Richfield & Rivers Mystery Series 3 - Venus Besieged (2 page)

“Are
you avoiding my notes on the story?” Barrett asked, all business.

“Absolutely
not. More sex. Sexier. Unexpected sex. Sex within two minutes of the open,
sexier a half hour in, huge sex an hour later, sex—”

“The
problem with you, Teague—you argue.” Barrett’s tone was soothing as she handed
me a bite of something. “Mirugai.”

For
all I knew, mirugai meant calm down.

“From
my vantage point, it’s called not rolling over. Studios and directors buy a
screenplay based on the treatment, then before you can turn those ten pages
into a hundred and twenty, they begin giving notes. How can you give notes on something
that doesn’t exist yet?”

I
took a bite of the slippery thing Barrett had handed me, spontaneously slapped
the remainder of it onto the black lacquer plate in front of me, and slugged
the slimy sea creature down with shochu, nearly gagging on the combination.
“What the hell was that?”

“Mirugai,
giant clam.”

Slamming
down more shochu, I was emboldened. “Maybe my attorney should contact Jacowitz
and remind him that our deal says I write the screenplay, not rewrite the
treatment.”

This
is how it always starts. Love your work, bought your work, so that I can
destroy your work and start over
.
Having played this game for years in a city where people were more scared than
horses in a hail storm and followed what everyone else did, herdlike and horrified,
taking more chances in bed than they ever did on the screen, I’d apparently
chosen tonight to have a breakdown brought on by seafood and saki.

Seeing
I was agitated, Barrett took the drink out of my hand and finished it, sipping
from the same side of the glass where I had drunk, reminding me without telling
me that we had a shared and intimate past that connected us whether I liked it
or not.

“The
drink is supposed to relax you, but you might be allergic to it.” Barrett
reached back and thumped her fist against the knuckle block.

Seconds
later, the Japanese girl returned and politely awaited Barrett’s command.

“My
charming friend needs something more soothing.”

The
girl nodded and left as I got to my knees and staggered to my feet. Telling
Barrett I’d return in a moment, I headed down the hall to the bathroom.

This
has gotten off to a great start,
I
chastised myself, looking at my slightly blurred face in the ladies’ room
mirror. My green eyes weren’t quite as sparkly after I’d drunk the shochu, but
my punked hair was in place. After using the facilities, I washed up and pulled
my green T down under my green cord blazer and pants. When in doubt I
gravitated to military colors; perhaps Hollywood reminded me of a battle that
never ended in a war that couldn’t be won.

Try
to be nice, for God’s sake. This script will become a movie… will become a
movie…will become a movie
, I chanted
in my head as I strode back down the hall, more off balance than the
Andrea
Doria
as I re-entered the private dining room where Barrett was standing,
asking if I was alright.

I
made a mild attempt at apology, blaming the alcohol. She agreed it wasn’t the
right drink and offered me the one on the table.

“Nihonshu,
a refined version of saki and only 16 percent alcohol. Let’s see what this does
for you.” I knelt and she knelt beside me, on my side of the table, and poured
me a glass. We sank down on the pillows facing each other.

“To
better days and happy endings.” I raised my glass, quoting Melissa Manchester.

“Or
you could ‘make my day,’ as Clint always says.” She smiled, toasting me with
her own connectedness.

“Listen,
I’ll be in Sedona for several weeks. We’ll stay in touch, and I’ll let you see
how it’s progressing and get you and Jacowitz comfortable with the sex scenes,”
I offered, trying to be conciliatory.

“Fifty
pages at a time?” she asked, and I knew I’d given too much. Now she would be
dogging me, wanting to see every scene. “I want to see how it…builds,” she said
and reached for my shirt, heretofore safely tucked, and flipped it out of my
pants, running her hand across my skin and over the top of my bra.

“Barrett,”
I protested, but my breath was faint and so was I. She unzipped my pants and
jammed her hand inside between my legs, using that leverage to pull me into her
lips. I pushed back but felt weak, almost drugged.

