EPILOGUE
THE SHOW MUST GO ON
Chapter 128
LATE ON THE afternoon of November fifteenth, Justine and I sat in a dive bar not far from the Warner lot in Burbank, sipping beer and watching Bobbie Newton gush some total fabrication crafted by Camilla Bronson about the Harlows’ “daring escape” from the clutches of “their biggest fan,” an insane obsessed man who’d held them in a doomsday preppers’ bunker in the Sonoran desert somewhere south of Tucson.
“There you have it, the most up-to-date scoop on the entire sordid affair,” she said. “Though we’ve yet to see Jennifer and Thom appear in public, the FBI and Mexican authorities assure us that they are hunting for the as-yet unnamed madman. Until my next status update, this is your best friend forever, saying follow me on Twitter, #BFFBOBBIENEWTON. I’ll be tweeting all updates in the Harlow case as they unfold, round the clock.”
“No mention of Private at all,” Justine said, finishing her beer.
“Just the way we like it,” I said, getting off the stool and laying down a generous tip. “L.A.’s finest ninjas.”
“What do you think they want to talk to us about?”
“I’d imagine they’ll have an entire agenda,” I said.
We drove Justine’s car to the Warner gate, where Cynthia Maines was waiting for us. We’d spoken several times since our return from Mexico, but this was the first time we’d seen her in person.
“Have you spoken with them?” Justine asked.
“Not a peep,” the actors’ former assistant said. “I just got a summons from Dave Sanders, just like you.”
We walked to the Harlow-Quinn bungalow, where we found Camilla Bronson waiting for us out front. “Thank you for coming.”
“Wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” I said.
The publicist went stony, barely gave a nod to Cynthia Maines, turned and walked inside. She led the way into Terry Graves’s office. Dave Sanders stood by the window. Jennifer and Thom Harlow sat at a conference table. Their faces were still heavily bandaged from the emergency plastic surgery that had taken place immediately upon their arrival in Los Angeles, but their famous eyes inspected us one by one.
“Hello, Cynthia,” Jennifer began in a mumbling voice.
Her former personal assistant shot back, “If it wasn’t for Adelita’s wishes, I’d be turning over those tapes right now.”
“Don’t even think about that,” Sanders growled. “Those tapes were and are private property, recordings of activities among legal, consenting adults.”
“Consenting?” Cynthia cried.
Terry Graves shut the door, said, “Shall we all calm down here? Discuss our differences? Figure out a way to win-win?”
I really wanted to punch the producer right then but kept my cool, said, “What did you have in mind, Terry?”