“I’m just a gazer.”
He stepped in close, put one hand behind her head, and kissed her nose.
“No pressure. I’m just here for coffee.”
She smiled up at him. “Thought you preferred tea.”
“I don’t want to offend you, but Americans can’t make tea for shit.”
“Is that like those camel-dung cigarettes?”
“Could be. Anyway, I’m getting used to this latte culture. Plenty of sugar.”
Citrin broke off from him and went to the front door. She unlocked it and quickly disabled the alarm at the keypad. She flicked the lights on and beckoned him inside.
“One latte coming up.”
They drank in silence, sitting in poolside furniture on the concrete patio round back. The pool didn’t qualify as a swimming pool, but it was big enough to get wet if you fell in. The patio was small and intimate, with a shield of bushes between them and the next house along Los Grandes. The bushes were necessary because each house along the street was only three feet from the next one in line. Grant had looked over the hedge before sitting down. He’d struggle to walk down the gap between the houses without having to turn sideways. Three quarters of the houses had pools out back. Every single one of them had a spectacular view across the city. Not as high up as from Montecito Heights but clear and unobstructed. It must have been getting late because Grant only saw one helicopter now. There were no jetliners coming in to land at LAX. The night was at peace, apart from the occasional siren over in West Hollywood.
This was a hundred times better than the noise and bustle of Nathan Burdett’s party. This was what he’d wanted all night. To spend some quality time alone with the woman he was growing close to. Unattached sex was fine. He could live with that. Sex and a laugh was better, giving Terri Avellone the edge over many of the ships-that-pass-in-the-night one-timers. This thing here with Robin Citrin was shaping up to be something different. Something he hadn’t experienced since…
Grant finished his coffee and put the empty mug on the concrete, pushing any thoughts about army medics and stethoscopes out of his mind. The past was history; that’s why they called it the past. Live for now and die later. That was Grant’s motto. He didn’t look ahead and rarely looked back. Enjoy the moment.
He heard Citrin’s cup clink on the concrete and glanced over at her. She was draped across a sun lounger with the back raised. The night air was cool after the heat of the day. He could see goose bumps along her forearms and hard evidence of the chill through the cotton of her blouse. She swung her legs off the lounger and sat up. She held out a hand for him to help her up. Grant stood without using his hands, the muscles of his thighs screaming with the effort from the low seat, and pulled Citrin to her feet. She glanced up at the starry sky.
“Maybe I should have ordered a violinist.”
“Or a full moon.”
She shook her head.
“I don’t think I could manage you on a full moon.”
“The beast inside me, you mean?”
She put her arms around his waist and snuggled up to him.
“Yes.”
His arms folded around her like a protective wall. He got the feeling she needed protection more than she showed. There was hurt behind the façade. From a previous lover perhaps.
“Not tonight. Tonight I’m a teddy bear.”
She squeezed him, then stepped back, taking his hand.
“Let’s go inside and find out.”
Without looking back, she led him through the patio doors.
The master bedroom was to the left, off the living room. It also faced the patio and had its own picture window with full-length curtains. They didn’t turn the lights on but left the curtains open. Grant ignored the room and focused on the woman standing in his arms.
Citrin’s face looked up at him with bright eyes and a beautiful white smile from the slightly parted lips. The unruly mop of black hair looked even darker in the shadows. The white of her blouse became luminescent in the starlight and the reflected glow of the patio lamps. He let her make the first move.
Gentle fingers tugged the T-shirt out of his jeans, and her hands slipped inside the cotton to caress his back. They ran up his spine and sideways around his waist. The touch of her palms was hot. The goose pimples on her arms were no longer because of the cold but something else. She snaked both arms around his back and pulled him toward her, flattening her breasts against his stomach. The cotton blouse was soft but intrusive. She stepped back and looked into his eyes, then down at the little pearl buttons. He got the message.
He unfastened the buttons one at a time. Unhurried. From top to bottom. With each released button, another two inches of tanned flesh became visible. Cleavage first, then a snatch of skimpy bra followed by the soft, flat plain of her stomach with the exquisite indentation of her belly button. Below that the rest of her was hidden by the waistline of her trousers. Grant stopped at the trousers. Citrin slipped the blouse off her shoulders and reached behind to unclip her bra. It fell to the ground and firm, dark swellings jiggled slightly.
They both stood still for a moment, eyes locked together. Peripheral vision showed her long, slender neck and bare shoulders. Her breasts and stomach were not the focus of his attention. Citrin broke the spell. She looked down as her hands unfastened his belt and jeans. Once again her fingers slid inside the material and slid round behind him. Her hands took one buttock each and squeezed. The forward movement drew her closer to him, and this time when her breasts touched his stomach electricity sparked a joint reaction.
She gasped under her breath. Her nipples became bullets pressing into him. His own reaction became firmer. She pushed his jeans down to release it but didn’t look. Her eyes were back on his face, watching the look in his eyes. Grant kicked off his shoes, then quickly bent to remove the jeans, underwear, and socks. When he stood upright again, Citrin had taken the rest of her clothes off.
They stood naked in the subdued light from the street. Grant explored her body with his eyes. She did the same with his. Her initial shyness was evaporating fast. The self-confidence was returning. Grant put his hands on her waist.
