Innocent Little Crimes (3 page)

“You’re off your mark, Priscilla—again!” The
young actress showed distress. She rechecked her feet and moved
over two inches. She sweltered under the hot lights. Makeup
strolled over and patted her face. Props lethargically replaced the
cart. The whole crew had given up making an effort to hurry things
along.

“Let’s go again, right away. We’re already
into gold. Move, move!” He purposely ignored the crew’s grumbling.
They had been on the set for fourteen hours—the second time that
week.

Jonathan seethed. Mindless crew, stuck-up
actors who thought they were God’s gift to the public. And that
Priscilla. Great body but absolutely no talent. Some hotshot’s
broad. When was he ever going to get to work with real actors?

“Have to reload again, Jonny,” the cameraman
called out, not even bothering to hide his apathy.

Jonathan exploded with a string of
curses.

First the network boys told him they wanted
all the angles, lots of cleavage and close-ups from behind, when
everyone knew the scenes would end up on the cutting room floor.
Who were they kidding—they were getting their thrills from the
dailies.

He shot another take. Passable enough for
this mindless Movie-of-the-Week.

“Okay, it’s a wrap. Get the hell home and be
here on time tomorrow.” He turned to the actress who was hurrying
to her dressing room. “We don’t pay you to keep everyone
waiting.”

The script supervisor picked up her papers
and stuffed them into her bag. Jonathan noticed the disgusted look
on her face.

“You can always find another job if you’re
not happy, Louise. A lot of people would give their firstborn to be
here.”

She started to say something and then changed
her mind.

“Right, Jonny,” she said, walking away.

“A bunch of ungrateful jerks,” he said under
his breath. The lights went off one by one, leaving him standing in
the dark. The sound stage grew quiet. Jonathan realized his fists
were still clenched. How much more of this could he take?

Someone approached; he squinted in the dim
light and recognized his agent.

“Billy.” Jonathan gulped. “What brings you
here? No problems with the deal . . .?”

The thin, wiry man took him by the arm. “We
need to talk, Jonny-boy.” He whisked him over to a small set in the
corner of the stage.

Jonathan studied the older man as he sat in a
chair and patted his neck with a large handkerchief, clearly
stalling for time.

“How come the visit? Don’t the phones work in
West L.A. anymore?”

Jonathan knew he was notorious for firing
agents. He’d been through just about everyone in Hollywood by now.
He started with the big guys—William Morris, ICM, and on down the
list. Then he decided the big agencies didn’t give clients enough
of their time, so he went to the small, boutique guys. His
complaint was always the same. They had their pets and the rest
fell into the black hole. Bill Evans was a one-man operation. He’d
been around forever. He had few clients and he gave them his all,
but he was small-time.

“It’s like this, Jonny. Let me cut to the
chase. There’s this guy. He’s Goldstein’s nephew or something. He’s
been bugging his uncle for a chance to direct.”

Jonathan’s stomach churned. “Tell me this is
a big joke. You’re pulling my leg? They’re trying to get my price
down, is that the scam?” He managed a laugh.

“No joke, Jonny. They’re pulling you out.” He
threw up his hands in defense. “Now, I’m doing everything I can . .
.”

“Dammit, you
know
how much this feature means to me. This is
a classy flick, Oscar material. It was made for me. I’ve waited
years for this kind of deal to come my way. I’ve earned it. No
stupid relative of some damn producer is going to take it away from
me!” Jonathan’s face flushed hot; blood pounded his
temples.

“Jonny, Jonny baby, calm down. Now, I’m
meeting with Goldstein tomorrow.”

He pounded on the table beside him. “No way,
Evans. I’ve had it with you and these deals that seem to slip
through your fingers.” His agent recoiled, sinking lower in the
chair. “There’s no way I’m going to let you keep screwing up my
life. You’re fired. Get your ugly face out of here, old man.”

“Call me tomorrow, Jonny. When you calm down.
We’ll talk.” His agent edged his way out of the sound stage, the
heavy door slamming behind him.

Jonathan sank back into the chair, holding
his head in his hands. This could not be happening. He heard a car
horn sound outside. He got up and paced. The car honked again.

