"Well, I paid enough to have it done. Now look at me. I got track marks all over my butt just because in a weak moment I let some butcher root around in my guts."
"I'm ready with the second shot."
"Just work around the tattoo."
"Which one?"
"Any one. I don't want track marks on my tattoos. Vanity Fair's gonna photograph them for next month's cover."
"Good Lord," the doctor said.
"What's 'a matter?" asked Roxanne, giving her backside a meaty smack. "Don't you think I got a nice butt?"
"It's ... colorful," the doctor admitted, his eyes averting to her creased back. It was no more appetizing. All those pimples and inflamed sebaceous cysts.
Roxanne's mood suddenly darkened. "Says you. Now hurry and shoot me up. I can take it. I used to do heroin."
The needle went in slowly; the plunger discharged the syringe's contents while, lying on her stomach, Roxanne Roeg-Elephante gritted her capped teeth and said, "Life is so unfair. I just want to have children. I need to know true motherhood."
"How are your children from your first marriage, by the way?" the doctor asked.
"Grown-up and calling up for money all the time. The ones who still talk to me, that is. Forget them. They don't count on account I had them with a jerk and before I was famous. I want a baby. One that doesn't talk back."
Closing up his bag, the doctor said, "I'll leave my bill with your personal assistant."
"Go ahead. But if those hormones don't work, I'm suing your ass for mispractice."
"You have a nice day, too, Roxanne," the doctor said tightly, exiting the dressing room on the lot of Omniversal Studios in North Hollywood, California.
And lying on her stomach, Roxanne Roeg-Elephante laid her apple red cheek against the pillow, muttering, "Life is so fucking unfair. I'm practically a billionaire and I can't hardly get what I want."
"What do you want, Roxanne?" asked a strange voice coming from her mouth.
Picking up the mirror, Roxanne began talking to it. "I dunno. But I know I ain't got it yet. What do you want, alter?"
"Sex. Lots of it."
"Me, too. But Studley isn't here."
"Too bad," said the disembodied voice.
"I wonder if a person with multiple personalities can have sex with herself?" Roxanne wondered suddenly.
"I'm not having sex with you!"
"Why not, alter?"
"I'm no dyke."
"Speak for yourself. There ain't nothing I ain't tried-or will try-if I think it will make me happy or someone I hate miserable."
"Just keep your hands to yourself."
"Don't worry. I wouldn't touch you with rubber gloves and a toilet plunger. You hardly ever bathe, for Christ's sake."
REMO HESITATED when he heard the two voices on the other side of the trailer door marked with a big gold star and the name Roxanne.
He hadn't counted on Roxanne having company. The back lot of Omniversal Studios was busy with scurrying golf carts and people in jeans and carrying walkietalkies all hurrying to someplace they weren't. No one seemed to be standing still.
It had been surprisingly easy to gain access to the Omniversal lot. There was a guard at the gate entrance, but this was southern California. No one entered anywhere or anything on foot. They always drove.
Remo had simply walked onto the lot. Because he wasn't encased in a car, no one noticed him. It had been that simple.
Finding Roxanne was simple, too. The big, warehouselike soundstages were plastered with billboards proclaiming the TV shows being filmed within. Roxanne's billboard was five times larger than anyone else's. That was because it showed her entire body, which she was enormously proud of, having lost over one hundred pounds on a diet product she did commercials for. When a disgruntled ex-staffer had leaked the fact that Roxanne never used the product, the manufacturer had demanded his money back. When Roxanne had gone on "Entertainment Tonight" to complain that the product tasted like talcum powder mixed in sour milk, the sponsor hurriedly offered her six figures to just shut up and never mention the NutraSludge again.
Remo found Roxanne's trailer just as easily. It wasn't quite as large as the soundstage beside it. But it was certainly more ostentatious. It reminded him of a Hindu howdah without the elephant.
As a grip walked by, tapping his earphones as he slapped the nickel-cadmium-battery belt pack and complaining, "My radio just took a dump," Remo tried to look inconspicuous. That wasn't difficult, either. A famous director strolled by in torn jeans, making Remo look by contrast like the height of fashion.
It was starting to look like a piece of cake. Remo just hoped that Roxanne wore a girdle. Taking another look at the big billboard, he couldn't imagine how she could live without one. Even minus a hundred pounds, she was a whale.
The voices inside continued their argument.
"The reason I don't bathe is you don't bathe," a whiny female voice said.
"Well, I shower," retorted the twangy, corduroy voice that had grated on all of America's ears.
"You stick your fat head under the tap to get your greasy hair wet, stand up and call the water running down your back a shower. That's not a shower."
"Well, it's better than not bathing."
Finally Remo decided to just go for it. He knocked. "Come in," the twangy Roxanne voice called out.
"But I'm naked," the other voice squeaked.
"So am I and I don't give a fiery fart. Come on, drag your ass in here. I ain't got all day."
"Well, which is it?" Remo asked.
"Get in here!"
The other voice said nothing, so Remo figured it was reasonably safe to enter.
When he pushed in the door, he changed his mind. Roxanne Roeg-Elephante lay on a triple-wide bed, stark naked and regarding him with vaguely belligerent eyes. "Who the frig are you?"
Remo cocked a thumb over his shoulder. "You're wanted on the set," he told her.
"So damn what?"
"Well, they want to do the next scene."
"Tell them to sit on a cactus and rotate. I'll come when I'm good and ready." And she winked broadly at Remo. "Like always."
Not winking back, Remo asked, "Can I tell them how long you'll be?"
Roxanne looked him up and down critically. "Uh, I dunno. How long are you good for?"
"Good for what?"
"You know. In the sack."
"My contract has an unbreakable no-pachyderms clause," Remo said quickly.
Roxanne rolled onto her side, exposing a generous breast like a boiled ham with a pimple. She grinned like a fat shark. "I've just been shot full of raging hormones."
"Good for you."
She batted her eyes. "You know I'm rich."
"You're worth less than a billion. I charge two."
"I like rough sex."
"Why didn't you say so?" said Remo, closing the door behind him.
Roxanne scooted around to a sitting position. "Hah! My last husband was just like you. Not as skinny, though." She took her chewing gum out of her petulant mouth, tucking it behind her left ear. "What do you like? Body slamming? Restraints? What?"
"I'd like to squeeze your neck with both hands"
"Oh, goody. Let's do it."
And Remo, using one hand he promised himself he'd wash later, reached under the gumless ear, intending to squeeze the delicate nerve there that triggered instant unconsciousness.
He squeezed. Roxanne squeezed her eyes shut. Remo squeezed harder. Feeling around in the sweaty rolls of fat, he heard Roxanne's voice say, "This is the best sex I never had. So far. Hope it gets better."
"It does," Remo promised, trying to find the nerve. The trouble was, he couldn't find it or make it work. "Damn that Chiun."
"Who's Chiun?"
"You ever been a sumo?"
"No, but I wrestled one to a draw once. He was a wimp."
Remo stepped back. "Look, I have a confession to make."
Roxanne opened one disappointed eye. "What's that?"