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Overview
When Kieran O'Connor gets the chance to ghostwrite a Hollywood hooker's tell-all biography, he jumps at the opportunity. It's Kieran's first lucky break in a while: His relationship is on the skids, his apartment was just destroyed in an earthquake, and he's been suspended from his newspaper job covering the entertainment industry after referring to a certain studio chief as "vertically challenged."
Felina Lopez has known some of the biggest names in L.A., including a popular sitcom dad who just overdosed on a designer drug called Hot Shot, and she's got a lot to say. But soon Felina herself is found dead under mysterious circumstances. A corps of sleazy reporters and TV news jackals are dogging Kieran's every move. And he's getting anonymous phone calls warning him to drop the project.
Kieran sets up an investigation that brings him to some of the oddest characters in post-O.J. L.A., including a convicted "drug dealer to the stars," a talent agent who represents only the notorious , a prostitute who doubles her money by selling her clients' stories to the supermarket tabloids, and a sinister photographer nicknamed "the Nazi Paparazzi."
With help from a Yale-educated tabloid reporter, Kieran slowly discovers the truth about Felina Lopez and the secrets that someone in Hollywood is trying to protect. The question is: Will he get his book finished by the deadline without ending up dead himself?
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781466891173 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | St. Martin's Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 02/10/2015 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 256 |
| File size: | 284 KB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Hot Shot
A Hollywood Mystery
By Kevin Allman
St. Martin's Press
Copyright © 1998 Kevin AllmanAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-9117-3
CHAPTER 1
When the phone rang at 6:52 A.M., I should have let the machine pick up. The only person who might be calling that early would be either a creditor or my agent, Jocelyn. Still in a pre-caffeinated haze, I lunged for the receiver, stubbing my toe on the packing box marked BATHROOM STUFF.
"Good morning, Peaches."
Not a creditor—Jocelyn. On her car phone, too. Car phones are one of my pet peeves of the modern age, right up there with infomercials and Martha Stewart.
I sat down on BATHROOM STUFF to rub my sore toe. "Jocelyn, it might be ten to ten in New York, but out here it's not even seven in the morning."
"Didn't you know? I'm in L.A. I just got out of a breakfast meeting at Le Petit Couchon. Why is it that no one in Los Angeles can make a decent bagel? Never mind. Listen, Peaches. I just made us both a lot of money."
The last time Jocelyn said that, I ended up writing the "unauthorized biography" of a teen star whose life could have been summed up on a Trivial Pursuit card. Jocelyn's get-rich-quick projects were like those offers where you get an all-expense-paid vacation for touring some hellish time-share; it's always more of an ordeal than you'd planned, and the prize is never that good. But, like a fish who hits the rubber worm again and again, I can't resist the words "a lot of money." Hell, given the state of my bank account, I probably would have done it for a free bagel at Le Petit Couchon.
"What do I have to do?"
"You don't have to do anything, Kieran. But I just had breakfast with a publisher who thinks you'd be perfect for a project he's putting together." She allowed herself a dramatic pause. "I got you first crack at the Dick Mann story."
Dick Mann was the star of a wholesome situation comedy called Mann of the Family —a hokey half-hour with lovable blond twins and a sheepdog named Buttons in it. Last month Dick Mann had dropped dead from an overdose of a designer drug called Hot Shot. Now the rumor in the industry was that the sitcom dad was into prostitutes, kinky sex—and, for all I knew, carnal knowledge of Buttons.
"Another unauthorized biography?"
"Not an unauthorized biography, a memoir. By So-and-So, as Told to Kieran O'Connor. Completely equal billing. I insisted on that."
"Who's the so-and-so?"
"Felina Lopez. Remember her?"
"The hooker from the Vernon Ash case? She hasn't been around in five years."
"Well, she's back now, claiming that she had an affair with Dick Mann."
"Was he married back then?"
"Oh, he was married," Jocelyn said. "I think Betty Bradford Mann might have even been pregnant. Juicy, juicy. Danziger Press is very hot on—"
"Danziger Press?" There was the catch. "Jeez. I don't know. I have to work in this town."
"Well, don't do me any favors, Kieran. I just thought you could use the money, you still being out of work and all."
" 'On hiatus' is the official term."
"Out of work is the reality, Peaches."
