Not One Clue (18 page)

“What’s up?” he asked.

I cleared my throat and reminded myself that although Mac was extremely wealthy and undeniably sweet, he had always been more interested in me than I was in him; I had no right to play with his emotions, but I needed a favor and told him as much.

He paused for a minute. “Is this the kind of favor that’s likely to get a guy killed?”

As it turned out, he was also a pragmatist. I considered his query for a second. “I don’t think so.”

“Wow,” he said. “That’s not quite the answer I was hoping for.”

“Looking for more of a thrill?” I asked and he chuckled, inexplicably charmed. Poor guy.

“What’s the favor?”

“There’s an … event that I’m hoping to attend. A Hollywood event. I know you sometimes get invitations and was wondering if I could maybe be your escort.”

He paused a moment. “That might actually be worth getting killed for.”

A little more guilt seeped in. I fought it off. I’m frickin’ amazing at fighting it off.

“What’s the event?”

“The afterparty for
Jungle Heat.”

“Jungle
… Hey, I think I
do
have an invitation for that.”

“Yeah?” I couldn’t decide if I should be thrilled or terrified.

“When is that again?” he asked. Mac was, it seems, the kind of unassuming bazillionaire who gets so many invitations to stare at Colin that he can afford to forget about them.

I bit my lip. “Tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Man, I wish I were a girl,” he said.

“Ummm …”

“I have to start looking for a date a full month before the actual event.”

“Does that mean you’ll do it?”

“Is it in Cincinnati?”

“What’s that?”

“’Cuz that’s where I am.”

“Cincinnati, Ohio?”

He considered that a second. “I don’t think they’d make another one.”

“Oh.”

“But maybe if I head straight to the airport, I could hop on a plane and get into LAX before—”

“That’s okay, Mac,” I said. The guilt was becoming a little more invasive. “It was just a whim.”

“It wouldn’t be any trouble,” he said.

“If you like to be strip-searched for trying to rush through airport security.”

“I
have
been pretty lonely,” he said, and I laughed.

“I’m not sure a strip search is the way to start a lasting relationship.”

“Probably not with a belly like mine.”

I remembered now why I liked him. It wasn’t for his body. “We can talk when you get back,” I said.

“I could make this work if it’s important to you,” he said. “I don’t think Dad would disown me or anything if I left the convention early.”

“What’s the convention on?”

“Shoelaces.”

“Strip-searching is sounding better.”

“I could tell him I just found out I’d knocked someone up and had to go home to take care of things.”

“And that wouldn’t make him upset?”

“I think he might actually be proud. Hard to say, though. He’s been kind of surly lately. I think marriage number five is on the skids.”

“I’m sorry.”

“She’s twenty-four.”

“I’m even more sorry. Listen, Mac, don’t worry about this. I’ll call you later.”

“Really?” He sounded desperate. I opened my mouth to spout … something. “That sounded desperate, didn’t it?” he asked.

“No.”

“Yes it did. Sorry. I meant to say, of course you’ll call me. I’m very rich.”

I laughed. “And nice,” I said. We hung up a few moments later. I dialed the phone again barely three seconds after that.

“Eddie?”

“Chrissy McMullen, Ph.D.,” Eddie said. I could hear him settling into his easy chair, oozing muscle and charm. Eddie and I had dated briefly. The fact that he was as interested in men as I was had eventually put something of a damper on our relationship.

“I need a favor,” I said.

There was a pause. “Is this the kind of favor that will get me killed?” he asked, and I scowled into the phone.

“Why do people keep asking that?” I said, and he laughed.

“What do you need?”

“A date. For tonight.”

In the end it was a no-go.

A
fter that there was a long procession of additional calls. I may have, in the past, mentioned my impressive number of old flames. I’m closing in on four score. I think I called most of them … excluding the convicts and the guy who had died after trying to jump the train tracks on his motor scooter.

By five-thirty I was feeling a little desperate. Because, although crashing a Hollywood afterparty might seem like a stupid idea to the uninitiated, I had made up my mind. And once that happens it’s hard to unmake it … at least if it involves Colin Farrell and cummerbunds.

“Officer Tavis?” I said.

