Hot Shot (13 page)

“I don't know, Sloan,” I told her. “I really don't know anymore.”

*   *   *

We powwowed for a while, long enough for her to demolish another fruit drink from the minibar along with a can of macadamia nuts. I stuck to my Maalox. It was like drinking a puree of minted chalk, but it did the trick. My stomach was doing flip-flops and it wasn't from the burrito.

“So how did you recognize Levin's voice, anyway?” I asked. “He doesn't do interviews. I've never seen him on TV.”

“He'd called me before.”

“He'd called you before?” I yelped. “Why?”

She opened up the French doors leading to the terrace and tightened her hands on the railing. I followed her out into the warm summer dusk.

“It was a few weeks ago. When Dick died. My contact at
Celeb
was pressuring me for a story. They were calling two or three times a day, but I wouldn't do it.”

“You
did
do it.”

“Levin
made
me. I didn't want to tell you that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I picked up my unlisted line one morning and this voice said, ‘Have you checked your mail?' Then he hung up. I went downstairs to my mailbox, which was locked, by the way. Well, the mail hadn't come, but there
was
a letter there. Addressed to the head of the agency I work for. It had everything I'd ever talked to
Celeb
about. Names and dates.”

“A dossier. And that would have gotten you fired from the agency.”

She snorted. “At least.”

“But how can you be sure it was Brooks Levin on the phone?”

“I didn't know then. But the letter was dated two days ahead. That part was highlighted. I got the message. If I didn't talk to
Celeb,
they would send the letter to the agency. So I called the magazine and they put me on hold for a couple of minutes. When my contact got on the line, I started to yell at him. And then he goes, real casual-like, ‘Did Brooks Levin get hold of you yet?'

“So I talked. And they got their story.” She spread her hands helplessly. “They had all the checks they'd written me, endorsed with my signature. What was I supposed to do?” She stared at me. “And what am I supposed to do now? Huh?”

I tried to process it all. Was Levin still working for
Celeb?
Could the tabloid want my book stopped?

But why?
Celeb
's story had already run. They had deep pockets to buy any source they wanted; a network of “friends” who owed them favors; and, of course, Gina Guglielmelli, who made me look like Jimmy Olsen. It wouldn't be
Celeb
Levin was working for now. But who?

“We've got to make a police report,” I said.

“No.”

“Sloan, this might be dangerous.”

“I've been arrested before. I'm not going to deal with the cops.”

“Not a regular police report. We can call the LAPD Threat Management Unit.”

Los Angeles has the only police force in the world with a special stalking department, which says a lot about the number of celebrities
and
psychos in the city. They keep tabs on several thousand stalkers, and about one-third of their cases, from the gossip I'd heard, were industry-related.

“You can do it alone,” said Sloan. “I won't cooperate. And if you do—”

The phone rang. We both started.

“Don't answer it!” yelled Sloan.

“This isn't
Mission: Impossible.
It's not gonna explode.” I picked up the receiver.

“Kieran?”

“Claude. Hey.” My breath came out in a big whoosh.

“I haven't heard from you. What's going on?”

“Just been busy. I'm sorry.” I mouthed the words “my girlfriend” to Sloan. She went into the bathroom.

“Any more problems with the press?”

“No. Everything's quiet. I'm just busy right now. What's news with you?”

“Canem's coming along. We're almost ready.” She paused. “Are you still planning on coming to the opening?”

“Of course I am. Why wouldn't I?”

“Don't get irritated. You've already mentioned you were busy twice in thirty seconds.”

“Claude, you know I wouldn't miss that.”

“Okay, okay. Just checking.” Her voice turned suspiciously cheery. “My sister flew in this morning. As a surprise.”

“Lydia? Is she still separated from Charlie?”

Sloan was running water. It sounded like she was filling the tub. What the …

“Yeah. So she's come down to help me get the coffeehouse ready. Isn't that
nice?
Listen, she wants to say hi.”

“No, Claude, please, I'm not up for Lydia—”

“And she's right here! I'll talk to you later.”

