Snowblind

Chapter 24: Your Move

Los Angeles, California

February 2, 1996

The Gateway Tower building was not really a tower, per se, certainly not by Los Angeles standards. It barely qualified as a high-rise, standing only fifteen floors above the north side of Wilshire Boulevard in Brentwood. Still, it was an attractive building of modern design and construction, with a wide turn-in out front and valet parking. And the neighborhood was pretty nice as well, quite close to the Brentwood Estates recently made famous by a former NFL football player and his late ex-wife.

The offices of Brackford, Redman, and Jackson, attorneys at law, were on the fifteenth floor of the building and were the only tenants located on that level. BR&J, as the partners and grunts called the firm among themselves, did not have a particular specialty, but, rather, several different categories of law they practiced. There was a criminal defense department, a family law department, a will and probate department, a taxation and incorporation department (this was the largest, with eight grunts, sixteen paralegals, and one partner assigned), a personal injury department (this was the smallest, with only two grunts and one paralegal), and a copyright and trademark department. The firm’s target clients were the upper classes of the southern California region—the real estate developers, wealthy business owners, trust-fund children, and others with a net worth in the mid to high six figures who needed some sort of legal representation—and their hourly rates reflected this. As did the attorneys they employed. These were not sleazy ambulance chasers recently graduated from Billy Bob’s School of Law and Automobile Repair, but top of their class graduates of schools such as Berkeley, Stanford, UCLA, Gould, or Loyola. Even the most junior lawyer of the firm was a specialist in the area of law he or she practiced and was pulling in no less than a hundred grand a year, not including bonuses and benefits.

Celia Valdez sat before one such lawyer right now, in a little office that overlooked Wilshire Boulevard. Her name was Anwara Khatun-Nelson. She was an exotically beautiful woman in her early thirties, her skin a rich olive color, her hair jet-black and immaculately styled, her business pantsuit and blouse combo both professional and feminine at the same time, obviously custom-tailored to her curvy body and with no expense spared. She had a wedding ring on her left hand that had to have cost in the mid five figure range. Her English was impeccable and exact, bespeaking of one who was extremely well read, and had not a hint of accent. There were two framed pictures on her desk. One was of a smiling blonde haired, suntanned male in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and holding a surfboard while standing on a beach. The other was of a beautiful little girl of perhaps five years of age in a sundress. Her skin was of a considerably lighter shade than Anwara’s, but her hair was the same shade of black and her facial features shared an unmistakable familial resemblance. On the wall behind the desk were two framed degrees. One was a Bachelor of Science in Philosophy from UCLA. The other was a law degree from the University of California at Berkeley School of Law.

Anwara was part of BR&J’s Family Law department. Her specialty was divorce. This was Celia’s first meeting with her. The firm itself had been recommended to her by Pauline Kingsley, who had been personally using their services for estate planning and taxation for the past six years and for copyright and trademark issues for KVA for the past three years. Pauline had no experience with their family law department, but she personally knew all three of the major partners and, while they were lawyers and could not be really trusted on that basis alone, she was confident that they would have no hackers or slackers on their payroll and that they would give their wealthy client their all.

Celia was tired and quite worn out as she sat across the oak desk from her new lawyer. Only ten hours before, she had been in Phoenix, just finished with her first of two shows in the desert metropolis. From the show, she had gone back to the hotel room just long enough to pack a simple bag and then head to the airport for a private flight to LAX. She arrived at Jake and Laura’s Granada Hills home just before two o’clock this morning, where she had then struggled to sleep in a strange bed under stressful circumstances. Still, she was dressed nicely this morning, in a black pantsuit and maroon blouse, her hair neatly done and even a light coating of makeup on her face. On the Berber carpeted floor next to her was a leather briefcase.

“That is a terrible story,” Anwara said to Celia after hearing her tale of marital infidelity, a pregnancy, and the coming wave of media publicity that would wash over her when the story broke. “I’m sorry that this has happened to you.”

“Yeah,” Celia said with a nod. “Me too. But I’m going to try to make the best out of this bad situation.”

“I understand completely,” the lawyer said, nodding confidently. “Now ... you said there was a prenuptial agreement signed by you prior to the marriage, correct?”

“Yes,” Celia said, nodding. “He insisted on it. I suppose I can see his point now. At the time we got married, I had virtually nothing and he was worth around ten million dollars.”

“Virtually nothing?” Anwara asked, surprised. “But ... you got married at the height of La Diferencia’s popularity. I remember because I was a big fan of La Dif back then. And, if I haven’t mentioned it yet, I’m an even bigger fan of your music now.”

“Thank you,” Celia said with a quick smile, “but we were operating under a first-time music contract back then. I’m guessing you don’t deal too much with those, because if you did, you’d know that first-time contracts virtually guarantee the artist or band will not make squat.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Celia assured her. “In fact, when our contract with Aristocrat Records expired about a year after Greg and I got married, La Dif was more than two hundred thousand dollars in debt to Aristocrat from all of the recoupable expenses.”

“Two hundred thousand dollars ... in debt?”

“That’s right,” Celia said sadly. “The music business is a sleazy one. Of course, we didn’t pay them any of that, not after they refused to pick me up under a favorable solo contract. And they never really pushed for it either. When KVA signed with them for MD&P on our previous projects, they finally found it in their hearts to forgive that debt.”

“MD&P?” the lawyer asked, confused.

“Manufacturing, distribution, and promotion,” Celia clarified. “We are not entirely independent of the record labels. We compose and record our own music but have to rely on one of the big four record companies to manufacture the CDs, distribute them across the world for sale, and, most important, to use their contacts to get radio airplay for them and promote them.”

“I see,” she said slowly. “And ... when you say ‘we’, you’re talking about...”

“Jake Kingsley,” she said. “He’s my partner in crime. Not many people realize this, but the two of us founded KVA together, along with Bill Archer and his wife Sharon and Jake’s sister, Pauline.”

“And ... uh ... you and Mr. Kingsley aren’t ... you know ... involved on more than that level?”

