Dead Famous (Danny Costello) Read online

  Dead Famous

  Tony Bulmer

  Copyright 2012 Tony Bulmer

  Dead Famous 01

  Oscar night. Beverly Hills. The glistening Limo eased out of the courtyard into the crowds out front of the Peninsula Hotel. Shaqil Johnson scowled malevolently, his eyes black with hatred, ‘Took your sweet time didn’t you baby, you been shooting dope with that bitch friend of yours? We are going to be late, you know that don’t you?’ He stared at her in silence, daring a response.

  Saquina sank back in the soft leather seat and ignored him. Shaqi the bully, Shaqi the creep, Shaqi the husband she had never wanted to marry in the first place. Saquina drew away from him and his dirty rapist eyes. How she wished she had never listened to them when they told her to get married. They said it was for the best, her adoring public would be ecstatic, and of course they were, for a short time at least, until the next celebrity news story came along and the ugly rumors emerged—ugly rumors—was there any other kind? The crawling insinuations, and sleazy half-truths, screaming out from magazine covers and tabloid TV celebucasts—oozing through the blogosphere like a cancer.

  Saquina’s skin crawled. She felt uncomfortable in the flimsy red dress, felt as though a mass of flailing insects were scuttling through her cold, clammy flesh. She ordered the driver to turn down the air-con, but it didn’t help.

  No escape. She had to move forward. No other choice now. How she wished she were back in Baton Rouge Louisiana, in the countryside. She could be riding her horse right now, nothing but fresh air and endless Southern skies for company. If only they would let her. Saquina shrank further back in her seat, feeling the whole world pressing in—watching, waiting for her to fail. And why not—she had failed more times than she could count already. A very public humiliation that the media chewed through daily: her weaknesses, her vulnerabilities, laid bare for all to see. There were exaggerations too of course, but underneath it all, they had her pinned—her addictions, her failed marriages—her deviant sexuality. There was no end to the horror, the tumult—the media furor—pressing in on her every waking moment.

  They said the success would bring her the happiness she craved. She never knew why, an intangible lie—a platitude that never came to pass. Success could only bring personal failure, she knew that now, if only she had known before. Now it was too late—way, way, too late; but what chance of escape?

  They said the feelings in her head would go away. They said it would take time. But they were wrong. The feelings never did go away, they stayed with her, boiling within her, tormenting her with their cruelty.

  Saquina braced herself, as the limo moved slowly forwards. Beyond the smoked glass: an eruption of flash bulbs—a thunderous roar, rising up in the night. They had seen her. They knew it was her—and now they would attack. Saquina flinched, as a crush of bodies impacted the car. The bodies crowded in tight, pressing against the windows. Then came the hands. She hated the hands, clawing against the glass, trying to scratch through, so they could touch her. The thought of the hands revolted her. She drew herself up in her seat, pressed her legs together tightly, pulled them up to her chest, until her knees hurt.

  Trying not to look now, she stared ahead, avoiding the gaze of the desperate unknown faces, their eyes alive with madness, as they pressed in, trying to catch a glimpse of a person they would never know—a world they would never understand.

  Shuddering, Saquina uttered a silent prayer, as the hands hammered out a hellish drumbeat. She prayed for forgiveness, for deliverance and the strength to be resolute against temptation.

  Temptation?

  Already too late for that, as they crawled out into traffic. No one could find out. She had talked to her sponsor, but it hadn’t helped, how could it. How could they know about her feelings? Drugs? No. It was more than that. How could it be the drugs, when they took the drugs away, the feelings remained, always there—mocking her, telling her she would never be free.

  Shaqi Johnson still giving her the hard eye, ‘You high? You are high aren’t you god-damn it, on Oscar night too, you crazy fucking bitch—you got no self respect? The boss man is going to eat you alive when he finds out—if the press don’t kill you first—he gonna eat you baby, eat you goddamn whole, like a chili-cheese tamale.

  ‘Mind your fucking business Jay.’

  ‘Hey, who you calling Jay? It’s only my friends get to call me that, you understand—my friends, and you ain’t no friend of mine are you princess?’

