Down and Out in Beverly Heels

by Kathryn Leigh Scott

  Paul shrugs. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, sugar.”

  “Jeri. What happened to the waitress, Jerilyn?”

  He whistles, his eyes darkening. “Not my style. Don’t know how you could even think that of me.”

  “Then who killed her? Was she on to the mortgage scheme?”

  “Chump change,” he says breezily. “She could have messed things up over a nickel-dime deal. A partner of mine set his kid up and let little Greg play in the backyard to learn the ropes. He tried to impress Lucy and screwed up. So the old man stepped in. Turns out, the operation was worth something. These kids with their computers are something else, but they’ve got no experience.” He smiles. “That’s where I come in.”

  “Nat got in the way, too?”

  “You might say.” Paul sighs, his voice low. “He kind of outlived his usefulness.”

  “Like Sid?”

  “Yeah, if he doesn’t shut up.” Paul laughs then. “Hey, why don’t we join Carol up at the bar, have a drink?”

  “Sounds cozy, but I should probably be on my way.”

  “What’s your hurry?” His hands tighten on the teak panel, his fingers kneading the polished wood. “Can’t even imagine where you’d be going, sugar. Stick around a while and you get to meet Vladimir.”

  “Proznorov? You’re expecting him?”

  “Anytime now. All part of a little change in plan.” His eyes flick toward the bay, then settle back on me. “But no need for you to run. I got a little transaction to wrap up, then I’m hitting the road. Maybe you want to tie in with me again, now that you know so much. What do you say?”

  “Instead of Carol?”

  “Why not, sugar? I’m your biggest fan. Didn’t you know?” He smiles as he flips over a photograph on the teak cabinet—the eight-by-ten glossy of Jinx in her top hat that I signed for Donna.

  “How’d you get that?”

  “You’re sure looking good, baby.” He looks back at me, a glint of menace in his eyes. “I missed you.”

  “Paul, how did you—?”

  With a sudden movement, he yanks open the slatted teak doors. “Take a look, baby. You picked a helluva time to drop in.” Lucy and Greg are crouched inside the cupboard, bound and gagged. Wearing the same outfit I saw her in a week ago, Lucy lies slumped against Greg, eyes closed, her breathing shallow. Greg stares at me with sullen eyes, his cheek bruised, his nose caked with dried blood.

  “What’re you going to do with them?”

  He kicks the door closed. “A little bartering—one way of paying off a debt.”

  I nod, my brain grappling with this new twist. “You ripped off Lucy. Is that why she ratted on you?”

  “And Erica. Lovely Erica.” He sounds wistful, but his eyes are cold. “You just can’t let a woman get the best of you, know what I mean? That’s one thing about you, sugar. You never turned on me.”

  “I never got a chance to turn on you, Paul. You beat me to it. But no hard feelings.” Please, God, let Jack be hearing all this! Meanwhile, how do I get out of here? I have no plan. No protection, no exit strategy. What would Jinx do? Divert attention, of course. I smile. “Hang on, Paul. I almost forgot. I have a little souvenir for you.” Without taking my eyes off him, I back up a few steps and reach into my shoulder bag. “Just a sec—” I grasp the tubes stashed at the bottom of my bag and haul them out. “You went off and left your cigars—”

  I sail the tubes over his shoulder. He turns to catch them as I grab the corner of the handrail and bound down the steps, my feet barely touching the treads. I hear a grunt of surprise, then laughter. “Thanks, baby, but where are you running off to? You’ve got nowhere to go!”

  I hoist myself over the railing and onto the dock, crouching by the side of the boat. Paul appears at the railing on the top deck, then moves back into the wheelhouse. The lights go out, and darkness engulfs the lower portion of the dock. I move quickly toward the embankment, crouching low, trying to assess the best way to get on the other side of the inlet. A glint of light catches my eye. I strain to make out the flash of glitter bobbing near the top end of the dock. I crawl behind several oil drums and grab my cell phone, my heart racing. “Jack? Did you hear all that?”

  “Yes, I heard. We didn’t know about Greg and Lucy,” he snaps. “But I wish to hell—we’ve been tracking Proznorov’s boat, keeping everyone clear of the area. We’re ready to move in. Where are you now?”

  “Off the boat, near the oil drums. What about Carol?”

  “She’s not here. You got it wrong. It’s your friend that’s injured. A medic is with her. But there’s no sign of Carol—or Sid. We picked him up on the road a couple of hours ago. He was cooperating with us, then he slipped away.”

