The Woman Who Fell From Grace (29 page)

“Mommy, come
on
!” Sarah insisted, stamping her foot.

“In a minute!”

Benjamin, meanwhile, waddled over to a miniature rubber football and picked it up and brought it to me. It was wet and rather sticky. I didn’t know from what, and I didn’t want to know. He stood there, clapping his hands together eagerly. I tossed it to him, underhanded, from about three feet away. It bounded softly off his chest and was halfway to the floor before he finally clapped his hands together to catch it.

“Chip off the old block,” proclaimed Sheldon Selden, gazing at his son proudly from the bedroom doorway. “Poor kid even got my lightning quick reflexes. Hey, real glad you could make it, guy,” he said genially, limping over to me on a heavily wrapped ankle.

“Get bit by an agent?” I asked.

“Naw. Tripped rounding first in our studio softball game.”

“Shelley isn’t exactly Mr. Coordination,” Mrs. Shelley explained. “I call him Twinkle. Short for Twinkletoes.”

“We had to move into a one-story house because I kept falling down the damned stairs,” he confessed jovially.

Mr. Shelley was a chubby, sheepish, panda bear of a guy with thinning strawberry blond hair and pink skin. He was sort of soft and round all over, like one of those rubber toys that squeak if you squeeze them. His eyes were set unusually close together, so close they almost seemed to be on the same side of his nose, like a cartoon character’s. He wore a chunky, geometrically patterned sweater and wide-wale corduroy slacks. He seemed, at first glance, like a bit of a cream puff to be someone who ran a studio. Oafish almost. I doubted this was the case. Oafs do run studios, but they are never cream puffs.

“What do your friends call you?” he asked, as he shook my hand.

“Any number of vile things. Make it Hoagy.”

“As in Carmichael?”

“As in the cheese steak.”

“I’m a major fan of your work, Hoagy. Merilee’s, too. How’s she liking Fiji?”

Mrs. Shelley elbowed him sharply in the ribs and glared at him.

“Oops,” he said, reddening. “Sorry. I forgot that you two—”

“No need to be sorry,” I assured him. “Merilee’s fine, I’m fine, we’re both fine.” This was me putting on my happy face. It’s not one of the things I’m best at.

“Glad to hear it,” he said, and he seemed to be. “Oh, hey, sorry about all that security downstairs. We need it when we travel.”

“Because of the press?”

“The nuts,” Mrs. Shelley replied.

“Which ones?” I asked.

“Kidnappers,” he replied grimly. “Sarah and Benjamin are major targets. Shelley, too. All these stories in the papers about how many hundreds of millions of dollars we’re worth. The numbers aren’t even close to true, but people get ideas, you know? There are just so many crazies out there, and all it takes is one. We stay prepared at all times.”

I nodded. Hollywood celebrities live in utter terror of loons these days. Some of it is paranoia, but not all of it. Not even maybe.

He held his arms out to his side and spun slowly around. “How do I look to you?”

“Terrific. Don’t change a thing.”

“I’m wearing bullet-proof body armor. Guy said it wouldn’t show. Cost me two thousand bucks.”

I turned to his wife. “And you?”

“You should see this little lady on the target range,” he said. “Dead solid perfect.”

She lowered her eyes demurely. “Now, Twinkle …”

“I’m serious,” he said. “She’s won all kinds of badges. Sure as hell beats the pants off of me.”

“He’s just being modest, Hoagy,” she said.

“And the other wives can’t even begin to touch her.”

“A lot of us shoot,” she explained. “We want to be able to defend ourselves if we have to.”

“What do you use?” I asked her.

“Well, I started out with a Smith and Wesson Chief Special,” she replied. “But now I prefer the Glock nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol. The other ladies seem to like it, too. There’s less recoil. The trigger’s lighter, don’t you think?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I replied. “I try to get by on my wits.”

“Some people you just can’t reason with,” Mr. Shelley pointed out.

“In that case, I have my protector,” I said, indicating Lulu, who was sniffing delicately at a vase of yellow mums on the coffee table.

“I go to the range with my mother every Saturday,” Mrs. Shelley said. “Pennyroyal used to come with us, but not anymore.”

“And Matthew?”

“He hates guns,” said Mr. Shelley.

“Is he here at the hotel with you?” I asked.

“No, he’s home in L.A.,” he replied. “Press downstairs all think he’s here because we used the studio jet. They have informers who tip them off about stuff like that. Only this time they’re way off.”

