Chapter 50: Tabloid Evasion
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He had a sneaking suspicion when Laura gave him the name.
Oliver Nicholls.
There was something about the name – it just reeked of smug, slimy self-assurance.
Sure enough, when Frank met the man in person, his photographic memory was seized with disgust. Everything from his skinny fingers to his perfectly coiffed hair was immediately recognizable, even in the absence of his notorious Blue Vest.
This was a visit Frank made sure he was armed for. And Tony. And Ricky.
"Where have you been getting your information about me?" Frank asked the man, in a tone that would brook no bending of the truth.
Oliver's shifty eyes continually glanced behind Frank to watch Tony and Ricky standing guard by the door to the small office. He looked woefully out of his element, which pleased Frank deeply.
"I have my source," he said, swallowing hard as he attempted to straighten up in his chair behind the desk. "I can't disclose her identity."
"Her?" Frank repeated, a smirk creeping over his lips.
Oliver's face was suddenly whiter than his notebook paper.
"I'll spare you any further interrogation, son," Frank maimed. "I already have my suspicions as to who you've been talking to."
"So why are you here, Farmer?"
Frank bristled a bit at the young man's forward use of his surname. "I'm here for your signature," Frank said softly, placing the carefully typed up agreement onto the desk. "I hear it costs a pretty penny these days."
Oliver leaned slightly forward in his computer chair to glance over the first page of the document, his chin trembling slightly as his eyes flicked through the clauses. His frosty eyes then lifted to meet Frank's, and briefly bounced between Tony's and Ricky's where they stood not far behind.
"Not every day you see a highly trained bodyguard who needs two bodyguards to accompany him…" Oliver sneered, his oily voice dripping with scorn, "to visit a journalist."
"I take my privacy very seriously," Frank said, as he boldly reached across the desk to click the man's pen and shove it towards his hand. "As I recall, you're a lefty?"
Oliver's gaze faltered, clearly disturbed. He apprehensively accepted the pen in his trembling left hand and flipped through the pages of the document to sign each one.
"$140k?" Oliver's voice weakened slightly on the number as he paused on the final page.
Frank stopped breathing in an effort to solidify his poker face when Oliver's eyes met with his.
"Who do you think you are, Scarface?"
Frank let out a discreet breath of relief as he heard Ricky snicker behind him.
"I'm not trying to evade my taxes, just the tabloids," Frank said coolly, tapping the last line for Oliver's signature.
There went half of his savings account. The rest would go to a ring for Rachel Marron.
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He wasn't really lying to Rachel.
He was just avoiding having to share his whereabouts with her over the last few days. Frank had every intention of eventually telling her what he was doing. But now wasn't the time.
Unfortunately, Rachel hadn't been sharing everything with him either.
"Out to dinner? Tonight?"
Frank had been looking forward to regrouping with Tony and Scott that evening to discuss all of their recent chess moves, and now he'd been roped into a fancy dinner with another celebrity couple he'd never met before. But Rachel was insistent, and because she was the woman he wanted to marry, Frank complied with her wishes.
"You'll love it, I promise," she said convincingly.
He didn't bother to get the name of the restaurant. It didn't matter to him that much. All of these places in Hollywood were the same. Overpriced, over-seasoned, and overrated. All he really required was meat and potatoes, but Rachel had every menu in L.A. memorized.
Going out with Rachel was still uncomfortable for him. It wasn't the optics that bothered him. He'd seen the photos of them together. They looked incredible. But he seemed to have developed a persistent case of imposter syndrome since entering her world, and the loss of his own sense of self had paralyzed him when they were out in public. Frank feared the wrath of Oxana would manifest itself in the form of tiny lasers to cut his fingers off if he so much as dared to button up one extra button on the collar of his shirt.
Mark Calussy and Janet Grangier were one of the rare couples in show business who'd managed to stay married for more than a decade. They co-hosted a long running talk show which Frank knew nothing about, but Rachel had remained steady friends with them since the time she'd signed her first record deal. They were in their mid-forties, attractive as a result of having 'work' done, and they both seemed to exude that false sense of friendliness that made Frank feel like he was being bribed.
Your therapist called you 'paranoid,' Frank's inner voice murmured critically.
Clinically paranoid.
Someone placed a basket of bread in front of him, which he carelessly pushed away.
"It's really remarkable," Janet gushed from across the table, "he saved your life." She shook her head in awe as Rachel smiled brightly over at Frank. "It's such a great story. And how romantic that you both ended up together all these years later."