  “What? Wait, something’s wrong. Carol was badly injured—”

  There’s movement in the reeds, a rustling. I freeze, clamping the phone against my cheek. I slowly turn my head to the sound. The unmistakable smell of vetiver hits my nostrils. I know it’s Sid even before I see him lumbering onto the damp sand near the ramp.

  I crouch lower and move around the oil drums, sliding the phone back down to my mouth. “I just saw Sid. He’s maybe twenty feet away,” I whisper.

  “Let me know his movements. I’m just pulling up at the bungalow—are you still behind the oil drums? We’ve got teams ready to close in. I’ll send someone in for you.”

  I swivel around, looking. “I’m closer to the lower end of the dock. Paul’s still on the boat.”

  “Stay put! We’ll find you.”

  “I’m not moving—”

  “Who’re you talking to?” I look up to see Paul, his face twisted in anger. He clamps my shoulder with one hand, the other coming down hard on my wrist, knocking my phone into the grass. On the upswing, Paul’s hand crashes against my jaw, knocking me sideways. I cry out, pain shooting through the side of my face as I fall back against the oil drums. They clatter together, one of them toppling onto the dock.

  “Carol! No, please! Don’t hurt her!” It’s Sid, his voice an anguished bellow. He stumbles and falls heavily against the ramp. “Let her go!”

  “What the hell—” Paul swings around, pulling a gun from his waistband. I scramble back toward the oil drums, but not fast enough. Paul yanks me to my feet, clamping his hand across my mouth. “What’re you doing down here, Sid?”

  “Just let her go, please.” Sid struggles to his feet, a pathetic, bloated figure silhouetted in the glow of the cantina. “All I want is to take her back with me. I’ve kept my end of the bargain.”

  “The hell you have!” Paul laughs coldly. He positions himself behind me, his grip on me tightening. I shift my head, trying to maneuver my face into the light from the patio so Sid can see it’s me, not Carol. Paul pulls my head back, holding me against his chest. “You think we’re bargaining over your wife? She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t want to be, Sid. I kind of think you know that.” He laughs, then presses his lips to my cheek and makes a loud smacking sound. “What d’ya say, precious? Want me to give you back to Sid?”

  “Let her go, damn you! Carol! For God’s sake, tell him!”

  Paul presses the gun into my back. “Let’s just head for the cantina and talk it over. Go on, Sid. We’re right behind you.”

  As I twist my face in Paul’s viselike grip, I pick up a glint at the end of the dock. There’s a slight movement, a glimpse of blonde hair. I know, without fully seeing her, that it’s Carol—but how could it be? Then I realize that the silvery glint is a handgun. A sickening fear engulfs me. What has she done to Donna?

  Sid, unaware that Carol is huddled in shadow no more than six feet away, lifts his hands, his palms white in the moonlight. “Please, I’m begging you. Don’t hurt her. I’ll do anything you want. Just don’t hurt her.”

  “Then move, buddy. You want Carol, you can have her. My little gift to you, Sid. Just keep your hands where I can see ’em.”

  Paul shoves me forward. I stumble, then regain my footing. In the distance I
hear the faint rumble of another cabin cruiser. I shift my gaze, a spark of light on the bay catching my eye. Paul glances back, too. It must be Proznorov steaming into the Harbor Queen Landing. I plant my heel on the laces of Paul’s Top-Siders and sink my teeth into his thumb.

  “What the hell?” He yanks his hand and stumbles backward, losing his balance. He’s too solid to topple over, but while he regains his footing I drop to the deck and roll sideways. A shot rings out, then another, both slicing into the dock near Paul. I glance back to see Carol lurching toward Paul, gun in hand, screaming, “Bastard! Liar!”

  I plunge into the water, grabbing a plastic float attached to a boat hook on the edge of the dock. I grip the metal handle and ease myself to the side of the dock, my feet settling onto a wide crossbeam. Carol fires again, this time striking Paul in the shoulder. He slumps onto the deck, breathing hard.

  “Carol!” Sid lunges toward her as Paul raises his arm and fires. The deafening blast is echoed by a fierce scream. Carol falls at the end of the ramp with Sid crouching over her.

