Paparazzi Ch. 02 of 02

First I trained my lens on Bitsy's little bungalow, but there was no activity there. Then I turned to the main building. Parked outside the house today was a large SUV. When I shifted my focus I spotted two panel vans now parked in front of the garage. As I watched, several men appeared to be unloading bundles out of the vans and moving them into the storage facility I'd spotted earlier. Then, another man walked into view. He appeared to be supervising the others, but what really startled me was that he was carrying what looked like an assault rifle. I kept shooting pictures, wondering what in the hell Billy had gotten into.

Suddenly I felt a knee come down hard between my shoulder blades, pinning me to the ground and knocking the wind out of me. As I lay there gasping, I felt the barrel of a pistol press against my ear.

"Alright, asshole, keep your mouth shut and crawl backwards," came a harsh voice, and I hastened to comply as soon as I regained my breath. Once I was below the crest of the hill, a hand grabbed my shoulder and roughly turned me over. I saw a large man standing over me with an automatic pistol pointed at my chest.

"Who the fuck are you and what are you doing here with that camera?" he demanded.

I started to reach for my wallet, but a waggle of the gun in my face stopped me cold. "I'm just reaching for my I.D.," I assured him, and slowly pulled my wallet out of my back pocket. All the while his eyes watched me carefully for any wrong moves. He took my wallet gingerly, then stepped back and scanned the photo I.D. the photo agency had provided me. After a minute he grabbed a phone from his belt and pressed a button. "Hey, Jim, I've got a snoop up here."

"Roger that," came a voice from the speaker, and in a few minutes a second figure came jogging up the hill. This fellow was wearing a navy blue windbreaker with the letters DEA stenciled over the heart. The first man used one of those plastic slip bands to handcuff me; then the two of them marched me down the hill toward a ravine where a car I hadn't noticed before was parked. They shoved me into the back seat, took my wallet and walked away to make a few phone calls.

As I sat there uncomfortably, it didn't take much imagination for me to make a reasonable guess about what was going on. It looked like Billy Badly had switched from playing rock and roll to running drugs as the way to finance his lifestyle. That would explain why he had so much security around his compound and why he made so many trips to Mexico, I thought. I couldn't help but give an ironic laugh. Unless I missed my guess, the answer to "Where Are They Now" for Billy was likely to be federal prison.

Just then one of the agents came back to the car, opened the door and pulled me out. Taking a folding knife from his pocket he cut the plastic ties around my wrists. Then he turned me to face him.

"Alright, Mr. Cowan, your story checks out and you're free to go. But I advise you to leave the area immediately. This is not a place where you want to be."

"Yeah," the other guy chimed in, "especially tonight."

The first agent whipped around to glare at his partner, who looked appropriately chagrined. I wanted no part of their little spat and quickly assured them I would leave as soon as I got to my car. They watched me carefully as I clambered down the hill and walked along the road to where I'd parked. In my rear view mirror I could see them still watching as I drove away.

I realized I was heading into the town of Topanga, and when I spotted a coffee shop I pulled in to let the adrenaline subside. I didn't like having a gun shoved in my face -- that wasn't part of the job description as far as I was concerned -- and I sure didn't want to be anywhere near Billy's place tonight. From the sound of it, the Drug Enforcement Agency was planning to stage a raid on the compound, and I wanted to be far away, especially given that the people inside appeared to be heavily armed. "Damn," I thought, "one minute you're trying to take a photo for a soft feature and the next you're in the middle of a major drug bust!"

I thought back to how this whole mess had started, and suddenly I sat bolt upright. "Oh, shit, I forgot all about Bitsy!" A part of me argued that she'd made her choices and I should stay out of it. But another part of me knew that poor, airheaded Bitsy likely had no idea what she'd gotten herself into. "She could get killed if I don't warn her," I thought.

It's a bitch having a conscience. I really didn't owe Bitsy anything, but all the same I felt responsible for her. If it was worth pulling her out of her truck, I said to myself, it's worth trying to get her out before a firefight starts around her. Shit, shit, shit!

