Devil's Food (41 page)

Translation: I need this man to stay employed. “I’ll try,” Emily said, pulling on a baseball cap. “See you in an hour.”

Cars of all vintages jammed the streets. The sun was hot, the air foul; in this city, running was probably more carcinogenic
than smoking. A half dozen people called “Hi, Phil” as Emily ran by. She twiddled her fingers at them and continued on,
making a long loop that eventually brought her past the hospital. She went inside and asked for Simon’s room.

“Go right up, Miss Banks,” the nurse told her.

Emily did so and discovered Simon copulating vigorously with a redhead. The room was crammed with enough flowers to make a
Rose Bowl float. “Hi guys,” Emily called after a moment’s indecision, tossing her baseball cap onto a chair. “I was cruising
by and thought I’d drop in.”

“Philippa! What the hell are you doing here?” Simon cried, shoving the lady off his narrow bed.

“I just told you,” she said as the redhead rearranged her long, filmy skirt. It was Agatha Street, the missing waitress. “Auditioning
for a job, dear?”

“Be nice,” Simon warned. He patted Agatha’s milky forehead. “It’s okay, baby. She’s just making a little joke. Damn it, Phil,
do you always drop in without an invitation?”

“Don’t give me this shit, Simon. You’ve been begging me to drop by for days.” Emily smiled at Agatha. “We all met in New York,
didn’t we, Hot Pants?”

“Her name’s Agatha,” Simon snapped. “Phil, you have the memory of an elephant. And the manners of one, too. Since when do
you jog, anyway?”

A nurse walked in. “Time for your medication, Mr. Stern.” She looked apologetically at the ladies. “Excuse us, please. This
will just take a moment.”

Emily led Agatha into the hallway. “I’ve been meaning to talk with you.”

“Me?” the girl cried. “Do you need an understudy?”

“No. Now listen. I’m going to ask a few questions. You give me straight answers and I’ll let you get back to screwing Uncle
Simon. All right?” Agatha nodded, mesmerized: Philippa Banks was her idol.

“You were a waitress at the
Choke Hold
opening in New York, correct? You brought me an iced vodka with four dried cherries. Where’d you get it?”

“From the bartender.”

“Did you see him mix the drink?”

“Yes.”

“How’d he do it?”

“He stirred some vodka and ice, strained it, and put in the cherries.”

“And you brought it directly to me?”

“That’s right.”

“That’s wrong. It was warm when I got it.”

Agatha’s face fell. “I brought it over as fast as I could. But that lady held me up.”

“What lady?”

“She just stood right in my way and put a bunch of dirty glasses on my tray like I was her maid or something. I told her to
take them off because the tray was for you and I wanted it to look neat. She said ’Oh, excuse me, dearie,’ and took them all
away.”

“Were the glasses empty?”

Not as empty as Agatha’s face. “I would think so. Otherwise why would she put them on my tray? I’m really sorry, Miss Banks.
I didn’t mean to bring you a warm drink. Ugh!”

Emily patted Agatha’s vacant head. “Never mind. It was still vodka. What did this woman look like?”

“She wore heavy makeup and jewelry, and an expensive suit with fat buttons. She could have been a fag hag.”

Emily had no idea what that meant but nodded anyway. “What color was her hair?”

“Black, I think. So were her eyebrows. She was wearing a black turban and thick glasses. And awful perfume. Probably cost
a fortune.”

“How old was she?”

Agatha shrugged. “About Simon’s age, I guess. Thirty-five.”

Emily tried not to laugh. “He told you he was thirty-five?”

“Shhh! It’s a secret!”

The nurse left Simon’s room. “What are you two doing out there,” Simon called tetchily. “Someone get in here and fix my blankets.”

“Do you have any more questions, Miss Banks?”

“No. Go fix Simon.” Emily watched the girl dotingly rearrange
her Svengali’s covers as he cursed nurses, doctors, and hospitals. “So what’s the matter with you, Si? Tertiary syphilis?”

“You’re a real hoot, Phil. There’s something wrong with my blood. It’s got strange crystals in it that no one can figure out.
No one believes me when I tell them it was that script from Vitkovich on polluted paper. They keep asking me if I ate mothballs
and weed killer for breakfast.” He snorted. “Morons. I’m not staying here one more day. This place is the Enema Capital of
the universe.”

Emily retrieved her baseball cap. “Nice seeing you, Agatha. Good luck in Hollywood. I’m sure Uncle Simon will take good care
of you for a few weeks.”

