Star Island (22 page)

Janet Bunterman told him to quit worrying. “The record’s going to be huge. Where are you, by the way?”

“Palm Springs, remember? My tee time’s in twenty minutes. The lupus fund-raiser?”

Janet Bunterman thought:
Right. Whatever
.

“The tour hasn’t sold out,” her husband noted gravely, “not even the Garden. I spoke to Maury.”

“Why do you have to be so negative, Ned? It’s not Cherry, it’s the economy. I heard Springsteen was down seven percent.”

Ned Bunterman said, “You heard wrong, darling. The Jonas Brothers were up, too. Coldplay, way up. And Britney’s still selling out arenas, even after those gross beach pictures.” A British paparazzo using a sniper-grade scope had spotted the singer sunbathing in an ill-chosen tank suit in the Maldives.

“Just wait till the CD comes out,” Janet Bunterman said. “We’ll sell out the Garden and everyplace else. They’ll be adding shows, you watch.”

Her husband didn’t bring up
Spin
magazine’s ugly advance review, which rechristened the record
“Skankily Klad.”
It was a blessing that Cherry didn’t like to read.

He said, “A publicity bump would really help.”

“The tattoo photos are getting tons of Web hits,” reported Janet Bunterman. “I mean, sure, the stupid thing looks like a cattle brand, and I’m absolutely furious with her for messing up her beautiful neckline, but the Google hits are off the chart.”

“If only all those people were buying tickets to the show,” Ned Bunterman said, “but they’re not, Janet. We need something to move the needle.” He noted disapprovingly that the Larks were several days behind on Cherry’s blog, which they took turns writing.

“They’ve been tied up on this Annie thing,” his wife explained.

“Speaking of which, Maury expects
us
to pay the so-called ransom. Were you aware of that? When I suggested that the money could come from the label’s promotion budget, he went ballistic. He said Jailbait Records doesn’t negotiate with criminals.”

“That’s ridiculous—the music industry would collapse if it weren’t for the criminals!”

“Exactly,” Ned Bunterman said. “But Maury won’t budge. He said this one’s all on the family.”

Cherry’s mother was aggravated. “This security guy, Chemo, he says he can persuade the kidnapper—stalker, whatever—to take fifty grand. Seventy-five for sure.”

“That’s too much,” Ned Bunterman declared. He was thinking about his long wine-tasting weekends with the kinky Danish couple, and how grateful they always were when he picked up the tab for dinners and spas.

“I agree. Way too much,” said Janet Bunterman. She was thinking about her thrice-weekly tennis lessons and what usually followed, and how accustomed her pro had become to those thousand-dollar tips she tucked in his jock.

Ned Bunterman said he had to go find his golf shoes. “Tell Mr. Chemo that fifty is our limit. End of story.”

“Problem is, we can’t afford to make Annie mad. We seriously can’t.”

Janet Bunterman didn’t need to spell it out. On the other end of the line, her husband cleared his throat. “You’re certain she’s still alive? You said you heard a gunshot during the last phone call—”

“No, she’s alive. She called again today.” Janet Bunterman tried not to sound disappointed. She’d been telling herself that she wasn’t as coldhearted as the Larks, that she’d never truly wished for something awful to happen to Ann DeLusia. On the other hand, the photographer who had abducted her was obviously hinky and unpredictable. There was no guarantee that he would uphold his end of the deal, regardless of how much money he was paid. The Buntermans were compelled to be cautious.

“The ransom thing,” Ned Bunterman said, “wasn’t that our idea?”

“Correct. He never asked for any money.”

“Just for Cherry, right? A private shoot.”

“Ned, what are you thinking? Don’t even say it.”

“Worst-case scenario—”

“No!”

“Hear me out,” said Cherry’s father.

Hostage keeping was hard work, and Bang Abbott felt exhausted. Watching his captive sleep off the Ambiens didn’t help. He tried to rouse himself by recounting—as he did many times each day—the tryst with Cherry Pye aboard the private jet. It was a pleasant exercise that usually buoyed Bang Abbott’s spirits, but not in his current state of fatigue and self-doubt.

The scheme to exchange Ann for Cherry appeared to be in tatters, and the more he thought about the ransom offer transmitted by the ghoulish one-armed bodyguard, the less insulting it seemed. He could skate away from this mess with fifty grand, tax-free, and no chance of going to prison. Cherry’s handlers would take the necessary steps to ensure that the actress wouldn’t press charges or peddle her kidnapping story to the media. They’d make it up to her, big-time, because they would have no choice.