“Of course not,” Celia scoffed, putting just the right amount of offended huffiness in her tone. “We’re friends. We have been for years. There has never been anything like that between us.”

“I see,” Anwara said, making a few notes on a legal pad. “Well ... in any case, I’ll definitely need a copy of that prenup you signed with Greg. It will limit how hard we can go after him, but I can usually find a few loopholes and precedents to attack a prenup with. It’s very likely he’ll agree to a settlement of some kind instead of fighting it out. After all, you’re worth considerably more these days, aren’t you?”

“Considerably more,” she agreed. “I’ll be calling my accounting firm later today to get them to start preparing a report for you, but I know that my current net worth is in the neighborhood of eighteen million dollars, plus I’m a one-fourth partner in KVA—an entity that Greg has absolutely no financial interest in and that he will have no claim upon since that same prenup he insisted we sign keeps his greasy little hands off of my assets.”

Anwara nodded, impressed. “I’m guessing he will find that unpleasantly ironic.”

“Probably,” she agreed.

“I only hope his lawyer is not as good as I am. That could lead to a protracted fight from his side if he wants to go after your music income as community property.”

“I seriously doubt that,” Celia said.

“You do?”

“I do,” she confirmed. “I’m not really expecting that there will be a huge fight between Greg and I.”

“You’re not?”

“No, not at all.”

“Uh ... what makes you think this?” she wanted to know.

“He told me he wouldn’t.”

Anwara looked at her client as if she were mad. “He ... told you he wouldn’t?”

“That’s right,” Celia said.

“And ... you believe him?”

“I do,” she said with a melancholy smile. “We’re not your typical Hollywood celebrity couple. Greg may have trouble keeping his zipper closed, but he’s a fair and reasonably moral person. I expect the actual divorce proceedings to be quite amicable. I’m not planning to go after what he has, and he assures me he will not be trying to go after what I have. We have no children to fight over and we’re both worth about the same amount of money.”

Anwara seemed quite confused now. “Then ... we’re not going to go after him either?” she asked.

“Not unless he goes after me first,” she said. “And he’s already told me he won’t do that. This is not likely to be a contested divorce unless his lawyer manages to talk him into a really bad move. He has the two houses, both of which he bought before we were married, and I don’t want any part of either one of them. I have KVA Records and all of the money I’ve made from it since we started it. He has his golf course project up in Coos Bay and I have no financial interest in that. This whole process will just be a matter of us taking back what is already ours and making it nice and legal.”

“You don’t want a cut of his golf course project?” Anwara said, appalled. “But ... but ... that was purchased after you were married. You could have a reasonable claim on half of it.”

“It was purchased with his money,” Celia said. “We have always kept our accounts separate. No, the golf course is his project paid for with his income. He can keep it.”

“He can keep it?” Anwara asked, shaking her head in disbelief, as if the entire fabric of what she believed in and held sacred had suddenly torn right before her eyes.

Celia simply shrugged. “He can keep it,” she confirmed. “What the hell do I want with a golf course that isn’t even built yet? For now, I just need to get the initial paperwork filed. It’s very important that that be done before the close of business hours today.”

“Why is that so important?” she wanted to know. “Once we file, the story is as good as broken. You do know that, right? Whatever clerk I file the paperwork with will be on the phone to Entertainment Weekly or the American Watcher before I’m even back in my car.”

“I do know that,” Celia said with a smile. “In fact, I’m counting on it.”

Anwar raised her eyebrows. “You’re counting on it?”

“Indeed,” Celia said. “I want the story to break. So does Greg. We want it to be public knowledge that we’re divorcing before Mindy Snow gets a chance to tell her version of events.”

“Her version of events? What is that?”

“God only knows,” Celia said, “but it will be a version that serves Mindy Snow’s interests, which are very unlikely to coincide with the interests of Greg and I, and are likely to be detrimental to them.”

The lawyer shook her head again. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Because you don’t know Mindy Snow,” Celia said. “How about I tell you about her?”

“Please do,” Anwara said.

“And this remains confidential, right?”

“Of course,” she said. “Attorney-client privilege is in effect as of the moment you signed those papers retaining this firm.”

Celia thought this over for a moment and then nodded. “All right then,” she said. “Let me tell you a story.”

She told the tale. And her high-priced lawyer, who had lived through the brutal, bloody war of independence in Bangladesh as a child, who had fought and struggled her way through years of prejudice and indifference after her family emigrated to the United States after that war, who had managed to educate herself, gain acceptance to and graduation from one of the most prestigious schools of law in her new country, and, who had represented dozens upon dozens of upper-class divorce clients during her tenure at BR&J, was shocked.

The papers were filed at the Los Angeles County Superior Court building at one o’clock that same afternoon. At 3:30, only an hour and a half later, Pauline’s business phone began to ring on her desk at the KVA studio building. She picked it up.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“I have Bernadette Tapp from the Los Angeles Times on the line,” said her secretary. “You said to let you know if any reporters called.”

“That’s right,” Pauline said, smiling. “I’ll talk to her.”

“Line one,” she said and then broke the connection.

Bernadette Tapp, Pauline thought with satisfaction. That clerk down at the courthouse has a good connection. Tapp was the lead writer and investigator for the Times’ entertainment department, which was mostly concerned with celebrity gossip. Pauline had ‘no comment’ed her many times in the past. I wonder how much Bernadette pays for information like this. A hundred dollars? Maybe two hundred?

She picked up the phone and punched the flashing button for line one. “This is Pauline Kingsley,” she said pleasantly. “How can I help you?”

“Pauline!” Tapp’s voice crooned in her ear, as if they were old friends who had not seen each other in a long time. “Thanks for taking my call.”

“No problem. What can I do for you today?”

“Well, it has to do with Celia Valdez. You are still her manager and spokesperson, correct?”

“Correct,” Pauline confirmed. “What about her?”

“I have developed some information that Celia has filed for divorce from Greg Oldfellow today in LA County Superior court.”

“Really?” Pauline said, with no hint of surprise in her voice. “Where might you have developed information like that?”

