My Lucky Star (41 page)

But Gina didn’t buy it. Hadn’t the snitch claimed that not one but several men had sold their favors to Stephen? And wouldn’t
such doings help explain why Stephen, who’d always insisted that such folk as trainers and masseurs pay house calls, had become
such a devoted patron of a day spa? Stephen denied it but the panic in his eyes told another story and soon Gina Knew All.

Yet she did not leave him.

I can only imagine what combination of tears, pleas, and pledges quelled her impulse to engage the firm of Mulct & Pillage
to strip-mine Stephen’s assets, leaving him only bus fare to and from the studio. If I had to guess though, I’d say that she
simply liked being Mrs. Stephen Donato. She liked it a great deal. Her celebrity pre-Stephen had been minor indeed and, while
her ego might have liked to believe her present luster would not be dimmed by divorce, some small core of common sense told
her this would not be the case. She liked Stephen’s company. He was lovely to look at and capable, when prodded, of putting
himself through the paces of heterosexual passion. God knew he was charming—and how much more charming would he be, how much
sweeter and more accommodating, now that he was absolutely scared to death of her? It must have been torture for Stephen to
have a blabbermouth like Gina be the custodian of his deepest secret. But for once Gina wasn’t talking and would, in time,
prove just how far she would go to preserve her imperfect but picturesque marriage.

G
IVEN
M
OIRA’S FLAIR FOR
the wrathful gesture, I spent most of the days following Monty’s
Amelia
gambit glancing fretfully over my shoulder and flinching at sudden noises. But I soon realized that Moira had urgent matters
to contend with and these left her little time for pulling the wings off the likes of me.

Grimes and his minions had by now questioned every employee of Les Étoiles as well as several patrons with whom Kenny claimed
to have dallied. They’d learned that six former masseurs at the spa, Adonises all, had ceased working there almost immediately
after the formation of Finch/Donato Productions. None of these men could now be located.

Not one of the spa’s extravagantly paid massage therapists admitted knowing a thing about sex on the premises. As for the
patrons Kenny had fingered, each staunchly maintained that this was the only manner in which he’d ever done so. Prominent
men all, they had no choice but to dissemble. They knew Moira had the goods on them and would, if they talked, make certain
that whistles weren’t all they’d be famous for blowing.

Moira did not rely on threats alone to shield her from exposure. She and Stephen became avid supporters of Congresswoman Brooks
Almy, Rusty’s likely democratic opponent for governor. They threw Ms. Almy a star-studded fund-raiser at Les Étoiles, thus
assuring that any public allegations from Grimes would now be tainted not only by his well-known loathing of Stephen but by
the stench of political payback as well.

As adept as Moira was at staving off formal charges, there was one adversary against whom even she was powerless—Dame Rumor.
Hollywood has always been a place where gossip spreads with near telepathic speed, and if its tongues could have been harnessed
for energy, the wagging produced by Grimes’s probe into Les Étoiles could have powered the town through Labor Day.

It began with a few panicked whispers wafting from the Palladian homes of Moira’s VIP victims, then spread like a Malibu wildfire
once Grimes began interviewing Moira’s less discreet bellmen and chambermaids. As with most such scandals the rumors were
right on the gist of things, though wildly off on the details. The more lurid gossips confidently described ballroom-size
orgies, though none ever breathed the name Oscar. The town seemed evenly divided between those who believed the rumor unshakably
(as they’d believed every such rumor they’d ever heard) and those who found it either too far-fetched or too delicious to
be true.

Stephen, who’d been through similar squalls, if none of this magnitude, knew that the best course was to brazen it out, maintaining
a crowded social calendar lest he appear to be hiding. He knew too that bold flippant jokes were a useful badge of unflustered
innocence. At one pre-Oscar soiree when his agent rose from their crowded table and asked if he could get him something from
the bar, Stephen breezily replied, “Sure, how about a masseur with a big dick?” This convulsed those present and made clear
the Olympian insouciance with which he viewed the gossips’ prattling. This, the partygoers agreed, was not a worried man.
And why, they asked, should he be? If the vengeance-bent Mr. Grimes had even a shred of evidence wouldn’t he have arrested
someone by now?

