Star Island (43 page)

“I am totally into being free,” she asserted thickly.

“Free is good.” As Tanner Dane Keefe finished off the doob, he noticed a billowy entourage being led past the velvet rope. He pointed and said, “Look. Kardashians.”

Cherry cheered. “They dance like freakin’ buffaloes! Hurry, let’s go.”

The actor helped her out of the SUV and they locked arms before unsteadily making their way across the street. A couple of paparazzi shouted Cherry’s name but she pretended not to hear.

She hustled her date to the front of the line, but the pinheaded simian at the door appraised them skeptically. After rechecking the list, he said, “I already let you in.”

“Funny-funny-funny,” said Cherry.

The no-neck shrugged. “Like an hour ago. See? ‘Cherry Pye.’ I already marked the name.”

“It wasn’t me, asshole. Here, you want some DNA?” She was
preparing to spit on the man’s clipboard when Tanner Dane Keefe stepped forward and said, “She’s cool.”

The security guy, who miraculously recognized the actor, lifted the rope. Roused by the affront, Cherry stormed into the club and beelined for the ladies’ room.

Tanner Dane Keefe went to the bar. A longhaired Turk sat down beside him and grumbled, “This is no good. Music sucks pole.”

The actor was distressed for another reason. He patted his pockets and said, “I think that crazy bitch jacked my meds.”

Skink downed the margarita in two gulps. Chemo said he wasn’t drinking. Ann was already on the dance floor, ripping it up.

“The fellow who kidnapped her, that so-called photographer,” Skink said, “I’d like a word with him.”

Chemo said it could be arranged. “But you can’t kill the fucker yet.” From his jacket he took out two plastic chips, which he explained were the memory cards from Abbott’s cameras. “This is my 401k right here. I need that douche bag to help me sell these pictures.”

Skink leaned closer. “Pictures of whom? Not Annie, I hope.”

“No, man. These are the ones Abbott took of Cherry.” Chemo had removed the stamp-sized cartridges before pawning the paparazzo’s Nikons at a shop on Biscayne Boulevard.

“And when will this pricey auction take place?”

“After the tour,” Chemo said, “when she overdoses. Abbott says it’s a sure thing. Then people’ll go fucking nuts over her, just like they did for Michael Jackson.”

Skink fingered his eye patch. He was unaware of Jackson’s death, or of the media convulsion that followed. That was one of the benefits of living in a crocodile swamp.

“What’d he do to her, anyway? The actress, I mean,” said Chemo, “besides the handcuffs and all. He didn’t try to—”

“She says no.”

“’Cause if he did, I’d say go ahead and waste the bastard.”
Chemo put the memory cards away. In the mirror he was watching Ann dance. “I told him not to hurt her,” he added.

Skink asked, “So where’s
your
girl?”

“I expect her any minute.”

Although Cherry’s one-armed bodyguard and the ornate hermit didn’t exactly blend with the sleek clientele, the club’s rainbow strobing provided a measure of cover. In addition, the mutant factor at Pubes was high; they weren’t the only ones drawing stares.

“How’d it happen?” Chemo pointed to Skink’s eye patch.

“Got kicked with a boot. You?” Skink tapped the shaft of the weed whacker.

“Barracuda,” Chemo said.

The governor whistled sympathetically.

Each of the men couldn’t help but wonder about the other’s backstory, but they let it be. The only thing that mattered was how the night would play out, and where the boundaries lay. Some of this would be decided by the two unpredictable women who were the subjects of their supervision.

Skink pressed a knuckle to his forehead. The bass line that blasted from the ceiling amps was stamping bruises on his brain. “I’ve been thinking about what you said—you really want your girl to OD? Son, that’s pretty damn cold.”

Chemo tweezed an itchy lesion on his nose. “Wanna trade? I’ll take the actress, you take the train wreck.” He wiped his fingers on a cocktail napkin and said, “Cherry croaks, I won’t be the only one makin’ money. Every damn magazine on the planet will paste her face on the cover. And all those fuckwits outside with their cameras—you don’t think they’ll be crashing the funeral?”

Skink turned away from the mirror. The reflection of himself dressed in a tailored suit was unnerving. “I just want to go home,” he said.

Although Annie
was
a vision on the dance floor.

A waitress breezed past, handing out tubular glow-stick necklaces. The governor broke open a green one and smeared the luminous ooze all over his cheeks.

Chemo frowned. “You got good skin. You should take care of it.”

Skink had his broad back to the bar. He said, “Well, sir, they
do
look alike!”

