Gemma Halliday: Scandal Sheet aka Hollywood Scandals

Rough day at the office?

I had no idea what Black did. He’d joked a few times that he could tell me, but then he’d have to kill me. Not that I minded. It added to the mystique that he had some unmentionable job. In my mind, he was kind of like Batman-too modest to tell me he was a billionaire by day and a superhero by night. So I never pushed the issue. It would have totally killed the fantasy to know he pumped gas for a living.

I’ve had better , he typed back. How about you cheer me up?

Hmm… You like knock-knock jokes?

Not exactly what I had in mind…but let’s hear it, Bender.

Okay…Knock, knock.

Who’s there?

Boo.

Boo who?

Don’t cry, tomorrow will be better.

There was a pause. I wasn’t sure if it meant he was laughing or groaning.

Cute.

I let out a breath. Cute was good. I’d take cute.

Thanks.

Hey…look outside.

For one irrational moment, my stomach clenched on that burrito as I whipped my head to the window, half expecting Black to be standing outside on the lawn. Instead, as I pulled the gauzy white curtains back, I saw the tail end of the sun’s descent onto the horizon. Or, in my case, onto the roof of Hattie Carmichael’s Cadillac in the driveway next door. But the glow of bright oranges and reds as the last rays of daylight fought through the thick Indian summer smog was brilliant. Like a surreal oil painting…or some kid’s Creamsicle smearing across the sky.

Wow, I responded

Beautiful, huh?

Very.

Amazing how something as toxic as our smog layer can create a picture so gorgeous. There was a pause before more words appeared on my screen. That’s how you are.

Hmmm…had he just called me toxic?

Me?

You’re the brilliant sunset ending my smog-shitty day with a smile.

I felt a big goofy grin take over my face.

Thanks.

’Night, Bender. Be good.

’Night, Man in Black.

Then the little “online now” icon next to his name disappeared.

I looked at the little blinking cursor, the quiet screen bringing me back to reality.

Sad that the most intimate relationship I had was with a computer screen. I know in reality there was some guy on the other end, but, like I said, he probably pumped gas for a living and lived in his mother’s basement.

Man in Black was a fantasy, nothing more. I knew that the image in my head was nothing like the real guy would be. In my mind he was six feet tall, dark hair, even darker eyes. A sort of crooked, imperfect, but oh-so-sexy smile, kind of like Elvis, lifting one side of his lip at a time. Maybe a scar. Something he’d gotten at his very dangerous and mysterious job.

I sighed, clicking shut the screen. Until tomorrow, fantasy man…

Instead, I turned on the TV, threw in an old Seinfeld DVD, and let the canned laughter fill the silence as I finished my column.

The next morning I woke up late, shoved myself into a pair of purple jeans, black Converse, and a black Tshirt with pink lettering that read, “If You Can Read This, You’re Too Close.” Then I hopped on my bike and pulled up to the L.A. Informer ’s offices almost on time. The Informer was situated on Hollywood Boulevard, just bordering the trendy tourist part of town and the part where you don’t walk alone at night without body armor. The building was a square, stuccoed, three-story thing that was at one time white, but now lay something closer to dingy beige. Built around the same time as the famed Hollywoodland sign, it might have been charming once, but that had been many years and many uncaring landlords ago. Sun-faded awning over the door, peeling paint near the windows, a rusty metal fire escape clinging to the side of the building as if its life depended on it. Trump Towers it was not.

I pushed through the doors and rode the elevator to the second floor, dropping Strawberry Shortcake on my desk with a clang.

“That you, Bender?” A head popped up from the neighboring cubicle. Balding, gray stubble along the chin, droopy, bloodshot eyes-Max Beacon, the oldest, most experienced, and generally the most hung-over member of the Informer ’s staff. He covered obits and had his own, detailing how he’d died of liver failure, pre-written and tacked to the fabric-covered wall of his cubicle, right next to a poster of a bulldog saying, “This is my happy face.”

“Hey, Max. What’s new?”

“Remember that guy who played Bette Davis’s son in that film about the traveling theater group?”

“Uh huh.” I nodded. Even though I had no clue what movie he was talking about.

“Died today. Sixty-four. Heart failure.”

“Bummer.”

“Very. Hey, did you see the new applicant on your way in?”

I pushed my chair back, glancing toward Felix’s glasswalled office in the far corner. Until this summer-when he’d moved up in the world to take over as editor-Felix had been the Informer ’s star reporter. Ever since he’d become the boss man, Felix had been interviewing applicants to fill in his former position. So far none had passed his test.

I squinted at the latest victim sitting across the desk from him. Blonde, miniskirt, jugs out to here.

I did a low whistle. “She applying to be a reporter or go-go dancer?”

Max chuckled. “She’s been in there for over an hour.”

“Really?” I raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’m sure Felix wants to thoroughly go over all her professional assets .”

Max chuckled. “Maybe he’s checking her experience .”

“Or he’s outlining the benefits of working here.”

Max snorted. Then tilted his head to the side, eyes clearly trying to get inside Ms. Jugs stretchy little top. “Tough being the boss, huh?”

“That’s why they pay him the big bucks.”

“How come you never wear little skirts like that, Bender?”

I shot him a look. “All right, enough ogling, old man. Back to work. Those people aren’t getting any deader.”

Max gave a watery-eyed last look at our new applicant, then disappeared back behind the partition.

I flipped on my monitor and, while I waited for my system to boot up, checked my voice mail for any salacious overnight news. Lucky me, I had two messages.

I keyed my pin into the Informer ’s ancient message retrieval system and heard a male voice in answer.

“Hey, girl, I was at Basque last night and, baby, do I have a good story for you.”

I grinned. One of my informants. A former sitcom star from the nineties who still held on to enough fame to get into all the right places, but whose bank account had nosedived right along with his ratings. He needed cash, I needed insider info-the relationship was a win-win.

I grabbed a pen and listened as the message continued.

“Guess whose dealer was there, talking about how he’d delivered a certain package to someone in rehab last night?…Blain Hall.”

“No way!” I blurted. I did a little happy dance in my seat. Blain Hall was the front man for Dirty Dogs, an angsty rock band that had recently swept the Grammys. Unfortunately, it turned out Blain’s raspy vocals and unending stage energy were due less to natural talent and more to cocaine. A totally eighties drug. A fact I’d pointed out in my column, citing that his choice of vice was almost as passé as his ballads of teen malaise.

Yeah, I probably wasn’t going to be on Blain’s Christmas card list this year.

I made a note to call back for all the gory details and erased the message, moving on to the next one.