“An anonymous source,” Tapp said.

“Of course,” Pauline said. “And you’re calling me to confirm this allegation?”

“Well ... yes and no,” Tapp said. “I already know it’s not an allegation. I’m holding a copy of the filing in my hand as we speak.”

“Perhaps it’s a forgery?” Pauline enquired. “Have you considered that?”

“No, I have not,” Tapp said blandly. “I am quite confident that this is a legitimate copy of an initial divorce filing.”

“Because of the source that gave it to you?”

“Right,” Tapp said. “Because of the anonymous source that gave it to me. Still, it would be nice to confirm this information with an official source; namely, you.”

“Well ... since it would be nice, I guess I can do that for you. It’s true. Celia has filed for divorce from Greg Oldfellow.”

“For what reason?” Tapp asked, her voice a little hungry now.

“Just what it says on the form,” Pauline told her. “Irreconcilable differences.”

“That is a catch-all phrase. It does not tell a story. The only other options on the form are incest, bigamy, or decreased mental capacity.”

“Then you know it’s not any of those things, right? That’s a story.”

“Not really,” Tapp said. “Details are what makes a story. That’s what I’m looking for here.”

“I have not been authorized to release any details of the situation between Celia and Greg,” Pauline told her. “All I will do is confirm information that is on the form you have.”

“Well ... if that’s the way you want to play it,” Tapp said, disappointed.

“That’s the way I’m playing it.”

“In that case, let me go to Box 3 of the form, the part labeled statistical facts. It lists the date of the marriage as June 14, 1989. Is that correct?”

“It is correct,” Pauline confirmed. “At Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts.”

“I covered the event back then,” Tapp said. “Just confirming my facts. Now, on the same line, it lists the date of separation as October 10, 1995.”

“That too is correct,” Pauline said.

“That’s almost four months ago. They’ve been separated all that time?”

“They have,” Pauline said. “This is not an overnight thing. It has been in the works for some time now.”

“But they were together at the Los Angeles premier of Us and Them on October 19,” Tapp said. “I was there. I talked to both of them. They seemed quite happy together.”

“It was an act,” Pauline told her. “They did not want to go public with the separation until after Us and Them had its run. They were actually hoping to keep things under wraps until after Celia came off tour.”

“Why did she file now then?” Tapp asked. “My understanding is that she postponed a concert in Phoenix that was supposed to be tonight. Did she fly home just to file for divorce?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that,” Pauline told her.

“She did, didn’t she? And, if true, that implies that something happened to change the timeline, right?”

“No comment on that,” Pauline said.

“How did they manage to be separated from each other for four months without anyone telling us?”

“Oh ... I don’t know,” Pauline said. “Maybe it’s because they have this strange idea that their personal lives are private and that they are not obligated to notify the entertainment press when they’re having marital problems.”

“Don’t be naïve,” Tapp said. “I know that these celebrities seem to feel they have a right to privacy and would not disclose anything themselves. I’m talking about how no one else ever let it slip. I mean, someone will usually contact us when something this juicy is occurring. A member of the house staff, a friend, a landlord or real estate agent who provides housing for whichever party moved out of the primary residence.”

“Well, in this case, all of Celia and Greg’s friends are loyal and respect their right to privacy, as do their house staff. And, as for the housing situation, if you must know, Celia has been staying in Jake and Laura Kingsley’s house in Grenada Hills when she’s in LA, but she has not been in LA much since the separation. She’s been out on tour since the first of the year, remember?”

“Jake and Laura Kingsley?” Tapp said. “What do they have to do with this?”

“They’ve been friends with Celia and Greg for years,” Pauline said. “Jake sang at their wedding, remember?”

“Oh ... yeah, now that you mention it, I do remember that.” A pause. “So ... Jake is taking Celia’s side in this thing?”

“Jake is taking nobody’s side,” Pauline said. “He’s just helping out a friend.”

“Oh ... I see,” she said. “Well ... does Celia have any statement that she wants me to quote in the article?”

“Just that she confirms that she has filed for divorce, that she and Greg are parting on good terms and will remain friends, and that she would request privacy in this trying time.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all,” Pauline confirmed.

“Kind of boring,” Tapp said.

“I’m sorry that their divorce is not more entertaining for you,” Pauline said.

“That’s okay,” Tapp said. “It’s not your fault.”

After writing up her notes from her conversation with Pauline, Bernadette Tapp opened her notebook to a fresh page and then called John Stapleton, Greg Oldfellow’s long time agent. She was not expecting him to tell her anything but ‘no comment’, was not sure that Oldfellow even knew that his wife had filed for divorce yet, but, to her surprise, Stapleton was not only aware of the filing, but was willing to talk a little bit about it. He told her much the same things that Pauline had just shared: The marital problems between the two of them had been going on for some time, they had separated from each other back on October 10, had played nice together for the Us and Them premier, had been hoping to put off the filing until after Celia’s tour, but that something had occurred that upped the timeline. As to what it was that might have occurred, Stapleton was mute.

After ending the conversation, she got on her computer and went right to work. In only two hours she was able to pen a four-thousand-word article on Celia Valdez’s divorce filing, complete with background on the wedding, quotes from both Pauline and Stapleton, a strong implication that Celia had cancelled her Phoenix show just so she could fly home and file for divorce, and even a little bit about Jake Kingsley, not forgetting, of course, to mention that he had once snorted cocaine from a girl’s butt crack (allegedly). She then saved her work to a file on the computer and then walked over to the editor’s office carrying her documentation.

“Hey, Chief,” she greeted once she was in his office. “I got something you’re going to want to run in the morning edition. An exclusive.”

“Yeah?” he grunted. “What is it?”

“Celia Valdez filed for divorce from Greg Oldfellow today,” she said.

That got his attention. “This is legit?”

