course. But as
for the doctors—”
“I know
the drill,” said my junior writer. “Print the names of these fine plastic
surgeons. But first, get their ‘no comment’ comments.”
TWO
WEEKS LATER I was still debating what ‘a couple’ meant, for that’s when Jack
Helms had told me to call him back. I’d picked up the phone a good ten times
but never dialed his number.
My
insecurities insisted that maybe he wouldn’t even talk to me. I phoned him only
after preparing myself to hear his voicemail. Or some call screener. That might
be better than listening to his morbid thoughts about missing children, because
maybe he would take my call.
He
responded via webcam. Away in Italy, he thought I might be interested in
another story idea.
“There
are certain provinces here where wives are still regarded as property,” he said.
“The women sit on front porches with their husbands, forced to face the walls
of their home. They can’t look out on the street.
“They
can only listen as their husbands choose to describe to them what they see. Or
conversely, choose what to censor. Anything and everything. Passersby,
activity—anything, Lauren. This prevents the women from making forbidden
contact with other men.”
“It
sounds good. I mean bad, but good,” I said.
Helms
was researching yet another documentary idea.
“I have
that last issue of yours,” he said. “I think you should show the full cheese.”
“What?”
He caught me off guard.
“The
entertainment biz is about dichotomy. You have your exposés going for you, all
juxtaposed next to dirt-ass fucking male models. I’m just saying do more with
the skin thing and the male models. It sells. Women keep getting all the glory
these days.”
I didn’t
exactly want to be known as the next Bob Guccione and
his Penthouse .
“Can I ask
you about your project? The missing children?”
“Fire
away.”
“I’ve
been looking for a missing child. My friend’s brother. It’s been years. She
hired a private investigator and all that stuff.”
“And you
got zippo , right?”
“Right.
He just disappeared. They somehow determined he was a runaway of his own accord.”
“It’s
kind of like the missing prostitutes. They make for an easy mark because no one
reports them missing.”
A man
called out from the background, “It’s show time, Mr. Helms.”
“ Gotta run, but send me what you have on this kid,” he said.
“I have sources. Oh, and as far as Gabriella Criscione and any stalker goes,
it’s nothing.”
“The
painting was nothing?’
“Nothing
that my guys could come up with and I’ll take their word over the L.A. cops any
day of the week. Let’s just say she has enemies, but no one wants her dead. At
least not yet.”
DR.
COAL LEFT ME three messages. I ached to return them. I needed to schedule
another appointment with him. It was time to figure out my life and why the
Lauren Visconti Curse made love a certain death threat. I just didn’t have the
time.
And I
was afraid.
Chapter Thirty
Let’s
Ride a Pony
GEOFF
RELISHED THE limelight and the new backdrop of the city of angels agreed with
him. Some critics had called Sukie’s artful portrayal of the male body as
something akin to Rodin’s masterpieces. Geoff chimed in that he would go down
in history as the conclusive reason behind Mona Lisa’s mystifying smile.
We’d
been friends too long for me to turn down his offer to meet me at the Santa
Monica Pier. True to his word he was easy to spot in front of the arcade and
dropping handfuls of quarters into pinball machines for eager children.
“Not how
I usually spend my workday,” I hollered in between whirling bells and the
cling-clang of metal balls slamming against rubber bumpers.
“Hey,
Babe, you ain’t lived until you played hooky at the pier.
I figured that out the first week we started operations down here.”
“If you’re
setting me up for a raise your plan is seriously flawed,” I laughed.
Geoff
for the doctors—”
“I know
the drill,” said my junior writer. “Print the names of these fine plastic
surgeons. But first, get their ‘no comment’ comments.”
TWO
WEEKS LATER I was still debating what ‘a couple’ meant, for that’s when Jack
Helms had told me to call him back. I’d picked up the phone a good ten times
but never dialed his number.
My
insecurities insisted that maybe he wouldn’t even talk to me. I phoned him only
after preparing myself to hear his voicemail. Or some call screener. That might
be better than listening to his morbid thoughts about missing children, because
maybe he would take my call.
He
responded via webcam. Away in Italy, he thought I might be interested in
another story idea.
“There
are certain provinces here where wives are still regarded as property,” he said.
“The women sit on front porches with their husbands, forced to face the walls
of their home. They can’t look out on the street.
“They
can only listen as their husbands choose to describe to them what they see. Or
conversely, choose what to censor. Anything and everything. Passersby,
activity—anything, Lauren. This prevents the women from making forbidden
contact with other men.”
“It
sounds good. I mean bad, but good,” I said.
Helms
was researching yet another documentary idea.
“I have
that last issue of yours,” he said. “I think you should show the full cheese.”
“What?”
He caught me off guard.
“The
entertainment biz is about dichotomy. You have your exposés going for you, all
juxtaposed next to dirt-ass fucking male models. I’m just saying do more with
the skin thing and the male models. It sells. Women keep getting all the glory
these days.”
I didn’t
exactly want to be known as the next Bob Guccione and
his Penthouse .
“Can I ask
you about your project? The missing children?”
“Fire
away.”
“I’ve
been looking for a missing child. My friend’s brother. It’s been years. She
hired a private investigator and all that stuff.”
“And you
got zippo , right?”
“Right.
He just disappeared. They somehow determined he was a runaway of his own accord.”
“It’s
kind of like the missing prostitutes. They make for an easy mark because no one
reports them missing.”
A man
called out from the background, “It’s show time, Mr. Helms.”
“ Gotta run, but send me what you have on this kid,” he said.
“I have sources. Oh, and as far as Gabriella Criscione and any stalker goes,
it’s nothing.”
“The
painting was nothing?’
“Nothing
that my guys could come up with and I’ll take their word over the L.A. cops any
day of the week. Let’s just say she has enemies, but no one wants her dead. At
least not yet.”
DR.
COAL LEFT ME three messages. I ached to return them. I needed to schedule
another appointment with him. It was time to figure out my life and why the
Lauren Visconti Curse made love a certain death threat. I just didn’t have the
time.
And I
was afraid.
Chapter Thirty
Let’s
Ride a Pony
GEOFF
RELISHED THE limelight and the new backdrop of the city of angels agreed with
him. Some critics had called Sukie’s artful portrayal of the male body as
something akin to Rodin’s masterpieces. Geoff chimed in that he would go down
in history as the conclusive reason behind Mona Lisa’s mystifying smile.
We’d
been friends too long for me to turn down his offer to meet me at the Santa
Monica Pier. True to his word he was easy to spot in front of the arcade and
dropping handfuls of quarters into pinball machines for eager children.
“Not how
I usually spend my workday,” I hollered in between whirling bells and the
cling-clang of metal balls slamming against rubber bumpers.
“Hey,
Babe, you ain’t lived until you played hooky at the pier.
I figured that out the first week we started operations down here.”
“If you’re
setting me up for a raise your plan is seriously flawed,” I laughed.
Geoff
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