  Paul raises his arm to fire again. I swing the boat hook, slicing it down hard on his wrist. I hear the crack of bone. He grunts with pain, and the weapon falls from his hand, clattering onto the deck. I grab the gun and kick away from the crossbar, struggling to reach one of the fraying rubber tires tied to the dock. I grab on, bracing myself against the side of the tire, the gun heavy in my hand. Paul is on his knees, his bulk slumped back on his heels. For an instant, our eyes lock. He stares, looking stupefied, his hand clutching his shoulder. Blood oozes through his fingers, darkening his shirt. I hold my breath, staring back, feeling no pity.

  Gunfire cracks the air, and flares of brilliant light burst in the night sky. Mayhem thunders around us. Paul shouts something at me, but I can’t hear above the drumming blades of a helicopter thwack-thwacking above me. He twists his head in the direction of the cabin cruiser and tries to climb to his feet but falls back into the water. Blinded by the white light, I lose sight of him. Icy water numbs my legs and laps around my waist, weighting the fleece jacket. I wrap an arm around the thick wood pylon, my cheek pressing against its soft slime at the water’s surface. One hand clutches the slippery tire ropes; the other is anchored on the edge of the dock gripping the gun. Whatever I know about firearms, I learned from prop guys coaching Jinx a long time ago, but I’ve got the basics down. All I’m missing now is a director calling “Cut!”

  As the deafening storm rages around me, I spot Paul rising out of the water, his back to me. He shifts his weight, trying to pull himself up on the dock. I remain still, the gun poised in my hand, and watch him struggle. One shoulder is bloody, an arm useless, but slowly, with great effort he manages to lift a knee over a pylon and leverage his body onto the dock. He lies panting, then rolls onto his side, gasping. His head shifts as he looks around, then sees me. His eyes widen, then lock on the gun in my hand. “Don’t,” he grunts. His breathing is labored, his chest heaving with the effort to speak. “I’m hurt bad, baby.” His eyes flutter, then open wide, his gaze shifting to me. I hear a guttural sigh and a faint voice whispering, “Help.” I let go of the ropes and raise my arm onto the dock, bracing myself with my elbows, both hands holding the gun. My eyes are on Paul, his gaze frozen, his mouth still.

  Gunfire ceases, and the drumming sounds of the helicopters fade into the distance. I hear Jack calling my name, then feel the pounding of feet on the dock. His arms pull me up, lifting me from the water. “Meg, let go. Let go of the gun.” He pries it from my fingers, and I register a heavy thump as it drops on the dock. My hands are icy, my body numb, but I feel Jack holding me close. “Meg, look at me. Can you hear me?”

  I wince at the pain throbbing in my mouth. “You’re bleeding, Meg. Easy, there.” He gently pats my lip with his handkerchief.

  I nudge my face into the warmth of his hand and mumble, “Good to see you.”

  “You, too. Damn, you don’t know how close—” He swallows hard, his voice choked. “You’re cold and wet. We’ll get you out of here as soon as possible.”

  I raise myself up and see men in flak jackets rushing onto the dock, two of them carrying a stretcher. “They’re taking care of Paul?”

  “He’s alive, but I’m afraid Carol—”

  “I know. I saw.” Tears sting my cold cheeks. “It happened so fast. How’s Donna? Please don’t tell me she’s—”

  “Sprained arm, that’s all. We need to get you checked out, too. Can you make it up to the patio?”

  “Let’s go. I want to see that she’s okay.” Jack helps me to my feet. My legs are stiff, but with Jack supporting me, we walk toward the patio. I glance back at the cabin cruiser, starkly lit and swarming with agents. Paul is lying on a stretcher, his face covered with an oxygen mask. Two patrol boats circle away from a second cabin cruiser and head out of the inlet. “What about Lucy and Greg?”

  “They’re getting them out now. Both are hurt, but they’ll be fine. So will Sid. They’ve taken Proznorov in custody, along with his key people. Sorry I couldn’t tell you much before—”

  “And I complicated things, but I’m not going to apologize. Anyway, you heard everything?”

  Jack reaches in his pocket and hands me my cell phone. “Awfully clever of you, my dear.”

  I snort. “All in a day’s work,” I say wryly. “I can’t imagine why I bothered with stunt doubles all those years.”

  “Easy there, hotshot,” he says as I stumble on the flagstone patio. He steadies me, and we come to a stop under the arch of bougainvillea. He puts his hands on my shoulders and pulls me close, his eyes gleaming in the spill of light from the tiki bar. “I don’t think you know how lucky you were in that crossfire. Thank God I didn’t lose you, Meg.” He leans down and brushes his lips on my cheek. “I want to see a lot more of you,” he whispers.