Finally I made up my mind. It was already late in the day, and the canyons and ravines made the darkness come on quicker. When I felt the light had faded enough to afford me some cover, I headed back down the highway toward Billy's place, cursing myself for a fool every mile that I drove.

This time I parked even farther away to begin my hike. I knew I had to stay low and out of sight, but at the same time if I didn't hurry I might arrive too late. Finally I spotted the dry creek bed that I'd remembered from my earlier visit. I hoped it would provide me enough cover to let me approach the compound without being spotted, either by the DEA or by Billy's men. Equally important, I'd noticed that at some time -- maybe in the rainy season -- the creek had washed under the chain link fence, leaving a gap. Now I thought I could wriggle under it to get into the compound.

By the time I got under the fence the temperature had dropped significantly and I felt myself shaking. Or maybe that's just fear, I thought. Regardless, I continued to creep toward Bitsy's little cabin, hoping that the DEA was focused on the main house and that there were no guards around.

I crawled the last twenty yards to Bitsy's place and quietly knocked on the door from a kneeling position. When she opened up, I scrambled inside and quickly pushed the door shut behind me. "Bitsy," I said urgently, "you've got to get out of here right now!"

She just stared at me. "What are you doing here?" she asked. "Billy was so mad when he found out you'd been here yesterday. I don't what he'd do if he caught you here now."

I looked at her and suddenly realized that her left eye was black. "That bastard," I began to curse, but before I could say anything else the door behind me burst open and the biggest Latino I had ever seen came bursting in carrying an assault rifle. "Who the fuck are you, gringo?" he yelled, and Bitsy gave a little scream of fear.

I slowly lifted my hands to show him I was unarmed and said, "Hey, I'm just a friend of Bitsy's who came to pay her a visit."

"How the fuck did you get through the gate?" he demanded. But before I could reply, we heard voices shouting outside. Suddenly an intense spotlight swept over the camp and we could hear an eerie amplified voice on a loudspeaker: "This is the U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency. We have you surrounded; come out with your hands on your head and you will not be harmed."

There was absolute silence for a second, then a hail of bullets rang out and muzzle flashes could be seen in the darkness where the spotlight didn't reach. The big Latino strode over to the window and used the butt of his rifle to smash out several panes. "Fucking Feds!" he shouted at the top of his lungs and began to fire his weapon, apparently trying to knock out the spotlight.

I turned to Bitsy. "Get down!" I yelled, trying to pull her to the floor, but she struggled with me. "Where's Baby?" she yelled, "I've got to find Baby!" I grabbed her by the shoulders and thrust her behind me just as a fusillade of shots hit the bungalow. I turned back around to see what happened and something that felt like a baseball bat hit me in the head. I was knocked back onto Bitsy and lapsed into unconsciousness.

When I regained my senses, I couldn't move my arms or legs. "Where am I?" I asked in a voice that sounded more like a croak than the yell I'd intended. A hand gripped my shoulder. "You're strapped to a gurney in an ambulance," a voice said reassuringly. "You're on your way to Woodland Hills Hospital."

"I guess that means I'm not dead yet," I thought, and drifted back into unconsciousness.

The next time I woke up, the lights were so bright that they hurt my eyes. But I couldn't do much about it because a doctor in a hospital coat had peeled my eyelids back and was peering intently at my pupils. Finally he let me be and began to make notes on a clipboard.

"Where am I?" I asked groggily. "What happened?"

He glanced at his clipboard again and then gave me an odd look. "I hope you bought a lottery ticket today," he said, "because you are definitely the luckiest man I ever met!"

I looked at him as though he was crazy. "I don't understand," I said. "What happened?"

He got a little more serious now. "What happened, Mr. Cowan, is that you were shot in the head by what we think was a 9x19 parabellum round. Fortunately for you, before the bullet struck you it apparently was slowed substantially by the sternum of the man who was holding you hostage. Then that same bullet shattered the fourth rib in his back, thereby losing almost all the rest of its velocity before it ricocheted into your forehead."

He shook his head. "I don't know many people who have survived a headshot like that, Mr. Cowan, so I'd advise you to buy that lottery ticket now."

I guess he thought he was being clever, but I wasn't in a humorous mood. "My head hurts like hell," I told him.

