The New Elvis Page 15

  Both female judges were current pop stars. Crann was known for her breathy vocals, scanty costumes, choreography, and conquests. Tamarind was known for her weird Sitar wailing, endorsed by Deepak Chopra, Oprah, and New Agers worldwide, and its ability to induce trancelike states. That any of them were suited to judge singing talent was questionable, but Ryan was ready to give them a chance.

  “Who are you, lad?” Deth asked as Ryan approached the taped marks on the floor.

  “Ryan Wyatt. I’m local.”

  “You ever cut any LPs?”

  Ryan shook his head.

  “You know who you look like, don’t you?”

  Ryan nodded. “I do. In fact, I’m going to sing one of his songs for you now.”

  “Right, then,” Deth said. “On with it.”

  There was no musical accompaniment. The auditions were a cappella.

  Ryan stood perfectly still, focused, and then launched into “Heartbreak Hotel”. Immediately, he began to gyrate as his singing resounded off the walls. The three judges were captivated. He needed two yeses to make it through to the live shows. As he finished the last line of the song, Tamarind let out an ungodly shriek of approval and stood up. Her chair tipped, fell, and clattered on the floor.

  “This is what we’ve been waiting for,” she screamed.

  “Wait your turn,” Crann said coolly. “I get to comment first.”

  Deth turned to Tamarind. “She does, you know.”

  “Sorry. I couldn’t help myself.”

  “Bloody hell,” Deth said. “Why don’t we all save some time and answer in unison?”

  Chapter 54

  As Logan finished each story, he took it upstairs, knocked, and waited for Marilyn to peer through the peephole and open the door. She didn’t go out without Tom anymore, and Logan suspected she and her bodyguard had fallen in love.

  Today, he came up to tell her the Susannah Byron and Bruce Cedric layout was ready, and like all the spreads he worked on, he easily imagined himself on the scene with Belle and Graham as they trudged up the hill leading to Laurence Conrad’s Hollywood Hills hideaway, an underground fortress reputed to be eco-friendly. Everyone suspected Susannah and her husband Bruce were experiencing marital woes when he failed to meet her at LAX on her return from Czechoslovakia, where she’d been filming The Red Agenda. When Marilyn got word that Susannah had hopped into a taxi and wasn’t headed home, she was certain the actress was on her way to her lover Laurence’s bunker.

  “I hear his place is fireproof,” Graham commented, trying to keep pace with Belle, who was twenty paces ahead. “Earthquake proof, too. The Star says his place will still be standing in the year 4000.”

  Belle stopped to refasten the elastic around the ponytail high atop her head. Black curls tumbled onto her shoulders. “But does he get any sunlight?”

  The scrub on the hillside was crisp, dry, and ripe for fire season. It crunched underfoot as they trudged on. “Sure. The living room is wall-to-ceiling glass, exposed to the backyard. Tapped his phone line five years ago.” They had reached the summit, where a fence marked Laurence’s property line. A dark green hedge of rosemary ran alongside the length of chain link, and by squatting in the tangled grasses, they could hide from view. Belle found a large rock to sit on, and Graham chose one nearby. He removed his camera from his oversized fanny pack and fiddled with the settings. He pointed his camera toward the back of Laurence’s house and focused the lens so he had a clear view of the living room. Within minutes, there was movement inside. Laurence headed to his front door and opened it to greet Susannah, who placed her suitcase on the floor and fell into his arms.

  Maybe Logan hadn’t been there, but he wished he had been. Living vicariously through stories told by reporters had to suffice, but he fought the nagging feeling he was invisible, expendable, off the radar, not fully alive, less important due to his defect, his inability to engage another living soul in meaningful conversation.

  He knocked again, and Marilyn and Tom answered the door in matching Daily Celebrity sweatshirts. Her fingers and toes were painted with Chanel le Vernis Orange Blossom, and her newly chopped hair had grown so flyaway bits covered the tops of her elfin ears and lifted up around wounds that had scabbed. She had left the Monroe look behind and had morphed into someone new—herself. She twirled around and knocked into Tom, who caught and held her, a big smile on his face. Tom, whose father had been in the tabloid game since the earliest days of The National Enquirer, liked to play a game with her. He would give her three stories and ask her which one had actually been published back in the eighties, when he was growing up in Laguna Niguel and tabloids were required bathroom reading.