“You must be calling to tell me you can no longer resist my charms,” he said.

“I’m calling to see if you have an invitation to the
Jungle
Heat
party.” In my zealot’s quest for tickets I had almost forgotten his propensity for sexual harassment.

He paused a moment. “Sure,” he said, “and after that I’m going to have tea with Angelina and Brad.”

“So you’re in L.A., then?”

He chuckled. “I was just there. Why would I go back?”

“I thought you might be stalking me.”

“Well … I’m a little busy right now. But maybe this weekend.”

I stifled a sigh. “So that’s a no?”

“Yes,” he said. “But I could maybe buy a couple theater tickets if you promise to show me your boobs.”

For a moment I considered a couple snappy comebacks, but in the end I just hung up.

After that I sat staring at my address book and biting my lip until insanity got a good firm hold on my psyche. I dialed a moment later.

“Yeah.” Vincent Angler had once been a defensive lineman for the L.A. Lions. Big and black and as aggressive as sin; even his voice was scary. But maybe it was all a cover-up. Maybe he just
acted
scary to hide his sexual orientation. When I’d last seen him, years ago, it hadn’t been widely known that he was gay, but I had a sixth sense about such things. The fact that he had eventually begun to pursue an acting career had added credence to my theory. Not that every actor was gay. There were several whose sexuality I absolutely refused to call into question. Once again Colin Farrell sprang nimbly to mind. But he was quickly displaced by the thought of Angler, who had kindly confirmed my suspicions by coming out of the closet some months ago.

“Mr. Angler?” My voice sounded as if my sphincter were being squeezed in a winepress. “Who is this?”

“Christina McMullen.” I had met him, too, while investigating a murder. Apparently felonies are an excellent way to expand one’s circle of acquaintances.

“Who?”

Generally speaking, it is not a good sign when your prospective date doesn’t recognize your name. Even worse when he sounds irritated by your presence on the planet.

“We met a few years ago. I was Andrew Bomstad’s psychologist.”

There was a prolonged pause. Andrew Bomstad had once been my most illustrious client. But that was before he’d ingested enough Viagra to arouse a pachyderm and chased me around my desk like a hot-footed cheetah. After scaring the bejeezus out of me he had dropped to the floor, deader than an alligator handbag.

“The white chick with the great legs?” Angler asked.

Ummm … “Maybe.”

“We had drinks and shit at the Hole?”

“Yes.” I cleared my throat. “That’s me.”

“Huh. What do ya want?”

“I was wondering if … possibly … you had invitations to the
Jungle Heat
afterparty.”

“Jungle Heat?”

“It’s a spin-off of
Amazon Queen.”
I paused. He said nothing. “Patricia Ruocco’s show.”

“Yeah?”

“I know you’ve been doing some acting lately, and thought …” I shrugged, hoping his career was going better than I suspected. So far as I knew he had gotten about thirty seconds of screen time, most of which was shared with a half a dozen other extras. “Maybe you had access to the party.”

The pause was deep enough to sink a battleship. “I could maybe get my hands on a couple of invitations if I had me a reason.”

My heart was lodged somewhere in my esophagus. “After we met … at … the Hole … you said I should call if I ever needed help.”

“Was I high?”

“Not so you were incoherent,” I said, and he listened as I gave him the details.

F
orty-five minutes later I was cleaned, partially dressed, and marvelously coiffed. If marvelous coiffing involves a strawberry blond wig that one borrows from one’s BFF.

I had told Vincent I would meet him at the coffeehouse on Rosemary and Pine, so I had to get a wiggle on.

My bridesmaid gown boasted one broad shoulder strap and a back that plunged down to no-man’s-land, or at least very-seldom-visited-land. At the very bottom of the valley a rhinestone pendant made my caboose more noticeable than was probably absolutely necessary. I was just mourning the passing of the girdle when the doorbell rang. With one last glance in the mirror, I trotted barefoot through the living room.

Harlequin rumbled two deep-throated barks, then rested on his laurels and watched the door with a cocked head.

Probably Ramla with a concern about her sister
, I thought.