My own view of Rusty’s presently insufficient case was less sanguine. I knew the proof was out there and so long as it was
it might fall into the wrong hands. I’d already demonstrated this with Monty and it was now Monty’s turn to prove it again
with even more catastrophic results.

O
NE EVENING THE
W
EDNESDAY
before the Oscars, Gilbert and I were sitting at home watching the Academy screeners Gilbert had filched from Max’s house.
We were surprised when the phone rang at quarter to one and the glance we exchanged conveyed our mutual suspicion that this
was unlikely to be good news.

“Philip, are you there?” called a voice on the machine. “It’s Billy. If you’re there, pick up! Quick or you’ll miss it!”

I answered and asked what I was missing.

“Rex Bajour! Channel fifty-three! Hurry!” he said and hung up.

I did as he asked but couldn’t fathom at first what had so excited him. Rex’s guest was Jason Mulvaney, writer and star of
the one-man autobiographical show
I Was a Male Prom Queen.
A hit off Broadway, it was now playing in West Hollywood. Gilbert and I had seen it last summer and enjoyed it both for Jason’s
humorous portrayals of multiple characters and for the refreshing absence of his shirt through much of act two.

Rex, however, had no desire to discuss Jason’s play. He wished only to laud the young actor’s candor about his sexuality,
the better to mock the cowardice of a certain closeted Oscar nominee.

“Well,” said Jason modestly, “I’m not sure I’d use the word ‘courageous.’ I mean there are lots of out actors and writers—”

“Not in this town, sweetie!” brayed Rex. “Especially not if you’re a big moooovie star who always has to play the hero like
Miss Stephen Donato!”

“So you were saying,” sighed Jason.

“You’ve heard the rumors, haven’t you? You haven’t been living in a
cave?
”

“Yeah, a few. But to get back to my play —”

“
ALL TRUE!
I have seen the proof with my own little peepers, and let me tell you, it was quite a peep show!” said Rex, guffawing at
what he appeared to regard as wordplay. He then produced his trusty pocket recorder and, holding it up to his mike, purred,
“You know what Stevie’s going to say if he wins Best Actor this Sunday?”

“Uh, no, what?” asked his hostage.

Rex pressed play and out came Stephen’s voice, clear as a bell.

“Oh, yeah, Oscar! Come to Stephen! Just like that! Urgh!”

Rex erupted into evil high-pitched giggles and clicked off the machine.

“Was that really him?” asked Jason.

“You bet your sweet ass! And there’s plenty more where that came from. But I’m not going to play it all on one show. Oh no—gotta
keep people tuning in! So let’s get back to your wonderful movie.”

“It’s a play.”

“I’ve done lots of plays. I remember back in ’sixty-two—was I a cutie-pie then!—I appeared onstage with Miss Martha Raye in,
oh shoot, what was it called...?”

The minute the show ended the phone rang again.

“So was it real?” Billy asked breathlessly. “C’mon! You know! Admit it!”

“I know nothing about it! It’s a complete forgery! Just don’t tell your dad or your uncle about this!”

“
Oh my Gawwwd!
It
is
real!”

“Just don’t say anything!”

Billy assured me he wouldn’t dream of telling Dad or Uncle Hank anything that might harm Stephen. This was scant comfort since,
knowing Billy, they were the only people he wouldn’t tell.

“This,” said Gilbert sagely, “is bad.”

“Gee, you
think?
”

“How do you suppose he got hold of it?”

I said he’d obviously gotten it from Monty, for whom I’d have some choice words come morning. The more pressing question was
not how Rex had obtained it but how he could be kept from broadcasting further snippets.

“God,” I groaned, sinking wretchedly onto the couch. “If only Claire were here!”

“Really, Philip,” said Gilbert peevishly. “Why do you always make out that we’re helpless without Claire to ride to our rescue?
I can deal with Rex every bit as effectively as she could!”

“Really?” I said archly. “And what do you suggest?”

“Well, let me at least
think
about it for Chrissake! I’ll come up with something in the morning.”

I did not see him in the morning, which dawned appropriately bleak and drizzly. He was still asleep when I left for the gym,
which, thanks to Billy, was abuzz about Stephen and the sex tape. I declined Billy’s invitation to the Rex Bajour viewing
party he was hosting that night and drove through the now torrential rain to Los Feliz, where Lily’s mood was as buoyant as
mine was disconsolate.

