“So you’ll do me a favor?”
“Of course. Before we get to that, though, you want a bite to eat?”
“You got snacks tucked away in here?”
“Not in here. Go out for dinner. It’s been a long day.”
“Are you asking me on a date?”
“Does that count as another favor? ’Cause you don’t get two in return.”
“I thought favors didn’t get paid back. They were bestowed.”
“Glad we got that sorted. Dinner?”
“I’d love to.”
Citrin stood up and walked to the window. Grant was blocking the way. He stepped back to let her pass but there still wasn’t enough room between the foot of the bed and the dresser. They stood facing each other for a couple of seconds, their movement at an impasse. Her head was level with his chest, and she had to raise it to look into his eyes. He lowered his head to look into hers.
“Know what I like about you?”
“My sparkling personality?”
“Besides that.”
“You like dusky South American types?”
“Like John Wayne did? No. I had you more for Italian.”
“Very good. Italian, way back. I get mistaken for South American a lot.”
“What I like about you is the way your nose crinkles up at the top when you smile. Like a mischievous pixy.”
Citrin laughed to hide her embarrassment.
“When you laugh too. It’s cute.”
He raised a hand and stroked her chin. The contact froze her laughter and her smile vanished. Instead she just stared into his eyes without blinking. She didn’t pull away. She didn’t move at all. Encouraged, Grant reversed his hand and stroked the side of her face with the back of his fingers. She tilted her head up even farther and let out a deep breath but didn’t close her eyes. He took hold of her chin gently and touched her lips with one finger.
Then he bent slowly and kissed her. A single kiss. Softly on the lips. Her lips puckered but didn’t respond. He kissed her on the cheek. He kissed her forehead. He kissed her eyes, each one closing at the moment of contact. He kissed the other cheek, then her lips again. She still didn’t respond.
He stopped and looked into her eyes.
She smelled real, not flowery. Her perfume wasn’t as cloying as Geneva Espinoza’s or as expensive as Mrs. Richards’, it was just nice and clean and erotic. He reckoned that last part was more to do with the woman than the scent. Her eyes never left his. They were examining him as if looking for deeper meaning behind the kiss. For the first time in a long time he thought she could well be right. He nodded, then bent to kiss her again. Her reluctance was more exciting than being embraced by Espinoza. It added weight to what was about to happen.
When he kissed her this time, her lips responded. They nibbled and kissed and ate his mouth. She rested her hands on his waist but didn’t pull him toward her. He did the same. Neither of them made the first move; it happened naturally as their bodies closed together. Her breasts pressed against his stomach. Her arms came up around his neck, and his arms tightened around her waist. Her kisses grew hungry, but then she stopped and looked into his eyes.
“Please. Turn the lights off.”
He nodded and stepped over to the switch.
They didn’t so much undress as divest their clothes in a slow dance toward the bed. The lights were off but the room wasn’t dark. It was just darker than outside. Streetlamps twelve floors down reflected off the ceiling. The evening sky had descended from dark blue to black, or as black as the downtown skyline ever got in LA. The soft light bouncing off the ceiling deepened the shadows but smoothed out the lines between light and dark.
Citrin’s blouse was white.
Her skin was dark.
Grant saw everything as she unclipped her bra and fell backwards onto the bed. His T-shirt was already off. His jeans quickly followed. He didn’t remember taking his shoes and socks off, but they had gone too. Citrin slipped out of the black trousers and what lay beneath and suddenly they were naked in each other’s arms.
The feel of her skin against his was electric. Soft velvet warmth enveloped him as he took the weight on his arms and let his chest brush the hard tips of her breasts. The dark, crinkly areolas he had glimpsed through her blouse at Caffè Etc. crisped up as his body caressed hers. Goose pimples sprang up along the smooth lines of her stomach. The soft hairs of her bush invited exploration, but tonight was not the night for that. Instead of parting her legs and laying between them, he opened his own and sat astride her, still crouching forward to kiss her face and nose and lips.
