Shamus In The Green Room (19 page)

Gambino looked me in the eye. “Do you know what this is?”

“A small, round hole. Maybe a third of an inch in diame-

ter. So?”

As soon as I’d said it, I knew.

I’d been right the first time.

“That’s right,” he said angrily, “now you see my problem. I

get here a couple of hours ago, see the broken glass, the

patched-up window, have a look around, and find this. A fuck-

ing bullet hole. Somebody fired a thirty-eight special into this

house. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes,” I said in a small voice.

“Were you here when this happened?” He was gripping my

shoulders now, hard.

“Yes.”

“Jesus! Why the hell didn’t you tell me? Are you crazy?”

I pulled away from him. “Why don’t you give me a minute

to explain?”

“Fine.” He yanked out his chair and sat down.

I leaned against the wall, hoping it would swallow me up.

“It was this morning, early. I heard a noise. I tried to call 911,

but I couldn’t find my phone. Your cell phone was out of juice.

I waited a long time. I didn’t know what to do.”

“You could’ve gotten out of there,” he said. “Screamed for

help—”

“I wasn’t thinking straight,” I protested. “When I finally

saw the broken window, I thought the paperboy had done it.

The newspaper was right outside.”

“So you cleaned up the mess. Good-bye, evidence.”

“I’m sorry.”

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“I know you’re sorry,” he said quickly. “You’re always sorry.

One day it’s going to be too late for sorry. No matter what

I say, you just refuse to think, for god’s sakes.”

“Are you done now?” I asked.

He looked at me like he was trying to make up his mind

about something, which didn’t exactly make me happy.

I held his gaze.

He keep looking.

“I can beat you at this game,” I said, not blinking.

“Come here,” he said, holding out his arms. I fell into them.

“This isn’t about you, Cece.”

But it was about me. About me not being able to let things

go. About me thinking I was immune to danger.

“I’m scared for you,” he said.

I pulled away from him, ashamed.

“And I’m angry at myself,” he continued. “Furious, actu-

ally. This whole thing is turning out so wrong. I keep making

mistake after mistake.”

I was confused. Were we talking about the same thing?

“What does this have to do with the woman who keeps calling

you?” I asked. “Is she one of the mistakes you’re talking about?”

Instead of answering, he walked into the kitchen. There

was a Baggie on the sink. He picked it up and stuffed it into his

pocket.

“What is that?” I asked.

“The slug I took out of the wall.” He put on his jacket.

“What about the woman?”

“Look, I can’t talk about that now.”

I was afraid to ask. But I couldn’t go through it again. I

couldn’t make the same mistake twice. “Are you having an

affair with her?” I whispered.

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“Of course not.”

“Then who is she?”

“She’s not your concern.”

“What does she have to do with the bullet in my window?

Was she shooting at me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not the target, Cece.”

That’s when it dawned on me. “You’re talking about Julio

Gonzalez, aren’t you?” I followed Gambino to the front door.

“But Julio Gonzalez can’t be responsible. He’s in jail.”

“Things are complicated.”

“Is she one of those complications?”

“Let it go, Cece. I’ve got to get to the lab.”

“Now? I thought you were going to come with me to Rafe’s

party.”

“I’ve got more important things to deal with,” he said, his

hand on the knob. He turned to face me. “I’m trying to keep

an innocent woman from getting hurt.”

I wondered later if he meant me or her.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-TWO

Nine-thirty on the Venice canals. The Chinese lanterns

were lit and the air smelled like jasmine.

Rafe opened the door. Music spilled into the night. He

looked like hell—thin, pale, and drunk.

“What do you think?” He had on a vintage smoking jacket,

maroon satin with a black medallion motif. “Wardrobe let me

borrow it.”

Will, resplendent in an oversize Hawaiian shirt, stood by

his side. “Why are you opening the door? You’re the fucking

star, man.”

“You’re right,” said Rafe. “Why don’t you make yourself

useful and get me another drink?”

Will looked at him for a minute, then walked away.

