Hot Shot (14 page)

Before I could speak to the maître d', I heard:
“Kieran!”

Lydia was at a table in the center of the room, waving her napkin. As if I could have missed her. Most heavy women tend to dress conservatively, but Lydia did the opposite. Her dress was white with black polka dots, topped off with a picture hat in a reverse color scheme. You could have set a drink on her shoulderpads. Claudia was nowhere in evidence.

Lydia seized me in a dramatic embrace, then just as quickly held me at arm's length. “Careful of the tits; they're sore as hell. Kieran, you should fall down on your knees and thank God that your pecker doesn't swell up and get tender once a month.”

“Hi, Lydia,” I said weakly, slinking into my chair.

An androgynous waitron walked up, bearing menus and an expression of arctic disapproval. Lydia turned her searchlight smile on him/her. “Bring us some wine, darlin', would you?”

“I've got the wine list right—”

“Oh, I wouldn't know the difference. You California people and your wines. Just make sure it's nice and white and dry and
expensive.
All right? We're having a party here and I'm not paying for any of it.” She beamed at me. “Claudia says you're at the Beverly Hillshire. Very chichi-poo-poo!”

“Where is Claudia?”

“She's not coming. There was a problem with the new bathroom. I've got you all to myself tonight.”

“Lovely,” I said.

*   *   *

Lydia ordered baby greens with raspberry vinaigrette and Montrachet. I settled for garlic-tortilla soup. Fortunately, the wine arrived first. I needed it.

“Sorry to hear about you and Charlie,” I told her, pouring a second glass.

“Oh, no worries. Poor Charlie's just having a little midlife
crise de foi.
It started when he bought a Miata last winter and started using Rogaine, which is growing the most uncanny simulation of pubic hair all over his bald spot.… Anyway, he comes home from work a couple of weeks ago and says that he thinks we need to separate for a while, just so he can
find himself.
Can you believe that?
Find himself.
And I said, ‘Fine. I wasn't aware you were
misplaced,
but I'll pick up the
Times-Picayune
and start looking for an apartment tomorrow.'”

The waitron scooped up our empty plates and fled.

“Well, old Charlie turns white and says, ‘Oh, no, don't worry, I'll move out.' To which I said, ‘Sorry, Boudreaux, but you're not sticking me with the kids while you go off and play slam-the-ham with some stewardess. You can find yourself just as easily here as you could in some singles condo. So you stay with Teddy and Melinda, and I'll give you a call as soon as I get my new number.' He turned from white to green. I picked up his keys and drove off in his Miata, which is still sitting in long-term parking at the New Orleans airport, by the way. And here I am!” Lydia paused long enough for another sip of wine. “
Mmm.
Faboo. And how's your writing going?”

“Oh, it's fine. Nothing to speak of, really, but—”

“Nothing?” Lydia clutched imaginary pearls, miming horror. “You're writing the Felina Lopez story! Tell me about it. Don't leave anything out.”

I winced. “How'd you hear? Claudia?”

“
Hollywood Today!
We get that out in Louisiana, too, you know. I couldn't believe it when I heard your name.”

“Do your parents know?” I said hesitantly.

“Kieran, you make it sound like you're writing kiddie porn!
I
think it's exciting. I remember every minute of the Ash trial. I'm a true-crime hag from way back. Ash, O.J., Menendez, Jon-Benet. I'd be the first in line to buy your book, even if you weren't my brother-in-law. I'm your target audience.”

“Lydia,” I said slowly, “why do you go for that stuff?”

“What else is there to watch? Movies?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Good Lord, Kieran. Don't be ridiculous. Hollywood gave up catering to anyone over puberty eons ago. They don't make a movie anymore unless they can turn it into a Happy Meal. Now the only place to watch good dramatic stories is Court TV.” She swatted my wrist playfully. “Now give me the scoop before I positively
implode
with anticipation.”

There was no way out of it. I gave her a thumbnail of events, leaving out a few salient points. My temporary roommate, for one. Brooks Levin's phone calls, for two. Lydia listened, eyes gleaming.