Meanwhile, Bang Abbott would rejoin the maggot mob and get back in the hunt for Lindsay, Paris, Nicole, Kim, Katie, Kate, Katy, Posh, Star, Mischa, Penelope, Jen, Julia, Jessica, Reese, Winona, Gisele, Heidi, Miley … 
No!

He didn’t want to go back to the street.

Cherry Pye was his destiny; the definitive portfolio.

Her final days, in pictures.

The photographer felt something brush against his leg and he kicked at it, eliciting a wounded cry. He opened his eyes—Christ, had he dozed off?—and saw Ann recoiling beside him in the car, her nose bloodied.

“Way to go,” she snuffled.

He looked down and saw the Colt lying where she had dropped it near the brake pedal, after he’d accidentally booted her in the
schnoz. She must have been stretching across from the passenger side, trying to swipe the gun from beneath his seat.

The sneaky little twat! He should’ve left her in the trunk.

Ann flipped down the visor and examined her injury in the vanity mirror. She sighed. “This is lovely. Goes with the tatt.”

“Hey, I didn’t do it on purpose.” Bang Abbott rummaged through his camera bag for a box of lens tissues, which he handed to her.

Packing both nostrils, she said, “I never understood you guys. What a scuzzy way to make a living.”

“Babe, we’re just feedin’ the beast. Soon as nobody cares about Hollywood anymore, we’re all out of business.” He started the car and steered down the ramp. “They all bitch about the paparazzi, but guess what? They’d totally freak if just one night they came out of a club and we weren’t there. Because then they’d know they were done. Over.”

Ann said, “So you see yourself as an affirmative presence, not a low-down bloodsucker.”

Bang Abbott barked a scornful laugh. “You don’t get it. They need us more than we need them.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” Ann spoke like she had a clothespin on her nose. “I saw a clip on TV, some movie star—I forget who, some bottle blonde—she’s picking up her little boy from school and there’s, like, twenty of you A-holes waiting in the bushes. I mean seriously, Claude, that’s your
life?
The poor kid was maybe seven years old.”

The photographer knew it was a useless debate; for an actress, Ann was incredibly naïve. He himself was a veteran of many daycare stakeouts. One time he’d barely escaped arrest after an encounter with a well-known nanny who took a vicious swing at him, causing her to lose her grip on the young daughter of either Jamie Lynn Spears or Jennifer Garner. The little bugger landed in a sandbox, smack on her noggin, and immediately started squealing like a pig in a wood chipper. The nanny dialed 911 and Bang Abbott ran off; he didn’t shoot a single frame, and he never found out whose kid he’d been surveilling.

“Everybody’s fair game. No rules,” he said. Some people couldn’t fathom how he did what he did, but he’d never lost a minute of sleep. His was a legitimate industry, trafficking in the vulgarities of fame.

Ann shook her head. “It’s not your pits that stink, Claude, it’s your soul.”

“Harsh.”

“Yeah, well.”

He passed his cell phone to her. “Call Cherry’s old lady again. Tell her no more dicking around.”

The conversation was brief and unproductive. It was Ann’s impression that Janet Bunterman was trying hard to sound concerned.

“Does he at least let you pee?” she inquired.

“In a supervised setting.”

“What about the gun?”

“Five bullets left,” Ann said. “He wants an answer right now.”

“We’re still working up some options.”

“Janet, I swear to God.”

“Stall him,” Cherry’s mother suggested.

“Right. We’ll play some Scrabble. Take your sweet goddamn time.”

“Annie, please—I mean
please
—this is our A–number one top priority. Call back a little later, okay?”

Ann tossed the phone into Bang Abbott’s lap. She said, “I’m so over these people.”

“Nothing?”

“She says they’re still working up an offer. Unbelievable.”

The photographer said, “Well, screw that.”

He found another parking garage, chose another empty floor and again locked his hostage in the trunk of the rental. This time she wasn’t sedated, so there was plenty of complaining.

Afterward Bang Abbott walked to Pubes, which wouldn’t open for hours. He poked around the Dumpster in the back alley, near the rear entrance to the VIP room, and soon spotted what he was looking for. Gingerly he placed it in a plastic bag.

Next he went shopping. Handcuffs were easy to find; there was a sex boutique on Fifth Street. However, the clothes were a problem—he didn’t know Ann’s size, and the clerk at the consignment shop was useless. Later, in a second-floor room at a Marriott, Bang Abbott showed Ann the new ensemble.

