Chapter 5
Michael
Kenneth Braque, LLP, was the biggest public relations firm in Los Angeles. He did politicians, doctors, lawyers, corporations, and industry types like myself.
His expansive lobby was quiet at that hour. The floor had been cleaned and buffed, the plants watered to a glisten, the glass and metal polished, and the sound system silenced. The night watchman looked up from his book. His face was blue from the bank of screens. I’d never seen him before, but then again, I’d never shown up at three in the morning.
“Sign in, please,” he said.
Gene snapped up the clipboard. “Did Ken Braque get here?”
“Yeah,” he said then pointed at me. “You’re the guy from Dead Lawyer, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I was in that.”
“Man, that was, like, the worst I’ve ever seen. When that building collapsed, I was like, man, you have got to be kidding.”
“Yeah, well…” I shrugged. “No one tries to make a bad movie.”
“You were good though, man. You were good.”
“Thank you.” I shook his hand and shot him a smile.
We got two steps away before I heard him say, “Hey! Can I get a picture?”
I never denied a fan a picture. Ever.
I stepped toward him, but Gene got between me and the guard. “Dude, no. Get behind your desk.”
The guard got behind his desk, and Gene and I got into the elevator.
“Think.” Gene poked his head so hard his stupid watch rattled. “That guy posts your picture to Facebook, and in fifteen minutes, everyone knows you were at your publicist’s in the middle of the night, an hour after you threw a tantrum at a pap.”
“Has anyone heard from Britt? Is she okay?” I wanted someone else to worry about. Worrying about myself wasn’t any fun.
“She’s fine. But your movie is screwed.”
I didn’t care about the movie, but my father did. I’d wanted to do it for him. I wanted to rescue him, but it was harder than it looked.
Gene put his hand on my shoulder. “We’re going to get you out of this, buddy.”
I had to swallow the words get your hand off me.
The elevator doors opened into a huge, empty lobby with an unmanned reception station. Ken’s offices had always impressed me. Tucked into the corner of a building made of glass, it made me feel as though we’d walked onto a precipice. No paper, pen, computer cord, book, or tchotchke was left unattended, undusted, or unorganized. It was always like that, even for surprise visits.
The lights were out, except for the absolute necessities, and the space was dead. Ken stood at the reception desk, wearing plaid pajama pants and slippers, a laptop illuminating his face. His hoodie said Harvard University across the front in grey felt.
“Greydon,” he said without further greeting, “were you on coke?”
“Come on, man.”
He looked at me over the top of his reading glasses. “Drinking?”
“Hey, Ken.” Gene held out his hand. “I was there, and—”
“Not that much,” I cut Gene off when Ken ignored his hand.
“Then what the hell were you thinking?” Ken asked.
“That I needed to give you something to do. You know, earn your retainer.”
He slid off his glasses. “Save the smart mouth routine for the ladies.” He turned the laptop toward me.
He was on DMZ, looking at a picture of me in all my rage, my fist pushed forward. I looked vicious and brutal. A director couldn’t have constructed a better shot to make me look as if I was on the edge of sanity. The violence of the moment was stark. My jaw clenched. My fist tight. The color drained from the scene by the low light. I had been grabbing a camera, not hitting anyone, but that didn’t matter. The picture didn’t show my thoughts, as few as they were.
“I suggest you don’t read the comments,” Ken said. “They had no business up there.” Gene pointed at the screen.
“Apparently they did,” I grumbled.
“And nobody gives a shit.” Ken snapped the laptop shut.
“These paps are out of control,” Gene said. “They worked like a team. She softened him up, and he took the picture.”
“This is Tom Schmidt and Laine Cartwright. They don’t have to work that hard.”
“She was flashing her tits and he was taking the picture,” Gene protested.
“The one he threw?” Ken replied dryly.
“I’ll replace the camera,” I said.
“They better not try to sue him.” Gene held up his hand, showing off his ten-pound pink gold watch.
“You stink at this, Testarossa,” Ken grumbled.
“You know what, Gene?” I said. “Thanks for the lift. You should go.” He looked about to say something, but I cut him off. “I’ll call you when we’re done.”
He glanced at Ken, who said, “I’m sure you have other clients. We’ve got this, bud. Go take care of Britt.”
“Yeah,” Gene said. “Cool, cool.” He shook my hand then Ken’s at the door.
After Ken was gone, my public relations guy didn’t waste a second before getting down to business. We hadn’t even left the empty reception area.
“Tom Schmidt is easy. We’ll work something out with his agent. Laine Cartwright’s dicier. If she so much as skinned her knee, you’re in for it. She’s super tough. Twenty-five. Been at this since she was seventeen. She gets the dirty laundry big money pics: Tawny, London, Lindsay, you. She’s extremely aggressive, the pap other paps follow. Got a way of landing in shit. Stop me when I’m telling you things you already know.”
“I know her name, what she does, and you should know… about the laundry…” I paused, and he raised an eyebrow. “She and I were at Breakfront together.”
“Oh, God. No.”
“Oh, God. Yes.”
“You were intimate with her.”
“No. I mean, yes, but…” I rubbed my eyes. I’d been tired before I left the club. This was more exhausting than anything I’d ever done.
“Get to the point,” Ken said. “I have Britt’s lawyer flying into LAX in two hours.”
“It was nothing.” Saying that felt deeply wrong, as if I was telling a whopper of a lie. “It was nothing actionable.”
“Was there penetration? Just tell me so I can earn my retainer. Are you her baby daddy?”
I laughed. “No.”
“You swear?”
I made the Boy Scout sign. “On my Eagle Scout pin. It was worthy of the Hallmark channel.”
“Why didn’t you finish the job?”
“She was fifteen, and I had a girlfriend.”
His eyes flickered, and I knew he was doing a quick subtraction problem. “Statutory.”
“Jesus, Ken, I held her hand.”
“Spare me the boring details,” Ken said, “Did you tell her anything she doesn’t need to know? Does she have anything to hold over you?”
“No.”
“And the guy she was with? You know him? He got anything?”
“No. I never met him before.”
“All right.” He zipped up his hoodie like a punctuation. He lived for this. “Let me see what I can dig up.”
“You going to tell everyone who she’s sleeping with?” I joked.
“If it’ll help us.” He was serious.
I felt as if I’d forgotten who I was talking to. I’d hired my public relations person using the same metrics I’d used to hire my agent.
“I want to replace the camera and be done with it,” I said. “Right now, I’m more worried about Britt holding up production.”
“You and me both.”
“I want to wake up Steven and get some rewrites. Put her character in a chair—”
“Done already. I have a call in to Gareth as well.” He turned back to his laptop. “Go get some sleep.”
“Ken,” I said, and he turned from his computer to look at me over his glasses. “Do I have to worry about this?”
He sighed as if I were asking a question so stupid, a four-year-old would have dismissed it. “You’re a nice Midwestern boy who was born in the wrong city. That’s what they love about you. You’re a born-and-raised Hollywood actor with Midwestern morals and Midwestern manners. Go home, and go to bed. Rest like your life depended on it. And don’t look at the internet.”