“Kieran!”

“Lyd. Hi.” I dragged the phone over to the bathroom door. Sloan
was
filling the tub.

“Claudia tells me you're busy, so I won't keep you. Listen, I made reservations for you and me and Miss Claudia Marie at The Restaurant for day after tomorrow, eight-thirty. It's on me. Or, rather, it's on the Diners Club card of Charles P. Boudreaux, my perhaps-soon-to-be ex-husband.”

“Lydia, I'm really swamped right—”

“There are to be no excuses, Kieran O'Connor. I flew two thousand miles just to see you two. And I'm not coming to L.A. without sampling the culinary genius of Hans-Peter Jungen-hoffman. I was reading about him on the Internet, and they say—”

“I gotta go, Lydia. Please.”

“Go, go! I'll see you at eight-thirty. Day after tomorrow!” She made a kissy noise and hung up.

I knocked on the bathroom door. “Sloan?”

No answer. The taps shut off.

I pounded. “Sloan? Are you all right?”

Sloan threw the door open. She was wrapped in my complimentary hotel bathrobe and a turban made of a Beverly Hillshire towel.

“Can I have some privacy?”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Knitting a sweater. What does it look—”

“You can't take a bath in my room!”

She jabbed me in the sternum. “Listen, you got me into this mess. You and your damn interview. I've got to get cleaned up somewhere. I'm scared to death to go back to my own apartment, and it's all your fault.”

I started to object, but there wasn't much higher ground for me to take. She sensed my waffling, and that bit of hesitation cost me big-time.

“Thank you,” she said primly.
“Now can I please have a little bit of damn privacy?”

The door slammed. There was a bit of dainty splashing. After a minute, the tubside TV went on.

“Make yourself at home.”

“I will,” she yelled.

Irony. It's lost on some people.

9

T
HE SKY ABOVE THE
Hollywood Hills was smudgy with dusk. Last time I'd looked up, it had been mid-afternoon. I saved the file I was working on and stood. My back made noises like someone walking on bubble wrap.

One thing about hiding out from Brooks Levin: I was getting a lot of work done. I had been holed up in the suite for two days, slapping together the first and only draft of
Mann's Woman,
interrupted only by the actor/model/whatever who brought me room service twice a day.

“When do I get to see a few pages of this masterpiece?” asked Jocelyn, during one of her hurry-hurry-nudge-nudge calls.

“Next week.”

“Next week is for Jack Danziger. I want to see what you have now. Fed Ex me a copy.”

“It's crap.”

“It's a quickie bio of a Hollywood hooker, Peaches.”

“I know, but I still want it to be good.”

“
Good
isn't the point,” Jocelyn told me. “
Done
is.”

*   *   *

I popped a couple of Aleve—one for the spine, one for the carpal tunnel—and lay down on the sofa to do some back-stretching exercises. The pot of coffee in my stomach sloshed around. I had to pee like Secretariat.

The phone rang. I rolled over to pick it up, hoping it was Lydia calling to cancel our dinner. The opening of Canem was tomorrow night. Wouldn't Claudia have too many last-minute things to do? I didn't know. I hadn't had the motivation—or the nerve—to call her back since Sloan Baker had taken up residence in my bedroom.

“Hi, dear. Just called to give you some rah-rah-sis-boom-bah.”

“Hi, Kitty.”
Snap.
Something in my back surrendered.

Kitty still didn't know about Brooks Levin. No one did. I had considered talking to Jocelyn, just to have someone to tell, but decided against it, remembering how she had panicked after that first call. Under her agent mask was a vicious maternalism.

“You all set to meet Betty Mann tomorrow?” chirped Kitty.

I had phoned Lesley, Betty Bradford Mann's assistant, who said Betty was shooting a TV movie and didn't have much spare time. We finally agreed I could meet the star in her trailer for a quick lunch.

“She must be having second thoughts. I got a voice mail this morning from her publicist.”

“Well, that's understandable. Who is her publicist?”

“Susan D'Andrea.”

