Page 81 of All That Glitters
“Just a little business transaction me and the boys done with Preston Jordan last night.” Craig held up one of the photos. It was a particularly damning photo of Preston Jordan with an inflatable doll, smiling at a cow.
“And look at this here one,” Craig said, flipping to another photo. “Preston’s all cuddled up with them dudes that’s pretendin’ to be chicks.”
Tony cracked up, shaking his head.
“And these ain’t even the best. Todd’s editing a video that Preston sure ain’t gonna want to see the light of day.”
“I take it the ‘negotiations’ went well?”
“Better than well,” Craig said, holding up another one of the photos from the folder. Tony caught a glimpse of what appeared to be Preston Jordan in a compromising position with the tattooed biker chicks. It involved leashes, leather, feathers, and a goat.
Tony quickly looked away. “I didn’t see that.”
“Smart man.” Craig slipped the photo back into the folder. “But here’s the best part — Preston didn’t just give us our equipment back. He also agreed to bankroll a real Hollywood premiere for our movie. You know, red-carpet, photographers, all that sorta stuff. Plus, he’s gonna arrange distribution through his contacts.”
“Seriously?” Tony’s jaw dropped. “How did you manage that?”
Craig’s grin widened. “Amazing what rumors of a sex tape involving farm animals can accomplish.”
Tony laughed. “So you’re blackmailing him.”
“I prefer to think of it as an insurance policy.”
Tony happened to glance across the set to where Carrie was playing fetch with Elvis. She would throw the tennis ball, and the dog would bound off across the cemetery lawn to retrieve it and bring it back to her for a scratch behind his ear. This was new.
“Carrie’s not chasing you guys with a baseball bat anymore,” Tony said.
Craig laughed. “Can you believe she showed up this morning with some cookies she baked for the boys? She wanted to thank us for that apology we got from Preston.”
“It meant a lot to her that you guys had her back like that,” Tony said. “Not many people do.”
Craig nodded. “Been noticin’ that. She don’t get a lot of respect in this town, does she?”
“Not really.”
“That’s a damn shame,” Craig said. “’Cause me and the boys have taken a real likin’ to that girl. She’s kinda become a little sister to us.”
Tony grinned. “When she’s not trying to kill you.”
Craig let out a deep, bellowing laugh. “Hell, I’d be trying to kill me too if I went through half the crap that girl has. But Carrie keeps comin’ back, and that means everything to us. She’s a team player, and me and the boys ain’t gonna forget that.”
Preston sat behind his large mahogany desk, staring at a crystal tumbler of bourbon. It was a little after 1:15 in the afternoon, and this was his third.
His office had once been a mecca to the kind of obscene power Hollywood’s movers and shakers wielded. But now, it smelled more like a barn. A faint, musky odor still clung to the Persian rug, and chicken feathers were everywhere. One of his priceless abstract paintings hung slightly askew, and he’d spent the morning picking goat pellets from his carpet and cleaning a mess the donkey left on his putting green. All Preston could figure was that the gang had fed it a dozen gas station burritos before coming over.
He downed the bourbon in one burning gulp and slammed it back on his desk. Beside it sat the contract with Rif Raf Produkshuns, LLC, making him partners with a gang of biker ex-convicts.
He had no choice, he reminded himself, downing another gulp of bourbon. They knew all about the tax evasion, the shell companies, and the other... he decided to call them ‘indiscretions.’ Plus, they had enough compromising photos and videos to shame the Marquis de Sade. So now, he was stuckbankrolling a red-carpet premiere for a vampire movie made by the Three Stooges. Plus, he had to find a distributor for it.
A tentative knock at the door made him jump, sloshing bourbon onto his desk blotter.
“What is it?” he snapped, wiping the spill with the sleeve of his thousand-dollar suit jacket.
His weaselly assistant, Percy, poked his head into the room, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and morbid curiosity. He looked like a meerkat peering out of its burrow, sensing a predator nearby.
“Mr. Jordan, sir,” Percy stammered, keeping one foot in the hallway for a quick escape. “Line one is blinking. It’s Lauren Zales, from Hollywood Gossip.”
Preston’s blood ran cold. He could feel the color drain from his face. “What does she want?” he hissed.