  On the way downstairs, with Marilyn riding piggyback, Tom shifted to address her. “Story one. When Johnny Waters dated Charlisse Witherspoon, did he forbid her to wear underwear? Story two. When a guy doing props on Jennifer Dench’s movie made a joke about her weight, did she make him write out, I must not call Jennifer fat one hundred times on cue cards? Story three. Is there a website dedicated solely to promoting Janet Kimberly Charter’s breasts?”

  Marilyn nuzzled Tom’s neck. “I hate that you’re older than me and remember this stuff. Story number one about no underwear is probably true. I don’t think anyone could convince a props guy to write anything a hundred times, and, with regard to Charter’s breast website, I don’t think they had the Internet when you were young.”

  Tom laughed. “Ouch. And you’re right again. Johnny forbade Charlisse to wear underwear, but I don’t know how often she complied.”

  They reached the landing where Logan stood and followed him through the laundry room to his front door made of white particleboard and secured with a flimsy lock.

  “All the layout work gets done in his place,” Tom pointed out, “and there isn’t even an alarm.”

  “No one’s going to look for stuff down here,” Marilyn argued.

  “Better safe than sorry. Always.”

  Logan unlocked his door and pushed it inward, moving ahead of them into his small place, which consisted of a bed, a tiny stand where he kept a table lamp, a framed photo of the late Professor X and a vial of hair, a forty-pound mini-fridge that served double duty as a surface for his turntable, a bank of computers with office chairs, and a bathroom with a sink, toilet, and shower. The place was dedicated to Elvis, with posters and tin signs hanging on every wall. The eleven-by-twelve-inch wall calendar above the head of his microfleece-blanketed twin bed featured black and white photos of Elvis. This month’s picture was of the Million Dollar Quartet, with Elvis seated on a piano bench and Jerry Lee Lewis, Carl Perkins, and Johnny Cash standing behind him, taken back on December 4, 1956, in Memphis at Sun Record Studios.

  While Logan called up the new issue on his dual monitors, Marilyn slid off Tom’s back, and he launched into another trivia quiz. “Story one. When Felicity Mirren stayed at the Villa Ensoleillé during Cannes, she disliked the room’s wallpaper so much she had them cover it up. Story two. When Mickey Bridges went to a feng shui practitioner and was told he was going to father an evil monster, he put a metal board under his mattress to ward off negative energy. Story three. When Heath Phoenix was dating porn star Samantha Castle, he started taking Viagra and claimed they had sex twelve times a day every day until they broke up.”

  Marilyn snatched the pillow from the head of Logan’s bed and hit Tom squarely in the stomach with it. “Story one is true, because there weren’t any feng shui practitioners when you were growing up, and there sure as hell wasn’t any Viagra.”

  Tom took the pillow away and walloped her with it. “Do you have any idea how old feng shui is?”

  “Sure. They invented it when you turned forty, back in the Pleistocene epoch.”

  Logan waved them over to the monitors. The left screen was a view of the issue’s sealed cover. It read, “Who’s Cheating Now?” with photos of Susannah Byron, Bruce Cedric, and Laurence Conrad in cameo-shaped bubbles surrounding the question.

  “Ni
ce cover,” Marilyn said, resting her hand gently on Logan’s shoulder. She pulled up a chair and examined the photo Graham had managed to get of Laurence kissing Susannah by his front door, her suitcase on the floor at her feet. It was a great shot, and the story by Belle and Graham only made it better.

  “When Bruce Cedric failed to meet his wife, Susannah Byron, at the airport in late June when she returned from Czechoslovakia, where The Red Agenda was filming, it was a huge clue something might be wrong with their marriage. After all, they hadn’t seen each other since April. Didn’t he miss her?

  “Apparently, not so much. Who’s the first man Susannah wanted to see when she touched foot back in the States? Laurence Conrad, Susannah’s co-star in The Near Missus in 2008.

