The Next to Die

Joanne slouched back in her chair. “But how did it get so crazy so fast? This morning, it was only a blind item in Yvonne Chase’s column.”

“The thing just snowballed, Joanne.” Steve checked some of his notes. “Several stills from the video began circulating on the Intranet this morning. The owner of a video store in West Hollywood called into a radio station saying that within two hours he sold eighty-seven copies of the video at forty bucks a pop. News services picked it up within minutes.”

“So what can we do by way of damage control?” Avery asked.

“Well, I haven’t seen the video yet, but I viewed some of the stills floating around the Internet.”

Joanne squirmed at this news. Avery put his arm around her.

Steve glanced at his notes again. “The pictures are, of course, explicit, and undeniably you two. The good news is—well, you both looked great. We can make that work for us. You’re a hot, sexy couple, who are married and very much in love. You made a video for your own fun, and it got stolen.” He sipped his coffee. “I want you to keep that in mind during interviews. You did it for fun…. It was supposed to be private….”

Avery stared at him. “You want us to talk to the press about this?”

“Practically every newspaper and magazine outside of the Christian Science Monitor wants to interview you two. Ditto the talk shows. We should be selective. I suggest you keep it down to very few—”

“How about keeping it down to none?”

“It’s part of ‘damage control,’ Avery,” Steve said. “Now, I suggest you appear on Oprah, Jay, and Today. And in print, give People magazine a few hours. They’ll put you both on the cover, guaranteed.”

Avery frowned at him. Though Steve was right, of course. They couldn’t hang their heads in shame and go into hiding. They’d be playing right into the hands of whoever was behind this.

“Well, I’ll consent to some interviews,” Avery finally said. “But I don’t see why Joanne has to subject herself to any of this—”

“Now, hold on,” Joanne said. “I can talk for myself. And I want to do it. You shouldn’t be on these interviews alone, Avery. Only the two of us together can make it work. Maybe we can turn this whole thing around.”

He took hold of Joanne’s hand. “You sure you’re up to it?”

She laughed. “Darling, last year, I pulled off six performances—and a matinee—while fighting a fever of a hundred and two. I think I can handle a few interviews. This will be good. I’m all for it.”

Avery nodded and tried to smile. He listened to her and Steve hatch a media strategy. But all the while, he kept looking across the kitchen—at a faint wine stain on the wall.

Avery and Joanne agreed to do the talk-show circuit. They wouldn’t air any theories about who might have stolen the home video and why. Avery figured they should gloss over references to the break-in and the harassing phone calls. Those were police matters. Too much focus there, and they’d come across as victims. They had to keep the interviews light and entertaining.

Steve booked them on the talk shows he’d recommended. And People arranged to interview and photograph them at home. All these commitments would be fulfilled in the next seventy-four hours— including a trip to Chicago for Oprah.

Avery’s agent reported that her phone was ringing off the hook with movie offers—hot, leading-man roles in big-budget productions. Joanne’s agent in New York described a similar phenomenon at her office. Several publishers wanted them to write their autobiographies—as well as a how-to manual for married couples who wanted to keep the honeymoon alive. There was also an idea for a “tasteful, coffee table book” of them nude and making love, shot by a big-name photographer. They had countless proposals from clothing manufacturers, and cosmetic, cologne, and underwear companies to be spokesmodels. They politely declined all offers. No one could accuse them of cashing in on this scandal. Almost no one.

“I’m Mrs. Richard Marshall, but you can call me Elsie.”

“Hi, Elsie!”

“God bless you,” Elsie said, blowing a kiss to her studio audience. Today, she wore a royal blue First Lady suit and pearls. She picked up a newspaper on the desktop. “Well, I don’t know about anyone else,” she said, with a roll of her eyes. “But I’m pretty disgusted by all the attention these two—well, pornographers—have been receiving the last couple of days.” She held up the front page of a tabloid with the headline: INDECENT EXPOSURE: AVERY COOPER AND WIFE BARE ALL IN EXPLICIT HOME VIDEO.

“Can you believe that some people actually consider these two ‘role models for romance’?” Elsie asked. “I’m just a housewife, but it seems to me that decent people—people we’re supposed to admire—don’t make sexually explicit videotapes of themselves and accidentally let them get duplicated thousands of times for wide distribution. And they seem just as proud as punch about it! Did you see them laughing and making jokes on The Today Show this morning? I could barely eat my breakfast, watching those two snickering about this—pardon me—‘sex tape.’” Elsie shook her head and sighed. “Now, from what I understand, Avery Cooper and Joanne Lane are supposed to have—what do they call it—a bicoastal marriage? ” She glanced stage left, off camera. “Drew? Is that right? Bicoastal?”

Drew Marshall ambled onto the set to a swelling of applause. He wore a blue Armani suit today. “That’s right, Mom, bicoastal,” he said. He kissed her, then took the newspaper, glanced at it, and shook his head. “It means they’re married, but live on opposite sides of the country. In most cases, it also means they can date other people. It’s like how most of these so-called ‘gay marriages’ are. They say they’re together, but they sleep with other people.”

“Well, that’s not right,” Elsie muttered.

“No, it isn’t. You know, Avery Cooper and Joanne Lane are the ones who do those ads endorsing restrictions on our constitutional right to bear arms.”

“Oh, I’ve seen those commercials. They’re awful!” Elsie said.

Drew chuckled. “Well, at least they have their clothes on in the commercials. We can be grateful for that.”

Elsie frowned. “Wasn’t Avery Cooper the one in that TV movie glorifying an abortion doctor?”

“That’s right, Mom. And in his next movie, he plays a homosexual!”

“Well, all I can say is, ‘It figures.’”

“That goddamn homemade porn video has practically doubled their popularity! What the fuck is going on?”

His voice carried over the cries of seagulls and the sound of water lapping against the docks. A limousine and a rented Ford Taurus were parked side by side in the marina lot. The uniformed driver and another man leaned against the front hood of the Taurus. The second man was forty-five, with dark receding hair and a chalky complexion. He puffed on a cigarette, and glanced over his shoulder at the limo. The back window was cracked open, and he could hear his boss getting chewed out by one of the very-top dogs.

“The idea behind stealing and distributing the video was to ruin their reputations!” the bigwig went on. “But now they’re America’s goddamn fucking sweethearts. Their stupid gun-control commercials are pissing off my campaign contributors. I’ve made promises to them. And you can bet your ass, I’m going to deliver. Now, this porno-flick scheme was your fucking piece-of-shit brainchild. I want you to fix this. I want you to fix them. I want that faggot, Cooper, to suffer. I want his cunt of a wife to suffer. I want them disgraced. I want them both to wish they were fucking dead! Do you hear me?”

Propping his foot back against the rental car’s front bumper, the man took another drag from his cigarette. “Just listen to him in there,” he said to the chauffeur, cracking a little smile. “Hell, if old Elsie heard the way her son was talking, she’d wash his mouth out with Lifeboy.”

On Friday, November 7, at 5:52 P.M., a debate ensued over the Internet Movie-talk line about a film remake: