Devil's Food (32 page)

“No thanks.”

Ward replaced the bottle. “How did you know about Cafe Presto?”

What? No hedging? This woman was kamikaze; the least a gentleman could do was respond in kind. “I happened to be standing
outside and got the license plate of the truck. I went to
the Peace Power Farm this morning. Someone there sent me here.”

“Standing outside Cafe Presto, eh? I didn’t see anyone.”

“I was in a little alcove across the street.”

“And what were you doing there at that hour? Looking for meteors?”

“I was watching Guy Witten.” That didn’t sound too swift, so Ross added, “I have a score to settle with him.” That sounded
even worse. “It’s a business matter.”

After a moment, Ward retrieved the liqueur from her drawer. Her Adam’s apple jerked up and down a half dozen times as she
swallowed the thick, emerald liquid. “I just wanted to wreck his window,” she said, wiping her mouth. “I had no idea he was
sitting inside.” A terrific smile lit up her face. “That was a bonus.”

When the smile didn’t go away, Ross became uneasy. “I take it you have a score to settle yourself.”

The smile vanished. “Right. And you’d better not horn in on me, buster. I’ve been waiting too long for this.”

For what? Ross didn’t care. He had just seen God. “He sprained a wrist, you know.”

“I can read the newspapers.” Ward’s smile returned. “The wrist was for warm-ups.”

“If you’d like a word with Guy,” Ross said slowly, because this woman was out of her mind, “I have an idea where he might
be tonight. We have a little cabin in New Hampshire. I think he’s meeting my sister-in-law there.”

“Oy! You don’t mean that cheap blond whose date dropped dead in my restaurant.”

Ross winced: Dana. “That’s the one. I think Guy’s been seeing her.”

“The bastard. Always looking for fresh meat. Although I wouldn’t exactly call your sister-in-law spring lamb. Where is this
place now?”

Ross drew her a map. “This isn’t one hundred percent certain, you know.”

“I’ll take that chance.” Folding the paper into her pocket,
Ward studied Ross for a long moment. “Why did you come here? Sheer curiosity?”

“Only as far as my wife is concerned,” he answered. “What’s the connection between you, Cafe Presto, and Emily? She’s not
involved in your end of this, is she?”

“Nope. I only hired her to aggravate Witten. Steal his chef. Drives people nuts.”

“But then why’d you fire her?”

“Because people started dropping dead after she got here. That’s bad karma. I don’t take chances with that. Anyway, she served
her purpose.”

“Your purpose, you mean. What about Emily? She didn’t enjoy getting the boot.”

“She didn’t argue much, mister.”

Ross stood up: Marjorie was probably waiting for him with a baseball bat back at the office. “Thank you for being so frank.”

“Why not? You want what I want except I have more balls than you do. Or maybe less to lose.” At the door, her hand crushed
his. “And I doubt you’re going to turn me in.”

Ross nodded tiredly; women were always so right. “Say hello to Guy for me.”

Ward’s wide, grotesque smile returned. After Ross had gone, she had a few words with Zoltan. Then she left Diavolina.

The next morning, a limousine pulled up to a posh Los Angeles hotel. Philippa’s manager hopped out of the backseat and phoned
Emily from the lobby. “Ready, Phil?” he asked, anxiously studying his cravat in the smoked mirror. Perhaps he had knotted
it a centimeter too tight; instead of camouflaging the extra folds in his neck, the tie created a half-inch bulge along its
upper perimeter. “I don’t want to be late for this one.”

“I’ll be right down.”

Emily got to the lobby as Simon was retying his fifth knot. He appraised her hot-pink-and-orange pantsuit as she walked toward
him. “Not bad,” he said, studying the deep V-neck. “I see you’re finally getting some business clothes into your wardrobe.”
He inspected her face. “Could have worn your false eyelashes,
though. You look a little washed out.” He took her elbow. “Let’s go. Why the hell are you staying in a hotel? What happened
to your apartment?”

“A friend’s using it,” Emily lied, ducking into the limousine.

“Ass first, Phil! Lead with the ass, not the nose! Don’t you ever listen to me?” Simon dove in after her. As the car pulled
away, he lit a cigarette. “First of all, let me get something off my chest. Disappear like that ever again and we’re finished.
You left me holding the bag with the entire NYPD. They accused me of every fucking crime in the book. I had nothing to do
with that faggot who offed himself, and everyone knows it.”

“They let you go, didn’t they?”

“Shut up! I can’t have talent disappearing into the woodwork like a termite! If you hadn’t called in, this meeting never would
have happened. And you’d be unemployed for another six months. Where the hell were you hiding, anyway?”

“In the country. So who’s this Czech producer? What’s he got in mind?”

“That’s what breakfast is all about, darling. His office was very coy on the phone. I got no details whatsoever.”

Emily’s stomach gently turned. “You’ve never met him before? How do you know he’s not going to pull a gun on me and blow my
brains out?”

Simon looked at her in surprise. “Why should he do that, Phil? Then no one makes any money. Put some rouge on, would you?”
As Emily was reddening her cheeks, he said, “And get the name straight. Vitzkewicz. It’s a tongue twister. Mr. Vitz-ke-wicz.
I don’t want you mushing it up after a few Manhattans like you did last time. And don’t sit in his lap unless he invites you.
You weigh five times as much as Shirley Temple.”

Emily snapped the rouge case shut. Her enormous blond wig was already beginning to melt brain tissue. “Any more hot tips?”

“No. Just let me do the talking.” Simon spent the rest of the journey jabbering a bizarre tide of molasses, arsenic, and baloney
into the mobile phone. When he hung up and began poufing his hair, Emily knew they were almost at the restaurant. “Best behavior,
now,” Simon instructed as the chauffeur
slowed to a halt. “Don’t order anything more than two inches long. I don’t need you slurping noodles all over the tablecloth
like you did last time. And keep your knees together when you get out of the limo! People are watching!” He sprang from the
backseat to the sidewalk. Grandly extending his arm, he guided Emily into the light of day.

The decor at Luco’s was Tinseltown Buddhist, that is, bare white walls, Bauhaus chairs, sexually explicit flowers, and lots
of cutesy angles. Emily and Simon cut quite a swath through the dining room, kissing affectionate strangers who called their
names. The maître d’finally seated them at a balcony table with a regal view of the dining room. Awaiting their mimosas, Simon
reeled off the birth names, sexual orientation, and net worth of the people they had just embraced. “Where the hell is Witcovich?”
he snarled after scarifying nearly everyone in sight. “Waiting more than ten minutes is an insult.”

A waiter came their way carrying what looked like a small plastic pillow. “Good morning. My name is Franco. I’ve been asked
to deliver this,” he said, placing it on the tablecloth. “The other party couldn’t stay.”

“What other party?” Simon asked, screwing around in his chair: too late.

Franco paused until he had regained Simon’s full attention. “There’s a message. Filming begins in two weeks. The other party
is looking forward to working with Miss Banks.” He smiled at Emily. She turned superciliously away; the man’s mouth reminded
her of Guy’s.

“Great. Thank you,” Simon grunted, slipping him fifty dollars. “You wouldn’t be able to give me a visual on the other party,
would you?”

“I’m afraid not.” Franco had obviously collected a higher tip therefrom. “But she had diamonds as big as her eyes.”

“She?” Emily said after the fellow had left. “I thought Vitzkewicz was a man.”

“Of course it’s a man,” Simon snapped. “Ever hear of delivery girls?” He stared at the package on the table. “Look at that
wrapping job. You’d think it was the Crown Jewels or something.”
He thoughtfully swallowed most of his champagne and orange juice. “Usually I have to get them drunk and half laid before they
even think of hiring you. This one just threw the script at us. Who’s complaining, though? Your price just tripled.”

Emily frowned. “What kind of movie gets cranked up in two weeks?”

“Phil, you know better than that. Actresses quit, get sick, get fired, gain weight....”

“I don’t trust this.”

“Baby, neither will I until the check clears. Meanwhile, drink up. You’re back in business. Once again, I’ve saved you from
denture commercials.”

“Come on! You haven’t even read the script! What if it’s a snuff movie?”

“Then we’ll negotiate.” Simon paused as Franco recited a list of arty omelettes and flapjacks. “I don’t think we’re staying,”
he said afterward. “Just bring the check.”

“Wait a minute, I’m hungry!” Emily cried. “I came here all the way from New York to try the Lobster Baked Alaska.”

Simon leaned over the table. “Listen, Phil, it’ll cost a fortune,” he whispered. “And Witkovish isn’t picking up the tab.”
Simon magnanimously paid for their orange juice. They paraded back through the tables, exchanging rouge with effusive, emoting
friends: Here the gods were rolling film and everyone wanted the lead. Out in the parking lot, Simon ripped off his cravat.
“Whew! Quite an outhouse in there today. Where are you headed, Phil?”

“Your office,” Emily said as Simon’s limousine rolled to the curb. “Thought I’d check on the old fan club.”

“We’re going in opposite directions, then. You don’t mind taking a cab, do you, sugar?” Simon posed the question from the
backseat of the limo.

“What about the script?” Emily called as the vehicle pulled away.

“Let me take a look first, baby. Call me tonight. I’ll let you know if it’s doable.” Simon’s dark window rolled shut.

Fortunately Emily’s cab driver, an unemployed actor, knew the location of Simon’s office on Wilshire Boulevard. Throughout
the ride, believing he was ferrying Philippa Banks across town, he talked about his upcoming auditions and his great manager
and how driving a cab was just an interim job. The pathetic spiel sounded so much like poor dead Byron’s that Emily stopped
listening; tales of failure, like tales of success, had a certain repellent monotony. Leaving a charitable tip, Emily entered
a futuristic black building.

“Good afternoon, Miss Banks,” greeted an armed guard.

“Good afternoon, Miss Banks,” said an armed attendant at the elevator.

“Hello, darling,” Emily responded to both. Her cheeks hurt from so much damn smiling. Her feet creaked with every step in
these high heels. And people were watching her every second. How did Philippa stand it? “Beam me up to Simon’s, would you,
sweetie? Thanks so much.”

As the car ascended, Emily desperately tried to remember the name of the president of Philippa’s fan club. Angus? Anson? When
the doors opened on the twentieth floor, she strode to the office at the end of the hallway. In a way, it looked like Ross’s
office on State Street, except this one had tackier furniture and more succulent plants.

The receptionist made a flash reconnaissance of Emily’s hair, makeup, and pantsuit. “Hi, Miss Banks.”

Were that Marjorie, Emily would be answering fifty questions about Vitzkewicz and filling in an expense report. “Hello, dear.
May I have a word with the fan club?”

“Sure.” Careful not to chip her nail polish, the girl pressed a button on the switchboard. “Aidan? You’ve got a visitor.”

Within seconds a young man in a canary double-breasted suit, bulky or tight in all the correct places, appeared. A deep marigold
necktie complimented his tan. Eight rings in his left ear did not quite distract attention from a mustache the size and shade
of an industrial broom. “Banks!” he cried, taking her arm. “How’s your arm? You have some autographing to do for me.”

Emily followed Aidan to his little office. “How’s business?”

“
Choke Hold
is taking off. I told you it would.” He planted Emily in a chair and brought over a pile of photographs. “Start signing.”

Emily hesitated. “What should I write?”

“What you always do. No! Not with a ballpoint, Philippa! You know better than that!” Aidan gave her a purple felt-tip pen.
“You got a great review in New York.”

He handed her a scathing, insulting article skirting a fine line between parody and libel. Each sentence felt like one more
twist of a tourniquet around her stomach. Finally Emily let it slip to the desk. “You call that a great review?” she whispered.

“What’s the matter with it?”

“I don’t believe what I just read.”

“Neither could Si. He couldn’t have bought better publicity. I just love this line.” Aidan snatched the article. “’Miss Banks
acts with the dignity of a stegosaur caught in a tarpit.’ Gad! I have to take that guy out to lunch.”

Emily began writing Philippa’s name on dozens of photos as Aidan brought her up to date on a particularly active fan club
in Little Rock, where Philippa was considered to be one of America’s greatest dramatic actresses, right up there with Jayne
Mansfield and Raquel Welch. “Would you be interested in leading their Thanksgiving parade this year?” Aidan asked. “They’d
really appreciate it.”

“Sure, what the hell.” She scribbled blithely on. “Any interesting letters come in recently?”

“Just the usual proposals of marriage and requests for money. You now have official dues-paying fan clubs in eighteen federal
penitentiaries.”

“Would you mind running me a printout of everyone who’s written in the last six months?”

“What for?”

Shit! Shit! Emily squeezed her brain unmercifully, finally eking out a tiny, hard turd of an idea. “I went to my psychic last
night,” she began.

“Zilda?”

“No, Carmen.” Oh crap, now she’d have to tell a second lie
to explain the first! “I had a gift certificate. Anyway, Carmen told me that my future husband had written to you recently.
I thought it would be interesting to read over your fan list and see if anything vibrated.”