Slowly he raised himself up from her until he was sitting up. Her eyes followed him all the way up. One hand, which had been draped around his neck, stroked his chest and stomach as he moved out of reach. His own hands began to play. Fingers toyed with Citrin’s ears, then slid down the line of her jaw to caress her long, slender neck. She tilted her head back and closed her eyes. A small moan escaped her lips.
The strain of leaning forward from the waist tightened his stomach and the bands of muscle across his back. He left one hand stroking her neck and used the other to trace the angle of her shoulders. They caressed the hollow at the bottom of her throat, then the protrusions of her collarbones. Her skin was so smooth it was like touching silk. He flattened the palm and the full contact absorbed the warmth as it smoothed its way down to her breasts. When it passed over the first nipple Citrin let out a gasp. Her hand clamped over his, holding it against her. He squeezed gently. Once. Twice. The nipple became a bullet pressing into his palm. He moved the hand slightly and the friction sparked another gasp.
He cupped one breast and then the other, one at a time. With each new contact Citrin became more agitated beneath him. He let his other hand slide down her body while the first continued to tease her breasts. He cupped and squeezed and tweaked the nipples between finger and thumb. Her body shifted and pressed upwards against him. She twisted one way and then the other, a low-powered bucking bronco. His hand traversed her stomach, caressing and scratching all the way, until it stopped at the edge of her sex. The hairs were short and dark and neatly trimmed. He wanted to touch her there, to kiss her there, but it didn’t feel right tonight. Tonight was for more traditional pleasures.
Citrin’s hands rested on his thighs. They made no move to touch his shaft as it bobbed with excitement. He sensed that she too felt tonight was an introduction, not a full performance. Some forms of intimacy had to be worked up to. One form could not wait.
She doubled upwards from the waist and grabbed his head. He came down willingly and they kissed again, her hands holding his face to hers as she shifted one last time. Her legs began to open slowly and he took the hint. He shifted one leg and then the other into the gap she was creating and found himself lying between her legs with the warmth of her sex pressing against his stomach.
She lowered her hands to his waist and held him tight. Pulled him forward until the tip of his member touched soft, wet flesh. She gasped in his ear. He paused, not wanting to force himself on her. She had reached that point where pausing wasn’t an option and scrunched her stomach muscles to push upwards. The tip went in, then out again. She bit his ear. Now that he had been given the okay, he slowly eased forward. All the way. Warm softness enveloped him. He stopped and felt the muscles between her legs tighten to squeeze him. Her hips began a gentle swaying motion. Her breath was coming in short bursts.
The rhythm became more pronounced. Her hips became more aggressive. Grant withdrew and thrust forward. Withdrew and thrust forward. She matched his movements in the opposite direction. They achieved perpetual motion. Short of a nuclear attack, nothing was going to stop them now.
She gasped louder but didn’t speak. He remained mute.
Their bodies did all the talking, and the talking was loud. It was frenetic. It was hot, hard sex that had more
meaning than a dozen sessions with a porn star with plastic breasts. This was real. The emotion made it more intense. When she began to explode, Grant finally let go. The noise they made was like animals howling. The release they felt was exhausting.
“So, what was the favor?”
“You’re going to give me something else?”
“I haven’t agreed to the favor yet.”
They were sitting in the restaurant on the first floor of the historic Mayfair Hotel. Second floor, Grant corrected himself. Their table overlooked the lobby, with its tall white pillars and threadbare chairs. The place looked opulent but faded. It had definitely seen better days. Grant took a drink of water while he waited for their meal to arrive. He waved a hand and nodded toward the lobby.
“You know that Raymond Chandler stayed here in 1939? Wrote a short story set in the hotel.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Can’t remember what it was called.”
“You’re full of interesting facts, aren’t you?”
“Full of shit, some would say.”
“Do you like Raymond Chandler?”
