monty would happily wait, passing the time
by introducing Oscar to the many charming people on hand. Clipboard scowled and bustled away, dialing his cell phone. When
he returned shortly, the medic tending to his ear with a fire extinguisher made clear the message’s impact on its recipient.
“He asked to speak to you,” he said, handing Monty the still-smoldering cell phone.

“Stephen, my darling! So sorry I’m late. Should Oscar and I just pop up with the material?... Splendid! Oh and could you arrange
seating please for Lily and a young friend?... How terribly kind of you.”

Clipboard escorted us up to the penthouse. He rang the bell and we were promptly admitted to a large, elegant suite packed
to the rafters with Entourage.

Owing to the highly secretive nature of our work with Stephen, we’d been granted the exceedingly rare privilege of dealing
with him one-on-one, all handlers save Sonia being banned from our meetings. This then was my first glimpse of the army of
courtiers who daily danced attendance on him and whose ranks only swelled on such august occasions as this. There was Sonia,
of course, her girth encased in a pin-striped black pantsuit that made her look like one of the gangsters in an all-lesbian
Kiss Me, Kate.
Joining her was a babbling swarm of publicists, agents, studio reps, stylists, hair and makeup artists, bodyguards, sundry
friends, and a masseur of the conventional variety. They fluttered and swooped around Stephen, anticipating his every need.
When not genuflecting they jabbered into cell phones with the staccato self-importance that invariably infects those who’ve
been granted that most glittering coin of the Hollywood realm—Access.

At the center of it all, like a child with thirty nannies, sat Stephen. He was having a neck rub while smoking a cigarette
that trembled slightly in his hand. I didn’t see Gina or Diana and wondered if they were off in other suites with minions
of their own. At this level of fame were entourages something one didn’t share, even with family? Like toothbrushes?

“Stephen!” cried Monty exuberantly, capturing every eye in the place. “Do forgive my tardiness. Not to worry though—I’ve made
all the changes you asked for. Give your old uncle a hug!”

Stephen, I knew, was as thrown as I was by Monty’s brash ebullience and puzzling reference to requested changes. But as discretion
forbade his replying, “What do you mean, you blackmailing scum?” he summoned a wary half smile and said, “Hey, Monty.” He
gave him a perfunctory hug, stiffening slightly when Monty kissed him loudly on both cheeks.