She dropped the copy of the State of California Form FL-100 on his desk. “It’s legit,” she said. “I’ve called the spokespeople for both of them and they confirmed it. They’ve been separated since October 10 and Celia cancelled a show in Phoenix for tonight and flew home to LA. She filed this afternoon, citing irreconcilable differences. She’s scheduled to make up the Phoenix date tomorrow night, so, presumably, she’s planning to fly back to Phoenix in the morning. Her manager would not actually say that she flew home just to file for divorce before the close of business hours today, but her actions certainly imply it.”

“Interesting,” the editor said. “And nobody else knows about this yet?”

“Nope,” she said. “We’ll be the ones to break the story.”

This put a smile on his face. “Let’s see what you got,” he said.

She told him where to find her file and he quickly opened it and began to read. He liked it, only making a few minor changes and not cutting anything out.

“We’ll put it on the front page,” he said. “Below the fold. I’ll need to dig up some file photos of the two of them.”

“Shouldn’t be that hard to do,” she said. “Maybe we could get that one of the two of them at the film premier back in late October.”

“I like it,” he said. “Let’s get to work.”

They got to work, and the next morning, the subscribers to the LA Times were treated to a front-page story about the pending divorce of the hottest popular music star of the past two years and her A-list actor husband.

Once the story was broken, it took on a life of its own. Before the day was out, Greg and Celia were top stories on television news broadcasts across the country. The entertainment press, miffed to have been behind the eight-ball on this, scrambled to catch up and pen or produce their own reports. They called Pauline and Johnny, fishing for more information, more quotes, more background. They got nothing. Neither of the agents even answered the phone; they just instructed their secretaries to say ‘no comment’ on the issue. Undeterred, they sent their reporters out into the field, usually with a photographer or a videographer in tow. They stalked Greg in Los Angeles, staking out his home, but he never left it.

Celia, on the other hand, was easier to find and stalk and did not have the luxury of seclusion. She had flown back to Phoenix and performed her show that night, apologizing to the crowd for the postponement but offering no other hints at what was going on in her personal life. When the band left the arena that night after the show, dozens of photographers, videographers, and reporters were waiting for her. They swarmed around her, flashing their cameras, shouting questions, so intent on getting something out of her that they did not even notice that Jake Kingsley was part of her entourage. She said nothing to them, not even ‘no comment’.

The break between the Phoenix shows and the Salt Lake City show had been intended to be an extended travel day. Unfortunately, because of the postponement, that was not to be. The roadies worked quickly and tore down the set, packing it into the trucks. Instead of heading off to hotel rooms, however, they climbed onto the buses and started the ten-hour drive to the capital of Utah. There was a show to do tonight and they needed to start setting it up by ten o’clock in the morning. They would sleep on the buses. The truck drivers would sleep when they got where they were going. Nobody was really happy about this, but once they heard the reason for it (all had seen the newspaper article, or the television reports, and a few had even been approached by reporters sniffing for details), they understood. Most could not help but wonder what kind of idiot would piss off Celia Valdez. After all, she was smoking hot and a great boss.

Celia, the band, and Jake had things a little easier. It was only a two-hour flight to Salt Lake City, so they were able to stay in their hotel room that night and then head to the airport after breakfast. There was a crowd of reporters and paparazzi at both places, but they ignored them.

“All right,” Celia said once they were airborne. “So far, so good. Now things start to get a little tricky.”

“How so?” asked Jake.

“Because we have to rely on the media sending us a troll,” she said. “What if that doesn’t happen?”

“It’ll happen,” Jake said confidently. “Trust me.”

“If you say so,” she said. “And what about Mindy? What if she decides to break her news early now that we’ve let the cat out of the bag?”

“I don’t think she will,” Jake said. “She’s going to want the initial sensation of the divorce filing to die down a little before she steps onto the stage for her part. She won’t want to be upstaged in her own story. I think she’s still probably planning to drop her bomb just before the nominations.”

“Let’s hope so,” Celia said.

“Yes, let’s hope I really can get inside her head and I’m not just talking out of my ass.”

There were even more reporters and paparazzi in Salt Lake City. They were also much more aggressive, demanding to know why Celia was divorcing Greg, demanding to know why she had told no one of the separation. They finally noticed that Jake was there as well, leading to another ridiculous line of questioning.

“Is it true that you and Jake have been having an affair and that’s the reason for the divorce?” shouted one reporter.

Jesus fucking Christ, Jake thought, unable to resist rolling his eyes and shaking his head. Even if that were true, like I would admit it in front of my wife, who is walking right next to me. These people truly are morons.

The band did the normal rounds of radio station interviews and record store signings. The paparazzi and the reporters were at each one but were kept at a distance by the security team. At the radio stations, the DJs who would be interviewing them were instructed to not ask anything about Celia’s divorce or her relationship. All agreed and all abided by their agreement. The same could not be said of the fans at the record store signings, however. Nearly all of them brought the subject up in one way or another. Many just told her they were sorry and that they were praying for her. But many others seemed to think it was appropriate to ask her questions about it. To all, she politely thanked them for their interest and told them that she preferred to keep her personal life separate from her music. Most accepted this. Those who did not got no autograph.

At 7:30 that night, she stepped onto the stage at the Delta Center, home of the Utah Jazz, and put on her show before nineteen thousand enthusiastic fans. She played her guitar and sang as she always did, and she entertained well. She said nothing about her personal life in her between-song banter. After the show, she had a few glasses of wine and ate her catered dinner. Once the arena was empty and the roadies were well into the process of tearing everything down for the trip to Boise the next morning, she, the band, and Jake all climbed into the limousine for the trip to the Hilton Salt Lake downtown. There were no groupies on this night, not even for Charlie and Coop, as Coop thought it might be disrespectable under the circumstances and Charlie feared that if he violated a Mormon girl he might be putting his immortal soul at risk.

Everyone headed directly for their suites upon arrival. All of them, with the exception of Jake and Laura, planned to hole up for the night. Jake and Laura took the time to smoke a little reefer out of her pipe and then headed downstairs to look for a troll. Thanks to religious-based alcohol laws in the state of Utah, the only bar in the hotel was in the steakhouse restaurant in the lobby, and, in order to drink there, the Kingsleys had to join the “Steakhouse Club” as members. Their membership cost them a dollar apiece and there was no attempt made to verify their information on the club applications they had to fill out.