Jonathan walked outside. A woman climbed out
of a Mercedes coupe.

“Here’s tomorrow’s shooting schedule, Jon.
Can you give me a lift home?”

Jonathan looked at the young blonde, one of
his many ambitious assistants, leaning seductively against the car
in a tight miniskirt. Trying to appear casual. He snorted. All
these Hollywood hopefuls, worming their way through the studios for
a chance under the lights.

Jonathan got behind the wheel and drove out
of the lot. Few cars were leaving the studio this late in the
evening. Tiffany thumbed through the papers on her lap. “Okay,” she
said, snapping chewing gum over her tongue, “here’s one from the
DGA.”

Jonathan looked over at the envelope. “Dues.
What else?”

“A couple office memos, one from Derringer,
about casting the beach scene . . .”

“What’s that?” He pointed to the gold and
white envelope that rested in her lap. Tiffany shrugged and ripped
it open, then pulled out a card.

“You’re invited to a party, no, a college
reunion. Get this—Lila Carmichael.”

Jonathan grabbed the invitation out of her
hand and read it while waiting at the light at Westwood Boulevard.
His heart pounded; he could barely keep his foot on the brake.

Tiffany snapped her gum again. “Hey, I didn’t
know you knew Lila Carmichael.”

While his assistant blabbed on about Lila’s
show, hope flooded Jonathan’s heart. He wanted to kiss the ground
for the break in his luck. If anyone could save his neck, the rich
and influential Lila Carmichael could do it. Damn, why hadn’t he
thought of her before? This was Hollywood—rub my back, I’ll rub
yours. Well, he had to admit, he had thought of her before. But he
didn’t have the guts to approach her now that she was so
successful.

He turned and glanced at Tiffany. Every hair
in place, her makeup perfectly applied. She must spend hours in
front of a mirror. “I directed Lila in her very first play in
college.”

Tiffany’s eyes widened. “Really?”

Jonathan thought about Lila’s reputation of
grinding men to pieces. He frowned. She probably didn’t feel she
owed him any favors. But now. Out of the blue, a personal
invitation to her island home. This was a great sign.

Jonathan’s hands jerked the steering wheel.
Tiffany stopped her rambling and studied his face. Sweat trickled
along his temples.

“Jonny, are you all right?” She ran her
manicured nails through his curly black hair. “You seem
nervous.”

Jonathan fidgeted in his seat. The traffic on
Sunset was moving at a crawl. “It’s been a rough day, Tiff. A rough
week.” He deliberately rolled his eyes. “A rough life.”

Tiffany gave a little pout. "Aw, poor Jonny.”
She reached her hand across the seat and rubbed his chest. A wave
of adrenaline swept through him.

Jonathan drove erratically along the palm
tree-lined avenue. Tiffany leaned her head into his shoulder and
started nibbling his neck. Her hand started to roam. Jonathan
gripped the wheel, his knuckles turning white.

Tiffany stopped her amorous play and
frowned.

“So which play was it?” she said.

“What? What play?”

“You know. The one with Lila.”

Jonathan looked at Tiffany. Her face was easy
to read. Another Lila fanatic.

He fumed, but the corners of his mouth rose.
If Lila came through for him, then he’d convert. He’d become Lila’s
greatest fan. She just had to help him. Why wouldn’t she? He
started her on her road to stardom.

She owed him.

Chapter 4

Olympia, Washington

Dick Ferrol tried to figure a way out
of the mess he’d gotten into, but always came up with the same
conclusion.
You are dead,
pal
. He knew he had taken chances, involved too many
people—any one of them could have talked. Hey, they couldn’t pay
him enough for the kind of aggravation he had to contend with. His
roof needed repairing. His youngest girl was going to need braces
soon. Millie’s salary fell short. Life was just too damned
expensive.

As he drove past the State Legislature
building lit up against the winter sky, he felt a heavy ache in his
heart. Not even a year ago the sight used to fill him with a sense
of pride. Now it loomed ominously in judgment of him. Why were
people always trying to dig up dirt? Tonight’s rambling city
council meeting had left Dick with his stomach roiling in acid. He
popped a Rolaids in his mouth and cringed as he relived the
encounter in the parking lot. He thought he had made a sneaky
getaway with that excuse about needing the restroom. But, no, just
as he slipped into his car a hand had gripped his arm, and the
oh-so-cheerful clerk shoved the subpoena into his face.