  “Good. I feel the same about you, Jack.” I breathe in his warmth, my body relaxing in his embrace.

  He strokes my cheek and holds me close. “I’ll get a medic to take a look at you. I have to take care of a few things, but I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He hurries back down toward the dock, and I watch him climb aboard the motorboat.

  At my feet, shards of glass glitter in pink-stained dampness. On the patio, strings of lights still twinkle around the tiki bar, but stools are overturned, and a blood-smeared sign is propped against a table. Near the tile-roofed hacienda, two attendants load a stretcher into an ambulance without any sign of urgency.

  Donna, her arm in a sling, emerges from the hacienda. I start toward her, but she calls out, “Stay there. The medic’s on his way.” She reaches me, out of breath, her eyes fierce as she sits next to me. “Hope you’re happy,” she says in a rush. “I hear you damn near got killed. Just tell me what you were thinking, leaving me with that wounded Amazon? I thought she was dying, and then she wallops me. Completely knocked the wind out of me. I sailed halfway across the patio and have a skinned backside to prove it. My good pants are completely wrecked!”

  “Donna, I’m really sorry. I was so worried about you when I saw Carol with the gun.”

  “Thank God she didn’t waste a bullet on me.” She shakes her head. “Next thing I know, some guy in a flak jacket hauls me off. I almost missed out on everything.”

  “I’m sorry you got hurt. It could’ve been so much worse. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

  “Never mind, okay? It’ll be something to tell my golf partners. That’s worth it right there.”

  My cell phone throbs in my hand, startling both of us. “UNKNOWN”

  flashes in the window. “Hello?”

  “Oh, hey! Is this Meg Barnes? I hope I’m not calling at a bad time.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Oh, it’s you, okay! I’m Melanie calling from The Morning Show in New York, and—”

  “What? It’s got to be late out there. How did you—? Wait, you couldn’t possibly know about this already—and I don’t want to talk about it!” I cup my hand over the receive
r and mouth “The Morning Show” to Donna.

  “Oh, please.” Melanie groans in my ear. “Actually, I’m in LA. I just have to let the guys in New York know before morning if you can help us out so they can start doing promos. Winston broke his leg shoveling snow yesterday, and we’d booked him for a segment next week, so it’s like—Anyway, you were just terrific in Holiday. I used to beg my parents to let me stay up—”

  “Wait a minute. What’s this about Winnie?”

  “Winston Sykes? The Magician with the really cool accent—”

  “Of course. He’s in Canada, last I heard. But what’s that got to do with what’s happened here—wait, what are you calling me about?”

  “We were bringing Winston in for this special segment celebrating the twentieth anniversary of the series. The network is airing ‘Valentine’s Folly’ next weekend, so we thought it would be neat to have you with Sondra and Derek here in the studio fooling around with the magic top hat, or something. I mean, we need you in person. We can’t do a remote, so you’d have to fly in, okay?”

  “You want me to fly to New York? When?”

  “Next week. Maybe Thursday? Winston gave me your phone number. Do you want me to call your agent, or something?”

  My brain churns. At the moment I can think of nothing I want more than to get as far away as possible. “Hang on a second, okay?” I cover the mouthpiece again and whisper to Donna. “Are you up for a trip to New York next week? Two first-class tickets and a nice hotel. We could see a show. Sound good to you?”

  Donna blinks. “Sure. You wrap filming on Tuesday. Will it work?”

  I nod. Even as I tell Melanie she can count on me to go to New York next week, and arrange for her to speak with Pat in the morning, my actor’s sensibilities are already at work. In the midst of carnage I’m sorting out my future and mentally packing bags—hoping that what happens in Mexico stays in Mexico.

  Chez Jay is packed. This seaside dive across from the Santa Monica Pier has been around for more than fifty years, much of that time clinging to a month-to-month lease on land owned by the Rand Corporation. High-rise hotels and posh restaurants have sprung up on Ocean Avenue, but Chez Jay remains as it was when Jay Fiondella, a sometime actor and avid sailor, launched his restaurant in a jerry-built shack that looked a lot like a beached ship’s hull, complete with portholes. Next door, sharing a cracked tarmac parking lot, is the Seaview Motel, a faded pink-and-aqua structure with a ’50s-era neon sign. Jack and I pull into the lot and grab the last parking space.