“You’d better be sharp for those interviews tomorrow,” Simon snapped. “I called in ten thousand favors to get them.”

“Why thank you, darling. Let me know when Mr. Vitzkewicz turns up.”

Emily ran back to the hotel, where she found Philippa curled up on the bed, lacquering her toenails. “Great news, Phil,” she
said. “Agatha the waitress was visiting Simon at the hospital. We’re not imagining things after all. Your enemy is a middle-aged
bitch in a black turban, glasses, and awful perfume. I’m going back to Luco’s tomorrow. The waiter’s got to remember something
about that script.” Emily looked over at her sister, who just sat on the bed blowing her toenails dry. “Well? Aren’t you excited?
Say something!”

Philippa finally took her toes out of her face. “How old is Agatha?”

“Who the hell cares about Agatha?”

“I do. Look Em, I can’t stay holed up like this anymore. I’ve got to get back into the dogfight before ten Agathas get ahead
of me. I can’t disappear just when
Choke Hold
hits the charts. That’s suicide.”

“But someone’s trying to kill you.”

She shrugged. “So let them! An eye for an eye!”

What the hell did that mean? “Just let me run with it a little, all right?” Emily said. “You do your interviews tomorrow.
I’ll go to the restaurant and maybe drop in on the fan club again.”

“What for?”

Emily began stripping off her running clothes. “It’s kind of fun pretending to be you. Like dressing up for real. Maybe someday
you can pretend to be me. If you ever want to, that is.”

Philippa’s face turned a violent red. Luckily, Emily was already in the bathroom. They ordered in Chinese food and watched
three videos; afterward, crazed, they jumped into the hotel pool. Only as she was shutting out the lights did Philippa realize
that Emily had not called Ross, nor he her.

Still functioning on Eastern time, Emily popped wide awake at five o’clock in the morning. Her sister snored lightly from
the other bed. Careful not to disturb Philippa’s beauty sleep, Emily dressed and got into her car, looking for breakfast.
Although dawn was just unhinging the night with a wedge of gold at the horizon, traffic already overran the roadways. Commuters
here drove as if they had been ordered to, or from, an earthquake. Emily joined the herd and crawled across town, arriving
much later at Luco’s, the restaurant she had recently visited with Simon. It would open at seven for breakfast.

Sitting at a bus stop, Emily watched the staff slowly piddle in. Finally she saw the fellow who had served them the other
morning. “Yoo-hoo!” she called, chucking a burrito into the garbage. “Franco!”

He stared; without their makeup, jewels, and pushup bras, many actresses were nondescript as guppies. “Philippa Banks,” he
said after a few seconds. “You’re up with the sun. Looking gorgeous, I might add.”

“Cut the shit. It’s too early.” Did this town contain one honest person? “You brought a script to my table the other day.
It was all wrapped up in plastic.”

“That’s right. You were with Simon Stern. He didn’t leave much of a tip.”

“You didn’t serve much of a breakfast. Who gave you the script? I need to know. It’s very important.”

Franco hesitated, uncertain whether he should ask Philippa for money or for a date. On one hand, she was the star of that
campy new sleeper,
Choke Hold
; on the other hand, her breath smelled like onions. “It’s a little hazy,” he said.

“You told us she had diamonds as big as her eyes and filming began in two weeks. Does that ring any bells?” Emily dug in her
purse. “Look, I’m desperate. Here’s all my money and three tickets to the Massachusetts Megabucks. The jackpot’s up to seven
million and the drawing’s on Saturday.”

“Forget the money!” Franco said. Maybe it was the wind in her hair. “It’s coming back to me now. It was a lady with Coke-bottle
glasses and a black turban. She looked like a Gypsy wearing her own little crystal balls.”

“How old?”

“Anywhere between thirty and sixty. You just can’t tell these days.”

“Was she alone?”

“Yes. She put two C-notes on the table and asked me to deliver the script and a message to you. She seemed nervous. Smoked
constantly.”

“Was she dark or light?”

“Dark.”

“Did you notice anything else besides her rings? Like warts? Bracelets?”

“I didn’t have much time to look. She was in and out in ten minutes.”

Emily scribbled a phone number on one of the lottery tickets. “If you think of anything else, call me here in the next few
hours. Ask for Emily Major. I really appreciate it.” She returned to her car and drove to Simon’s office, arriving shortly
before eight. Aidan nearly dropped his croissant when she walked in.

