Lovers and Liars (40 page)

S
he had stood him up.

Vince slammed his hands on the steering wheel and stared at his house. She wasn’t even returning his calls. Maybe he should go over there again and wait until she got
home. Or maybe she was home. Maybe this was it. Maybe she didn’t want to see him anymore.

Last night he had gone over and waited and waited—the wonderful anticipation slowly fading, becoming replaced with frustration, hurt, and anger. Until he had known he was being stood up. Known it and hated her. Almost.

He was losing her. He was sure of it. He hardly saw her anymore, and the other night, after she’d gotten back from Aspen, it had taken a long, long time to bring her to a climax—one single one. And then Belinda hadn’t wanted to make love again. She had asked, then insisted, that he leave. Saying she was tired from her ski trip.

Vince got out of his truck. Damned if he’d crawl anymore. Let her call—let her apologize.

But as he walked up the stone path to his house, he was so damn tempted to turn around, jump into his Ford, and drive over. He could be there in thirty minutes. Thirty-five minutes from now, after she had apologized, he could be making love to her.

Mary was sitting on the floor surrounded by newspapers, looking ghastly. “What’s with you?” he asked out of curiosity, not interest.

She looked at him as if she were about to cry.

“You on the rag, or what?”

“Fuck off, Vince,” she said, starting to weep.

He shook his head and stalked into the kitchen. She looked like shit—he could barely stand the sight of her—and she had a mouth to match. Too bad she wouldn’t move out on him, maybe in with her lover, so he wouldn’t have to leave. Because once he told her about his plans for a divorce, one of them was going to have to relocate. But he wasn’t in the mood now—he was too aggravated about Belinda. He’d tell Mary tomorrow about the divorce.

Then he felt her as she threw her arms around him from behind. “Vince, I’m sorry.” She was sobbing. “Oh, please don’t be mad.”

He disengaged himself and looked at her. “Are you high? Drunk? What is it with you?”

She wiped her eyes. “My whole life is falling apart,” she moaned.

He quickly decided he wasn’t in the mood. “I take it you’re not cooking tonight—again?”

“How can you think about food?” she wailed.

“Shit,” Vince said. “I’m ordering a pizza.”

Mary walked away, slumped, and Vince felt a twinge of remorse. He wasn’t being very nice to her. But, God, couldn’t she at least cook him dinner every
other
night? Was that too much to ask?

Belinda would never cook for him.

Oh, she had, two or three times, when they were first seeing each other; but back then the meals had gone cold because they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

Where the hell had she been last night?

Better yet, with who?

He couldn’t think about it. If he did, he would go crazy.

There was a sharp knocking on the door. Vince wondered who could possibly be dropping by. As he passed Mary he wondered if she were really ill. She was so white. He opened the door to see two uniformed police officers and a man in jeans. The man in jeans was holding up a police badge. “Police,” he said. “You Vince Spazzio?”

“Yeah,” Vince said, thoroughly puzzled. “What’s this about?”

The detective was looking past him, at Mary. “That your wife?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you realize, Mrs. Spazzio, that leaving the scene of a crime is a felony?”

“It was an accident,” Mary whimpered.

“What!” Vince exclaimed.

“I’m afraid you’re under arrest,” the cop said to Mary.

“Arrest?” Vince was stunned. “For what?”

“Leaving the scene, for one. Suspicion of intent to do bodily harm, for two. Possible assault with a deadly weapon. She got a license to carry a gun?”

“Mary?”

“I didn’t mean to, Vince.” Mary was weeping. “I didn’t.”

“Lady, anything you say can and will be held against you,” Hewitt said. “Come on, I’ll read your Miranda rights as we go.” He looked at Vince. “Maybe you should call the family lawyer.”

“I don’t understand,” Vince said. “What the fuck happened?”

“Your wife shot Belinda Glassman yesterday afternoon.”

75

B
elinda tried to wake up. The hands were welcome, reassuring. Soothing, stroking, calloused, a man’s hands. She tried to remember where she was. Ah, yes, Aspen. She snuggled closer. Jack. Jack was here; she was still with him; he was saying her name, a hoarse caress of sound.

Something was wrong with the scenario, she knew it. Then she realized and was jubilant. She wasn’t in Aspen. That was days ago. She was home. She had been shot. But Jack had come. He
cared
.

She turned her face into his hand. So real. He was really here.

“Sweetheart?”

She sighed. Tried to speak. She was so tired, she couldn’t move, not a muscle, not even her tongue. Jack, she thought.

“Sweetheart? It’s okay, I’m here.”

The lost shrouds of sleep left. Belinda nuzzled the large warm hand that cupped her face.

