Not So Model Home - By David James Page 0,45

ran outside his oversized and overdecorated sunglasses that engulfed most of his face. The audience was a sight to behold. The hair fashionistas sported outrageous hair styles and bad clothing while the second-tier L.A. clubbers wore sport jackets with jeans, high-top Converse sneakers, and a straw pork-pie hat—their idea of “dressing up.” Everyone was busy whispering, networking, or texting.

The drone of testimonials was making me fall asleep when I was startled by a man carrying a flat wooden cage filled with a half-dozen white doves who passed down the aisle and headed for the podium. Just as it seemed that the eulogies would never end, they did. There was a lot of mumbling and fumbling; then Ian stepped up to the microphone. Ian, knowing that the cat was out of the bag, couldn’t exactly relate stories of all the good times they had together. So he confined his tribute to the subject that he knew and loved best: himself. He talked about the regret of never being the dad that he should have been, which, by the time he was finished, hadn’t left a dry eye in the house.

“We’re now going to release doves symbolizing Keith’s spirit, which we hope will soar free and up into the heavens. Fly free . . .” Ian managed to choke out through a rush of emotions, “. . . little spirit!”

A few seconds passed and the cage was raised high and the door opened. The doves, confused and startled, no doubt, by the fact that they had probably been raised in cages all their lives and were now suddenly free, flew straight up in a pack of fluttering, battering wings, bumping into each other as they struggled to find a clear direction in which to fly. What happened next, no one on earth could have foreseen.

From out of the leafy palms and eucalyptus branches came a Cooper’s hawk like an F-16 fighter, hitting one of the unlucky birds in midair with such force, there was an explosion of feathers and a shower of blood that hit Ian like a well-aimed red-paint baggie thrown by a member of PETA. The hawk struggled to gain altitude with its shrieking prize in its talons and slowly it rose into the trees and disappeared. It was like watching a horrific car wreck in slow motion. This was not a good omen. Even worse, dozens of celebrity gossip stars caught the event on their smartphone movie cameras in glorious color. This little episode would be on the Internet before you could say “Mel Gibson.” A few hours later when I checked the Web from the relative safety of my home office, I was proved right.

CHAPTER 19

A Memorial Luncheon to Forget

Today’s shoot was a rare occasion: It was taking place at a restaurant, during which we were all there to celebrate Keith’s life in a private, afternoon luncheon. Jean-Michael was the best restaurant in town, lorded over by its namesake, who moved to Palm Springs over 10 years ago and grabbed the mantel from tired, unimaginative establishments that had been resting on their dusty laurels for decades. The restaurant was closed for the rest of the day for us to film.

From the moment I walked into the restaurant, the liquor was already flowing. And so were most of the guys. From watching Aleksei’s animated movements, it was obvious that he had already downed several glasses of champagne. His idea of staying clean or sober seemed to change with whatever temptation was in front of him at the time. Anything as long as it wasn’t crystal meth.

There was a lot of gabbing and chatting before the cameras started rolling. You would have thought it was a black-tie fund-raiser the way everyone was so friendly and charming. Their casualness with Keith’s murder was so smug, it really chapped my ass. I was going to get revenge for Keith by not letting myself be upstaged by the rest of the gang. At least that was my logic at the time. The gloves were coming off tonight. Alex was right, it was sink or swim, and I was certainly capable of swimming with the sharks.

We all sat down to eat.

Aleksei began, “Ian, I would like to offer again my condolences over the death of your son.”

One camera swung quickly in Ian’s direction. Ian went into the “distraught father” role for a moment, giving the camera a quick shot as he wiped a tear from his eye.

Aleksei continued, “I think it goes without saying