Bonny said, “Besides, you remember everyone you meet and you can tell them what they ate and prob’ly even when they had their last poop. So congratulations, go out and paint the town.”
Tess permitted herself a tiny smile.
Until she realized she would have to be the one to handle Pat.
Chapter Twenty-Three
TALIA L’APEL POKED her head into Jerry’s study.
“I’m busy here!” Jerry Gold shouted. “I don’t need any distractions right now, especially since I’m trying to clean up your mess.”
Talia’s lips pressed together in a tight line. Talia, Queen of the Silent Treatment. Jerry could hear her moping from all the way across the room.
“Dylan’s here.”
“Oh, great. The one day he shows up on time. All right, I suppose I’d better see him. Give me a minute.”
“Fine. He’s in the foyer.”
“He didn’t see you, did he?”
“No, he didn’t see me.”
“Well, for God’s sake, have Delilah offer him something to drink and take him out by the pool.”
He had to tell her every little thing. For a girl with such sharp instincts for garnering publicity, Talia could be awfully obtuse about some things.
Like thinking.
She had people for that.
Had people. This week, Talia was flying solo.
The last couple of weeks she’d been hiding out here whenever she could slip the paparazzi. This essentially meant she’d left behind her stylist, her publicist, her hangers-on—all of them. She’d let it be known through her publicist that she had “gone into seclusion,” to prepare for her trip to Africa and her husband’s homecoming. Talia had used the “I’m a private person and need my space,” line, and surprisingly, people had believed it. She’d always been a convincing actress.
Everyone knew what a bad boy Max Conroy could be. Talia deserved all the sympathy in the world for helping to turn him around, and the public believed his domestication was almost complete. All he needed was the clean bill of health from the Desert Oasis Healing Center and a few happy photo ops with his loving wife and new baby.
Unfortunately for Max, that happy domestic scene would never take place.
Jerry wished he’d told Talia to stay away. Not only did they risk being caught out, but it played havoc with this thinking process. He didn’t want anyone around while he was in the planning stages. Talia was a distraction. But she’d worked so hard at dodging the paparazzi, he felt he really couldn’t say no.
Jerry needed more than a minute to get his mind out of the world he’d created in his storyboard.
He was serious when he told Gordon he wanted to do it his way. The other idea was too clunky, with too many moving parts—there was much more of a chance for something to go wrong. Gordon had done a beautiful job, sure—the scenario had a certain elegance. It was like a motion picture in miniature. But he didn’t quite trust Gordon’s ability to brainwash Max the right way. In fact, he didn’t know if brainwashing worked at all.
Jerry’s plan, on the other hand, was simple.
The kidnappers could go ahead and kill Max—as long as they didn’t do it on camera—but the body could never be found. That would add a new twist to the story. It would only enhance Max’s legend.
Max would join the disappeared. Like Amelia Earhart. You could always count on her to make money, even though her plane disappeared over Howland Island in 1937. Sometimes ambiguity was good—look at all the Elvis sightings.
They’d have to recover his body, though, with no one in the press being the wiser. And, they’d have to dissolve him in acid.
He could never be found.
There were problems with this scenario, of course. How would they recover the body before anyone else did?
Fortunately, Gordon’s go-to killer, Shaun, was in Paradox.
If Shaun could find the kidnappers—or at least find Max’s body—they could deep-six him in acid.
There would be problems with the estate, but in the long run, Talia would prevail. Especially if the paparazzi pushed the story of Max’s kidnapping. Fortunately, Jerry had made it his business to cultivate a few of the paps; he knew several who would do anything for an exclusive. He could leak that he was worried about Max, that Max hadn’t been seen, that he’d left the Desert Oasis Healing Center and walked right off the edge of the earth.
Both scenarios had their strong points, but right now, they didn’t have Max.
Jerry realized that they would have to come to a solid decision about this, sooner rather than later.
In the meantime, he needed to lay the groundwork for his new star.
“DYLAN!” JERRY BELLOWED, striding out from under the ramada. “So good to see you.”
Dylan Harris sat up on the diving board, looking sleepy. The young man looked like an ad in Esquire or GQ, stretched out and glistening on a white towel over chlorinated blue water.
Dylan Harris was ready for leading man status, yet still young enough to drive the tweens wild. Jerry had been cultivating him, a meeting or a lunch at a time, until Dylan began to see himself more as Jerry’s adopted son than just a client.
Jerry’s team had gotten Dylan some good parts, and Jerry made sure that the career arc made sense. Second to the lead, but enough breadth in some of the parts where you could begin to see Dylan taking on something weightier, like the character of Starker in V.A.M.Pyre. It would be a gamble, sure, but that was all part of the game—and Jerry loved the game.
Now, Jerry said, “Dyl, I’m glad you came by. I could use a sympathetic ear right now.”
“Hey, anything I can do. You’ve been so good to me.”
Jerry sat down on the end of the diving board. “It’s kind of…difficult. You can’t tell anyone.”
“Oh, no, I won’t.”
Jerry sighed and stared out at the Pacific, framed by the deep pink bougainvillea on the wrought-iron railing. “Things aren’t going well with V.A.M.Pyre: The Target. We haven’t even started production yet, and I’m worried that Max won’t be ready.”
Dylan stared at him. His eyes reminded Jerry of a wolf’s eyes, only sexier.
“I wouldn’t say this to anybody else. But I need to confide in someone, and you’re like a son to me.”
“I’ll help if I can.”
“I know that. Here’s the thing, Dyclass="underline" Max isn’t doing very well in rehab. I’m worried he’ll relapse the minute he gets out.”
“That’s too bad, sir.”
Sir. Dylan had been raised far from Hollywood, somewhere in the south. The kid didn’t even drink.
After dealing with Max’s issues, Dylan Harris was manna from heaven. “Frankly, I don’t think Max is up to it. All the pressure. I can’t help but feel he’s not going to be there on the fifteenth, when it’s time to plan the production.”
“Not be there? But he’s under contract!”
Gee whiz.
Jerry shook his head. “Contracts are meant to be broken, and this isn’t Max’s first rodeo.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Hope for the best, I guess.”
“Yeah.”
“There are morality clauses in the contract. Terrapin Productions could let him go. But the problem is, who’d replace him? I just can’t see a way out. I think of all those people, what would happen if we didn’t start on time. Of course, he might be OK, but it’s not like I have a Plan B.”
“That’s not fair,” Dylan said.
“No.” Jerry sighed. “Life is just not fair.”
He left it there.