“My God! What are you doing up so early?”

“Working, dear. I don’t want to look as if I just rolled out of bed for those three interviews today.” Emily helped herself
to a corner of Aidan’s croissant. “What’s new?”

“
Choke Hold
was fourth at the box office last week and moving up fast.”

“Any reason why?”

“Never ask, Phil Just count your blessings. Simon’s getting a lot of phone calls about you.”

“Really? He didn’t mention shit when I saw him yesterday.” Too busy with Orifice Agatha. Emily peered over Aidan’s desk. “How’s
my fan mail? Heard anything more from my friend Charles Moody?”

“No. You’re still getting vibrations about him?” Aidan frowned. “Get a second opinion, would you? Carmen isn’t the most reliable
astrologer in town, you know.”

“You told me that Moody’s been a member of the fan club for almost twenty years,” Emily said. “Has his address always been
the same?”

Aidan’s frown deepened. “You’re not going to visit him, are you?”

“Good God, no! I just want to know where he’s from. Carmen told me never to marry a man from a state with only three syllables.”

Aidan bought that; Emily didn’t know whether to be pleased or insulted. “I’ll have to look in the old card file,” he said,
taking her to a back room. “We keep all the precomputer records here.” He pulled open the Mi-Mo drawer and located Moody’s
small card. “Here’s your boy.”

Until eight years ago, Charles Moody had been receiving the Philippa Banks newsletter at Sheafe Street in Boston. Then he
had switched to the box at South Station. “Well, I guess he passes the test,” Emily said.

“You’re not going to marry him just because he lives in Massachusetts, are you?” Aidan cried, snatching the card away. “That’s
absurd!”

“It’s not just a question of the state,” Emily protested. “Carmen’s got to know the numbers and letters in the address so
she can add them up and divide according to the phase of the moon. Then we’ll see.” She looked at her watch. “How do you suggest
I dress for these interviews?”

“Wear the orange suit with your diamonds from Cornell.” That was Philippa’s fifth husband. “And see a hairdresser as soon
as you can, Phil. You’re about five shades off the blond
your fans have come to know and love.” Aidan walked Emily to the door. “Don’t forget the nail polish!” he shouted as the elevator
swallowed her.

Outside, the sun had begun to bake thighs, fanny tucks, and silicone. Emily crawled from red light to red light, arriving
an hour later at Santa Monica. Her room was as dark as when she had left it at sunrise. “Wake up, Phil!” she called, raking
aside the thick curtains. “Breakfast.”

The mound on the bed slowly stirred. “What time is it?”

“Nine-thirty. You’ve got an interview in two hours.”

“Crap! I won’t have time for a bath!” Philippa began poking through the bag Emily had brought from a nearby bakery. “Where
have you been? Jogging again?”

“I went to Luco’s.”

“And you didn’t bring back any Scallop Hash? They do takeout, Em!”

“I wasn’t there to eat.” Emily recounted her little chat with Franco the waiter. “Sounds like the person who switched drinks
in New York was the same one who sent that bogus script to the table.”

Philippa took a mighty chomp into a croissant. “So I should be on the lookout for a frump with heavy glasses? That’s a big
help.”

Emily followed her sister into the bathroom. “I dropped in on Aidan this morning.”

“Again? And got away with it? Jesus, you’re getting good.”

Emily sat on the toilet seat as steam slowly shrouded the bathroom. “Do you realize that bad things have happened whenever
you’ve eaten somewhere?”

Bad things had also happened whenever Philippa had met Guy Witten but she didn’t point that out to her sister. “What are you
getting at, Em?”

“Think back to your dinner at Diavolina for me, okay? Do you remember seeing someone there with a turban and heavy glasses?”

“Afraid not. Dana had my full attention.”

“Was there anything he ate that you didn’t eat? Anything he touched? I know we’ve been through this before, but try again.”

Philippa tried. “We switched steaks. Mine was almost raw. That moron of a waiter screwed up.”

The steaks were fine; Emily had watched Byron make them. “Did anyone odd come to your table, or leave anything on it?”

“Someone sent us a bottle of wine. But we both drank it. That weird-looking ghoul with the orange face showed up with a few
drinks from someone at the bar. Two vodkas with cherries. I told you that already.”

“Refresh my memory,” Emily said. “Who sent them?”

“Ardith’s aerobics coach. You and I never figured out how he got there. Then Jack-o’-Lantern chewed the fat with Dana a little.”