“I thought you weren’t a method actor,” I said.

“People change.” He lost his balance for a minute. “Fuck.”

A beautiful redhead wearing peacock-feather earrings grabbed

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him under the arm. “Sorry,” he said, drifting away with her.

“Make yourself at home.”

Inside, it was smoky and loud and decorator perfect. A sin-

gle orchid stood in an otherwise empty modular bookcase,

which covered one wall like honeycomb. Hothouse-flower-

type women leaned against a mirrored console. A fire crackled

in the fireplace. Will was sulking by the bar. Oblivious, Rafe

poured himself another drink. His forehead was slick with

sweat. The redhead was slipping an oyster down her throat.

A cool hand touched my shoulder. I turned. Fredericka,

Rafe’s assistant. She looked ethereal in a pale blue halter and

billowing white silk pants. I must’ve looked like the grim

reaper by comparison in an ankle-length cobweb of black cro-

chet. At least the skirt was tight and semisheer. I could still get

arrested in certain Muslim countries.

“Long time no see,” I said, smiling. I should’ve worn my

red satin hourglass dress. It was by Philip Hulitar, the house

designer for Bergdorf Goodman in the fifties. Philip Hulitar

understood that there is no substitute for a long-line bullet

bra. It suddenly occurred to me that underwire could save the

bat-wing-sleeve sweater. Maybe not. In any case, I didn’t have

the heart for red after that scene with Gambino.

“Can I get you anything? Champagne?” Fredericka grabbed

a glass off a passing tray.

“I’ve already filled my quota today. I’m a little worried

about Rafe, though. Is he okay?”

“Rafe?”

His smoking jacket was hanging open now. He had lemon-

yellow board shorts on underneath. He and the redhead were

laughing too loudly together. “Yes, Rafe. Your employer. Does

he always drink this much?”

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“He’s got a lot going on, you know?” She took a sip of the

champagne.

“I was just asking.”

There was a loud crash upstairs. I looked at Fredericka, who

downed the rest of her glass without commenting. Nerves of

steel.

“I like the way the house looks,” I volunteered.

“Will did it. He’s got an amazing eye for composition. He

sees a frame and knows how to fill it. It’s an art, really.”

There was another crash from upstairs.

“What was that?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing, I’m sure.” She looked over at Will, who was

already halfway up the stairs. “Have you met Steve?”

“Steve?”

“Terrell. You really have to meet him. He’s the director of

the film. The current director, I should say. Will fired the first

one, Eleanor Lonner. He said it’s always a mistake to work

with people you don’t know from Adam. Too many surprises

there.”

That was an understatement.

“Do you like Eleanor’s work?” Fredericka asked. “She did

that Amelia Earhart movie, in black and white? I thought she

had a really provocative vision for Dash!, but it’s not like my

opinion counts for shit around here. Steve!” she called out. A

short, dark man with thick black glasses and several days’

growth of beard extricated himself from a conversation with a

shorter, darker man and came over. He moved in a way that

was supposed to denote street cred, but I suspected a round of

hip-hop classes.

Steve Terrell kissed Fredericka with more fervor than was

necessary. Her girlfriend, Lana, appeared from out of nowhere

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and wrapped a proprietary arm around the former’s tiny waist.

Steve Terrell was not fazed. Diamonds glinted in both of his

ears. You are the man, said the little voice in his head. A beast.

I introduced myself. He sat down on a large, black leather

couch and patted the spot next to him. “B and B Italia. Six

thousand euros, with the designer discount. And Rafe’s got the

bed to match.”

He looked at my blank expression.

“Sorry. I’m kind of passionate about design. Brad Pitt and I

like to hang out with Frank Gehry.”

This seemed to require a response, so I said, “Cool.”

He grinned. His teeth were like beacons in the night. They

matched his white Nikes. “So. Cece Caruso. I gotta tell you,

your book was really intense. I derived a lot of inspiration

from it.”

Throwing caution to the wind, I sat down next to him.