“What a weird rule,” Laura commented when they were finally given their first drinks of the evening—a gin fizz for Laura, a vodka martini with an olive for Jake.

“Hey, it’s your people who run this state,” he replied.

“They’re not my people anymore,” she said. “I’m sure I’ve been excommunicated by now.”

“Because you married me?”

“Because I haven’t been paying them their ten percent,” she said. “That’s even worse than marrying a Satanic butt-crack sniffer.”

Jake nodded. “I can see their perspective on that.”

They settled into the bar seats and then took a look around the room. Since it was late, the restaurant was no longer serving food. The crowd was moderate and mostly males, most of whom were cleanly shaven and nicely dressed, obviously wealthy businessmen from out of town, enjoying a little wind-down drink before retiring. There were a few women present. Two of them were obviously prostitutes, but high-class ones, dressed about as conservative as a hooker probably ever dressed. Jake, who had never actually employed a prostitute before (he had never seen the point of paying for it when there was more than he could handle available for free), guessed that these particular ladies of the evening would charge a minimum of four digits for their services and that a healthy portion of that fee would be spread to the hotel staff who allowed them to operate.

In addition to the hookers, there were a few classy looking businesswomen. They were dressed as nicely as the men and two had joined a trio of men at one of the tables. Further down the bar were two young women in their early twenties who were dressed quite scandalously for a classy restaurant in Utah. At one of the tables was another group of three women of similar age and dress. All of them were eyeballing Jake and Laura and whispering excitedly amongst themselves. These were obviously groupies who had managed to find out where Celia and her band were staying. Laura’s presence would hopefully (but not assuredly) keep them from approaching and propositioning Jake.

Lastly, sitting alone at one of the cocktail tables and sipping on a fruity looking drink with an umbrella in it, was another woman who did not look like she really belonged there. She was wearing jeans and a flannel button up shirt. She was slightly overweight, in her early thirties, but not unattractive. She too kept looking at Jake and Laura, her expression thoughtful.

“That might be our troll over there,” Jake whispered to Laura, giving a little nod in the direction of the flannel shirt woman.

“Troll” was the word that celebrities had coined for undercover entertainment reporters whose method of operation was to show up at places where said celebrities were known to gather and then pretend to be ordinary fans. They did this in hope of engaging a celebrity in conversation and being able to collect a juicy quote or other information. The trolls usually came out when some sort of scandal was afoot, and their primary targets were not usually the celebrity involved in the scandal but those close to him or her. Jake, over the years, had gotten pretty good at recognizing them, if not on first sight, at least on initial dialog.

Laura cast her eyes over in that direction, quickly sizing up the woman, and then back at her husband. She nodded in agreement. She, after all, had been approached by trolls many times since it became public knowledge that she was romantically involved with Jake Kingsley. “I think you’re right,” she said. “How do we play it?”

“We play it cool,” he said, taking a sip of his martini. “Let her approach us. If we approach her, she might smell a rat.”

“What if she doesn’t come over here?” Laura asked.

“If she’s really a troll, she will,” Jake assured her.

And, sure enough, he was right. Perhaps five minutes went by and then the woman stood up, carrying her now-empty drink glass over to the bar. She sidled up right next to Laura but did not look at her or even seem to notice her. It was a good move. She was pretending that she wanted another drink and just happened to pick the spot next to Laura to ask for one.

The bartender—a suave-looking mid-twenties man in a tuxedo—came over and stood before her. “Another clipper-tini?” he asked politely.

What the fuck is a clipper-tini? Jake wondered, and then dismissed the thought as irrelevant.

“Yes, please,” the woman responded.

“On the way,” the bartender promised, taking her empty glass and carrying it to the sink. He then began pulling down ingredients and a cocktail shaker and began construction.

While he was doing that, the woman glanced over, seemingly at random, and acted like she had just noticed who was at the bar with her. Her eyes lit up a bit and a friendly smile appeared on her face. “Oh ... hey,” she said. “I know who you two are.”

“Do you?” asked Jake, making his voice sound a little friendlier than he normally would have in such circumstances. “Who are we?”

“Jake and Laura Kingsley,” she said. “I mean ... uh ... aren’t you?”

“We are,” Laura said, offering a small smile of her own. “We’re in town tonight for the Celia Valdez concert.”

“I know!” the woman said excitedly. “I was there! Great show! Absolutely amazing!”

“I’m glad you liked it,” Laura said.

“My boyfriend and I came all the way from Ogden to see the show,” she said. “That’s why we’re staying here in the hotel. You know ... so we didn’t have to drive home after.”

“A wise choice,” Jake agreed, his suspicion that this was their troll rising a little because she had just volunteered an explanation for her presence in the hotel without being asked.

“What’s your name?” Laura asked her.

“I’m Julie,” she said. “Julie Brigg. I teach seventh grade at Joseph Smith Middle School in Ogden.”

“No kidding?” Laura said, her smile getting bigger. “I used to teach seventh grade as well.”

“Really?” Julie asked, seemingly surprised. “I remember hearing that you were a teacher at some point, but I didn’t know it was seventh grade. What a coincidence!”

What a coincidence indeed, Jake thought slyly. “Will you ladies excuse me for just a minute?” he asked. “I need to check out the facilities.”

“Of course,” Julie said.

“I’ll order you another drink,” Laura told him. “And how about we buy Julie her drink?”

“Sounds good,” Jake said, standing up.

While Julie gushed about how grateful she was, Jake walked over in the direction of the bathrooms. He did not go inside, however. Inside the hallway where the bathrooms were located, out of sight of the bar, he pulled his cellular phone out of his pocket and dialed a number in the 310 area code. After two rings, a familiar voice answered and said “hello?”.

“Nerdly, it’s Jake,” he said, his voice low.

“Hey, Jake,” Nerdly replied. “How is it going?”

“I think we got one. You ready?”

“Always,” Nerdly assured him. “Give me the particulars.”