“Love the Marlowe books. Not read his short stories. Some of the films were pretty good.”
“Movies.”
“Yeah. I sometimes slip back into English.”
“We speak English.”
“A derivation thereof. What’s that famous quote? ‘Two countries divided by a common language’?”
“Are we divided?”
“Will be if you don’t tell me what this favor is.”
Citrin laughed, crinkling her nose the way he liked. When she stopped smiling, the twinkle of it was still in her eyes. She rested her elbows on the table. “I’d like you to come in and see L. Q. Patton. He’s dying to meet you.”
“Excited, is he? I haven’t said I’ll do the show yet.”
“That would be a bigger favor. I don’t feel I can ask.”
Grant looked into her eyes and smiled. “The jury’s still out on that one. I’m not against it as much as the first time you asked if that’s any help.”
She was about to say something when a Japanese waiter brought their food over. Something hot and steaming that was in keeping with the rest of the hotel, functional but not very appetizing. Breakfast was something they couldn’t really fuck up. Fuel to start the day. Dinner was supposed to be something better, and he wasn’t sure that this qualified. The steam said the meal was hot. He reckoned they should be thankful for small mercies.
He glanced over the balcony at the waiting area below. The mock carved pillars were impressive but the threadbare chairs were not. He wondered what Mrs. Richards had made of the place. Thinking of her reminded him he’d made a promise for tomorrow. Going to see L. Q. Patton might have to wait. Still, the favor didn’t specify a timeframe, so he wouldn’t feel bad about agreeing to it.
After they’d eaten.
NINETEEN
The ride in the cab the following morning was long and informative. Grant sat in the back watching the miles tick away. Coldwater Canyon Drive was just past Beverly Hills and up the side of Franklin Canyon Park, but the length of the journey gave the driver plenty of time to talk.
“And ugly too. I tell you. America don’t know how to make a decent car no more. And when they make one? Ugly as a squashed bug. Look at them Crown Victorias. Big, square, ugly sumbitches. Never sell any if the police didn’t use ’em. Ain’t surprised. Don’t know why they don’t copy them sleek, nice-lookin’ cars, like what the Japanese do. All they cars are modeled on your Jaguars and BMWs. That Mercedes is a beautiful car. All them Jap cars, they copied the Germans. Americans, we copied some bug ugly tank or somethin’. Ain’t a sleek line on any of ’em.”
He was still talking as they followed the winding valley road that was Coldwater Canyon Drive. Grant looked for house numbers but couldn’t see any. There were big houses and secluded houses. There were even houses on top of the ridge that jutted out into space, held up by angled stanchions that didn’t look strong enough to support the square port-a-cabins.
They passed tennis courts and swimming pools and houses with electronic gates and security cameras. Grant was beginning to think he’d got the wrong address. For a runaway daughter, Angelina Richards had certainly landed on her feet. The road continued to climb and the houses became sparser, the barren hillsides more frequent. Eventually they came to a gentle right-hand curve in the road with houses on the left but open space on the right. An unmade driveway curled up the hillside with a mailbox on a stick beside the road.
2421A
The black letters stood out against the stylized white box. It was the only indication that anyone lived up the hill. The driveway ran a short distance, then swung left behind a large house with a swimming pool up beyond a stand of trees. The hillside was the familiar parched grass and scrubland.
Grant slapped the back of the passenger seat. “This’ll do just fine.”
The cab driver pulled into the drive and spun the car around, sending up clouds of dust and gravel. It was a wide entrance. The car managed to face front again in one go, despite it being a bug-ugly tank with the turning circle of a bus. One thing you could say about the cabby, he knew how to drive ugly.
Then he ruined the illusion by opening his mouth. “Can’t wait for you, if’n that’s what you want. Got other calls to make.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Ain’t worried. Just saying, is all.”