* * *
I'm a celebrity journalist. It's an occupation that didn't even exist a generation ago, but I expect it'll start showing up on high-school aptitude tests soon. For the last few years, I've written a party column for the big L.A. daily. It's a pretty good gig for a freelance writer, and the pay is decent, but I had been teetering on the abyss of burnout for about a year. Then came the incident at the premiere of a certain Memorial Day blockbuster, and I couldn't deny it any longer. I was in the throes of Post-Party Depression.
It was your standard premiere—screening and dinner, kiss-kiss and bullshit—but the head of the studio was on hand to cut a red ribbon with a pair of oversized prop shears. It was the kind of pompous occasion that always brought out my wiseass side, but I'm still not sure what got the movie kahuna so enraged: my observation that the scissors were taller than he was, or my description of him as "vertically challenged." At any rate, all hell broke loose, and I got called downtown for a meeting with my editor, Sally, and a studio publicist, whose head spun around like Linda Blair's in The Exorcist while he made you'll-never-work-in-this-town-again threats.
Sally stuck by me, but it got worse. The studio head pressured the suits upstairs and threatened to drop all their movie advertising. In the end, the paper kept the ads, I got banned for life from the studio's screenings, the pint-sized potentate got his pound of flesh, and I had a three-month suspension—unpaid.
Secure in the knowledge that nothing worse could happen, I went to bed that night only to be awakened by an earthquake. It was only a 4.9—no great shakes on the Richter scale—but it proved fatal to my dilapidated old apartment building on the Venice boardwalk. A crack appeared on the front wall the next morning, and by evening it had stretched from the courtyard to the roof. The next day the L.A. earthquake squad arrived and slapped some red CONDEMNED stickers all over the doors. Overnight homelessness.
For a while I had lived with my best friend, Jeff Brenner, and his new wife, but three was a crowd—particularly when one was an unemployed writer—so I had moved into Claudia's apartment.
Claudia and I had been dating for almost five years, though we'd actually been a couple for only about two of them. Some people are drawn together by sex, others by mutual interests. Claudia and I were attracted to each other's ambivalence. Both of us reacted to commitment like a vampire reacts to sunlight, so we approached cohabitation warily. Fortunately, Claudia was expanding the coffeehouse she owned in Venice and was rarely home these days, so I had plenty of time to wallow around the house, walk on the beach, and throw myself daily pity parties.
What got to me about my gig at the paper wasn't the fact that I was unhappy, but rather the knowledge that I had no right to be unhappy. I had a job that defined cushy, a weird but reasonably satisfying relationship with a weird but reasonably satisfied girlfriend, and my own byline twice a week: "Have Tux, Will Travel," by Kieran O'Connor.
After all, it wasn't my fault if people would rather read about a film premiere than about foreign policy. It wasn't my fault if Americans were more interested in the president of a record company than in the president of the United States. And it certainly wasn't my fault if the country was circling the drain while we were busy amusing ourselves to death.
Was it?
* * *
"Jack Danziger wants a meeting this afternoon. If you're not going to do it, let me know so I can find another gho—collaborator."
"Mmph." Under different circumstances, I might have said no, but having all your possessions in a stack of liquor cartons does tend to alter one's worldview. Being a belletrist to a bimbo like Felina Lopez wasn't exactly my dream, but neither was unemployment and homelessness.
I scratched my chest and looked at the packing boxes that were piled around Claudia's living room like a child's fort. "I don't know. It sounds good, Jocelyn, but—"
"Fine. Take this down. We've got a meeting this afternoon at two-thirty at Danziger Press. It's in the DuPlante Tower in Beverly Hills. Doheny and—"
"I know where it is, Jocelyn. I live here, remember? And I didn't say I was going to do it. Besides, I can't meet you today. I told Claudia I'd help her out at the new coffeehouse."
"Peaches." Jocelyn gave the word four world-weary syllables. "All right. You think about it. You let me know. I'm reachable at Le Bel Age. All right?"
"Okay."
"But meet me in the lobby of the DuPlante Tower at two-fifteen so we can go up together. All right?"
"... All right."
"Oh, and Peaches, wear something nice."
* * *
What little I had that Jocelyn would consider "nice" was packed away somewhere in Box Mountain. I finally came up with an outfit that I thought would pass muster. The pants were nice enough, but the tie had a small stain at the bottom and my right sleeve was held together by a paper clip. It didn't look too bad—if you didn't look too closely.