She said, “Great. I’ll look like a Mennonite bridesmaid.”

After a hot shower—he allowed her five full minutes alone—she tried on the cotton dress, which hung down to her shins and fit like a tent. It was mousy gray with a pale crosshatch pattern, and buttoned primly up the front. For footwear Bang Abbott had selected a pair of plain brown flats that were two sizes too large.

“How much did all this set you back, Claude? Thirty, forty bucks?”

He said, “Maybe you want to sleep in that nasty black rag for a few more days.”

She eyed the gamy cocktail dress on the floor and shook her head.

“I didn’t think so,” he said.

The sight of the handcuffs drew sarcastic commentary, which Bang Abbott ignored. He led Ann to the bathroom, which was still steamy from the shower, and told her to sit on the floor. After rolling up the right sleeve of her dress, he cuffed her wrist to the bare pipe behind the toilet bowl.

She said, “I’m not wild about this look.”

“Shit, I almost forgot.” He went to the bedroom and got her Jackie O. shades, to hide the brown color of her eyes. Cherry’s fans would definitely have noticed.

From behind the glasses, Ann asked, “Are you done?” Sitting on the hard tile was uncomfortable; her neck and joints were still sore from the car crash.

“Let’s see some sloppy cleavage,” Bang Abbott said.

“Claude, I know where you’re heading.”

“You want
me
to undo the buttons? Because I will.”

“No thanks.” Ann was good at disheveling herself; it was an important part of her role as Cherry’s double.

“More,” said the photographer.

“I don’t think so.”

“One loose boob. Come on.”

“No!”

“You wanna get out of this alive?”

“Hurry up and take your stupid picture.” By now she was fairly certain he wouldn’t shoot her, at least not intentionally.

“Don’t move.” He knelt beside her and removed the belt from his trousers and cinched it around her handcuffed arm, above the elbow joint, causing her veins to bulge.

“Nice touch,” Ann remarked, although she was feeling anxious.

“Just you wait.”

Bang Abbott went to get the plastic bag. Ann turned white when he took out the dirty syringe that he’d found next to the Dumpster behind the nightclub.

As she watched him draw it a quarter-full with water, all she could say was, “Please don’t.”

“Here. Hold it just like this.” He placed the barrel of the hypodermic in her left hand, between the forefinger and middle finger, and moved her thumb to the plunger. “Jesus, what happened to your knuckles?”

“Nothing,” Ann said. While locked in the trunk, she’d banged both fists against the lid, trying to get somebody’s attention. “Where’d you find the harpoon?”

“Behind Pubes.”

“Lovely.” She was thinking meth, or possibly heroin.

The photographer stood back and studied her pose. “Turn your head sideways and stare at your arm, like you’re about to shoot up.”

“I get it, okay?” Her hand was trembling because she was terrified of accidentally sticking herself with the used needle. She could see a bead of somebody’s dried blood on the tip.

Bang Abbott stepped closer and mussed Ann’s wet hair in a way that obscured her swollen nose while exposing the absurd but distinctive neck tattoo. “That’ll work,” he said.

Through the second-rate lens of his secondhand cell phone, the girl was a ringer for Cherry Pye. The paparazzo snapped several shots—grainy, voyeuristic, amateurish. It was purely the look he wanted.

“Now they’ll know I’m fucking serious!” he crowed.

Ann threw the syringe into the bathtub and quickly loosened the belt from her other arm. She said, “Where’s the damn key to these handcuffs?”

“All we need is her e-mail,” said Bang Abbott.

“Cherry’s?”

“No, her mother’s. That’s your job—call back and get her private e-mail.”

“Then unhook me from the commode, all right?”

“First I gotta take a major whiz.”

“That’s so not funny,” she said.

“What—like I’m gonna trust you not to run?”

He pocketed the phone and from his waistband removed the bulky pistol, which he wedged in his right armpit.

“Claude, are you seriously going to unzip?” Ann asked.

Bang Abbott pressed his pudgy knees together as he fumbled with his pants. “Just look the other way and be quiet, okay? I got prostate issues.”

With her unshackled hand, Ann shielded her eyes.

“I love show business,” she said.

The former Cheryl Bunterman was in a toxic mood because she was confined to her suite on a Saturday night with an unsavory bodyguard, watching TV instead of hitting the clubs on South Beach. When she whined about being treated like a prisoner, the goon named Chemo switched channels from a Seth Rogan flick to a cage fight, and cranked up the volume.