  Stealing a look at him now, a look of contempt that told him she hated him. But Shaqi-J just laughed at her, his golden eye-tooth glistening, as he curled his lip with contempt

  Saquina recoiled into her corner, the deadness building within her, as the car headed South to the venue. As they travelled into Hollywood, a voice roared out from the car radio: Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, live from Los Angeles California—the Academy Awards.

  Back in the Peninsula suite, Georgia relaxed in the bath naked, her red polished toes emerging through the bubbles to nudge the golden faucet into the off position. She sank back, luxuriating in the melting comfort, and stared at the widescreen TV mounted over the bath. How wide was it? Wider than anything she had ever seen and super clear too, like you could see every detail, the sequins, the diamonds, the fabulous sparkling personalities. Georgia liked the stars. She liked the glamorous dresses, the sensational shoes and the hard bodied starlets, so young and firm, all playing the game with their ozone smiles and boob-job necklines plunging south to heaven.

  As she lay there, Georgia felt, the taste of cocaine sharp and reflexive against her lips and gums. She reached for the champagne flute and washed away the bitterness with Cognac. Clicquot & Chateau de Montifaud. Nothing but the best. But the best was never enough, when you had everything you could possibly ever want and more besides, what else was there—only an insatiable yearning need. Georgia had found that out the hard way. Living a lie so many years now.

  Material things no longer had value: cars, clothes, jewels, homes—a meaningless swirl of consumption that did nothing to ease the pain of being marginalized. All that was left was experience. Experience was everything. But what use her experience if she couldn’t shout it out loud, to a hundred million television viewers during the most glamorous red carpet night of the year? Georgia knew it was wrong. She should be there, at The Academy Awards, standing proud with the woman she loved. She imagined what it would be like standing there on the red carpet, holding tight to Saquina, making every single person in the world burn to with envy.

  Georgia scowled, and reached out for the pill bottle that Saquina had hidden from her—As though she could keep something like that secret—I mean really. Georgia knew she should only take two of the little pink pills. Saquina had always said that—two keeps you safe until you come up. But the little pink pills looked so tiny and innocuous, could anything so pink and fluffy really do her any harm? Georgia reasoned not, after all—it doesn’t matter what doctors say, when you are living by experience, the road map of life goes beyond the understanding of medical science. Experience is the responsibility of the individual to discover, on a personal basis, how else can the voyage of personal discovery move forward?

  The pink pills tasted good, fizzing on her tongue like candy. She chased them down with Cognac then popped a couple more. The warm, fuzzy, transcendental feeling came on fast, maybe it was the booze, may be the coke, who could say—the combination was—sublime, powerful, otherworldly. A thrill of danger amped through her, knowing what she shouldn’t do, had always made the forbidden more appealing.

  Georgia eased back, into the sumptuous bubbles, as the feelings washed over her. Up above her, the awards continued apace. Celebrity couples jostling
for yardage on the red carpet runway, flaunting for the camera like whores. Sallow young men and their coutured dates; box office buffoons and tight-faced Grand Dames trawling the scarlet mile, like dogs-dinner leftovers, pretending for all they were worth. Flash bulbs popped on auto wind like gunshots, blam, blam, blam.

  They had asked her to the awards one time in a very junior capacity—until they found out of course—once they found out, she could never be invited again, that was a given. They told her Saquina was the world’s most adored celebrity, the company suits called in their lawyers, the lawyers said there was no way the relationship could continue, unless she agreed to certain provisos. The understanding was clear: personal assistants stay anonymous—they keep their mouths shut—or else.

  Then, all of a sudden, there he was, the man she hated more than anyone, staring into the privacy of her bathroom from the TV set: Sly Barrington Head of Slycorp. Georgia queesed at the sight of him, shrank back, as he peered down at her, his face chubby and demonic, with a diamond studded smile. Georgia tweaked the remote volume, as a scantily clad Asian girl flirted with Barrington, offering up mindless no-brainer questions for the richest man in entertainment to knock out of the park. Georgia gulped her drink, tasting the thick heat of the Cognac, feeling the champagne bubbles melting into the roof of her mouth, as they lifted her ever higher. The Asian girl asking about Saquina now: had she got over her difficulties, were she and her husband really expecting a child? Barrington flashed his diamond and Ivory smile, and made charming. He gave the camera a lover-boy smile, as his simpering date, in the whorehouse designer dress draped ever closer.