“Who?” Chemo whirled to see. “Jesus Henry Christ.”

Cherry Pye had appeared, dancing on the bushy end of the floor with the triple-named actor. Of course she was already toasted.

Chemo stood up. “Here goes,” he said.

The governor put a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s give it a minute.” He was smiling.

Cherry’s bodyguard shrugged. “Sure. What the hell.” Then he asked the bartender for a tall glass of gin, straight up with a twist of lime.

Ann spotted Cherry first and practically skipped across the dance floor. The singer was oblivious, fuzzily scouting the premises for Jay-Z or Lil Wayne or even Justin—anybody with a name, really.
Anybody
.

Tanner Dane Keefe recognized Ann as the photographer’s assistant at the Star Island photo shoot. When he reintroduced himself, she dispensed air-kisses and never missed a beat, never stopped working it. This was her night to play; no pizza and cable movies in the manager’s office. Ann told Tanner Dane Keefe that her name was Cheryl Gail. He offered a hit of X and she said, “No thanks, baby.”

“Baby” usually worked on the young ones.

Tanner Dane Keefe was smiling. “So, Cheryl, what do I have to do to get on the cover of
Vanity Fair?”

“Dance with me,” Ann said.

“Hey, I’m serious.” Then he actually winked. “Can’t you make some calls?”

She thought:
Why burst his bubble?
“Okay, but it’ll cost ya.”

“Sweet,” said the actor, fogbound as ever.

Nearby, Cherry Pye was listlessly shaking her hair to the music, still scanning the crowd. Her feet were moving, though it was more of a nursing-home shuffle than a techno dance move. Ann got right up beside her and said, “I really like your shoes.”

Tanner Dane Keefe noticed Ann’s tattoo and gleefully pointed it out to Cherry, who wasn’t amused. She slapped a hand to her neck, blurting: “I thought I had the only one!”

Ann whispered, “I copied
you.”

“Really?” Cherry chose to be flattered. Besides the Axl tatt, she didn’t pick up on the resemblance between herself and this unknown club tramp.

Tanner Dane Keefe did—the two hot long-legged blondes, shimmering side by side in designer shades.

“Outrageous,” he said. “You’re, like, two mirrors!”

Ann laughed. “Isn’t it wild?”

The actor whipped out his cell phone and snapped a picture of the women and showed it to Cherry, who took several moments to focus. Then she wheeled angrily on Ann: “Are you some kinda freakin’ wannabe, or stalker, or what? Get the fuck outta here—Tanny, go find a bouncer!”

Ann kicked it up a notch. She grabbed Cherry’s hands and said, “Come on.”

The singer tried to pull away but Ann was stronger and had the added advantage of not being loaded on weed, vodka and a ten-milligram diazepam scored off some fag hag in the john. Cherry had no choice but to dance.

“Who
are
you?” she demanded, jaws grinding.

“I’m you, Cheryl Gail.”

“That’s not my freaking name!”

Other partyers had stopped to watch the sloppy tango. Tanner Dane Keefe was snapping more photos with his cell.

“Seriously. I
am
you.” Ann tugged Cherry closer. “That was my job—playing you. Is that pathetic or what? Ask your mom and dad, you don’t believe me. I was you when you were too wrecked to be you.”

Someone in the crowd called Cherry’s name. Ann raised one arm and made a slinky lariat-twirling motion, which drew cheers and whoops.

The next moment she was down, pinned beneath the real Cheryl Gail Bunterman, who was punching at her wildly. Now lots
of people had their phones out, taking pictures of the tangle. Not wishing to flash the whole world, Ann endeavored to keep her knees pressed together. She’d anticipated an awkward moment but not a full-on fistfight, though Cherry’s blows were so feeble that it was sad, in a way.

“You—rotten—whore!” the singer grunted with each blow. “Who—are—you—whore?”

“I’m only trying to end it,” Ann said, “for both of us.”

“I hate you!”

“Otherwise you’re gonna kill yourself.”

“No—that’s—you!” Cherry rasped. “You’re—gonna—die—whore. One phone call.”

“Okay, fine.”

“One—phone—call—and—you’re—freaking—dead!”

“Geez, are you done?” Ann pushed Cherry off and sat up. She saw Skink and Cherry’s bodyguard advancing across the room, waving off the security goons.

“I guess we’ve been bad girls,” she said to Cherry, who wobbled to her feet and tried to run. Chemo hooked her by the waist and flung her over a shoulder. A tipsy fan latched on and found himself flat on his back, staring at the business end of a motorized yard trimmer.