“Sorry to do this to you, pal.”
Sure he was sorry.

Dick had hoped against all odds it wouldn’t
come to this, and now his worst fears materialized. He clutched the
handle of his car and felt his knees give way.

The man had given him a brusque pat on the
back. “Weather it out, pal. Like you always say—you can get away
with anything because people have short memories.”

Couldn’t they tell he was on their side,
trying to make this town a better place? He was the good guy; why
couldn’t they see that?

The last eight months he had barely
kept his head above water, but now he was drowning. As much as he
hated to admit it, Millie had been right. She knew how stubbornly
he grabbed onto his ideas, like a mean dog with a bone. She told
him to let others take over part of the project. And that’s damn
well what he should have done from the get-go. But, how could he
have? The Community Center was
his
baby and if it failed, then
he
failed. Why didn’t she understand that? Dick
crunched his Rolaids and bit his tongue.

And now what? A public hearing. The thought
of a trial sent another stabbing pain to his gut. He could just see
his mother reading the “Daily O” with her morning coffee—with his
name plastered all over the front page. There would be hell to
pay.

Dick parked the car and climbed the steps to
the small clapboard house trimmed with green shutters and bordered
by a postage-stamp-sized lawn. It looked like every other house on
the block. He heard his older daughter yell, “Daddy’s home!”

He cringed. Millie stood stiffly at the far
end of the foyer, watching Sally and Debby bounce around him,
hemming him in.

“Hi, Daddy. You’ll never guess—we’re doing
Swan Lake and I’m going to audition for the lead. Can you believe
it?” Sally was fourteen and frighteningly skinny. Dick blamed her
anorexia on Millie. Just looking at his obese wife was enough to
frighten anyone off food. He had a little paunch himself, but, hey,
that was normal for a man in his thirties. But Millie—since college
she must have gained sixty pounds.

Their younger daughter, Debby, was like
Millie—withdrawn and overweight. She grabbed Dick by the hand and
pulled him into the kitchen.

“I made you a chocolate cake, Daddy. Come
on.”

“Not tonight, angel, I can’t eat a
thing.”

Debby pouted. Like her mother, she equated
love with eating.

“Now don’t cry, angel. I promise I’ll have
some in the morning. Shouldn’t you girls be off to bed? It’s late.
School tomorrow.”

They kissed him goodnight and Millie followed
them upstairs. As she passed Dick she asked, “How’d it go?” He
avoided her suspicious gaze.

“
Just fine.” He waved her away. “Get
ready for bed. I’ll be up in awhile.”

He watched his wife trudge up the stairs.
Living in rainy Washington wreaked havoc with her hair, keeping it
frizzy and unkempt. As always, she wore her matching sweat pants
and sweatshirt. A real joke, since the only sweat his wife ever
raised was when she lifted her fork to her mouth. However, she
never failed to mention how hard she slaved all day at the store,
how she was too exhausted to fix a proper dinner. If he had
macaroni and frozen peas one more time he would throw up. Oh, to
have enough money to eat out every night. Now, Penny, she had some
class. If only she didn’t have this thing about clothes. Already
this week he shelled out over a hundred on some little “outfit” she
just had to have.

He poured himself a double scotch and sat on
the couch in his den. He thought of the room as his sanctum
sanctorum—an expression he heard once in a movie. In fact, he
patterned the den after a movie he’d seen, with pine-paneled walls
and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves—though he hardly read anything
unless it pertained to his political aspirations. Plaques
testifying to his civic endeavors adorned the walls. Yet, he had to
admit his career was small potatoes. He knew he had the makings of
State Senator, and here he was in this dumpy end of town with a
dumpy wife. His life, his marriage, everything made him feel
claustrophobic these days. And unappreciated.

Dick picked up the TV remote and punched in
the local access channel to watch the rest of the council meeting.
Then he remembered the subpoena in his pocket. He pulled out the
envelope and ripped it open. He didn’t see Millie hovering by the
door.