Seeds Of Fear (6 page)

He let her think about that while he tried to remember where Eddie'd parked the car. Finding it, he was glad it wasn't a compact job. Holding the door for her and watching her squeeze inside was like seeing the shadow of a skyscraper folding itself into the front seat of the full-sized Buick.

Donna realized she had to provide him with her address and, because he was an out-of-towner, directions for getting there. She told him as if passing along state secrets.

"Why would an important man like you be interested in my life?" she asked, crammed into the seat beside Andy. Her voice was unaccented, husky enough to make him wonder suddenly if she could be a transsexual with a bad case of self-delusion. But she added, exhibiting more emotion than he had heard up to then and sounding as bitter as a babe who found less in her paycheck than he had promised, "I wouldn't mind genuine publicity, but I d-don't want to be anybody's freak-of-the-week!"

He turned right when she remembered to point, used the turn to stall. "In case you didn't notice, Donna," Andy said softly, "I'm a little guy. A
real little
guy."

"Around that corner, the third apartment on your left," she said. Her face turned to him and he caught a glimpse of it thanks to a streetlight. Seen that way, without considering her height, she was definitely pretty—and feminine. "I suppose you are, Mr. Chalminski. I don't understand the connection."

He had it now, and her! "We're two of a kind—and make it 'Andy,' awright? We're birds of a feather, Ms. Callaghan. Don't you get it?" He pulled into a space at the curb in front of her brown-brick building, switched off the ignition.

"Not wholly," she confessed. She opened her door but made no move to get out.

"I'm the freak here," he explained, "'cause the whole world wants guys who are six feet tall, six five—and showers goodies on them, honey; didn't you know that?" To his surprise, he heard emotion creeping into his voice—that, and a ring of honesty he hadn't heard in it for a long while. "All my life I've had t'be smarter and quicker-thinking—
better
—than other guys, because I sure as hell can't lick 'em!"

Donna actually laughed. And it was pretty to hear; it gave him hope she might look okay under those loose-fitting clothes. "I never thought of it that way."

"See, we're like two peas in the same pod, just at different ends." He snatched up the brown bag with the champagne Eddie Burgess had left on the seat. "You think of yourself as too tall for anyone to like, right? And I've thought of ways t'
make
people give me what I got a right to, 'cause I feel the same way." Boldly he put out a hand to touch her knee. It quavered but didn't pull away. "I got things t'teach you, Donna. Listen to me and you'll have half the men in the world on their
knees
to you!"

"I always thought I'd like men who aren't tall, like me," Donna confessed. Then, though, she was uncurling out onto the sidewalk and leading the way to her apartment.

Once inside the place and seated in a comfortable chair, Chalminski tried to remember all the polite things guests were supposed to do in a nice girl's home. When nothing much came to his mind, he studied her as covertly as possible and tried to form an opinion about her attractiveness. Meaning, by and (very) large, her body.

Through the open doorway to the kitchen he was able to detect a rising bosom as Donna brought down two ordinary water glasses; and when her back, briefly, was to Andy, her sweat-suit-concealed tush looked sort of cute. But then he was strangely relieved to be uncorking the champagne bottle and pouring out bubbly even if she had brought a meaty file folder along that doubtlessly contained her manuscript. As she carried it and her glass to her chair, Andy tried to understand why he'd begun to perspire a lot. Hell, the heat was on her, not him!

Yet it dawned on him when she was seated, crossing her impossibly long legs and sipping champagne, that he was oozing sweat for three damn good reasons: First, Callaghan was the real thing, not on the make, and it might prove harder than he'd imagined to get her out of the ugly clothes and eyeball her the way his audience would. Second, if her bod truly was in perfect proportion, the way he wanted to advertise it, Donna might not represent merely his last chance at another moneymaker, she could just earn him a fucking mint! And third, the primary reason for his sweating like a pig in heat, the biggest woman he had ever put it to was maybe five nine, and she'd been one
of the
squeezes in a flick he'd produced.

He sneaked out a handkerchief, blotted his forehead. While Donna went through a line of chatter meant to set the scene for reading her manuscript to him—it was obvious she wanted to do it, more obvious he wouldn't be conscious when she'd finished —Chalminski faced the total truth about his state of mind: Until this true midwestern woman was bare-ass in a position where no one was ever taller than anybody else, Callaghan was nothing more nor less than a
possible
gigantic hope—and the most intimidating broad one Andrew Chalminski would ever meet! She had shyly kicked off her shoes, and he decided he actually liked her, but that was not, could not conceivably be, the point.

Just as it had always been for a tough little pink-faced shrimp of a guy from Oceanside, it was up to him to twist Lady Luck like a gawdamn pretzel until she handed over the destiny he had in mind for himself. No way he wanted to hurt this sweet-tempered freak of a dame, and he'd take the responsibility to check out the health of every actor or actress who ever fucked her, but this was ol' Andy's livelihood on the line. Anyone who didn't know enough to cover their own ass was just too ignorant to survive these days anyhow, and it was only a question of time till
somebody
screwed 'em!

"We're interested in high concept, Donna," he broke into what she was saying.

Donna lowered her manuscript, lashes blinking behind the heavy glasses. "Sir?"

"It's a film term," Andy said grandly, waving. He fixed a squint on the ceiling. "Like, can a motion picture be summed up in no more than two sentences. Those are the pictures that sell." He took the champagne over to her, refilled her glass, smiled when she drank most of it immediately. "Movie people, at the buying and optioning level, don't
read
scripts or novels, y'see. Writers and agents come in and explain that concept I mentioned. If it strikes us as a bankable idea, we tell 'em to explain more of the concept to us." He shrugged very, very faintly before retreating to his chair. "Books are for publishers, readers."