On the way over to Danziger Press, I detoured down to Venice to see Claudia. I wanted to tell her the news about the book, and besides, I needed to borrow money for gas.
Claudia owned a coffeehouse that had become a little too successful in the last year; it was sending her into a tax bracket somewhere between personal trainers and action-film stars. Her accountant had recommended channeling the profits into a new venture. Thanks to the clean-and-sober movement, there were now more coffeehouses in Southern California than there were bars, so Claudia had decided to diversify, turning Café Canem into a combination coffeehouse, laundromat, and public Internet station.
The opening of the new Canem was only two weeks away, but it was hard to imagine the place being ready in time. A crew had knocked down the west wall, opening the space to the defunct Copies R Us next door, and a thin film of white dust coated everything. Power tools screeched. Workers were planing lumber, adding termitey clouds of sawdust to the chaos. I'd been helping out a little, sawing two-by-fours and painting the bathroom, but actual demolition was a little beyond my skill level.
Claudia was slumped in a banana-yellow hairdresser's chair in the middle of it all, a washtub of melting ice at her feet. She reached down and tossed me a cold Barq's. "I can't take my eyes off them for a second. I went up the street to get some sodas, and when I came back they were out in their truck watching All My Children on a portable TV."
"Well, it's coming along. Sort of."
She rubbed a handful of ice on her neck, looking at me suspiciously. "You're awfully dressed up for demolition work."
"I got a job, Claude. At least I think I've got a job." I told her about Jocelyn's call, emphasizing the "lot of money" part. "And you wouldn't believe who I'm doing the book with. Felina Lopez."
"Who's that?"
"You remember. The Vernon Ash case. Slut for the prosecution."
Claudia rolled her eyes. "Why would anyone want to read a book by someone like that? The Ash case was almost five years ago."
"She's claiming she had an affair with Dick Mann. And she's ready to spill the beans."
Claudia made a moue. "Sounds like a tabloid story, not a book."
"Hey, there's a big check involved. I can't afford to ask too many questions."
"How big?" Subtlety was never Claudia's M.O.
I hesitated. Jocelyn hadn't mentioned any hard figures, but I didn't want to tell Claudia that.
"Big enough for me to get out of your hair and into an apartment of my own."
"Must be big if you're wearing a suit," Claudia said.
* * *
"A paper clip on your cuff? Oh, Kieran," sighed Jocelyn.
"My good stuff's still in boxes. It was the only one I could find."
Jocelyn sighed again and looked around the lobby of the DuPlante Tower as if she expected to find a menswear shop tucked behind the elevators. I tugged on my jacket. The cuff was undetectable as long as I kept my arm pressed flat against my body. She wet one finger and tried to press down my cowlick.
I squirmed away. "Cut it out, Jocelyn. The hair is genetically uncontrollable. I'm black Irish."
Jocelyn, who was English, said, "Of that I'm only too well aware."
She produced a tortoiseshell compact and checked her teeth for lipstick. Jocelyn was wearing one of her usual negotiating outfits, an aggressive red Chanel suit with screw-you pumps and shoulderpads that could slice cheese. Nancy Reagan might have thought it a little severe.
When her teeth had been inspected and her stockings straightened, Jocelyn pushed a button. An elevator materialized as if it had been waiting just for her. On the way up, I said, "You never mentioned any figures."
"Didn't I?"
"No. You just said a lot of money." Driving over, I'd run some numbers in my head and came up with three different sums: what I wanted, what I'd take, and what I expected them to offer. "How much is a lot?"
"How much would you accept?"
I groaned. "Come on, Jocelyn. You work for me, not them, remember? Did Danziger mention any preliminary figures? A ballpark number?"
The doors glided open silently, revealing a reception area that could have been decorated by Jane Austen. A Helena Bonham Carter look-alike murmured into the telephone at a spindly-legged receptionist desk. On the far wall, behind an expanse of wine-colored carpet and antique furniture, silver letters spelled out DANZIGER PRESS.
Jocelyn leaned over and whispered a figure in my ear.
It was the amount I wanted and the amount I'd take—combined.
My eyebrows went up.
"I told you I'm good, Peaches."
CHAPTER 2The receptionist wore A cloche and a pair of hip LA Eyeworks glasses. Before she could snub us, Jocelyn snapped off our names, freeze-drying her 'tude with one sentence. It was like dipping baby's breath into liquid nitrogen.