  “How many times has Susannah met with Conrad in his Hollywood Hills bunker? Hard to say, but A-list insiders say their relationship started not long after their first movie together and that they take every opportunity to spend time together whenever Bruce is out of town.

  Who will file divorce papers first? After Mr. Cedric gets a load of this top-secret snap, it may, in fact, be him.”

  Marilyn pushed her chair back from the desk. “We’re good to go.”

  Logan nodded and minimized the cover photo and the story layout. His computer wallpaper was a montage of black and white photos of Elvis from the movie Jailhouse Rock with Elvis in various dance poses, balanced on his tiptoes.

  Marilyn joined Tom by Logan’s front door.

  “What’s wrong?” Tom asked. “You look a little down.”

  Marilyn shook it off. “Nothing,” she said. “It’s a good story.”

  Logan looked at her. She’d changed since the rape, just as he changed after he experienced his dad’s violent death and his mom’s horrifying demise, paralyzed by the knowledge that the men who wanted to find him—the men who knew he knew what they looked like—would kill him as easily as they’d shot his father down. The feeling was akin to hanging in a web after envenomation, being wrapped in gauzy silk, unable to move, incognizant of anything but the terrible certainty that the shadow looming overhead was malevolent and slaughterous by nature.

  Chapter 55

  The ten It Factor contestants moved into a sprawling home above Sunset Boulevard on a Tuesday, and Ryan was given a room with Seth, a bug-eyed kid from Texas who sang as though crabs were clamped to every appendage every time he belted out a ballad.

  They had twin beds flanking a large picture window overlooking a pool, where the female contestants worked on their tans when they weren’t in session with the show’s vocal coaches.

  Seth was busy tacking up a poster of Shania Twain while Ryan watched.

  “You got a girlfriend, man?” Ryan asked.

  Seth jumped off his bed and backed up to see if Shania was hanging straight.

  “Yep. Sally Rose.”

  Seth and Sally. Ryan smiled.

  Seth was satisfied with the way the poster looked. “You?”

  Ryan nodded. “Grew up with her. Her name is Bea. Short for Beatrice.”

  “What about your dad? Does he look like Elvis, too?”

  Ryan shook his head. “No. I was a sperm donor baby. Before she met my dad, my mom wanted to get pregnant and do the single mom thing, so she went to a fertility specialist. I’ve been trying to figure out who my dad is for a long time.”

  Seth pulled off one of his cowboy boots and threw it across the room.

  “Well, then what we have going on here is gonna be just right for you.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s the perfect platform to find him. Millions of people watch this show.”

  “I never have.” Ryan went over to his closet and pulled out his laptop so he could set it up at his desk.

  “I can show you last season on the net if you want.”

  “So after I sing and the judges tell me what they thought, I can look straight at the camera and say, ‘By the way, I’m looking for my real dad. If you’re an Elvis impersonator or simply look like Elvis and you donated sperm in Las Vegas over nineteen years ago, you might be him, so give me a call’?”

  Seth pulled off his other boot and threw it. It landed next to the first one as neatly as if he had placed them together on the floor in front of his dresser.

  “No. We do confessionals here. Once a week, they put each of us in a little booth, like one of those at church where the priest absolves you of your sins. You Catholic?”

  “Yep, but I never went to confession.”

  Seth stretched his legs. “Well, confession here is not about sharing what you’ve done wrong. It’s about how you feel about the show and the people here. Even me. You can complain about me if you want.”

  Ryan plugged his laptop into a power strip. “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Why not?” Seth asked. “The first thing I’m gonna do is complain about how pretty you are.”

  Chapter 56

  When the next layout was ready for review, Logan went upstairs to get Marilyn and Tom, but instead, he was invited to join the unofficial meeting being held in Marilyn’s bedroom. Just back from a trip north, Belle stood with her back to the window, facing the room, while Graham sat on the hope chest at the foot of the bed. The whiteness of Marilyn’s down comforter looked like a snow-covered field, her body creating hills and ridges beneath its weight.

  Tom hovered by the door and ushered Logan in.

  “Logan came to show you the next spread.”