Frank hadn't heard many people talk about their relationship like that. In the headlines about them there had always been an undertone of mocking and contempt. It was a fascination like the kind humans had while walking through a zoo of caged animals. Not the kind of fascination that showed genuine care and compassion. But something in Janet's voice made Frank pause to listen.
"It seems you have a lot of admirers," Janet said with a twinkle in her eye. Assuming the comment had been directed at Rachel, Frank looked over expectantly only to find Rachel's attention focused directly on him.
Awkwardly, he crossed his arms on the surface of the table and shifted, glancing between Mark and Janet. "I don't really . . . pay attention to that stuff."
Rachel nudged his foot with hers under the table.
Janet exchanged glances with her husband before she said, "Well, we hear a lot from our viewers. Particularly our female audience seems to be quite taken with you."
Frank felt afflicted by a strange warmth across his cheeks. Ignoring the pressure of Rachel's gaze on his face and her heel on his foot, he said with a chuckle, "And that's why I try not to listen to the media."
Mark laughed along with him, easing the awkwardness. "You ever thought about having a say in what the media promotes about you?"
Frank smirked to himself, thinking back to his satisfying interaction with Blue Vest earlier that day. "All the time," he said offhandedly.
"Well, as you know, we host our own show. We'd be thrilled to have you and Rachel on as our guests someday."
Frank felt a sinking feeling in his gut. Was this why Rachel had been so insistent to have dinner with these two?
Rachel quietly asserted, "Frank's awful camera shy."
"Well, we're also trying to start up an audio blog. It's supposedly a new trend that will really be taking off in the next few years. It's kind of like a radio show," Janet explained. "So it wouldn't be filmed."
The bitter burst of betrayal grew stronger as Frank glanced at Rachel and she shrugged harmlessly. "That might be fun."
Clearly noticing the tension between them, Mark came to Frank's rescue with a smooth interruption, "You two can talk about it and get back to us. We'd be very interested in having you."
The conversation took a more casual turn after the food was served, and Frank fell into a stable stretch of silence while eating. Rachel's rowdy laughter was the only source of joy he felt while sitting at their table, save for the few pitying looks thrown his way by Scott from the corner of the restaurant.
"Raising a child in Hollywood is no easy task," Janet said, her words muffled by her wine glass. "Are you two up to it?"
Frank would have rather they changed the subject back to their radio show.
"We're not going to raise our child in Hollywood," he said, more roughly than he'd intended.
"Where will you be living?" Mark asked, genuinely curious.
"Not in L.A.," Frank answered cryptically.
Rachel looked apologetically at the couple. "We're just being careful about who we share that information with right now."
Both Mark and Janet looked understanding enough, and soon the subject had changed to a lighter topic. But Frank's head was still spinning from the strange interactions. How much of the information shared at this table did they already plan to publicize without his knowledge? How much had Rachel unintentionally shared with them before this evening? He had just paid over one hundred grand to keep his name out of the tabloids; why would he throw it all away by going on an interview with these people?
On the car ride after dinner, Frank confronted Rachel.
"I didn't appreciate you setting me up like that," he said.
"Frank, I swear I didn't know they were gonna bring it up," she insisted. "Mark and Janet have asked me to get you to do an interview with them multiple times over the last ten years. I always told them you wouldn't do it. I always protected you."
He looked down, guilty that he'd been so quick to accuse her.
"People just want to hear from you," she said, her voice small in the darkness of the back seat. "There's nothing I can do to stop that."
Frank turned to the window, lost in thought. Some part of him realized he was probably making everything worse by being so secretive. He began to wonder if maybe it'd be for the best to just open up and tell his side of the story on air. He wasn't ready to give in yet, but he could tell Rachel had been ready for years.
Maybe with a bit more therapy.
Maybe then he'd be ready.
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After breakfast the next morning, Rachel finally got the chance to call Tina Brennan back concerning her hunt for the untouched security footage from the Sheraton hotel.
"Hey, did you find out anything?" Rachel asked after being brightly greeted by her friend.
Tina's voice was always so earnest no matter how harrowing the subject matter.
"They won't let me have access to the security footage either," she said dejectedly, "But I told Devon that your room was ransacked, and – get this – he said he saw a suspicious looking guy loitering around the hotel lobby during your concert."
Rachel was taken aback. "What do you mean, during my concert? I thought you two were at my concert together?"
Tina said flippantly, "Oh, Devon left after the first two songs. He said his stomach was bothering him, so he went back to the hotel."
"He did?"
"Yeah. He has a lot of weird health issues."
Rachel suddenly felt cold.
"Oh . . . Okay, well . . . can I talk to him?"