“She says her name is Julie Brigg. She’s maybe thirty to thirty-five years old, dyed blonde hair, claims she is a teacher at Joseph Smith Middle School in Ogden.”

“I don’t suppose you know how to spell Brigg?” Nerdly asked.

“There’s only two ways I can think of: one G or two.”

“All right,” Nerdly said. “Stand by.”

“Standing.”

Jake heard the sound of fingers frantically clicking on a keyboard. This was followed by a few moments of silence and then a few clicks that were probably a mouse. Finally, Nerdly began to speak again.

“Well ... in the first place, there is no Joseph Smith Middle School in Ogden or any of the surrounding area.”

“A significant finding,” Jake said.

There was another flurry of keyboard clicks, another period of silence, and then Nerdly said, “There is no Julie Brigg listed in the Ogden white pages either.”

“Okay,” Jake said. “That would be a corroboration but not necessarily proof.”

“True,” Nerdly said. “Let me broaden my search a bit.”

“You do that,” Jake told him.

More clicks on the keyboard. Another period of silence. Another few clicks of the mouse. And then: “Well ... this is interesting indeed.”

“What’s that?” Jake asked.

“My search led me to the American Watcher’s website,” he said. “They just got it up and running last year. In the section marked ‘Los Angeles Office Staff’ there is an entertainment reporter named Julie Brigg—with two G’s I might add. There is even a picture. Her hair is blonde and she appears to be in her early thirties.”

“A little overweight?” Jake asked.

“It’s hard to tell,” Nerdly said. “The picture is only of her face.”

“Oh well, I’m gonna go ahead and call that confirmation. I think we got ourselves a troll here.”

“It seems likely,” Nerdly agreed.

“Thanks, Bill. You can go to bed now.”

“I think I’ll attempt to engage in sexual congress with Sharon first,” he said.

“Good luck with that,” Jake told him. “I’ll catch you later.”

“On the return orbit,” Nerdly agreed.

They broke the connection. Jake put his cell phone away and then walked back into the bar. Laura and Julie were chatting away like old friends. Jake caught Laura’s eyes and gave her a discreet thumbs up. She acknowledged it with a small nod.

Jake sat back down and picked up his fresh drink. Julie was talking about how her boyfriend was going to be upset that he decided to go to bed and didn’t get a chance to meet Jake Kingsley.

“He’s a big Intemperance fan,” she told him.

“Give him a call,” Jake suggested. “Wake him up and tell him to come on down. I’m always happy to meet a fan.”

“Uh ... well ... he’s already in bed,” she said. “And he’s a bear to wake up, especially when he’s been drinking. He had quite a few at the show tonight. He’ll just have to miss out.”

“Bummer for him, I guess,” Jake said, getting another piece of confirmation that Julie was a troll. Due to the strict ABC laws in Utah, alcohol had not been available for sale at the venue, so it would have been a little difficult for her alleged boyfriend to have too much to drink there.

“Yeah, his loss,” she said.

The continued to chat, mostly Laura and Julie, but with Jake throwing in the occasional contribution as well. They talked about Intemperance, about Laura’s upbringing, about when and how she had learned to play the saxophone, about how the two of them had met and started to develop romantic feelings for each other. They kept their voices friendly and replied honestly when possible, sharing as much meaningless information with her as they could, speaking with her as if she was a charming new friend. She seemed quite delighted that they were being so open with her instead of suspicious, as she really should have been.

Jake bought her another drink. Once it was on the bar before her, she began to steer the conversation in the direction that she wanted. She first asked about their relationship with Greg and Celia, how long they had all been friends, and then progressed from there.

“I’ve been seeing all the news reports about their divorce,” she said. “It’s so sad, isn’t it?”

“Well ... yeah,” Jake agreed. “I’m never happy to see any marriage end, but this has been coming for quite some time.”

Laura nodded sadly. “It was pretty much inevitable.”

“It was?” Julie asked. “It always seemed like they were such a happy couple.”

“That was them showing the media what they wanted them to see,” Laura told her. “In truth ... well ... let’s just say that Greg has a little problem.”

“A little problem?” Julie asked. “What do you mean?”

“It means that he has trouble keeping Little Greg in his pants,” Jake said.

“Ohhhh,” she said. “You mean he’s been cheating on her?”

Laura nodded. “Pretty regularly, especially over the past few years. Celia pretended not to notice—you know how women can be sometimes—but after that makeup girl in Alaska when he was filming the helicopter movie, Celia started losing the ability look the other way.”

“Makeup girl in Alaska?” Julie asked. Jake could almost see her fingers itching to take some notes.

“Yeah,” Laura said. “They had a pretty hot and heavy affair up there during the filming. One of the cast told Celia about it. He promised to never do it again, but ... I really think that was the beginning of the end. Their marriage really hasn’t been the same since.”

“Do you know her name?” Julie blurted.

Jake and Laura both looked at her pointedly. She wasn’t a particularly good troll, it seemed. “Uh ... no,” Jake said. “What difference does that make?”

Julie seemed to realize she’d gone a little far. “Oh ... it really doesn’t,” she said dismissively. “I was just curious.”

“Of course,” Laura said slowly.

“Anyway,” Jake went on, as if there had been no interruption, “Greg did not keep his promise. He’s been slipping Little Greg into a many a valley. He’s just a little more discrete about it these days.”

“He tells you about these women?” she asked.

Jake shrugged. “A lot of them he does,” he said. “We’re buds. We play golf together. We hang out pretty regularly. He’s always bragging about some little piece he managed to nail. I don’t approve of this behavior, of course.”

“Of course not,” Julie said. “But ... well ... you never told Celia about his affairs?”

Jake shook his head. “Not my place to do that,” he said. “There’s a such thing as the bro code, you know.”

“Wow,” she whispered. She turned to Laura. “What about you? Did you know this was going on?”

“I suspected it,” she said. “I’m sure Celia did too, for that matter, but Jake didn’t tell me about what Greg was telling him. That whole bro code thing.”

“I knew he’d get caught eventually,” Jake said. “And, of course, that’s exactly what just happened.”