“Oh,” said Kitty.
Oh
was right; Susan didn't let her clients fart without her permission. She looked upon the working press the way a Mormon did NAMBLA.

I heard the metallic
snick
of the card key in the door. Sloan walked in wearing a maillot that rose up in the crotch to reveal what Claudia called a “cameltoe.” Her hair was wet.

“Kitty, why do you think Betty would even talk to me?”

“She probably thinks she can disarm you, dear. But you can be pretty disarming yourself.”

“Maybe. The whole thing's off the record, anyway. Susan repeated that about eight times.”

“Well, call me when you're done and let me know how it went. I've never met her, but everyone says Betty's really a lovely person.”

“Thanks. Have a good night.”

“Okey-dokey, artichokey,” she said, and rang off.

“Who was that?” Sloan ran a triangle of pita through some baba ghanoush and popped it in her mouth.

“Kitty Keyes. And do you mind, Sloan? I was saving that for a snack.”

Her response was a march into the bathroom. The Beverly Hillshire maids had already made two towel deliveries today.

“Sloan, can I get in there first? I've got to pee and change clothes. I'm having dinner with my girlfriend and her sister.”

The shower went on. I groaned.

Sharing a deluxe suite at a five-star hotel with a Hollywood hooker was a fantasy that most men could only dream about. Unfortunately, the reality was less
Pretty Woman
than it was
Pretty Annoying Woman.

When Sloan had begged me to stay for “a night or two,” I still felt slightly guilty—although not quite guilty enough to let her do it. What finally swayed me was the chance to get some more dirt on Felina. Having a source underfoot seemed like it would have its advantages.

Underfoot, yes. Source, no. Sloan had left the hotel exactly once since she'd arrived two days ago, and that was a jaunt to her apartment to pack a few things. The “few things” were a stack of fake Vuitton suitcases that took two bellboys to bring up to the room. My closet was now crowded with expensive outfits and the bathroom sink looked like Bloomingdale's makeup counter. Worse, since I was working on the book in the living room area, Sloan had commandeered the bedroom, granting me the sofa.

And I still hadn't managed to corner her for an interview.

Sighing, I went out on the balcony. On the chaise were two things: Vernon Ash's manuscript and a copy of the East Los Angeles White Pages.

No matter how bad my Felina book turned out, it would look like
Finnegan's Wake
next to what Ash had set down. Even a literary mercenary like Jack Danziger would have round-filed
Shooting Stars.
It was a series of disconnected, dated reminiscences, written in the run-on monotony of a coke rap. The only real names belonged to dead stars whose drug use was part of the public record. And there wasn't a word about his trial and conviction, much less Felina.

I had assumed that Ash gave me his manuscript because there was something in there he wanted me to know, or believe. What that might be I had no idea. Maybe he
was
just stupid enough to hand off a manuscript to a total stranger. As research material, it was useless.

And the phone book; oh, God. There were more Lopezes in Southern California than there were Smiths. I had begun with the Eduardos and then moved on to the E's. I had found only one or two households where someone spoke English, and those were only the people who didn't hang up the minute they heard a gringo on the line. Apparently an English-speaking voice meant one thing:
la migra, immigración.
There were columns upon columns of other Lopezes, and no guarantee that the mysterious Eduardo was among them, much less still alive.

I was tempted to cancel dinner with Lydia and Claudia, but I needed to get out of the room for a while. To me, writing is like making a mosaic—each word to be polished, fussed over, and laid lovingly into position—but there just wasn't time.

I felt like I was painting a fresco with a roller.

*   *   *

After I'd left my copy of the manuscript with the concierge to be copied, I walked over to Canon Drive. The eatery where I was meeting the Dubuisson sisters was called The Restaurant. In Beverly Hills and West L.A., there was one of these trattorie on every block, catering to the locals' inexhaustible taste for herbed olive oil and buffalo mozzarella served up by pretty little Ron Goldmans. Thank God Lydia was treating. Thirty bucks for a plate of nouvelle spaghetti was a little beyond my wallet.