“They usually are.”

“Mommy, let’s go!” whined Sarah. “C’monnn …”

“Okay, okay, button. We’ll be back after lunch,” she said to her husband, as she gathered up her purse.

“Take Frank with you, Cookie,” he said. “And don’t go out the Tower entrance. The chauffeur’s waiting for you around the corner outside of the Bull and Bear.”

“We’ll be fine, Twinkle.”

He kissed both kids, then kissed his wife, gazing at her adoringly. “Love you,” he cooed.

“Love you back,” she murmured. “Nice meeting you, Hoagy. Let’s go, troops!”

And out the door they went. It seemed uncommonly silent now.

“God, I love my kids,” he confessed. “They make it all worthwhile. All the lies. All the bullshit. You got any?”

“Not that I know of.”

“When I see Matthew and Pennyroyal fighting over little Georgie this way …” His eyes filled with tears. “The sweetest, sunniest baby you ever saw, Hoagy. Matthew adores him. Would you believe he had a fucking
circus
waiting there in the front yard when she brought him home from the hospital? Elephants, clowns, chimpanzees …” The tears began streaming down his face. He was a very emotional guy. I couldn’t imagine what he was like at a Shirley Temple movie. “It’s tearing him apart, Hoagy. Me, too. Because, Christ, we
love
Pennyroyal. She’s
family.
There are no villains here. Just two people who can’t stop hurting each other. She’s a mixed-up kid. An actress, and you know what they’re like.”

“Intimately.”

He dabbed at his eyes with a napkin. “That was her on the phone just now. She was crying, she’s so upset about this shit in today’s paper. It’s totally one hundred percent false. She’s absolutely
not
pregnant.”

“There goes my bet.”

“Which bet?”

“Never mind.”

“Seems she went to see her gynecologist yesterday. Routine checkup. Somebody must have spotted her in the parking lot, followed her up there, and seen the guy’s name on the door. One thing leads to another and—”

The phone rang.

“Sorry. It never stops.” He limped over to the desk by the window and picked it up. “Yeah? … Yeah? … No, absolutely not. We will not give Johnny Forget gross profit participation. What do you mean, don’t we love him? We’re offering him a job, aren’t we? Name one other studio that is. He hasn’t worked in a year. He’s been in jail for attempted murder. He’s been in Betty Ford for drugs. In spite of all of that we want him—
because
we love him. And because the public thinks of him as Badger,” he added quickly. “But if he holds out for gross points, we’ll just get somebody else … I am
not
threatening you. I’m stating our final position. Take it or leave it …” No cream puff indeed. This doughboy was solid muscle inside. “Fine! Deal’s dead! Deal’s dead!” Not a bad imitation by Benjamin, either. Maybe the kid had a future in mimicry. He certainly didn’t have one in sports. “Fine! We’ll be happy to forget it! …
You’re
sick of ‘Forget’ jokes? Hey, I knew Johnny long before you did, pal. I knew him when he still pronounced it For-jay. He happened to be a nice, sweet French Canadian kid then. And he didn’t have a greedy scumbag like you for an agent!” He slammed down the phone and grinned at me sheepishly. “Now you know what I do all day—I’m the Abominable No Man.”

“Ever say yes?”

“Somebody has to be the adult.”

“And that’s you?”

“That’s me. Just between us, I can’t stand Johnny. The little turd’s a train wreck waiting to happen. But Matthew has to have him.”

“His new picture is a fourth Badger Hayes?”

“Yes,” he replied curtly. He phoned downstairs and stopped all of his calls for an hour. Then he limped out onto the terrace.

There was a table and chairs out there, and a not terrible view of the cabs playing bumper car up and down Park Avenue. A room service cart with coffee, pastries, and fresh strawberries awaited us. Lulu followed us out and curled up under my chair. Shelley poured us coffee and snatched a Danish.

“Don’t tell my wife,” he said, gobbling it hungrily. “She’s always on me about my weight.”

“Not to worry. Keeping secrets is my specialty.”

“I hope it is, Hoagy,” he said, turning serious. “I hope it is. Now, where were we?”

“Pennyroyal.”

“Oh, right. All this crap in the papers. Half of it is nothing more than the tabloids playing their usual tricks. Like this bit about Matthew forcing her to make love to Johnny in a bathtub while he watched them.”

“Did he?”