"Yeah! I'll go get him." Tina shuffled around on the other line. "Hey, babe? Rachel's on the phone. She wants to ask you about what happened in New York."
A moment later, Devon's deep voice greeted her, "Oh, hey, Rach."
Rachel was slightly put-off by his casual use of her nickname. "So, Tina told me you saw a suspicious guy hanging out at the Sheraton the night my room was ransacked?"
"Yeah …" Devon lowered his voice, "Uh, this might sound weird, but do you know who Brock Chutney is?"
Rachel's stomach dropped. "What?"
"Yeah, you know that campy singer that does those cabaret shows that only old people watch?"
"Yeah, I know Brock Chutney."
"Well, the guy that was hanging around in the hotel really looked like him. I actually think it was him."
Something wasn't adding up. Rachel exhaled deeply and thanked Devon for the information, promising she'd have Frank call him if he had any further questions.
She immediately went to Frank.
As soon as she mentioned Brock's name, Frank's agitation was palpable.
"What are the chances Brock Chutney was in New York at the same time you were in the concert?"
"Frank, a lot of celebrities are in New York all year round," Rachel said, "It might be significant, but it might not be."
She saw the uncertainty in Frank's eyes, as heavy as it had been the night he saved her at The Mayan. There was a weariness to his features now which had nothing to do with age. So much had been placed on his shoulders just from being her lover. Rachel knew how unfair it was to him, and she wished in that moment more than ever that she could make it all disappear and live with him in peace.
He bit his lip as he stared around the room, as if searching for any other way out. Then he turned back to her, resolute. "How can I arrange a meeting with Brock in person?"
Rachel gave him a cunning little smile. "I can take care of that."
Rachel was not afraid of playing dirty. Acting was an art for her, one which had won her awards back in her day. Sweet-talking Brock Chutney was almost laughably easy for her, especially since he was so eager to buy that things were not smooth sailing between her and Frank. She begged him to meet up with her, at one of the old studios in Los Angeles where they'd had their first kiss. Brock expressed minimal concerns about Myra Dailey finding out – Rachel supposed that ship had sailed along with all the other sugarplums back in Pittsburgh. All the more reason Brock would fall right into the trap…
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"So remind me again what this guy has to do with the ransacking?" Ricky asked, his mouth lopsided from holding a cigar between his teeth.
"We don't know for sure yet," Frank said, adjusting the slide on his Browning with an expert hand, "but someone thinks they spotted him at the Sheraton during Rachel's concert."
Tony chimed in, "I remember when Rachel was dating this Brock character." He cackled to himself as he slipped his large arms into a sports coat. "I always suspected he was hair-plugged even in his thirties."
Frank smirked as he thought back to his first run-in with Brock Chutney in Pittsburgh. "I think I can confirm that suspicion."
"You want us to intimidate the guy for you?" Ricky asked, his brown eyes hopeful as he chewed his cigar.
Frank shook his head with a half-smile. "You and Tony barely had to breathe to intimidate Nicholls. I have a feeling Chutney will be just as much of a pussy."
Ricky locked his pistol with glee as he held open the door to the Land Rover.
The studio that Rachel had instructed Brock to meet her at was on the outskirts of the city where the streets were run down, not highly populated. The studio manager had been told that Rachel Marron was renting out space for a private video, one which Brock Chutney was expected to star in. Upon their arrival, Frank had instructed Tony to ensure that all camera activity was limited from the exterior of the space so that their movements wouldn't be tracked as suspicious.
The building was large but mostly comprised of empty, warehouse looking rooms with high ceilings, cement flooring, and industrial beams. Luckily, Los Angeles traffic had gifted them with an extra hour and a half of set time before Chutney had finally arrived on the site. By the time he was admitted into the building, the manager and most of the staff had already left for the evening.
If it wasn't Frank's imagination, Brock looked even more haggard than he had back in Pittsburgh. Once these celebrities had been under the needle, it seemed they aged twice as fast unless they kept up with their fillers.
He looked awkwardly around the vast, empty room, clearly searching for Rachel.
"She's not here," Frank casually informed him, his voice echoing ominously.
Brock's gaze centered on the source of the voice. "Who are you?" he asked.
"I guess you don't read the tabloids unless they're about you," Frank chuckled.
Brock squinted suspiciously then, the corner of his mouth turning up slightly as he recognized Frank's face.
"Oh, it's you," he drawled, "...the baby daddy." He adjusted his jacket and gestured to Tony and Ricky. "Who's this oversized Pit Bull and grimy gutter rat you've got with you? The nanny and the midwife?"
Frank's stare did not waver from Brock's face. "They're my bodyguards."
