“Gaynor, it’s Friday night and it’s been a long week. Are we going to fuck or just finger each other tonight?”
They sat beside each other on the couch, and Gaynor clinked her glass against Crystal’s.
“Mira, this is nothing; let’s let it be nothing.”
Crystal sighed, and seemed even smaller. “I like that idea. Tell me your plan.”
“My plan? It’s simple. Flanger is determined to sell the photos. He is willing to delete the ones I am in. You and I have both done these things, to keep the clients happy and out of the tabloids. I think that for old times’ sake, we can just let it go.”
Crystal laughed, a cold, hollow sound that reminded Billy of a crow.
“That’s a good scenario for you, but it’s as satisfying as a tit fuck for me.”
“Crystal,” Billy interrupted, “you’re gay. Don’t you want to see this fucking homophobe go down? How can you represent him after what he said, how he thinks?”
“Listen, cornhusk, if the gays and the homophobes in this town didn’t work together, you wouldn’t have a movie industry. I don’t give a fuck about his politics. I give a fuck about what he pays me to stay famous. Speaking of which, Ethan Carpenter has decided to give heterosexuality another chance, so you’re single. Now go find a new fucking lover on Grindr and let the experts handle this one.”
Billy blew her a kiss. “You should write for Hallmark,” he cooed.
Gaynor stood up, turning to face Crystal.
“Once this scandal hits, you can name your price with Max. He will be forced to pay you whatever you ask. Nobody wants this job anymore. He’s so tiresome.”
“My dear, I’ve already told him that there’s some shit up ahead on the freeway. I’ve set his rate at fifty thousand dollars a month for the next six months. I’ve hired him two full-time fetish hookers and a sober coach who’s willing to dress in the Shroud of Turin if he asks. I’ve promised Flanger that Max will be the Grand Marshal of next year’s West Hollywood Gay Pride in exchange for the dick pics staying private. I’d say I’ve contained the worst of it. So tell me why it wouldn’t at least give me something to laugh at if I let the pics of you go public, too.”
“I don’t know why you just can’t be nicer,” Gaynor sniffed, getting off the couch and pulling open a drawer within the top of the coffee table. She removed a small stack of black-and-white eight-by-tens. She held one in front of Crystal’s face for a second, moving it just in time to avoid being sprayed by the gulp of martini that flew from Crystal’s mouth.
“Where the fuck did you get that?” she seethed.
“Bianca Jagger gave it to me in 1979. She told me it would always be my get-out-of-jail-free card in Hollywood. And I haven’t had to use it until now. If you weren’t such a bitch, I wouldn’t have had to use it at all. Now, is that good enough of a reason for you to kill the pics I’m in?”
“You fucking win. I don’t care anymore. And Gaynor, thanks for that. I really do think I might throw up.”
As soon as Crystal gave in, the mood changed. Gaynor poured herself an Amaretto sour and plonked onto the couch next to her, promising to send her Zetta’s files. They began to banter like an old couple, and Billy realized that both of them loved the charade of animosity, but behind it was a surreal shared history that almost passed as friendship.
An hour and two martinis later, Crystal air-kissed Gaynor, waved at Bluey, flipped a bird at Billy, climbed back into her clunky boots, and left. Immediately both men turned to Gaynor.
“What the fuck was in that photo?” they said in unison.
“Trust me, boys, you don’t want to know.”
Bluey and Billy both turned their most effective pleading stares on Gaynor. They reminded her of her twins.
She let out a big breath.
“Have you ever heard any rumors about Crystal’s client Avery Beckner?”
Bluey rubbed his stubbly chin. “He bedded every hot actress in Hollywood, from the late sixties until he got married in the nineties.”
“Right, so you’re on the right track,” Gaynor cackled, warming to the game. “So ask yourself, after all those beauties, why did he marry such a plain Jane as Lee Pierce?”
“I’m not sure.” Billy shook his head. “Come on, what is it?”
Now it was Gaynor’s turn to look like an ecstatic child.
“It’s poo, darling,” she bellowed. “Poo! Avery likes it, and Lee doesn’t mind.”
Both men made puking sounds.
“But, mate, what was in the photo?”
“Oh, you know, just little old Avery back when he was dating his America’s sweetheart costar from that sci-fi movie. With the costar. And a glass table.”