“Of course he did. That was the big love scene in
Badger Goes to College
, when Badger tries to change Debbie Dale’s tire and gets all covered with mud, remember? It was in the movie. He was directing the two of them.”

I nodded, though I hadn’t actually seen Matthew Wax’s last picture. The critics had massacred it. Most everyone had stayed away. Matthew Wax, it seemed, could do nothing right these days.

“And the rest of it?” I asked.

“A mean-spirited smear campaign on the part of Zorch. He’s trying to get Matthew to cave in.”

“Will he?”

“His attorney is advising him not to.”

“Who’s his attorney?”

“I am,” Shelley replied, grinning.

I tugged at my ear. “All in the family, huh?”

“It won’t work, Hoagy. We won’t give her half of the studio. I don’t care if the Iguana smells the record or not.”

“Which record is that?”

“Biggest Hollywood divorce settlement of all time,” he replied. “The record right now is the $112 million Frances Lear got from Norman. Amy Irving supposedly got a hundred mil from Steve Spielberg. Zorch won’t be satisfied unless he can top both of them.”

“Can he?”

“Not without one hell of a court fight from us.”

“There was no prenuptial agreement?”

“None. They just ran off to Vegas like a couple of crazy kids and got married. I just wish I could get the two of them in a room together. Get them communicating again. But Zorch won’t allow it. As far as he’s concerned, this is war. It’s criminal, the way he’s using her. That’s his specialty—preying upon confused, vulnerable women. He doesn’t care what happens to her or the baby. All he cares about is headlines. She swears she gave him all of that personal stuff about Matthew in the absolute strictest confidence. He promised her it was for his ears only. As soon as he got hold of it, he ran right to the papers with it.” He shook his head, disgusted. “I mean, really, whose business is it how often Matthew Wax cuts his toenails?”

“Not mine.”

“He’s even got detectives following Matthew around, hoping to catch him with another woman.”

“Will he?”

“No way. There’s nobody else. Doesn’t stop the scumbag, though. We had to kick one off the lot the other day, passing himself off as an electrician.” He reached for another Danish and bit into it. “I’ve tried to set her straight. The poor kid’s as much a victim here as Matthew is. She’s hurting. I told her, hey, sweetie pie, Zorch works for you. You turned him loose. You want to cool things off, fire him. You know what she said to me? She said ‘You’ve never respected me, Shelley.’ Can you imagine?”

“Is she really having an affair with Trace Washburn?”

He nodded. “Another prime user of vulnerable women. They’ve been seen together all over town, hugging and kissing. A man Matthew once looked up to. God, what a mess.”

“How is he holding up under all of it?”

“He’s tearing his hair out.”

“And where do I come in?”

“It seems Zorch has put Pennyroyal together with a publisher,” he said. “They’re giving her over a million bucks to tell all about her life with Matthew. The dirtier the better.”

“Who’s writing it for her?”

“A woman named Cassandra Dee.”

I winced.

He noticed. “You know her?”

“I’ve scraped her off the bottom of my shoes a couple of times.”

“She’s not reputable?”

“Cassandra and reputable are not two words I would put together in the same sentence. Or novella. Cassandra D’Amico is her full name. She’s a bareknuckle fighter from Bensonhurst. Got her start stringing for Page Six of the
Post
, then moved up—or down—to the
Enquirer
, depending on how you look at it. She’s now considered the mistress of the slash and burn. Did that sleazy Rock Hudson book, the unauthorized Julia Roberts bio. She works the low road. She’ll do anything to get a scoop, and I do mean anything.”

“So I’ve been told,” he acknowledged sourly. “You can imagine how Matthew feels about it. All he keeps saying is ‘Why can’t they leave me alone?’ ”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible anymore. Once this kind of thing starts …”

“I know, I know. That’s why I contacted you.”

“Dueling memoirs?”

“Exactly. Only ours will be tasteful. The self-portrait of a Hollywood genius. I’m here to talk to publishers. Can I trust any of them?”

“No.”

He laughed. “Then I should feel right at home. I wanted your input before I sat down with any of them.”

“I’m flattered.”

“We’re flattered that a writer of your caliber would even be interested.”

The stroking. It’s what they give you out there, in exchange for your self-respect. Hardly necessary in this case. We were talking guaranteed best-seller. And my self-respect was long gone.

“We want class,” he claimed grandly. “We want depth, taste, humanity. We want
you.
You’re the only writer Matthew would even consider.”

I lapped this all up in silence. I never said I didn’t like the stroking.