Brock's eyes flicked between Tony and Ricky before he put his hands up in defense. "Look, man, I didn't come here to fight you."
"But you did agree to meet my girlfriend here, didn't you?" Frank asked, a note of threat in his voice.
Brock's mouth fell open with a belated, humorless laugh. "Boy, they were right when they called you a Nazi."
Frank smiled darkly, accepting it as a twisted compliment. "Hitler's lucky I wasn't alive when he was," he said as he moved in closer to where Brock was standing. "World War II would've been a lot shorter."
Brock took a few wary steps backward as Frank approached.
"Who the fuck do you think you are?"
"I'm definitely not someone you want to toy with," Frank nearly whispered, "So tell me why you did it."
"Why I did what?"
"Why did you break into Rachel's room at the Sheraton?"
"What the fuck are you talkin' about?"
"You heard me," Frank growled. "I know you were there for the concert."
Brock's hands swept tremulously through his black hair. "The last time I was at the Sheraton was before Christmas!"
"I'm not talking about Pittsburgh!" Frank spat, "I'm talking about New York!"
"I've never even been to the Sheraton in New York!" Brock insisted.
"I have witnesses who say otherwise."
Brock watched Frank with his mouth agape, looking helpless as he shook his head and backed up towards the door. "Look, I don't know what you're on, dude, but you need to check into rehab."
Frank swiftly grabbed Brock's arm and locked it behind his back before he could push the door open. "Don't you dare leave this room – I'm not done with you yet."
Brock struggled against Frank's grip. "What are you gonna do?"
His question was punctuated by the sound of Tony and Ricky racking their guns at the same time. Brock's face lost its color as he all but melted to the ground at Frank's feet.
Frank lowered himself to crouch at Brock's level. "I know you don't have a very big vocabulary, so I'll keep this simple. Cut the bullshit, and tell me why you ransacked Rachel Marron's room in New York City."
Brock brought his hands to his face, shaking like a leaf. "Fuck, man, I… I seriously don't know what the hell you're talking about. I swear to God!"
Frank endured a brief flashback of the moment he confronted the intruder in the bathroom of his suite at The Plaza.
Innocent. He's innocent, Frank's inner voice calmly stated.
There was no need for intimidation tactics. Frank Farmer never used intimidation tactics unless it was a life or death situation. This man was of no threat to him or to Rachel.
But even rational thought could not stop Frank from drawing his gun in that moment.
Brock cowered against the cement wall, his arms up in surrender, tears streaming down his face. "Are you fucking serious right now?"
Frank felt the delectable surge of power coursing through him as he waved his gun in the face of a man who would never again touch Rachel Marron. "Oh, I'm dead serious."
Acting in defense, Brock flailed his arm out, flipping the gun out of Frank's hand so that it went skating across the cold gray floor.
Rising to his feet, Frank reached back and lazily pulled out his back-up pistol from under his leather jacket.
Brock immediately broke down. "Don't get me wrong, that Marron is a psychotic bitch, but I would never do something like that to her!" he shouted, sinking into the ground.
A strange sort of delirium had overtaken Frank as he listened to the man's words. Without thinking, he took one step forward and kicked Brock square in the balls.
"That's for calling my girlfriend a bitch."
Practically singing with pain, Brock flipped over face-down onto the hard cement floor. Not a second later, Tony walked up and kicked him in the ass.
"That's for calling me an oversized Pit Bull!"
Frank stopped Ricky with a hand against his chest before he could add insult to injury. He waved both Tony and Ricky off toward the building's side exit. Ricky swiftly picked up Frank's discarded gun from the ground on his way out the door.
"I don't get no respect!" Tony bellowed with all the gusto of Rodney Dangerfield as he barreled through the exit and slammed the door behind him.
The pained moaning of Brock Chutney was a welcome sound compared to some of his ballads. Frank felt the tiniest flicker of guilt as he watched the man writhe around on the floor, but the memory of those meaty hands reaching for Rachel at the hotel pool back in December made his guilt fade instantly.
"If you say a word to anyone about this, I'm sure the media would love to publish a story about how you sexually harassed Rachel Marron while in Pittsburgh," Frank threatened before leaving him there on the ground.
It wasn't the warm whip of the wind outside. Or the satisfied cackles of Tony and Ricky in the front seat. Or the screech of the tires as Ricky pulled the Land Rover out of the studio lot.
It was the icy weight of the pistol in his right hand that made his blood go cold. Frank looked down at the weapon as it glistened under the faint evening light through the tinted window. His original Browning Hi-Power.
The same pistol he had used to kill Greg Portman.