“Don't sound so embarrassed, Kieran!”

“Lydia, it's sleazy and—”

“Of course it is! It's sleazy and it's cheap and it's just so Hollywood I could die. Not just Hollywood, but modern America—”

I was spared Lydia's theories on modern America by the waitron, who set down our entrees carefully. The
chef de cuisine
at The Restaurant was Hans-Peter Jungenhoffman, the famed twenty-one-year-old wunderkind. Hans-Peter had a thing for vertical food; Lydia's tournedos of ostrich were sitting erect in a puddle of squid-ink pasta. Even my two shanks of osso buco were propped up over a haystack of
pommes frites,
leaning against each other like a pair of exhausted marathon dancers.

“The buzz on the Internet is that she was murdered,” said Lydia.

“Of course she was.”

“Not in a robbery. She had the goods on Dick Mann and was going to blab them all over town.”

“I don't think so,” I told her, slicing into my osso buco. “There was nothing in that manuscript worth killing over. She loved Dick Mann.”

Lydia smirked. “Some people are even theorizing that she's still alive.”

“What?”

“That her death was all some kind of publicity stunt for the book.”

I put down my fork, astonished. “Lydia, where are you getting this stuff?”

“My newsgroup on the Internet. It's called alt dot true-crime. There's another theory that—”

“Lydia, any nutjob with a computer can post things on the Internet. Felina still alive? God. Next you'll tell me that she was seen working at an IHOP in Toledo with Elvis.”

“So you don't think she was killed for something she knew?”

“Of course not. Do you?”

“Absolutely.”

“Why?”

“Good Lord, Kieran. It's obvious someone doesn't want this book written.”

So I'd gotten a phone call. So somebody didn't want this book written. That didn't mean Felina had been murdered, did it? She loved Dick Mann, didn't she?

A frisson tickled my spine, but I tore into my osso buco and ignored it. What did a bunch of Internet conspiracy theorists know, anyway?

*   *   *

Lydia insisted on dessert and liqueurs, which sent Charlie's bill to $214 with tip. When I got back, stuffed, my roomie was curled up on the sofa, snacking from a room-service tray of chocolate-covered fruit. Danziger was going to kill me when he got the bill.

Sloan looked up at me unenthusiastically and managed a “Hi.”

“… and no trip to Beverly Hills is complete without shopping,” said the TV. “With literally hundreds of stores within walking distance, the Beverly Hillshire is the choice for—”

I snapped it off. “We have to talk, Sloan.”

“About what?”

“For starters, about why I have to go down to the lobby every time I have to pee.”

“Hey, it's not my fault that—”

“Sloan, I really don't give a hang.
This
”—I waved my copies of
Mann's Woman
—“is all that's on my mind right now.”

“I clear out of here for most of the day, don't I? I leave you alone, don't I?”

“I don't
want
you to leave me alone. I want you to sit down and tell me everything you know about Felina Lopez. Tonight.”

“I've told you everything I can think of.”

“Sloan, this isn't just about the book. I'm also trying to find out why Brooks Levin is tailing us.”

“I told you! I don't remember anything about her!”

“You certainly didn't have that problem with
Celeb,
” I pointed out. “Your repressed memory syndrome seems to come and go.”

She looked up at me blankly. Along with irony, sarcasm wasn't her strong point either. “Go ahead and get yourself something to drink. Make yourself comfortable. Because we are going to sit here, just you and me, and I am going to ask you questions, and I am going to
tweeze
those Felina memories out of your head, one by one. And if you don't like it, you can take your ass home right now.”

She stomped into the bedroom and slammed the door.

“You better be packing in there.”

Sloan slammed around in the bedroom for a minute, and then she came back into the living room and got an eight-dollar Japanese beer out of the minibar.

*   *   *

“We weren't friends. I mean, we worked for the same service, but we weren't girlfriends. I didn't even like her, really.”

“But you did work together sometimes. You said that in your TV interview.”

“A couple of times.”

“Um … how does that work?”