“What do you mean?” Julie asked.

Jake looked around, as if checking the location of potential eavesdroppers. “Well ... if I tell you, you have to promise to keep this to yourself.”

“I will,” she promised, the eagerness in her eyes impossible to conceal.

“Okay,” Jake said, as if deciding she was trustworthy. “It’s like this. You know who his costar in his last movie is, right?”

“Mindy Snow?” Julie asked. “What does she have to do with this?”

“Are you sure you should be telling her this, hon?” Laura asked softly.

Jake simply shrugged. “It’s going to be public knowledge soon anyway.”

“True,” Laura agreed.

“What’s going to be public knowledge?” Julie asked greedily. “What does Mindy Snow have to do with this? She used to be your girlfriend back in the day, didn’t she?”

“Yeah, a long time ago,” Jake said with a wave of dismissal. “That’s why I warned Greg to stay away from her. He didn’t listen.”

“Are you saying that Greg Oldfellow and Mindy Snow ... that they were ... that they are...”

“Were,” Jake said. “And only one time, according to Greg anyway. I believe him. Mindy is one of those women that are easy on the eyes but difficult to be around. She’s kind of a bitch, truth be told. And very manipulative as well. Anyway, she was trying to get Greg to bone her while they were filming in Chicago, but he didn’t want anything to do with her back then. After he and Celia separated though ... well ... they went to the premier in Chicago together and got drunk and she started coming onto him again ... so ... well ... he’s Greg. He probably hadn’t been laid in a day or two, so he did it.”

“He had sex with Mindy Snow in Chicago?”

“That’s what the man says,” Jake told her. “And he said she was terrible in the sack too. Mostly just laid there. That’s how I know he’s telling the truth. Remember, I used to sleep with her too and he described Mindy-sex to the T.”

“Wow,” Julie whispered again. “This is incredible. How did he get caught? Did one of the other staff rat him out?”

“No,” Jake said. “This is the really juicy part.”

“Juicier than what you’ve already told me?”

“By far,” Jake said. “You see, the way he got caught is that Mindy is now claiming that she’s pregnant with Greg’s baby.”

“Get out of town!” she barked, shocked.

“I plan to, tomorrow morning,” Jake said, taking another sip.

“No ... I mean, I mean ... you’re kidding!”

“I’m not kidding,” Jake said. “Mindy claims she’s knocked up and that it’s Greg’s baby from that one little game of hide the salami in Chicago. Greg thinks she’s trying to play him, of course.”

“He does?”

“Well ... sure,” Jake said. “So do I. I mean, Mindy gets around. She really gets around. Word among the Hollywood crowd is that she’ll bone anyone who can get his dick hard. I’ve even heard she’s been known to play with girls on occasion.”

“Really?” she asked, nearly drooling in excitement now.

“That’s what I hear,” Jake said. “And besides, Greg says he used a condom when he boned her, and that Mindy told him she was on the pill. If she’s pregnant at all, it’s likely not Greg’s.”

“This is incredible,” Julie said, in awe. “Is this why Celia filed for divorce?”

“It is,” Laura said, picking up the thread. “You see, when Greg heard from Mindy that she was pregnant and that she was going to say that it was his baby, he decided he’d better tell Celia about it. Even though it’s probably not true, it is theoretically possible, and there’s really no way he can deny that he had sex with Mindy in Chicago. Too many people saw them together that night for him to credibly deny it. So ... well ... he came clean.”

“So to speak,” Jake said.

“Right,” Laura said, having to fight a giggle. “He told Celia the other night and they both decided the best thing to do was to immediately file for divorce and make things official. That’s what happened. Celia flew back to LA, filed, and then flew back to the tour. The show must go on.”

“Wow,” Julie said. “That is one of the most fascinating stories I’ve ever heard.”

Jake simply shrugged. “It’s Hollywood,” he told her.

Julie Brigg felt as if she had just won the lottery. In the five years she had been working as an investigative reporter for the American Watcher, she had never developed information as earth-shatteringly juicy as what Jake Kingsley and his wife had just laid on her. It was incredible! Astounding! And they had just blurted the whole thing out to her without even much prompting! They must have been pretty drunk, she figured. And they obviously were not very bright. The thought that they might have been deliberately feeding disinformation to her did not occur to her, not even for a fleeting moment.

She went back to her fifth-floor hotel room (where there was no boyfriend waiting for her) and immediately went to work. She took out the portable tape recorder that had been in her purse for the entire conversation and rewound it to the beginning, praying that it had been able to pick up everything that had been said. Of course, the Watcher could never release that tape, as it was obtained under false pretenses and there were certain legalities about collecting information in this manner, but she could quote from it and use the material from it. It would simply be cited as “an anonymous source within Celia Valdez’s touring staff”.

The voices on the recording were a bit scratchy, but perfectly audible. She listened all the way through the conversation, furiously making notes the entire time. She then rewound it and listened to it again, adding even more notes. She then called her editor in Los Angeles. He had been sleeping, as it was well past midnight in both LA and Salt Lake City, but when he heard the reason for the phone call, he became excited.

“When’s the earliest you can have the basics to me?” he wanted to know.

“I’ll write the main body tonight before I go to bed,” she promised. “I’ll email it to you and sleep on my flight home. Once I’m there, I’ll start making my phone calls to Oldfellow’s and Mindy Snow’s agents for their response.”

“Very good,” he said. “We need to move fast on this before anyone else breaks it.”

“It’ll be done, Chief,” she promised.

Julie Brigg arrived back in Los Angeles a little past noon the next day (just as Celia’s plane was landing in Boise). She went immediately to the office in downtown Los Angeles and checked in with her editor. All day long, staffers had been working to verify what information they could. This was not much since most of the details were provided by a single conversation and were not verifiable. They did, however, manage to run the timeline and come to the conclusion that the dates all matched up. Now, it was time to start making phone calls.