"But I thought y-you wanted to know my story." She removed the glasses, rested them on a coffee table. Her blue eyes looked damp and quite pretty. "Why else would you come—?"

"Ms. Callaghan," Andy interrupted, standing as he refilled his glass, "we were discussing the concept for your movie
while we drove here.
And it's a very high one, indeed," he added, retracing his steps to pour more bubbly into Donna's glass. "I got t'tell you, I was very impressed." Instead of smiling, he looked as earnest as humanly possible. He straightened to his full height to appear at least slightly taller than she was sitting. "Once some other matters are cleared away, I'm prepared to write into your contract an authorization for you to do the novelization of your life story."

"A movie
tie-in book?"
she asked in a small, shocked, did-she-dare-hope-for-this tone of voice.

"Imagine the reader potential for a book based on a
real-life
film—
starring the author herself!"
Andy let that one sink in, then adopted an expression of concern. "Our gifted mutual pal Edward did mention that possibility, didn't he?"

Donna gulped champagne and nodded simultaneously, getting the tip of her nose wet and evoking an excited, embarrassed giggle. "He did—but I'm no actress, Mr. Chalminski, and Edward is the only one who's said my wr-writing is good enough for a book."

Andy patted her shoulder, smelled a pleasant perfume lofting to his nose. "You ever hear of editors, Donna? And I insist, I'm
Andy."
He put his glass next to hers, refilled each of them. "Of course, even with the finest acting coaches, there are some questions I must answer before we can go to the next step."

"I'd try to answer them, Andy," she said quickly, drying her nose.

Chalminski inhaled, shook his head slightly. "Donna—I don't even know what you
look
like!" He decided to let himself look as troubled as he really was. "We can use ten-year-old girls t'play you when you were five. But what about the later scenes?"

"B-b-but this
is
how I look!" she blurted. Whether she realized she was starting to slur words occasionally or not was hard to tell because she was so swept up in their discussion. Again she reached for her glass, sipped from it. "I don't understand—Andy."

He took two quick steps away, patted his own face to dry it of sweat before turning back. It was time to move forward swiftly, surely, like a basketball point guard taking charge of a close game. "Donna dear, how many motion picture actresses under the age of fifty do you see in sweat suits? Not t'be rude, but I can't even see what your legs look like! It ain't necessarily a case of sex appeal; but
men
go to movies, rent videotapes, and they like to see actresses who look—do forgive me for this—as attractive and as, well,
female
as possible." He edged another inch toward the goal, cautious as hell about how he worded it. "I think you may be pretty—but even as much as an admirer of feminism as I am, I got to have a gander at how you look."

She hesitated for such a long period of time, Chalminski nearly forgot to breathe. At last, nodding, she got to her feet, her proximity—and height—once more amazing him. "I have other clothes," Donna said shortly. She went on nodding as she headed toward a hallway of the apartment. "I do see what you mean. I guess it's only fair and reasonable."

He watched her leave, noticed she staggered just a little despite the effort she put into walking with dignity. Chalminski's heart leaped with joy—

Until she added, possibly speaking as much to herself as to him, "I have a nice sweater and some hiking shorts. 'Scuse me." A door banged against a wall seconds later.

Andy clapped his forehead with his hand. A sweater? Hiking shorts? What—a sweater large enough for a baby rhino, and shorts that went down to calf-length socks? Gawd, every other broad he'd ever given that speech to had gotten the drift immediately, and half of 'em had started stripping on the spot!

He gulped down the rest of the champagne in his glass and Donna's too. At least she'd swilled it away pretty good;
that
would help!

Without hesitation, he strode down the carpeted hallway to her bedroom and threw the door open.

Donna Callaghan, no more than six feet away, was the most naked human being Andy Chalminski had ever seen. His eyes, his mind, and his glands described her that way to him and couldn't have listened to any quibbling about degrees of nudity if Andy's life had depended on it. There was just so much
more
of Donna than of any other woman he had even heard about that the sight of her simultaneously supercharged all his senses and threatened to short-circuit them—and the almost seven-foot giantess certainly fulfilled the little Chalminski's fondest hopes of being well-proportioned for her size. Gaping up at Donna, he discovered fat only where fat was supposed to be, and he was reminded of old
Playboy
pictures he'd seen of Jayne Mansfield—except Mansfield probably hadn't broken the tape bustwise in the low to middle fifties!

"I was lookin' for the b-bathroom," Andy stammered.

"I was trying to d-decide," Donna said, waving an arm longer than some women's legs at a sweater and pair of shorts on her bed, "whether to put these on. Or n-not to wear anything." Her words were still slurring on her, but she was definitely aware she was naked even if she made no move to cover herself. Instead she was taking a somewhat off-balance step forward, standing at the foot of the bed, raising her arms to Andy. She wasn't remotely crude about the way she added, "I definitely do like men who aren't as tall."

This was the producer's cue to produce, Chalminski knew—the time any man worth spit encircled the bare-ass girl with his arms and kissed her lips. But there was no way possible for him to wrap his arms around the part of Callaghan facing him, and—

Donna caught the small-man's hands in her enormous ones, fell back on her bed and took Chalminski along with her. One of his wide-open eyes wound up staring into her navel, and the incredibly generous breasts above him, standing straight up without a bra, made it impossible for him to see her distant face. He thought for a moment she'd passed out. That, combined with his total awareness of where his hands had fallen when they landed hard on the reinforced and ultra-king-sized bed—between her beautiful and impossibly long legs—finally directed a completely uncluttered message to Andy's brain and his body.

He got out of his clothes in record time thanks to the easy way one button on his sport jacket and two on his shirt popped away, and he didn't look down again at the warmly furry place where his hands had been. If she was virginal and everything he had read about feminine parts proved to be wrong, he might have to be Superman to help Donna Callaghan complete the rest of her audition.