  Husband. The very word made Georgia want to scream. The marriage to that rapist creep Shaqi Johnson was a lie, a convenience to uphold Saquina’s image as a wholesome family-friendly commodity. But Georgia knew different, she knew the truth about Saquina—knew she was a dope-guzzling dyke, who hated everything her squeaky clean image stood for.

  Lying in the bath, Georgia gulped booze and made pretend that the nightmare unfolding on screen had nothing to do with her. But the ugly reality remained, the building wooziness unable to clear the pain—her girlfriend, the love of her life, whored out in an ugly scam, before the whole world, so they would think she was happy and normal.

  Georgia felt the anger and resentment building inside her, as the cameras panned in for the arrival of Saquina and Shaqi Johnson—the glamorous couple who had it all: hit albums, mega-stardom, movie deal glory and an endless world of adoration. Saquina and Shaqi Johnson: twin beacons of strength and talent, conquering out through adversity. Georgia reached for the pills, needing to feel the fizzing comfort on her tongue, how many had she had? She couldn’t quite remember. A lapse of concentration, but she sure felt good, what harm could a couple more do—it had always been alright before.

  Georgia felt dreamy, a blanket of luxurious comfort enveloping, as she drifted away on a gossamer-tide. Words from the television became disjointed, floating off now, to a land where nothing mattered…

  Suddenly she heard a voice she knew, bringing her world back into focus. Real or a dream—it was hard to tell, in a world so wrong minded, where nothing seemed genuine. But this sure seemed real, the voice of her lover speaking out to her from the television. But something wrong—her head—or the television—it was difficult to make out—the words seemed slurred—distorted. Saquina standing on stage looking alone and vulnerable, a glittering award held tight in her hands. Georgia strained to make out the words, as a shaky camera panned in for a close up. A darkness closing in now—how long had she been here? Lying alone in the bath, hard to tell—impossible to tell—

  Everything moving fast now—too fast, wayyyyyy too fast.

  Georgia sighed, surrendering now, as she felt reality—slipping out of focus.

  But what was this on the television?

  Georgia couldn’t believe what she was seeing—Saquina toppling sideways, the glittering prize falling out of her grip, then down-down to the waiting stage.

  Gasps, moans, shrieks of disbelief.

  The whole world watching as a star crashed down from the heavens.

  Georgia rose up, as reality flooded back through the narcotic haze. Saquina! What the hell was happening? Hearing her own voice, calling out now, with a strangled croak. As she rose, Georgia slipped in the soapy tub, feeling a dull thud, as her head impacted the bath surround. She cursed, corrected, emerged upwards through the bubbles, but wait what was this—a dark shape above—a downward pressure weighing in on her shoulders holding her under the water. A mistake, it had to be a mistake, a dream that would all come good.

  But it was no dream.

  It was real.

  More real than anything she had ever encountered.

  Georgia struggled against the pressure, fighting hard to make sense of events, fighting against the narcotic tide coursing through her fragile body. Realizing too late, that the dark shape above her was a face. A face looking down at her through the foaming bubbles and the pressure—hands—strong hands holding her under. Georgia flopped and thrashed like a dying fish, but the hands were strong, they held her down beneath the water.

  As the pounding energy of her narcotic journey coursed through her, Georgia felt a sensation of building tightness overcome her entire being. A mainline rush, stronger and more cataclysmic than anything she had experienced before. Georgia’s mind raced to a climax more intense than anything she had experienced—then—nothing.

  Dead Famous 02

  Mornings I head to Venice beach, walk my Weimaraner Max as far as Pacific Palisades, then double time it back, to snap some Hapkido moves with my ocean side sparring partner Yong Su Yin. We always work it at the beach, along by the breakwater near Via Marina. It is a sacred time, when the sun comes up over the Pacific turning the waters gold and molten bronze. Some days you get dolphins riding the waves, other days, Pelicans holding forth on the rocks. You can stand there by the ocean, feeling the Chi energy rising up from the very core of the universe. Today however the soft flowing Zen universe was cruelly and brutally interrupted by the sound of a roaring squealing arrival on the quayside: Joe Russell my business partner, vice president of Cobra Close Support. Joe is a man who has no respect for spirituality. His gods inhabit the heavy-torqued world of machinery and firepower. Hence the Corvette, I mean, who the hell drives a Corvette these days?