Julie may not have been a particularly convincing teacher from Ogden, and she did work for one of the sleaziest publications in the United States that could still make a claim that they were a legitimate member of the press, but that did not mean she was not a shrewd and effective investigative journalist. She was. And, for that reason, she called Greg Oldfellow’s agent first and followed that phone call with one to Celia Valdez’s manager, Pauline Kingsley. Though she was shrewd and effective, she still did not stop to wonder why the first two people she spoke with were so willing to talk to her at all, let alone verify certain details of her allegations.

“Yes,” Johnny, Greg’s agent, told her with an audible sigh of resignation, “Greg does admit to a one-time sexual encounter with Mindy Snow in Chicago when they were there for the premier. And, yes, Mindy has contacted Greg recently and is alleging that she is pregnant from the encounter. Greg would like it known that he believes it unlikely that he is the father of Mindy’s child as he did use protection during the encounter and Mindy did inform him she was taking birth control pills, but, if a DNA test reveals that he is, in fact, the father, he will assume his legally required financial responsibility for the child.”

“Yes,” said Pauline, when she was on the line, “Celia and Greg’s divorce has been in the works for some time, as we confirmed earlier. And, yes, Celia was made aware that Mindy Snow is now alleging that Greg has impregnated her, although it is believed this is actually quite unlikely. Nevertheless, under the circumstances, Greg and Celia mutually decided that it would be best for all concerned if they simply went their separate ways officially at this point and that is why Celia flew back to Los Angeles to make her official divorce filing.”

This is almost too easy, Julie thought gleefully as she transcribed her latest quotes and notes, still not the least bit suspicious that she was being used. And, in truth, she likely would not have cared even if she had been suspicious. This was too good of a story, had too many points of verification and sources not to shout out to the world.

Her next phone call was to Georgette Minden, Mindy’s agent. And here, life as Julie knew it seemed to return. Georgette refused to take Julie’s call. At least she did until Julie provided a few tantalizing details to the secretary answering the phone.

“Tell her that I have information, verified by several sources, that Mindy is claiming to be pregnant with Greg Oldfellow’s child from a sexual encounter in Chicago.”

There was a long pause, long enough that Julie had to ask if the secretary was still there.

“Yesssss, I’m still here,” she said slowly. “Let me put you on hold for a minute.”

“No problem at all,” Julie said sweetly.

Less than thirty seconds later, a female voice came on the light. “This is Georgette,” she said warily. “Who are you now?”

“Julie Brigg, National Watcher,” she said. “How about we have a little chat?”

“I’m listening,” Georgette said.

Julie told her tale. She cited her anonymous source as the provider of the information and then she cited her named sources—Pauline and Johnny—as her confirming sources. She read from quotes that Jake and Laura had given them, outlining the allegations. She then asked Georgette if she had a response.

“No comment,” Georgette said, her voice audibly shaken. “No comment to anything.”

“Very well,” Julie said. “I’ll note that for the record. Be advised that the story is going to run in tomorrow’s edition of the Watcher.”

“The Watcher doesn’t normally publish until Friday,” Georgette said.

“For a story like this, we’ll publish a special edition. Are you sure you don’t want to comment?”

“I am sure,” she said.

A moment later, there was a click and the hum of an empty connection.

Mindy was in her house on the edge of the Angeles National Forest in the mountains above Los Angeles. She was naked on her bed, on her hands and knees, while Stan Colder, the handsome twenty-four-year-old who drove the truck that delivered propane to the property, stood on the floor at the foot of the bed and thrust his swollen penis in and out of her from behind. She had been particularly horny since her second trimester started and when she saw Stan making his delivery today, she decided that there was another delivery he could make as well.

“Faster, faster, goddammit!” she barked at him.

“Okay, faster,” he panted, still unable to believe that he was actually fucking Mindy Snow. It was like he had stepped into a porno movie or something.

“And spank my ass some more,” she told him. “Leave some fuckin’ marks!”

“Okay,” he panted, sweat dripping down his face, desperately trying to hold onto control. This was, by far, the most beautiful, nastiest woman he had ever touched, let alone fucked.

“And don’t come until I have at least twice,” she ordered. “If you do, I’ll rip your fuckin’ balls off!”

“Right,” he agreed, knowing that doing as she asked was going to take a Herculean effort.

He made it, just barely, blasting a huge load into the condom that Mindy had handed him shortly after leading him to her bedroom. His thrusts had barely died down when Mindy rolled over and pushed him toward the bathroom.

“Throw that rubber in the garbage, not the toilet,” she ordered. “And then get out.”

“Right,” he said, still panting, his heart still kicking along at a hundred and fifty beats a minute.

He went to the bathroom and pulled the condom off. He tossed it into the garbage can. He then pulled up his pants and buckled them tightly. When he walked back out into the bedroom, Mindy was sitting on the edge of the bed. She had put her shirt back on but was still naked from the waist down. She had the slinky red panties she had been wearing in her hand.

“Here,” she said, handing him the panties. “You can keep these for a souvenir if you want.”

“Uh ... sure, thank you, Ms. Snow,” he said.

“You weren’t bad,” she said. “I’d had much better, of course, but I’ve had much worse too.”

“Uh ... thank you.”

“Tell no one about this,” she ordered. “They wouldn’t believe you anyway, but tell no one.”

“I won’t, Ms. Snow.”

“And knock on the door the next time you’re here,” she said. “I might want to fuck you again.” She shrugged. “It depends on my mood.”

“I’ll do that, Ms. Snow,” he promised.

A moment later, he was gone, left to find his own way out.

Mindy lay back on the bed, wondering if it would hurt to have just a little bit of tequila. Not enough to get hammered, but maybe enough to...

The phone began to ring. It was the one at her bedside, her private line that only a few people knew the number to. It was the same number that Jake Kingsley used to call her on back when they had been dating. She walked over and picked it up.

“This is Mindy,” she said.

“Mindy, Georgette.”

“What’s up?” Mindy asked, already not liking the tone of her agent’s voice.

“We’ve got trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

Georgette told her. She listened in growing anger as the tale was told. When she had all the information, there was only one thing she could think of to say.

“That motherfucker.”