  Marilyn nodded and pulled the covers up to her chin, her thoughts meandering. Ron’s old roommate’s father not only insured distribution of ten thousand copies each to New York City, Los Angeles, Chicago, Houston, Philadelphia, Phoenix, Jacksonville, Indianapolis, Columbus, and Charlotte for a total of one hundred thousand copies nationwide, but he promised they would be at the register, smack beside the omnipresent National Enquirer. At a cost of five hundred dollars per city, or five thousand dollars total, she could expect to recoup her investment and have twenty thousand dollars profit per issue, and if she had him run five issues a week, and they sold out, she could count on a cool hundred grand. Every year she could count on half a million profit, and once she made enough to retire, she would move to a tropical island, where the cabana boys would tend to her every wish. Such was the dream, but first, she had to survive, and survival meant avoiding anyone connected to Flash who wanted her out of the picture. If she were asking for Nepture, Uranus, Saturn, or Jupiter—hell, all of the Jovian planets—she would ask for the biggest, most sensational scoop of the century to fall into her lap, just to rub Neville’s and Bertrand’s fat noses in her success. But one day at a time.

  “You’re dressed under there, right, Mar?” Belle asked.

  Marilyn shot her a withering look.

  “Well, you know, you two…” Belle began, waving her hand from Tom to Marilyn and back again.

  Not only could Marilyn’s friends not hold falling in love against her, it was impossible not to like Tom. He was fun, quick to clean up after they ate together, and good for Marilyn, whose anxiety lessened a notch whenever he was near.

  Marilyn sat up and threw the heavy cover off. The sheet and comforter were now clumped on the vacant side of her bed, and she sat on the top sheet with a pillow propped against the headboard at her back. She was dressed in a spaghetti-strapped T-shirt and shorts, and she wore a new necklace Tom had bought her. It was a topaz starburst with a tiny satellite of diamonds on a gold chain, and it sparkled whenever Marilyn turned her head. Matching earrings and a bracelet were next on the list. Tom went over to the bed and picked up the pile, shaking the bedclothes out and neatly folding them. Marilyn watched him adoringly. “Oh, my God. Will you take care of me forever?”

  Tom smiled. “Only if you keep playing one, two, three with me.”

  Graham got up from the hope chest and went to stand beside Belle, who had turned to look out at the sky. Logan moved from the doorway and sat on the hope chest Graham had vacated. He was dressed in ecru pants and a black shir
t that made his eyes and hair look a shade darker.

  Graham was curious. “What’s one, two, three?”

  Marilyn groaned.

  Tom’s face lit up. “Tell me which of these three stories are true. One, Jesse Franco wanted to name his daughter Incontinence because he believed it meant across the world or across the continents. Two, a lady met Adrien Cage on Venice Beach and thought he was homeless because he’d recently lost a lot of weight to appear in Swastika. She offered him a sandwich and soda, which he accepted and thanked her for. Three, David Andrew Howard wouldn’t do a love scene with Melanie Foster until she agreed to shave her legs.”

  Graham thought a moment. “Three is true. Howard is totally hung up on grooming.”

  Tom looked at Marilyn. “How about that? A solid guess without a joke about my age.”

  Marilyn looked around. “I need a gavel.” She paused. “OK, guys, I just wanted to talk about DC. Feeling like I’m a marked woman has turned me into a nervous wreck. We’ll keep going, but, I mean…” she trailed off, unable to finish.

  Tom sat down next to Marilyn and took her hand. “What those men did to you…they left you at death’s door. They frightened you, violated you, hurt you, and messed up your head so badly you think they’re around every corner, ready to attack. I should think you’d fight even harder to prove you’re not only a success, but that you’re able to outdo them and be the best-selling tabloid in the nation. They wanted to squash your spirit, kill your drive, make you quit, but the Marilyn I know and love does not give up. She fights back and wins. Can you imagine what a slap in the face it would be to them if you got the story of a lifetime?”

  “What in the world could we scoop that would be that big?” She closed her eyes and imagined a million issues flying off the racks at stores and newsstands. “Of course, I would be thrilled.”

  Tom held her tight. “Then that’s what you’ve got to shoot for.”