she was at the offices picking up a reissued one and overheard the argument between Lowel and Barker.”
“ And she’s a credible witness?”
“ Dude, she’s a dental hygienist. You don’t get much more professional than that.”
I pursed my lips, staring at the little guy. I had to admit, it was a good lead. A great lead, even.
“ So, am I hired?” he asked, his smile beaming under his sparse mustache.
“ Fine,” I finally said. But before he could celebrate, added, “for today. You can come help me interview Lowel. But that’s as far as I can promise.”
“ Deal! Now, what are we having for breakfast?” he asked pushing past me into the kitchen. “I’m starving.”
Chapter Eight
I showered and dressed while Gary cleaned my cupboards out of Captain Crunch and downed the last of my milk. As he toasted my last Pop Tart, I booted up my laptop. According to the Twitter buzz, Lowel was scheduled to shoot a Japanese commercial in Malibu that morning. After a quick call to the production company’s L.A. office, pretending to be a P.A. who had lost her directions to the set, I had Lowel’s exact location dialed in.
I grabbed my purse, notebook, and Gary and I headed for my Bug.
Only Gary took one look at my car and shook his head. “Uh-uh. No way. I’m not getting in that thing!”
I glanced at my car. “Why not?”
“ Are you kidding me? It’s a total girl car.”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course. My mistake. Riding in a Bug might make your testicles actually shrink.”
“ Look, I got an image to uphold here. I’m the Little Bachelor. I can’t be seen riding around town in that.”
I put my hands on my hips. “So, what do you drive?”
He pointed to a suped-up Ford 150 with hydraulics that lifted the sucker a full five feet off the ground.
I grinned. “Compensation much?”
“ Hey, that there is a man’s vehicle.”
“ And this here is me leaving to interview our suspect,” I said, turning over the engine. “You coming or not?”
Gary stared at me for a beat. Then he finally pulled open the passenger side door with a, “Fucking hell.”
My thoughts exactly.
* * *
Lowel Simonson was known for being Australian, smug, and the biggest ass on television. His personal talent was coming up with comments that could build a contestant’s hopes higher than the U.S. Bank Tower then shatter them to pieces all within the same breath. “That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. Amazingly bad.” Or “How long have you been taking dancing lessons? Because I think you should sue your dance teachers.”
In college, my friends and I had played the Lowel Simonson Drinking Game, where we’d all gather to watch Stayin’ Alive on Tuesday nights and had to take a shot of tequila every time Lowel said the word “pathetic”. One week I got so drunk, I woke up on the dorm lawn. In my underwear. At 3 am.
As much as America loved to hate Simonson, they loved to tune in and watch him even more. Stayin’ Alive ratings had broken every record that first season, and by season nine the number of people calling in to vote after watching Simonson rip contestants’ dance moves to shreds had been higher than those who voted in the last presidential election. Twice over. I couldn’t tell if that was a sad commentary on our political system, or a hopeful one on the entertainment business.
Thanks to his super-stellar ratings, Lowel was not only American’s favorite asshole, he was also an international superstar. And while all A-listers knew that doing commercials for Metamucil and Swiffer products was as taboo as giving an interview to a tabloid, doing commercials for the foreign market was not only kosher but highly lucrative. Hence Lowel’s current gig, pushing Happy Lucky Time toilet bowl cleaner to the tidy citizens of Japan.
Gary and I pulled up to a strip of beach just off the 1, where fifteen white trailers parked around a spot lit up by giant lights, white balloons, and
“ And she’s a credible witness?”
“ Dude, she’s a dental hygienist. You don’t get much more professional than that.”
I pursed my lips, staring at the little guy. I had to admit, it was a good lead. A great lead, even.
“ So, am I hired?” he asked, his smile beaming under his sparse mustache.
“ Fine,” I finally said. But before he could celebrate, added, “for today. You can come help me interview Lowel. But that’s as far as I can promise.”
“ Deal! Now, what are we having for breakfast?” he asked pushing past me into the kitchen. “I’m starving.”
Chapter Eight
I showered and dressed while Gary cleaned my cupboards out of Captain Crunch and downed the last of my milk. As he toasted my last Pop Tart, I booted up my laptop. According to the Twitter buzz, Lowel was scheduled to shoot a Japanese commercial in Malibu that morning. After a quick call to the production company’s L.A. office, pretending to be a P.A. who had lost her directions to the set, I had Lowel’s exact location dialed in.
I grabbed my purse, notebook, and Gary and I headed for my Bug.
Only Gary took one look at my car and shook his head. “Uh-uh. No way. I’m not getting in that thing!”
I glanced at my car. “Why not?”
“ Are you kidding me? It’s a total girl car.”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course. My mistake. Riding in a Bug might make your testicles actually shrink.”
“ Look, I got an image to uphold here. I’m the Little Bachelor. I can’t be seen riding around town in that.”
I put my hands on my hips. “So, what do you drive?”
He pointed to a suped-up Ford 150 with hydraulics that lifted the sucker a full five feet off the ground.
I grinned. “Compensation much?”
“ Hey, that there is a man’s vehicle.”
“ And this here is me leaving to interview our suspect,” I said, turning over the engine. “You coming or not?”
Gary stared at me for a beat. Then he finally pulled open the passenger side door with a, “Fucking hell.”
My thoughts exactly.
* * *
Lowel Simonson was known for being Australian, smug, and the biggest ass on television. His personal talent was coming up with comments that could build a contestant’s hopes higher than the U.S. Bank Tower then shatter them to pieces all within the same breath. “That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. Amazingly bad.” Or “How long have you been taking dancing lessons? Because I think you should sue your dance teachers.”
In college, my friends and I had played the Lowel Simonson Drinking Game, where we’d all gather to watch Stayin’ Alive on Tuesday nights and had to take a shot of tequila every time Lowel said the word “pathetic”. One week I got so drunk, I woke up on the dorm lawn. In my underwear. At 3 am.
As much as America loved to hate Simonson, they loved to tune in and watch him even more. Stayin’ Alive ratings had broken every record that first season, and by season nine the number of people calling in to vote after watching Simonson rip contestants’ dance moves to shreds had been higher than those who voted in the last presidential election. Twice over. I couldn’t tell if that was a sad commentary on our political system, or a hopeful one on the entertainment business.
Thanks to his super-stellar ratings, Lowel was not only American’s favorite asshole, he was also an international superstar. And while all A-listers knew that doing commercials for Metamucil and Swiffer products was as taboo as giving an interview to a tabloid, doing commercials for the foreign market was not only kosher but highly lucrative. Hence Lowel’s current gig, pushing Happy Lucky Time toilet bowl cleaner to the tidy citizens of Japan.
Gary and I pulled up to a strip of beach just off the 1, where fifteen white trailers parked around a spot lit up by giant lights, white balloons, and
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