She shrugged. “Client calls, says he wants two girls.”

“What, like ordering two pizzas? Pepperoni and mushroom, blonde and redhead?”

“You're real funny. Like I said, we weren't friends. I really didn't—”

“Sloan, I saw your interview on
Hollywood Today!
You made it sound like you were friends.”

“
They
made it sound that way. You know how they can twist stuff when they edit it.”

I conceded the point. “Did she ever mention her family?”

“No.”

“Father? Mother? Brothers or sisters?”

“Nothing. No. Not that I— Wait.” Sloan looked genuinely surprised. “Her mother was dead. I do remember that.”

“Did she mention anything about her dad?”

“I remember now. Her mother had died when she was very young. She was raised by her dad.”

“She told you that?”

“No. We were at a party in Malibu. I remember her saying it to … to someone.”

“Who was she talking to?”

“Oh, yeah, like I'm gonna give
you
the names of our clients.”

“Did you know if they came to the U.S. legally?”

“I don't think so.”

“How do you know?”

“I don't know … I just know that they didn't.”

“Was her father's name Eduardo?”

“That sounds … yes! Yes!” She gaped at me as if I were a psychic. “That's right! I didn't remember that! How did you know?”

I squeezed her wrist. “Keep going! What else do you remember?”

It was like drawing a shade. Sloan's face clouded. “Nothing. I'm surprised I remember that much. Gimme a break.” She slugged down the last of her beer. “Are we done?”

“Sloan, come on. You're doing great here.”

“I told you. I didn't know her, and I didn't want to. Felina was a bitch. Put that in your book.”

“Why was she a bitch?”

“Because. Because she sucked up to everybody who could do something for her. If you couldn't do something for her, then she didn't even pretend to be nice or even polite. It paid off. The agency would get these blind calls. If it was somebody well-connected or rich, if there was a big tip involved, Felina would get the call. If it was just some Cleveland in town with a room at the Ramada, it would go to me or somebody else. Somebody who wasn't the agency's pet.”

I looked at Sloan, sitting there with no makeup and her chipped French manicure, and I thought of Felina's cheek-bones, her long legs in the stovepipe jeans. Sloan was younger than Felina, but she probably didn't have more than two more years left. Felina could've still been working.

“Felina was a hypocrite,” she added. “And I hate hypocrites.”

“How?”

“She was a health-food nut. She had a hissy if anyone lit a cigarette around her. At the same time, she's going out with Dr. Pharmacy, Vernon Ash.”

“Did you know Vernon?”

“Everyone knew Vernon. I mean, I met him. He was always around.” She glared at me. “I don't do drugs, if that's what you mean. Never have, never will.”

“Felina did, though.”

“Yeah. She even went to Betty Ford for a while. Somebody else paid for it, of course.”

“Who?”

“I don't know. Some rich guy. Well, a month after she gets out, I'm at a party in Laurel Canyon and I see her in the bedroom with Vernon, doing coke. And she was
pregnant!
”

“She was pregnant?”

“Sure. Good Catholic girls don't use a diaphragm or the Pill. They just get abortions or give the kids away.” My poker face must have failed me, because Sloan sneered. “Don't give me that look. If I got pregnant, I could
never
kill my baby. I might not be Mother Teresa, but I damn sure ain't a hypocrite like Felina. Or you.”

I put my chin in my hand and stared back at her tiredly. “Why am I a hypocrite, Sloan?”

“Give me a break. Look who
you're
in bed with. Felina sold out Vernon the minute she met Dick Mann and the D.A. offered to cut her a deal. Then she moved down to Mexico and became the Virgin Felina—‘Oh, Hollywood's such a
bad
place, such an
evil
place.' You're both whores. The difference is that you're just a bad one.”

“Screw it, Sloan. It's late, I'm tired, and I've got to be up early tomorrow to interview Betty Mann.” I stood up. “And you're sitting on my bed.”

“I'll be out of your way tomorrow. I'd rather take my chances with Brooks Levin than have to put up with your condescending attitude.”

She stalked into the bedroom and slammed the door.