recording contract, at fifteen her own TV show, which exploded onto the tween scene and has been going strong ever since. The girl’s got her face plastered on anything and everything an eight-year-old girl could want.”
“So, she’s a kid actress?”
“Correction,” I said. “She
Cal raised an eyebrow my way. “They grow up so fast. So, what’s she been mentioned in your column for?”
“The usual. Drinking. Drugs. Partying. Flashed her boobs at the cameras two weeks ago as she was getting into her limo.”
“May I never have a daughter. Alright, let’s go talk to America’s sweetheart.”
“Great. But first,” I said, glancing down at the clock on his dash, “lunch. I’m starving. Wanna hit a drivethru?”
Cal gave me a sideways look. “You know, that fastfood stuff will kill you.”
“So will global warming,” I countered, giving his Hummer a pointed look. “Oh, look, there’s an In-N-Out Burger!” I pointed to my favorite fast-food joint a block up on the right.
He made a sort of clucking sound in the back of his throat, but, thank God, pulled into the parking lot anyway. I ordered a double double with grilled onions, fries, and a shake. Cal ordered a grilled cheese with no mayo and water.
“What’s with the girly food?” I asked around a big mouthwatering bite of burger. A little ketchup oozed onto my chin, and I grabbed a paper napkin.
“ ‘Girly food’?” he asked. “Isn’t that a little un-PC for a feminist like yourself?”
I shrugged. “I’m a fair-weather feminist.”
“Hmm. I don’t eat beef.”
“Why not? It’s yummy.”
He shrugged. “I care about what I put in my body. Most meat is full of hormones, antibiotics, E. coli. Even trace amounts of fecal matter.”
I looked down at my burger. “Fecal matter? As in…”
“Poop.” He popped one of my fries in his mouth.
“You’re kidding, right?”
He shook his head. “Nope. It’s the way the animals are slaughtered. Generally their bowels are still full when they’re killed. It’s actually incredibly tricky to cut the colon and intestines away from the animal without spilling any of the contents. Cross contamination happens all the time.”
I set my burger down, feeling that last bite stick in my throat. “That is sick.”
“
I picked up my shake, trying to wash down the possibly contaminated double double with strawberry goodness.
“So,” Cal said, snaking another fry, “where can we find this party girl of yours?”
I tossed my burger into the trash bin to the right. “
“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
“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