“I love you. God, I love you.”

Her eyes flew open and a vast disappointment careened
over her, like a wave breaking on the sand. Vince. It had just been a dream, just a damn dream. So real, but already the exquisite sensations, the unbearable happiness was fading to nothing but a figment of her unconscious, nothing but a fantasy.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Vince said.

“What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

“The door wasn’t locked. I just found out. God, Belinda, I’m so sorry!”

Belinda was too tired, too sore, and too groggy to be angry. She closed her eyes. She felt the bed dip, then felt Vince stretch out cautiously near her, on her good side. This was wrong. It was over. But … there was no one else who cared, and she was so alone, hurting and alone … Vince cared. “Oh, Vince,” she said, but it came out terribly choked. It was the pain-killers, she knew, making her overly emotional, making her self-pitying.

“Shhh, I’m here.” He soothed her. “And I’m staying here until you get well.”

“Hold me,” she murmured, and he did, awkwardly. The heat of his body felt so good, so reassuring, and his hands were so comforting. She fell asleep.

Her dreams were a weird collage—her father, grinning; her mother, accusing; Vince; Mary; the gun. A crying baby. Belligerence became fear. The gun exploded. Fear became pain. Mary was screaming and screaming. Her mother was weeping. Abe was shouting. Abe became Vince. Comforting, solid. And the baby was still there, still crying. Was it hers? Then Vince started to drift away, just when she needed him so badly, and she begged and pleaded for him to stay. Or was it Abe? Then his face changed, became Jack’s, twisted with anger. “You’re a cold bitch,” he said ruthlessly, unmoved by her wound.

A cold bitch.

But I’m not! She was crying. I’m not, really, I’m not!

He was leaving, slamming the door. It was only a dream and she knew it. She willed him back. But it was useless. He wouldn’t return.

76

“E
veryone knows, Melody.”

“So tell me,” she said, leaning forward.

They were at Spago. They had just finished smoked-salmon pizza and Chablis—something Melody had thought sounded horrible but was actually phenomenal. Nickie Felton had removed his glasses, the better to come on, she supposed, but now he replaced them.

“Abe Glassman has a hate thing for your boss. And I don’t know the particulars.
Berenger
was great. I saw the answer print—so did a lot of people. But Glassman—lunatic that he is—canceled release, and that is the end of that.
Finita
.”

So there was a basis for Jack’s paranoia, she thought. “Will it ever be released?”

“Who knows? I will tell you one thing though.” He paused dramatically.

Melody waited.

“Price was fucking pissed. I mean
pissed!
Livid. Ready to kill. You know how that bastard is. Hell, I don’t blame him.”

“So what happened?”

“I have no idea how he was calmed down. Needless to say, Price is about to go on location for a Paramount film.” Felton shrugged. “Price was offered our biggest-budget flick for eighty-nine and turned it down. So he may have stopped mouthing off, but I know he’s not happy.”

Melody leaned back in her seat and thought.
Berenger
was never going to be released—she was sure of it—and Jack didn’t know it. It was only a minor setback, really—he had two more films to make. “What about
Outrage
? And exactly what are the budgetary problems?”

Nickie gave her a funny look. “There are none.”

“What?”

“Haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?” Melody asked, her heart thudding in excitement.

“The real scoop is that
Outrage
is finished. It’s not ever going back into production.”

Oh, my God.

“If there’s any way—and this is strictly between you and me—that Jack can break his contract and survive, advise him to do it and do it now.”

Melody nodded.

“Now,” Nickie said, “let’s get out of here.”

Nickie drove a red Mercedes convertible, the top down, which Melody didn’t mind, because her hair was so unruly anyway. She was too absorbed in her thoughts—a tiny idea forming—to pay attention to what Nickie was saying as they sped toward her apartment, which was almost in Westwood. But when his hand drifted along her thigh she jerked back to reality. He grinned at her. Squeezing her flesh.

She removed his hand. “No, Nickie.”

“Ah, come on,” he said. “A tit for a tat.”

He rubbed her thigh again, coming dangerously close to her crotch, and again she removed his hand. He insisted on walking her up to her apartment. Melody knew he expected her to sleep with him for the information he had given. He did deserve something—those were the rules. There was just no way she was going to let him stick it to her. No way.

“Come on, Melody, invite me in for a drink.”

“Nickie, it’s late.”

He persisted; she let him in. They sat on her couch sipping amaretto. Nickie grabbed her. Kissing her, or trying to, and fondling her breasts. She had decided she would give him a couple of feels, make him happy, then send him away. He grabbed her hand and placed it on a throbbing erection. He groaned and grabbed her crotch.