Chemo stepped over the mewling dork and made for the back exit. He was intercepted by Maury Lykes, accompanied by two females on the statutory cusp who’d been coached to introduce themselves as his nieces. The promoter was discomposed by the spectacle of Cherry, spitting and thrashing in Chemo’s grasp.

“What the hell’s she doing here?” he snapped. “Besides fucking up.”

“It’s not good,” the bodyguard conceded.

“I mean, fucking up
everything
. Get her out!”

“That’s Cherry Pye!” squeaked one of Maury’s dates. “She’s my ringtone!”

By the time Chemo emerged with Cherry from Pubes, she had gone limp. With elongated strides he crossed toward the Escalade; to clear a swath through the paparazzi, he kept the weed whacker
buzzing. The singer dangled as deadweight, facedown against his chest. Her hair, shining like a flaxen pelt, cascaded below Chemo’s belt buckle. He was fixed so intently on navigating a getaway that he didn’t notice her vomiting quietly into the right pocket of his bomber jacket, the same pocket where he’d stashed the memory cards from Bang Abbott’s Nikons.

The Star Island portfolio, no longer priceless, was afloat in puke.

Bang Abbott was so flustered to see Chemo carrying Cherry out of the club that he missed the damn picture.

Why is she here?
the paparazzo wondered.
How could that seven-foot maniac let her come out and get wasted?

Now the bogus kidnap story would never get traction. Her new CD was sure to bomb and the tour would fizzle and all those artful photographs he’d taken were doomed to be sold as agency stock, unless Cherry was considerate enough to die pretty soon.

Like maybe tonight.

But why would my luck change now?
Bang Abbott mused bitterly.

He didn’t even lift the Pentax to take aim—he just stood there like he was nailed to the sidewalk while Chemo stalked through the mob, swinging that goddamn lawn chopper. Moments later, the black Escalade peeled out.

Teddy Loo got the shot, of course. So did all the video crews, including Slyke, that rodent from TMZ. The only ones who missed out were Bang Abbott and some slippery geek he’d never seen before—lean, clean-cut, dressed sharp. The guy looked like a footwear salesman at Neiman’s, not a shooter. The Canons hanging from his neck were shiny and unscuffed; clearly the kid was an amateur. While the rest of the maggots chased after Cherry, he hung back near Bang Abbott, who ignored him.

Silvio was his name. He worked for a man named Necker, who worked for a man named Smith, who worked for a man named Restrepo from Bogotá, Colombia. Silvio’s assignment on South Beach had been set in motion by a phone call from Fremont Spores
to Mr. Restrepo, who prized Fremont’s police-scanning skills and was unhappy to hear him so agitated.

It was true that Silvio didn’t know much about cameras, but he wasn’t there to shoot pictures. Before long, he sidled away from Bang Abbott and eased himself into the swelling clot of paparazzi, who were returning to their lurking positions outside Pubes.

Cell phones tinkled and pinged, delivering news of Cherry’s meltdown, including splotchy backlit snapshots taken inside the club. Bang Abbott groaned when he heard she’d tackled a woman on the dance floor, a headline that would not improve the market for a book of pensive portraiture. He resolved to put the empty-headed tartlet out of his mind and focus instead on the predatory task at hand.

Somebody famous was bound to come staggering out of the club any minute. It was time to feed the machine.

A back door opened and there was a starburst of camera flashes. Then in unison the paparazzi quit shooting, a battery-conserving reflex that kicked in as soon as they determined that the person emerging from Pubes was a mere civilian.

He was strapping and bald, his cheeks smeared with green Day-Glo goo. He wore a classy dark suit and a matching eye patch but otherwise appeared raw and unreliable. The photographers thought he was too old to be a bodyguard although he moved athletically, and with a forward sense of mission.

On instinct Bang Abbott scuttled closer, and he was rewarded. An attractive young woman materialized at the painted man’s side. She wore here-I-am sunglasses, silver hoop earrings and a smoking red dress—Bang Abbott recognized her instantly.

“Ann!” he shouted excitedly. “Hey, over here!”

She peered into the oily throng. “Claude?”

Skink began guiding her across the street, where a man on a motorcycle waited.

“Ann, how ’bout a big smile?” Bang Abbott yelled, and started snapping pictures. The other paparazzi joined in, surging after them.

Ann DeLusia removed her sunglasses and stood for a pose. She
had to laugh, it was all so ludicrous. There was Claude with his bandaged nubbin of a trigger finger, firing away. He hovered so close that she could smell the fresh drenching of Axe body spray, bless his lizardly heart.