Grant paid the fare and got out. The shade of the canyon tree line made the temperature passable. He was glad the orange windcheater was summer weight. It was thin and airy, with hidden vents to let it breathe. He unzipped it anyway and let it flap open. The cab pulled back onto the road and sped down the hill, leaving another cloud of dust swirling behind it. Grant coughed and wafted the dust away with one hand, then set off up the drive.
Angelina Richards’ address was 2421A because it was built on land behind number 2421, the house with the stand of trees and the swimming pool. That house looked like it belonged on Coldwater Canyon Drive. The Richards residence looked like it belonged in a Western.
Grant followed the drive up the hill, coming out of the shade into sunshine as it curled behind the main house on the roadside. Puffs of dust exploded with each footstep, and he wondered when they’d last had any rain. The grass on the hillside was dry and brown. The only green came from the watered lawns of the big house and the trees along the canyon bottom. Up here, in the full glare of the sun, life had curled up and died.
The cabin was halfway up the hill.
Grant paused on the final bend and examined the approach. The cabin was a solidly built single-story building with a porch out front and wooden shed to one side. It nestled in a fold in the hillside that meant there was no access from the sides, where the slopes were too steep. He could just make out the winding road across the top of the escarpment that led to a hilltop mansion on Gloaming Way two bends farther on and hidden by a small forest of mature trees.
Angelina’s place was much smaller, with a turnaround outside the front porch that could only fit one car at a time. The turnaround was empty. Grant wasn’t sure if she had a car of her own, but she certainly didn’t walk here so it was either a lift or a cab. Three windows looked out across the canyon from the porch, two on the left of the door and one on the right. The windows were closed. He couldn’t tell if the curtains were drawn because of the sun glaring off the windows. He didn’t have an angle on the side walls, which presumably held the bedroom windows.
There was no movement. No sign of anyone being home.
Satisfied, Grant walked the rest of the way to the front porch. He paused at the foot of the stairs, four heavy wooden risers that looked to be intricately carved and smoothed. This was good wood, not a cheap extension. A solid porch, not some teenage getaway. He wondered where she’d got the m
oney to buy it. He surmised it was probably part of the Richards family properties.
He glanced across at the wooden shed. No movement there either. It wasn’t big enough for a car. More than likely tool storage or chopped wood. He couldn’t imagine a wealthy senator and oil tycoon having to chop wood. Or use tools either, for that matter. The shed had no windows and the door was padlocked from the outside, so there was no threat from that direction.
Time for the front door.
He climbed the steps and crossed the porch. His feet sounded loud on the hollow boardwalk. He glanced at the windows on either side of the door. No movement. He knocked on the door. No response. He knocked louder. Still nothing. Grant resigned himself to the fact this was going to be a wasted journey but knocked again just for completeness. He always knocked three times before kicking a door in.
The third knock was his Yorkshire copper knock. It was loud enough to wake the dead and denied any miscreants the opportunity to say they didn’t hear him at the door. There was still no response. He went to the single window to the right of the door and squinted through the glass. The interior was in shadow, and all he could see was a reflection of the canyon behind him. He did the same with the other two windows. Same result, except one of the rooms had another window around the side that threw some light into the lounge.
Grant stepped back sharply. It was difficult to tell, but the living room looked like it had been tossed. There was a measure of disturbance near the TV cabinet, items strewn across the floor. Teenage girls weren’t necessarily the tidiest of breeds, so that wasn’t conclusive. What was more damning was the broken window around the side of the cabin.
He walked around the corner. The porch wrapped around the side of the house right to the back, where it butted against the hillside. One pane in the window was broken, a scattering of glass on the floor beneath it. He went to the front door and tried the handle.
It wasn’t locked.
Warning bells began to sound in his head. In every movie he’d seen, nothing good ever came of somebody finding the door unlocked. It was almost as clichéd as the single woman walking up the stairs to the bedroom with the lights off. The reason things become a cliché is because they happen so often, they get typecast.
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