The Yoko
THE YOKO
When in doubt, follow the Yoko…
—A GINGER WHO DIDN’T
1990–1991
The story goes that sometime in the early ’70s, after the Beatles had split, Yoko Ono asked John Lennon to leave. “I really needed some space,” she said in an interview with David Sheff. “I thought it was a good idea that he go to LA and just leave me alone for a while.” Lennon, also interviewed, told Sheff that at first he liked it. “Oh, you know, ‘Bachelor Life! Whoopee, whoopee.’ And then I woke up one day and I thought, ‘What is this? What is this? I want to go home.’” But Yoko told him he wasn’t ready to come home. Shortly thereafter he began an affair with their twenty-two-year-old assistant, Mae Pang. What people didn’t realize until much later was that Yoko had arranged for the affair, assuring Mae Pang that she wouldn’t mind and encouraging the intimacy. What seemed selfless and accommodating was actually quite pointed and strategic, as Yoko Ono effectively became confidante to both Mae and John, offering a shoulder, counsel, or just an ear. But eventually the thrill of someone new waned for the comfort of someone wise.
He never left home again.
The Gingers had referred to it as “the Yoko,” and Mercedes Baxter had thought about it ever since Grace Khan died and Harvey Khan had suggested she move into the home on Stone Canyon. She had been wary, not only because Cheryl and Todd, Khan’s adult children, barely hid their distaste for her, but Khan himself, who had admitted to sixty-nine but was actually seventy-four years old, had grown disgruntled. Less short- tempered and more bored, she thought. Living there was a conundrum. While she was not his wife, she was playing the part, and it was a thankless role without benefits. It was time for Mercedes to do the Yoko.
“What are you doing?” Khan asked one Sunday when he was getting ready for golf at Hillcrest and noticed that Mercedes was not. She always came along, read a book on the terrace, and waited. Dutifully. He liked knowing she was there. They’d have brunch afterward, sometimes with other members, then take a walk around the grounds, maybe play some bocce ball, or go to a museum. And then Sunday evenings they’d order in something decadent—spaghetti or pizza or lasagna—then watch a first-run movie in their screening room. Mercedes kept an eye on Khan’s weight and his blood pressure, both on the rise, and only allowed him one free day a week where kitchen scales were confiscated, and calories weren’t counted.
So, he was surprised, if not alarmed that she wasn’t ready.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Aren’t you coming?” Then he saw her two Louis Vuitton suitcases and a small valise.
“No dear,” she said calmly, “I’m not.” Mercedes went on to explain that she needed space, and believed he did as well. “I’m going to take some time,” she told him, saying that she was going to travel a bit, see some friends, family.
This utterly confused Khan. He thought that Mercedes was disassociated from her past and was surprised to learn otherwise.
Then she added a final blow that paralyzed him: “I hired that pretty blond floater who worked for Stu,” she said. “Claire. She’ll start tomorrow.” Mercedes knew that Khan liked her, had heard his comments when he thought she wasn’t listening, had watched his eyes follow her as she walked up and down the hall.
Khan was stunned. Guilty. Apologetic.
But there was nothing to apologize about, she assured him. This just made her decision that much easier. “Get to know her,” she said.
And then she walked out.
Mercedes Baxter married Harvey Khan fourteen months later in a simple civil ceremony in Northern California attended only by Stu Lonshien and his new girlfriend Jennifer Banks, whom Mercedes had met that morning—Lonshien, the week before. After a brief honeymoon, she resumed her duties as the legal right hand of Khan, and according to some, was steadying that hand. There had been rumors that Harvey had suffered a series of mini strokes.
In early 1991 he began extending his weekends. When asked about his absences, Mercedes explained that he was taking meetings in Palm Springs, or at Hillcrest, or in Malibu.
No one questioned her beyond that, as many of the decisions that were coming from his office aligned with those of the board of directors, and in a don’t-ask-don’t-tell universe, it was easier to let sleeping Khan lie. Privately, however, there were growing suspicions that Mercedes Baxter Khan was quietly running things behind the scenes, writing memos, signing Khan’s name, and authorizing actions that she thought he’d approve of. There had even been the suggestion that his compromised condition had preceded the nuptials, with the bride literally and figuratively leading him down the garden path, so to speak, even if his words of acceptance at the altar were slurred.
But on the first-year anniversary of their marriage, all doubt was erased, and whispers silenced as the happy couple allowed Sheila Day to throw them an intimate celebration for seventy-five people at the Hotel Bel-Air. Heads of studios, heads of state, and a sprinkling of stars such as Clint Eastwood, Tom Selleck, and Barbara Walters distracted from the fact that there was no family from either side in attendance.
There was no question to anyone present that evening: King Khan had his queen, and that queen had taken charge.