“Think
of it as research.” Her fingers fought to slide inside me and her mouth
enveloped mine.

Barrett’s
inability to kiss and the flashing images of Callie and her warm, soft lips and
blue eyes saved me. I shoved Barrett away, pulling my pants together and
struggling to get to my feet.

But
she had me off balance and pulled me down to her unzipped fly murmuring, “Start
by eating this.”

While
I was zipping up my own pants Barrett had apparently been unzipping hers and placing
a California roll in the…
what… groin area?
It was resting there like a
beached crab. I’d heard the slurs of women and fish but had never contemplated
a woman wearing a crustacean in her pants.

“Barrett,
for God’s sake, let go of me!”

But
she was out of her head, either from the drink or the fantasy or her close
proximity to a woman. She had a death clutch on my lapels and was using my
weight to pin her to the ground so she could writhe up against me. My muscles
had failed me and I was struggling to extricate myself, which only seemed to
make the sensation more pleasurable for her. As sexual as the next woman, I was
nonetheless turned off by trying to turn her off.

“Fuck
me, baby,” she breathed, then repeated it like a mantra with each hip thrust,
trapping my knee between her hot thighs and grinding into me. “Are you the
young novice I spoke to on the phone?” Barrett’s reputation was not only tied
to her promiscuity but to reciting an author’s work during the most intimate
sexual moment. “Take me places with your mouth my husband would never dream of
going.”

The
word “husband” threw me, despite the fact that somewhere in my head I knew
Barrett didn’t have a husband. I’d always made it a point never to get involved
with a woman whose betrayed lover had chest hair.

When
she began to moan and climax, I was unable to escape, and her verbalization of
extreme pleasure was reaching Beverly Sills proportions. I clamped my hand over
her mouth, thinking our position reminded me of a takedown on the police force
rather than an act of consensual sex.
How can sex be so one-sided and so
unsexy?

Suddenly
she ratcheted up her hip movements to Tilt-A-Whirl force, groaning loudly, then
exploded and went limp, unconscious. Silence—stillness. Scared, I spoke her
name, took her pulse, shook her—nothing. My heart raced.
Omigod, has she had
a heart attack having sex virtually with herself and died on me like some old
guy in a sleazebag hotel?

I
took her pulse again, and it was weak and fluttering. I banged on the wall
block and started CPR. The Japanese woman stepped inside the door, startled
when I looked up frantic.

“Get
an ambulance!” And I resumed trying to breathe life back into her. Images of
that day at Orso’s flashed through my mind when Barrett was having lunch with
me and I had to call an ambulance.
Note to self. No more dining with
Barrett, assuming she’ll ever be able to dine with anyone again.

Moments
later the paramedics arrived, and after much talking into their radios and
taking vital signs and quizzing me, they finally gave her a shot of Benadryl
and loaded her onto a stretcher.

When
the sushi fell out of Barrett’s pant leg, the female tech glanced my way and
began quizzing me anew. “What was she doing right before it happened?”

“She
was drinking and very animated.” Only a partial lie or partial truth, whichever
way you chose to look at it. I wasn’t about to say that Barrett Silvers had
humped me like a horned toad and then stopped breathing.

The
shot of Benadryl seemingly having done its trick, Barrett was already coming
around on the stretcher and demanding to be let off, refusing IVs and further
assistance. The young male paramedic allowed her to get up, saying something in
the food or wine could have caused the reaction.

Barrett
asked me for a pen and, her grip still weak, managed to write a wobbly
signature that dismissed the paramedics. Then she signed a waiver for the
restaurant that assured any lawyers who cared that whatever had happened wasn’t
their fault.
For a studio executive, she gave up her rights pretty quickly
,
I thought, but I wouldn’t want my body taken to an L.A. hospital either, unless
my parts were so badly damaged they were arriving under separate transport in
an ice chest.