"That's to be expected," he said matter-of-factly. "You have a mild concussion. We're going to keep you here overnight for observation, but my guess is you'll be able to go home tomorrow. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go check on the status of some other patients who weren't nearly as lucky as you."

Hospitals are still as unpleasant as they used to be, and I was delighted when they checked me out the next morning. I took a cab back to my car and was pleasantly surprised to find it where I'd left it the night before. As I began the drive back to L.A., my head still hurt, but the analgesics they'd given me took care of the worst of the pain.

On the freeway I thought about what had happened. "That has to be the stupidest thing you've ever done," I scolded myself sternly. "Whatever possessed you to go back for . . ." The minute that thought came to me I realized that I didn't know what had happened to Bitsy.

As soon as I reached the office I went to my desk and called the hospital, but they had not admitted anyone by that name. Then I tried to call the local DEA office, but all I got was a series of automated prompts, none of which was helpful. I sat on hold for fifteen minutes waiting for "one of our representatives" to come on the line. Finally I gave up; all I could do was hope that Bitsy was O.K.

I grabbed my camera bag and went in to see Starla. "Oh my god, David, I'm so glad you're OK!" she cried when I walked in her office. "I've been trying to call you all morning." She came around the desk and hugged me. I felt a little faint -- I guess it was the after-effects of the concussion.

"Thank God you didn't get to Billy Badly," she said breathlessly. "I heard on the news that the DEA raided his home last night and there was a huge shoot-out. Billy was killed and so were several other people. David, they found a huge stash of marijuana!"

Fear gripped my heart. "Did they say who else was killed?" I asked. "Was one of them a woman? Did they mention the name 'Bitsy Baker'?"

"No," she said, looking at me oddly. "Who is Bitsy Baker and how do you know her?" Before she could go on, she noticed the bandage on my forehead. "What happened to you, David? Have you hurt yourself? Are you OK?"

"Actually, I did find Billy," I told her, and sat down to explain that Bitsy was Billy's housekeeper and that she'd showed me the way to Billy's compound. I'd gone back yesterday to try to get my photos because Billy was out of town --on a drug run as we now knew. I deliberately omitted the details of the raid and how I'd hurt my head because I didn't want to her to hear how foolish I'd been. Before she could ask more questions, I tried to divert her.

"Hey, do you think there'd be any market for some photos of Billy's compound?" I asked innocently. With that I pulled out my camera and showed Starla the photos I'd taken from the top of the hill. "These are amazing!" she said in wonder. "You can see people unloading the marijuana from those vans, and that looks like an armed guard. Let me start making some calls right away."

With that she grabbed her phone and I slipped out the door. Even though my head was still hurting, I felt that pleasing Starla pretty much made up for all the hassle of getting shot and everything.

When I got off from work that afternoon, I planned to turn in early because I was exhausted from my previous night's adventure. But somehow I found myself on Mulholland Drive again. As I sat watching the twinkling lights of the city, I felt myself beginning to shake. I knew what was happening -- a delayed reaction to my brush with death -- and it started me thinking.

"Why are you still in this town?" I asked myself. "You hate this job and you hate this crazy make-believe world out here. The only reason you came to L.A. in the first place was because of Kelly, and look what that got you. Now you've gone and almost gotten yourself killed trying to help some ditz too dumb to know she was living with a drug lord. You're an idiot!"

But I knew I didn't mean it, at least that part about Bitsy. She might be an airhead but she didn't deserve to die in a drug shoot-out. Hell, there weren't many things in my life I felt good about these days, but trying to save Bitsy was one of them -- assuming she'd lived.

Nevertheless, as I drove back to my apartment I was still pretty down. I felt trapped in a world that I detested, one where I didn't fit in and where there was nothing and no one to keep me. Well, there was . . . "No," I told myself, "don't go there."

The next day when I got into work, Starla was beaming. "You must have had good luck with those photos of Billy's place," I said when I saw how pumped she was. Instead of replying, she spun around to her computer and called up a website. "You're golden, David," she exclaimed, "look at this." When she rolled her chair out of the way, I saw one of my photographs of Billy's compound on the front page of a newspaper. I checked the masthead: it was The New York Times!