But gazing through the peephole I saw a man. Big, black, and bulging with muscle, he was scowling at my disheveled front yard with what looked like an equal mix of awe and contempt.

For a moment I considered hiding behind the wall and pretending I wasn’t home, but chances were good that he was actually my date.

It was a testament to my courage … or my stupidity … that I opened the door.

“Vincent Angler?” I said. I was holding Harley back with one knee, stretching the mermaid dress to its coppery limits.

The man on my stoop skimmed me with his dark-syrup gaze. “White chick with the great legs?” he asked.

“I thought I was going to meet you at the coffee shop.”

“I was in the neighborhood,” he said.

“In Sunland?”

“In California.”

“Ahh.” I nodded stupidly. Harley was leaning heavily against my leg, trying to get a whiff of our guest’s genitals.

“That is one big-ass dog,” he said.

“He used to be a linebacker,” I said.

It was then that Ramla stepped onto her stoop. She was eyeing Vincent like he was a wolf and I a mutton chop. “Is everything with you okay, Christina?”

I gave Vincent a smile I hoped looked charming instead of apologetic. “Yes.” I gave her a little wave. “Everything’s fine.”

She was scowling above the gauzy swirl of her head scarf. “I should not call the 911?”

“Yes,” I yelled.

There was a pause. “Yes, I should call them. Or yes—”

“Don’t call them,” I said.

She paused for a couple more seconds, then nodded briskly and returned to her house.

Angler was watching me with brows cliffed low over his eyes. “The 911?” he asked.

“I, ahh … thought I saw a suspicious character earlier this evening,” I lied. There seemed little point in admitting some people were still inherently terrified of big black guys with muscle. Even more pointless admitting that one of those people was
moi
.

“Suspicious character?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Skinny little white guy.”

He was glaring at me. Or maybe he was just looking.

“White. Very white,” I added, and he chuckled finally.

“You gonna let a nigger in or what?” he asked. “It’s hotter than shit out here.”

“Oh, yes, sorry,” I said, and grabbing Harley’s collar, pulled open the door.

It wasn’t until then that I noticed the limo parked behind my Saturn. It looked like a thoroughbred humping a Shetland pony.

“Is that yours?” I said.

“You said it was black tie.”

“I didn’t say black car.”

He grinned crookedly and stepped inside. “I had something else planned.”

I closed the door behind him. “I’m sorry if I disrupted your evening.”

He shook his head, eyes gleaming as he skimmed my sleek, sausage-casing dress. “Not a problem.”

I cleared my throat and managed not to squirm. “Do you mind if I turn him loose?” I asked, nodding toward Harley.

“He going to eat me or something?”

“You’re awfully large.”

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” he said. I let Harley go and turned. I was starting to blush, and truth to tell, I wasn’t sure why. He may have been referring to the size of his ego, for all I knew.

“Do you want something to drink while I finish getting ready?” I asked, but privately I wondered what I would give him. Generally, real people aren’t thrilled about the prospect of drinking the magic Green Goo Laney serves, and it had been a while since I’d ventured into Trader Joe’s for nutrients.

“You fill out that dress pretty good,” he said.

“Umm.” I resisted running my hands down my body like Zsa Zsa or tittering like a tween. “Thank you.”
Steady now
, I thought, and put on my professional face. “But perhaps we should
clarify
this evening.”

He straightened a little, pushing out his chest and filling his nostrils. It was pretty impressive. “Clarify away.”

“This isn’t really a date.”

His brows rose a little. “So that rag is just something you wear ’round the house?”

I thought of a dozen snooty answers to that, then decided on, “Yes.”

His eyes gleamed as he glanced at the gown’s train. “Good for sweeping the floor and such, I suppose.”

“The point is …” I drew a deep breath. “A friend of mine is in trouble.”

“I know I’m black and all, but I didn’t do it.”

I opened my mouth, then recognized the jest. “She’s been getting odd mail.”

“This friend, she have a name?”

“None that we bandy about.”

“Do you talk like this to everyone or just us niggers?”

“I can’t tell you her name,” I said.

He nodded. “Okay, so you got yourself a friend getting some spooky mail.”

Succinct. “Yes.”

“And you want to go to this bash, why?”