  ‘Hey, Costello, when you done jacking around with old man Confucius, we got business to attend to.’

  Yong Su Yin gave me a look, wordless and inscrutable. He dipped his head and bowed, almost imperceptibly, signifying our session was at an end, whether I wanted it to be or not. I threw a towel over my shoulders and headed up the beach.

  ‘You realize I am going to need breakfast?’ I told Joe.

  ‘Breakfast is for losers.’

  ‘I thought that was lunch?

  ‘Never mind the comedy Costello, we go ourselves a primo client who wants to meet, on the hurry up. I ain’t got no time to be messing around fixing breakfast.

  I threw on my shirt, a short-sleeved Hawaiian number I picked up from Tommy Bahama. I looked pouty. ‘So who’s the client?’

  ‘Sly Barrington, the music mogul.’

  ‘Who? Never heard of him.’

  ‘Why am I not surprised Costello, you are still listening to the Eagles aren’t you?’

  ‘Hey, the Eagles wrote some good tunes dude—everybody likes the Eagles.’

  ‘About a hundred years ago they did, right about the time that ugly shirt you are wearing went out of fashion, you want to be single for ever Costello, I mean—seriously?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with classics.’

  Joe gave me a nasty look. ‘Get in the car, we are heading over to Casa Del Mar.’

  ‘Well, they better have some breakfast over there, or I am going to be inconsolable.’ I replied.

  The journey over to Santa Monica’s swankiest beachfront hotel was a fifteen-minute drive at the most, Joe headed down Pacific like a teenage
hot-rodder, and we made it in under ten. I guess the Vette is useful for something after all. Me, I prefer a more sedate ride. I drive a classic Dodge pickup that I customized myself, with a big-engined V8 and flame red paint job. Joe calls it the fire engine, but he’s only jealous.

  Casa Del Mar is a palatial red brick twenties-style hotel, in the grand style, with a sweeping sea front terrace. The terrace also serves as a restaurant and it was here that we would meet our latest client. Celebrities? Cobra Close Protection has dealt with quite a few, but that is something we don’t talk about. Confidentiality, that’s all part of the service. Course, I had heard of Barrington very few people haven’t these days, but I wasn’t going to tell Joe that. He loves it when he gets to play superior. It gives him something to live for, in his otherwise pitiful existence.

  ‘You see the Academy Awards last night?’ Asked Joe, as we walked through the lobby of Casa Del Mar. I told him I hadn’t. Awards ceremonies? I mean really, who has the time—it is bad enough being invited to the darn things, let alone babysitting some overpaid Hollywood prima-donna, while a bunch of celebrities slap each other on the back for four hours. You got to ask yourself—what is the worst that could happen: A member of the minimum wage waiting staff thrusts a carelessly conceived screenplay onto the top table during entrees? A chatty bit-part also-ran drops over uninvited for a particularly dreary and unsolicited anecdote? What you gonna do—throw an arm lock on them and eject them from the building? When you are working a personal protection gig for an upper echelon Hollywood cheese-meister, these are moves you need to have covered. If you aspire to major league stardom it is of course essential to have a bodyguard, de rigueur in fact. Having a bodyguard is a status symbol. It shows you are special—somebody who is so special that there might be some crazy-assed fame stalker out there just mad enough to want to get at you. I like crazy-assed fame stalkers even less than I like vacuous celebrities.

  One thing I do like however is breakfast buffets—and before we were even seated I had a plate piled high with fruit and whole-wheat bagels. While Joe gave me the blah-blah sell about some nutso singer called Saquina Johnson who was breaking it big in the acting world, which as far as I am concerned is a one-way trip to snoozeville. I cannot say I was listening too hard, till he hit me with the kicker—