The
sexy dining alcove now looked like an episode of
ER
with torn paper, tape,
tubing, and other paraphernalia mingled among the lotus blossoms and orange
slices.

The
medics attempted a quick cleanup and loaded up to leave. I was relieved when
the room was cleared and Barrett asked me to drive her home, having come by
cab. She put her arm over my shoulder, the full weight of her tall frame heavy
and unsexy. The weight of a woman hanging on me, drunkenly rather than
affectionately, felt different—both physically and psychologically.

A
nervous Japanese restaurant manager who wanted to be on record, I was certain,
as having been of assistance, followed us to my car.

Helping
Barrett inside, I felt sorry for her, but I also had the same reaction I
surmised men had—awaking in bed with someone who looked sexy after six
martinis, but now not so good over a couple of eggs. Barrett’s pleated and
pressed black slacks were wrinkled, her patent loafers had a gouge in one toe,
which must have occurred as they hurried to load her on the stretcher, and she
looked worn smooth, her loose silk shirt with the French cuffs sadly stained.

I
drove slowly, not wanting to jar her, and when I asked occasionally if she was
alright, she nodded. As we pulled up in front of her Las Feliz home, she
reached over and took my hand in her slightly larger one, the gold pinkie ring
somehow exotically sexy on her long slender fingers.

“I
enjoyed the first half of the evening,” she said, but her words sounded like a
perfunctory wrap-up to a date that hadn’t ended well. “I’ll call you and see
how you’re doing. Think about the notes from Jacowitz, will you?”

How
in hell can she still be talking business
, I wondered as she opened the car door, and then I realized business
was all she had. I started to get out and help her but she waved me off, some
shred of pride left.

As I
watched her walk up the steps, I was sad.
Who in the world will Barrett
Silvers ever meet who understands her? Where will she ever find love? There’s
no one on the planet who can handle her or make her want to be faithful, yet
deep down that’s probably what she wants
.

Early
in my life I might have taken on that task simply to save her, despite having
to sacrifice myself in the process, but I’d gotten my money’s worth with a
shrink on that topic, so the most I could give Barrett tonight was a ride home.

Quickly
my own love life clicked in, and I wondered if this whole bizarre evening
constituted being unfaithful to Callie Rivers. I had tried not to let Barrett
have sex on top of me, if that was the proper phrase. I hadn’t enjoyed it and
was embarrassed by it. Nonetheless, Barrett Silvers had climaxed against my
body. What should I tell Callie, and was telling even required?

Callie
Rivers was psychic, so wouldn’t it be entirely up to her to figure it out, get
a call from the cosmos, a visual from Venus, or whatever? Did I have to walk
into the cabin and blurt, “Hey, honey, by the way, while I was having a
business dinner with Barrett Silvers she put sushi in her slits and humped me
like a hound, but it was one-sided”? What earthly good could come from sharing
that piece of information? It was bizarre, unexpected, and over.

But
the big question still remained: when is telling required? After all, even
Catholics go to confession voluntarily.

An
hour later, after brewing coffee so strong I had to almost chisel it out of the
pot, I drank two cups before loading Elmo, luggage, and laptop into the Jeep
and heading out under a full moon for Sedona to get as far away as possible
from L.A and Barrett Silvers. Leaving now would put me in Sedona Sunday at
dawn, a day early, and give me time to settle in before Callie arrived the
following morning.

Within
minutes, we were heading down Riverside Drive in the dark, hooking up with
Highway 15, then connecting to I-40 in Barstow and breathing room, as I finally
escaped the ubiquitous Valley traffic. Elmo swayed and paced across the
flattened backseat of the Jeep, having trouble keeping his footing as I swerved
in and out of the chain of headlights.

"I
was attacked," I told my faithful hound and he let out a mournful moan.
"Barrett lies in wait for me every time, like a damned vulture. I
shouldn't have gone. But how do you not go when she's the studio exec on your
movie and wants to meet? I didn't do anything..
.she
did it."