“Thank you.”

“No, really, I’m not bullshitting you. When I saw the book

was by a woman, I had my doubts. I’m coming clean with you

here, okay? But you’ve got balls.”

I crossed my legs primly.

“I said to Will, Will, that girl can talk dirty. She gets the vi-

olence of the language, she gets how it’s a perfect metaphor for

the corruption of society, you know what I’m saying? My work

is like that, too. Hard, tough, spare. Red Harvest, that’s my

Hammett. I don’t know how many corpses piled up in that

one.” He laughed. “You kind of lose track after a while, you

know what I’m saying? That’s what I’m bringing to the film.

Violence. Action. Have you seen my movie Punched ? Will

loved it. Rafe, too. About Jack Johnson, the prizefighter? I won

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a Golden Globe. Two hundred million domestic.” He was

ready to burst.

I came clean about not having seen Punched, and started to

point out that Hammett in fact had reduced the level of vio-

lence in each of his successive books (there are only four mur-

ders in The Maltese Falcon, and all occur offscreen), but Steve

Terrell wasn’t having any of it. He wanted to talk chairs. He’d

recently acquired a new Cappellini chair, which cost $3,000

with the designer discount and resembled a bird in flight, and

was planning to bid on a set of twenty-four Artifort little tulip

chairs, upholstered in black suede, at Sotheby’s next Saturday.

Steve Terrell studied my legs, then asked if I’d ever actually

seen a little tulip chair. When I confessed my ignorance, he in-

vited me to join him for the auction.

Rafe ambled over at that point and practically fell into my

lap. “Sorry, Cece. Why am I always apologizing to you?” He

pushed his hair out of his face. “Anyway, don’t listen to a thing

this guy is telling you. He hasn’t got a pot to piss in.” Steve

Terrell looked uncomfortable. On the set, he outranked Rafe,

but we weren’t on the set now.

I sensed it was a good moment for me to get up. I wandered

through the dining room, past a trio of semiclad starlets clus-

tered in front of an Andy Warhol triptych of Rafe, and into the

kitchen, which at my parties is always the central hub of activ-

ity. Rafe’s kitchen was as spotless as a laboratory, and not ex-

actly hopping. Two men in wraparound aprons were covering

large, plastic trays of grilled shrimp with tin foil.

An angry-looking woman with a frying pan in her hand

stomped through the swinging door. Will’s assistant, Kat, fol-

lowed close upon her heels.

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“Would you slow down?” Kat panted.

“Boys!” the woman snapped. “Do not forget the bruschetta!”

“Take pity on me,” Kat pleaded, bending down to pick up a

yellow file folder that had dropped out of her hand. She pulled

up her low-rider jeans and tugged down her tie-dyed wife

beater. “Won’t you reconsider? We’re expecting over a hundred

people tonight. You can’t just take the food and go!”

“Watch me. Get into the van, now!” the woman directed

her helpers. She opened the stainless-steel fridge and removed

six bottles of salad dressing, which she placed in an empty

wine box.

Kat turned to me. “Cece.” She handed me the file. “Can I

ask you a huge favor? Can you please run this up to Will’s

desk? I have to deal with this situation right now.”

The swinging door swung open yet again.

“Fredericka! Thank god.” Kat grabbed the file back out of

my hand and was about to hand it to Fredericka when the lat-

ter burst into tears.

“What is it?” Kat asked, concerned.

“Lana’s leaving me,” Fredericka said, sobbing.

The caterer uncorked a bottle of pinot noir and poured

some into a Dixie cup. “For pain and suffering,” she said, suck-

ing it down. “Mine, I mean.”

“What happened?” asked Kat, on the verge of tears herself.

“It’s Will’s fault,” Fredericka wailed.

“I’ll second that,” the caterer said.

“Asshole,” murmured Kat.

“Weeks and weeks ago, he walked in on something that was

nothing,” Fredericka said. “I don’t know why he told Lana

about it. He promised he wouldn’t.”

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