“Why do I have the feeling you enjoy this sort of challenge?” Cal downed the rest of his water and tossed the cup into the trash.
I felt my grin widen. “Watch and learn, grasshopper.” I slipped my cell out of my Strawberry Shortcake purse as we walked back to his car. Three rings later, Max’s voice croaked on the other end.
“Beacon,” he said by way of greeting.
“Hey, Max, it’s me. Listen, I have a favor to ask. Any Hollywood old-timers depart this cruel world today?”
I heard Max shuffling papers. “Three. Why?”
“Got names?”
More shuffling. “Frank Jones, did animation with Disney, stroke. Elliot Shiff, ran camera on a couple Monroe flicks, pancreatic cancer. And…”
I held my breath.
“…Betty Johnson, did makeup for Lucille Ball, lung cancer.”
Bingo.
“Thanks, Max!” I called, quickly hanging up and dialing a new number as I hopped into Cal’s Hummer. He gave me a sidelong glance but knew better than to ask.
I waited two rings before someone on the other end picked up.
“Front gate, David speaking.”
I dropped into my lowest register and did my best to channel Mrs. Carmichael’s smoker voice. “This is Betty Johnson in Studio Seven. I have my assistants coming in and I’d like their names on the list, please.”
David paused, and I could hear him checking his computer. “Betty Johnson?”
“Makeup artist.”
David did a few more clicks, checking out my story. I mentally crossed my fingers that news of Betty’s demise hadn’t hit the studios yet. Finally, the guard piped up in my ear again, “Your assistants’ names, Ms. Johnson?”
“Tina Bender and Calvin Dean.”
“They’ll be on the list, just have them come to the south entrance.”
“Thank you, David,” I said, before snapping my phone shut with a click of satisfaction.
I looked up to find Cal shaking his head at me.
“What?”
“Do you ever tell the truth?”
“Once. In fourth grade. It was overrated.”
“I’m serious. You’re beginning to worry me,” he said as he pulled into traffic.
“Yeah, like you’re honest all the time.”
“I try to be.”
“Seriously? You never tell your girlfriend she looks hot in that unflattering dress?”
“I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“You never called in sick to work when you were really heading to the Lakers game?”
“Self-employed.”
“Not once have you ever told your mother that her dried-out Sunday meatloaf was culinary perfection?”
“Don’t eat beef, remember?”
I slouched in my seat, conceding defeat. “You’re no fun.”
Cal gave me a lopsided grin, his eyes taking on a devilish glint over the rim of his sunglasses. “Oh, trust me, I can be plenty of fun.”
The way my cheeks suddenly filled with heat, I totally believed him. I’m sure there were stick-figure bimbos all over Hollywood who had swooned under that very same grin.
I quickly looked away, clearing my throat. “Well, when we get to the studio, just leave the talking to me, okay, Honest Abe?”
“You got it, boss.”
Sunset Studios was like a miniature city plunked down in the middle of Hollywood and enclosed by a ten-foot-high brick wall. Outside the gates, panhandlers, men wearing five coats and pushing shopping carts and ladies of the evening (or in our case, afternoon…somehow even worse) stood at every corner. Inside, the place was so clean and wholesome looking, it fairly sparkled. Which was a sure sign 99 percent of it was fake.
Cement warehouse buildings squatted down one side of the studio, housing the soundstages of hit TV shows, while the other half of the lot was filled with building facades for movie locations. A New York street, complete with brownstones and subway stairs that led to nowhere. A dusty main street in the Old West, complete with hitching posts. A quaint, tree-lined suburban street where you expected the Beaver to pop his freckled little face out of a tree house at any second. And through it all a tram full of tourists being given the Sunset Studios tour snapped pictures of every lamppost, mailbox, and production assistant on a coffee run.
Beyond the side gate was a small parking lot where Cal and I traded our gas guzzler for a small white golf cart-the studio’s main mode of transportation. Cal took the wheel and quickly navigated our way through the soundstages until we found one with a huge pink “Pippi Mississippi” sign tacked to the front. Cal parked behind a wardrobe trailer and led the way inside.
The interior of the warehouse was dark, and I took a moment to let my eyes adjust to the change. The place was a maze of ropes, cables, and electronic equipment, all leading to a series of strategically placed sets that looked like oversized dioramas. I spotted the hallway of Pippi’s junior high, her prissy pink bedroom, and the video arcade where she and her girlfriend hung out after school, the latter a buzz of activity as grips positioned lights, sound guys adjusted mics, someone lifted a camera onto a moving track, and no less than three women in overalls fluffed, primped, and powdered the blonde in the center-Jennifer Wood.
Beside her stood her two co-stars: a redhead whose name I couldn’t remember, and a brunette I recognized as being in the backseat of Jennifer’s limo with her when the infamous boob shot had been taken. Lani Cline, reportedly Jennifer’s best friend.
“That her?” Cal asked, stabbing a finger toward Jennifer.
I nodded.
“We need her alone. Got any ideas?”
I shrugged. “Give me a minute.”
“Back to one, everyone,” shouted the director, an overweight guy with glasses and a nose that could rival Pinocchio’s. The crew scurried off the stage like cats being doused with a hose. Jennifer walked to a spot on the floor marked with an “X” in blue electrical tape, her co-stars a step behind her.
“Speed.”
A guy with a black clapboard stood in front of the camera, then dropped the little arm, marking the tape.
“And…rolling!” the director shouted.
A bell went off somewhere, and silence hit the set, all eyes on Jennifer.
“Chloe, I can’t believe you told Ryan about my diary,” she said to the brunette.
“I’m so sorry, Pippi! But I didn’t know he’d read it to the whole school.”
“Now no one will ask me to the spring dance. I might as well be-God, Lani, you’re doing it again!”
“Cut!” the director yelled. He slipped off his canvas chair with a groan, slowly ambling up to his star. “Jennifer. Sweetie. What is it now?”
“Lani’s totally standing in my light!” Jennifer said, pointing an accusing finger at the brunette.
“I am exactly where I’m supposed to be!” Lani shot back. “If you’d bothered to be at rehearsal, you’d know that.”
“I don’t need rehearsals to know that you’re totally making a shadow on my face. You need to move back.”
“Any farther behind you, and I’d be invisible to the camera!”
“Good, maybe then they wouldn’t have to see that zit growing on your chin.”
Lani gasped, her hands flying to her face.
“Geez, nice kid,” Cal mumbled in my ear.
I waved him off, shushing him as the director yelled, “Makeup!”
One of the ladies in overalls immediately descended upon the brunette with a pot full of flesh-colored goo, as the girl ducked her head, her cheeks a bright pink.
“And can we get another light in here?” the director asked, pointing toward Jennifer. “Everyone else, take five,” he said with a resigned wave of his hand. As he walked away I could hear him mumbling to himself, “Or ten, or twenty. Not that it matters, we’re so far behind already…”
The crew scattered, and Jennifer happily sauntered off set.
I nudged Cal in the ribs. “I’m going in.”
I did a quick jog over the camera tracks, watching Jennifer as she slipped out the side door. A minute later I followed, squinting in the sunshine, a harsh contrast to the darkened set. I spied Jennifer a few feet away, sipping an iced latte. Though where she got it from, I had no idea. There didn’t seem to be anyone else around, let alone a Starbucks. The magic of being a teen-ebrity.