"You scooped everyone!" she said triumphantly. "We sold your photos to the AP; now every newspaper and television network in the country is running them." She gave me a wry smile. "If we're not careful, this agency is running the risk of turning legit."

After we'd looked at some other news sites carrying my photos, she took on a more thoughtful expression. "I've got some other good news for you. Some people I know tell me that stage two of Sal Manucci's publicity plan for Micki Morningstar is scheduled to go live this week. Once it's been launched, that will be the perfect time to set off your little bombshell."

She looked at me carefully. "I know you want payback on Sal, but unless I miss my guess, the backlash is going to take down Kelly as well. Are you sure that's what you want? There's another way to work this. You don't have to pull a Sodom and Gomorrah -- all you'd have to do is show the pictures you've got to Kelly. That should put an end to her relationship with Sal, and she might be willing to give it another try with you -- if you're interested."

"No," I said without hesitation, "she made her choice and choices have consequences."

Starla was still watching me, so I tried to elaborate on how I felt. "Marriage means a lot of things, but for me one of the most important is caring about your partner as much as yourself. Once you stop caring about the needs of your partner, you no longer have a marriage. Kelly made it very clear that she was going to go after what she wanted, and she didn't care what happened to me. Why would I ever want to get back together with someone who felt that way?"

Starla nodded thoughtfully. "I agree, David, I just felt I should check. Leave everything with me."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -Two days later, Starla had a copy of a weekly celebrity magazine on her desk. The two-page photograph above the cover story showed Micki Morningstar cuddling with her old boyfriend under a banner headline that read, "Reunited: All is Forgiven".

The story went on to detail how contrite Micki was about her fling, how she felt she had let down her fans -- not to mention her boyfriend -- and how she had learned from her mistake. "I've grown so much from this whole experience," she was quoted as saying, "and I'm going to devote myself to making our love stronger than ever."

The online version of the magazine even featured a live poll that Micki's fans could take. The running count showed the vast majority had forgiven her for her sins and hailed her return to her boyfriend's side.

Starla was keyed up. "I know the head of programming at the network that carries Micki's TV series. I think he'll be very interested in the pictures you took of MIcki and Sal." She gave me a smile that was positively evil. "We've got them now," she said with such relish that I winced involuntarily.

From what I learned later that day, wincing was the least of what happened after Starla sent the network some of my better shots, both from the cottage and the Emmy party. Starla explained to them sweetly that she planned to offer the pix to the highest bidder, and when the network executive saw them he nearly had a heart attack. After a hurried consultation with the president of the network and their legal staff, the head of programming called Starla back to offer her a small fortune in exchange for exclusive rights to the photos.

"Of course they'll destroy them immediately," she told me with a smirk, "because they know that if those shots get published that would be the kiss of death for Micki's career. Fans don't like to be lied to, and once they turn on you, there's little chance of getting them back. If people found out that Micki's reconciliation with her boyfriend was a sham, the network would have to cancel her show in mid-season. It would be a financial disaster," she explained gleefully.

"But what about Sal and Kelly?" I protested.

"Oh, I'm just getting started," she said with that evil grin again. "Once the network took care of the incriminating photos, their next step was to call the head of Sal's agency on the carpet. I'm told the network president threatened never to use another one of the agency's clients again. The agency president literally got down on his hands and knees to beg for forgiveness, promising to make it right if they'd just give them another chance."

"My source told me that as soon as the president got back to the agency, he called Sal into his office, showed him the incriminating photos and accused him of almost destroying the agency. With the evidence in front of him, there was no way Sal could deny that he'd acted recklessly and inappropriately. As a result, Sal was fired on the spot and told that he might as well leave town because he'd never get a job in Hollywood again."

Starla rocked back in her chair. "After Sal was dismissed, the agency president called Kelly in and accused her of conspiring with you," she said, pointing at me, "to get those photos. He figured that someone must have tipped you off, and Kelly was the most likely suspect. Kelly swore it wasn't true, but when she had to admit that the two of you are still legally married, her fate was sealed. She was fired too, and good luck to her on finding work in this town with that on her record," Starla said with a grin.