"Just warming up," Jocelyn murmured as we sat down.
Looking at the lobby, drinking in the sight of so much old furniture bought with so much new money, I felt my moral compass taking a 180-degree turn. It wasn't just the sum Jocelyn had mentioned that got my cynical heart dripping like a Popsicle; it was the ease with which the deal had been made.
What a piece of work was Hollywood! Your agent has one breakfast with the right person, and you're set up for a year. So I wasn't Saul Bellow, but who was these days? And if I had to have a sleazy tell-all on my résumé, it might as well come from Danziger Press—the gold standard in the sleazy tell-all industry.
In L.A., selling out was just too easy. It was less Doctor Faustus than it was Let's Make a Deal.
* * *
Back in the conference room, waiting for Jack Danziger and Felina Lopez, Jocelyn wasted no time setting up. From her briefcase she extracted a heavy Mont Blanc pen and a portfolio covered in understatedly expensive hide, no doubt from some endangered species. She eyed the table and selected the seat that would give her the best psychological advantage. Jocelyn could give Lao-tzu pointers on the art of corporate war. I slumped in my chair, which was covered in silky gray leather. The conference room was just as plush as the lobby. Jack Danziger wasn't doing too bad for a man whose name was once a publishing-world punch line.
There were framed covers of various Danziger Press books on the walls, along with corresponding blowups of the USA Today best-seller list, featuring each title at No. 1.
Have You Reached a Verdict?: Inside the Deliberation Room at the Sunset Strangler Murder Case, by Juror 567
Keeping House: ——— and ———'s Maid Tells All About Hollywood's Most Famous Couple
Blow by Blow: The Private Diaries of a Tinseltown Call Girl
"Jocelyn," I said quietly.
"Hmm?" She had her portfolio open, making notes.
"What if I don't want my name on the book?"
Her pen stopped in midair. "What?"
"Couldn't I be a real ghost? Without my name attached? Just let Felina take the credit?"
"Kieran, are you mad? I spent half an hour this morning getting you that! And not some 'as told to' credit, Peaches! Full co-authorship!" She read from her notes. "The order and manner of credits given to said parties identified as the Proprietor of the Work shall read "Felina Lopez and Kieran O'Connor," with both names in the same-sized typeface in all editions of the Work—"
"I thought about it. I don't want it."
"Peaches ..." For the first time since I'd known her, Jocelyn was nearly speechless. "Peaches, billing is very important. You live out here, you know that. Some people would kill for equal billing. It gives you more money, more leverage on your next book, more everything."
"I don't care. I don't—"
At that moment, Jack Danziger walked in, and Jocelyn stood up to greet him, shooting me a look that said: We'll talk about this later.
"Jocelyn, hello."
"Jack! This is Kieran."
"Love your column, really love it," Danziger told me. "Was just reading it the other day."
"Thanks." Obviously he hadn't even noticed its absence for the last few weeks. Judging from the lack of protest calls to my editor, neither had anyone else. He pumped my hand. Remembering my own office-supply cuff link, I dropped my hand under the table just as soon as Danziger had shook it with his Nautilus iron-man grip.
Danziger wore one of those flat-fronted Armani suits that look like silk armor, and had a portfolio tucked under his arm. He was a big man, but not fat; strapping was the word that came to mind. Lots of Hollywood dealmakers and desk jockeys pump absurd amounts of iron; it must have something to do with their clients' on-screen machismo.
"Felina's not going to be with us," Danziger said. "Her agent's on her way. Kitty just phoned."
Jocelyn's eyebrows went up like a window shade. Tardiness was a cardinal sin in her book. Jocelyn was remarkably non-sexist when it came to revenge; she'd as soon have a woman's balls for breakfast as a man's.
"Kitty?" asked Jocelyn. "Kitty Keyes?"
"You two know each other?"
"No," said Jocelyn, dangerously demure. "But I've always wanted to."
So had I.
Until just a few years ago, Kitty Keyes had been a struggling talent agent. Not an agent, but a talent agent. An agent books movie stars and Broadway performers; a talent agent books birthday-party clowns and midget bowling teams and Ann Miller impersonators who tap-dance at car-wash openings. Kitty had all these, along with several former child stars whose puberty had killed their careers.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Hot Shot by Kevin Allman. Copyright © 1998 Kevin Allman. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
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