“Philip! I knew there was someone I was supposed to phone! I can’t work today. Too many appointments! Cheiko dear, please
make a note that I must call Philip early when things are this hectic.”

She addressed this to a slim Japanese lass who sat ramrod straight on an ottoman, exuding competence. She plucked her PDA
from her lap and began poking at it with a stylus.

“Cheiko’s my new assistant! So efficient! If things work out she’ll be vice president of my production company.”

“Production company?”

“All the stars have one. Don’t look so stricken, dear—there’ll be a post for you as well.”

She introduced us, then Cheiko told Lily it was time to leave for their pitch meeting at New Line.

“My new screenplay,” said Lily excitedly. “Female musketeers! I only started it last night but the first fifty pages are heaven!”

As soon as they left I confronted Monty. He hadn’t seen the show and was outraged when I told him what Rex had shared with
his viewers.

“Why that pudgy little viper!” he fumed. “After all the meals he’s cadged off me!”

He explained that Lily had gone out the evening before last so he’d invited Rex over for dinner. Rex, he found, had recently
asked for and received a copy of
Amelia Flies Again!
from its proud authoress. He’d surmised instantly that Stephen had been coerced into buying it and was bursting to know what
they had on him. It was something that happened at the spa, wasn’t it? Monty declined to comment but Rex’s pleas were unrelenting
and after much wine he finally fessed up and agreed to show him the DVD on the firm condition that Rex not breathe a word
to anyone, as to do so would risk derailing Lily’s comeback.

It was clear that at some point in the viewing Rex had realized he had his recorder in his pocket and that, though Monty would
never consent to loan him the disk, he could at least make an audio copy. Having done so, he’d waited less than a day to betray
his oath of silence.

“You do an old dwarf an act of kindness and this is how he repays you! I mean, I expected he’d tell people! I saw little harm
in that. There’s no lack of tall tales going around already and with all the whoppers Rex has told in his day I figured who’d
believe him? But to record the damn thing and broadcast it, with no regard for the consequences to Lily! I never want to see
that bloated homunculus again! He is dead to me!”

“He’s not the only one who’ll be dead if he doesn’t shut up! What if the police get wind of it?”

As if on cue there came a disconcertingly authoritative knock on the door. Monty proceeded to the foyer, a puzzled frown on
his face, and I followed at a timid distance. He opened the door and his frown deepened, for standing on the mat was a uniformed
LAPD officer. He was looking down at his feet so all that was visible of his head was the crown and bill of his navy police
hat. His head slowly lifted, revealing a familiar face smirking impishly at our surprise.

“Howdy, boys!” said Gilbert, saluting smartly. “Officer Selwyn reporting for duty!”

W
HY IT’S ABSOLUTELY BRILLIANT!”
exclaimed Monty.

“
I
thought so,” preened Gilbert.

“I don’t know when I’ve heard a plan so simple yet ingenious. And the uniform!”

“You like it?” he asked, executing a spokesmodel twirl.

“Perfection. It brings back tender memories of a strip search long ago. How on earth did you find it?”

Gilbert said he’d told his mother he’d been invited to a costume party. She in turn had spoken to Max, who’d placed the whole
Pinnacle wardrobe department at his disposal.

“That’s what I call using the old cabbage,” said Monty. “Philip, where have you been hiding this resourceful fellow?”

The plan, I grudgingly conceded, did indeed sound pretty foolproof and I cursed myself for not having thought of it first.
The idea, as my shrewder readers have no doubt surmised, was to call on Rex and, masquerading as a police officer, scare the
bejesus out of him and confiscate his recorder as evidence.

Monty gave us his address, warning us to hurry as he’d be leaving soon to tape that evening’s show. It took us twenty minutes
to reach West Hollywood and locate Rex’s building on North Flores Street. It was one of those unsightly motel-like apartment
complexes with three two-story wings forming a U around a barren cement courtyard and a swimming pool only marginally more
hygienic than the Grand Canal. We rang Rex’s bell and a full minute passed before he opened the door. He had a towel tucked
into his shirt collar and wore the impatient frown of a man interrupted while putting his face on.