so anymore. Somebody smells a rat, it’s all over the bloody Internet. Next thing you know, I’m getting phone calls. And I don’t want phone calls, Claude.”
Bang Abbott could no longer hold back. “Wait—you’re sayin’ you guys don’t dick around with the pictures anymore? No Photoshop, no airbrush, nuthin? Not even those Bahamas shots of what’s-her-face, that whale from Jenny Craig? The one your boss has been bangin’ for two years? You’re sayin’ every photo your paper runs is legit? Get fucking real, Peter.”
“Things are changing,” Cartwill said. “Have you checked out our Web site? We’re buying video clips now.”
“Oh Jesus.” Bang Abbott hated those TV stakeout crews. Total slugs.
“We pay pretty well,” Cartwill remarked.
“But not for true stories like mine.”
“Not without pictures, no. It’s a shame about your cameras.” The phone on the editor’s desk began to ring, and he said, “I need to take this.”
Bang Abbott paused at the door. “It really happened, you know. Up in the plane? She practically raped me.”
“I believe you, mate,” said Cartwill in a tone so merciless that it filled the photographer with rage.
8
The man called Chemo had come to the attention of Maury Lykes a year earlier during halftime of a Miami Heat basketball game. Maury Lykes, who had floor seats, spotted in the third row a former client named Presley Aaron, a pipe fitter turned country singer. Under the guidance of Maury Lykes, Presley Aaron had recorded a string of megahits, including “Unbreak This Broken Heart” and the crossover tearjerker “Daddy, What’s My New Momma’s Name?”
But stardom had been hard on Presley Aaron, whose room-temperature intellect was easily overwhelmed by all the money, women and media swirl. He went hurtling off the rails, and after his fourth arrest (with two Memphis call girls and a shaving kit stuffed with crystal), Maury Lykes had fired him from the label. At the time, the promoter had felt certain that Presley Aaron would wind up dead under seedy circumstances. Yet the scrappy redneck had managed to kick his dope habit and win back his ex-fashion-model wife and two young kids, a triumph of will and true love that was exhaustively chronicled on the morning shows and in the tabloids.
Intrigued by the prospect of a comeback album, Maury Lykes made his way to where Presley Aaron was sitting and they embraced warmly. The singer seemed to bear no ill will toward thepromoter for cutting him loose. “Rock bottom’s exactly where I needed to be,” he said.
Maury Lykes couldn’t conceal his amazement at Presley Aaron’s transformation from pallid degenerate tweaker to buff bronze stud. The musician said he’d been saved by the good Lord and also his stepbrothers, Jake and Ernest, who had put him in rehab and then hired a special bodyguard to hang close and keep him straight. “Every time I’d fuck up, he beat the everluvin’ shit outta me,” Presley said fondly. “The man’s an angel.”
It was at that moment when Chemo appeared, looming above the crowd. In one arm he cradled two large sodas, and on the other arm, which was partially sheathed with a zippered bag, he balanced a cardboard tray of cheese-jizzed nachos. Maury Lykes had seen plenty of freaks and goons in his career, but he’d never set eyes on anyone like Chemo. When Presley Aaron introduced him, Chemo grunted a raspy response and sat down to dine. Maury Lykes pegged him as an ex–basketball player who’d been in some hideous accident involving fire or chemicals, possibly both. Maury Lykes figured the man’s arm was so disfigured that he chose to keep it covered and spare others from the sight.
Presley Aaron, it had turned out, was starting his own TV ministry and had no plans to revive his country-music career. Maury Lykes wished him well and returned to his seat. Throughout the second half of the game he caught himself glancing back at Chemo, who was skimming a landscape
Bang Abbott could no longer hold back. “Wait—you’re sayin’ you guys don’t dick around with the pictures anymore? No Photoshop, no airbrush, nuthin? Not even those Bahamas shots of what’s-her-face, that whale from Jenny Craig? The one your boss has been bangin’ for two years? You’re sayin’ every photo your paper runs is legit? Get fucking real, Peter.”
“Things are changing,” Cartwill said. “Have you checked out our Web site? We’re buying video clips now.”
“Oh Jesus.” Bang Abbott hated those TV stakeout crews. Total slugs.
“We pay pretty well,” Cartwill remarked.
“But not for true stories like mine.”
“Not without pictures, no. It’s a shame about your cameras.” The phone on the editor’s desk began to ring, and he said, “I need to take this.”
Bang Abbott paused at the door. “It really happened, you know. Up in the plane? She practically raped me.”
“I believe you, mate,” said Cartwill in a tone so merciless that it filled the photographer with rage.
8
The man called Chemo had come to the attention of Maury Lykes a year earlier during halftime of a Miami Heat basketball game. Maury Lykes, who had floor seats, spotted in the third row a former client named Presley Aaron, a pipe fitter turned country singer. Under the guidance of Maury Lykes, Presley Aaron had recorded a string of megahits, including “Unbreak This Broken Heart” and the crossover tearjerker “Daddy, What’s My New Momma’s Name?”
But stardom had been hard on Presley Aaron, whose room-temperature intellect was easily overwhelmed by all the money, women and media swirl. He went hurtling off the rails, and after his fourth arrest (with two Memphis call girls and a shaving kit stuffed with crystal), Maury Lykes had fired him from the label. At the time, the promoter had felt certain that Presley Aaron would wind up dead under seedy circumstances. Yet the scrappy redneck had managed to kick his dope habit and win back his ex-fashion-model wife and two young kids, a triumph of will and true love that was exhaustively chronicled on the morning shows and in the tabloids.
Intrigued by the prospect of a comeback album, Maury Lykes made his way to where Presley Aaron was sitting and they embraced warmly. The singer seemed to bear no ill will toward thepromoter for cutting him loose. “Rock bottom’s exactly where I needed to be,” he said.
Maury Lykes couldn’t conceal his amazement at Presley Aaron’s transformation from pallid degenerate tweaker to buff bronze stud. The musician said he’d been saved by the good Lord and also his stepbrothers, Jake and Ernest, who had put him in rehab and then hired a special bodyguard to hang close and keep him straight. “Every time I’d fuck up, he beat the everluvin’ shit outta me,” Presley said fondly. “The man’s an angel.”
It was at that moment when Chemo appeared, looming above the crowd. In one arm he cradled two large sodas, and on the other arm, which was partially sheathed with a zippered bag, he balanced a cardboard tray of cheese-jizzed nachos. Maury Lykes had seen plenty of freaks and goons in his career, but he’d never set eyes on anyone like Chemo. When Presley Aaron introduced him, Chemo grunted a raspy response and sat down to dine. Maury Lykes pegged him as an ex–basketball player who’d been in some hideous accident involving fire or chemicals, possibly both. Maury Lykes figured the man’s arm was so disfigured that he chose to keep it covered and spare others from the sight.
Presley Aaron, it had turned out, was starting his own TV ministry and had no plans to revive his country-music career. Maury Lykes wished him well and returned to his seat. Throughout the second half of the game he caught himself glancing back at Chemo, who was skimming a landscape
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