“You are beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
When they came into each other’s arms this time, the full-body contact provoked a chemical reaction that saw erections firm up on both of them. Her nipples became even harder. His erection stabbed at her stomach halfway to her breasts. That secret place between her legs grew hard. Their hands slid across naked flesh and felt the sleek firmness of muscle and bone. Before, in his hotel room, Grant had proceeded carefully, not wanting to rush her. Tonight it was Citrin who was pushing matters forward.
With a gentle shove, she guided him backwards onto the bed. She fell forward over the top of him but held herself up on stiff arms. She straddled his middle. His middle was waiting to be straddled. She leaned forward and kissed his chest, the unruly mop of hair adding friction to his skin. She kissed and teased and flicked her tongue across him but didn’t move down his stomach. Instead she moved upwards, kissing his neck and collarbone. Her breasts swayed gently over him, nipples brushing flesh and forcing little moans from her lips.
Grant reached up and took the breasts in his hands. He squeezed gently. Then harder. She gasped. She rubbed her sex across his stomach and pressed her thighs tight around him. Behind her, farther down his body, his manhood waited. Slowly, she backed up. Her thighs moved down his sides. Her buttocks pinched together over his stomach. The soft, wet lips of her sex moved toward him. She reached behind herself with one hand, the other straining to keep her upright, and took hold of his shaft. It felt hot to the touch.
Then she guided it into her and sat down slowly.
All the way.
“Oh my God.”
Her voice was a whisper. It was the only thing she said. Everything else was movement and muscle control.
Pretty soon all control was lost, and they fucked each other hard and fast and very, very long. She gasped and screamed and tore at his hair as she came. He gritted his teeth and breathed out through clenched lips. Then she collapsed into his arms.
It took half an hour before they did it again. Another hour after that for the third time. After that, they were spent. Citrin’s hair was plastered to her head. Grant’s muscles quivered as if he’d run a marathon. They lay in each other’s arms, and she fell asleep on top of him.
The helicopter was buzzing over Hollywood Boulevard as Grant took a drink of bottled water from Citrin’s refrigerator. He was leaning on the patio rail wrapped in a bath towel. The faintest hint of blue was feathering the eastern horizon. A siren sounded in the distance, coming closer. He reckoned the chopper was for police support. Even twenty-four-hour news would find little to cover at this time of night. The searchlight scoured the ground, looking for something the police wanted to find. A burglar disturbed in the act? A car thief running from an abandoned vehicle? It could be any number of incidents the night watch had to deal with.
His eyes ran across the twinkling lights of Hollywood, then strayed farther south toward Long Beach. Somewhere in between, the glass and concrete towers of downtown jutted skywards. Somewhere near them was the Historic Mayfair Hotel. Somewhere in the vastness of sparkling jewels and darkness a teenage girl was either hiding or being held captive.
Grant took another drink of water.
The helicopter searchlight switched off abruptly. The sirens stopped. They’d either found whatever they were looking for or given up. Grant hadn’t found what he was looking for, neither the answers nor the girl, but he hadn’t given up. He knew it was only a matter of time before he solved the puzzle. A puzzle that was shifting with each move he made, because the only thing he was certain of was that everyone was lying.
Almost everyone. The patio door to the bedroom slid open. A tired voice that was still sexy despite the fatigue called out quietly, “Come back to bed.”
He turned round and saw the ghostly face in the opening. Beside that, reflected in the window, the entire cityscape glinted across the plain. He ignored the twinkling lights and concentrated on Robin Citrin. He smiled even though she couldn’t see his face and went back to bed.
TWENTY-NINE
Citrin dropped Grant off the following morning after breakfast. Not at the hotel but in a dusty vacant lot two blocks from the Mayfair. West Seventh was busy with commuter traffic avoiding the freeway. Broken clouds provided sunshine and shade in equal measures. Grant wasn’t sure why he’d suggested being dropped off at the vacant lot, but the itch at the back of his neck told him it was time to be careful. He always paid attention to the itch.
She swung the car through a gap in the chainlink fence and stopped amid a cloud of dust. An overgrown palm cast a shadow across the windshield. The urgency in his voice when he’d told her to pull over precluded her asking why. She looked the question at him instead.
Grant shrugged. “Probably nothing. But best be on the safe side.”
The dust settled. The sun went behind a cloud that threw the vacant lot into shade. They looked at each other for a moment, unsure how to say goodbye, then Grant leaned over and kissed her on the lips. She kissed him back. When he opened the door, he pre-empted her protest.
“In private. That feels right. When it’s work, I’ll be more...”
He didn’t finish. She nodded and looked a little sheepish. The professional woman caught with her guard down. Then she leaned over and kissed him again one last time before waving for him to get out.
“I knew there was a reason you wanted to park behind a tree.”
“The privacy couldn’t hurt. See you later.”
“Bye.”
He shut the door. Citrin spun the car around and pulled back onto West Seventh out of town. Grant watched her go, then walked in the opposite direction, still wondering about the itch and the growing sense of foreboding. A helicopter thudded across the sky above the Staples Center farther south. The sun came out, turning up the heat. Freeway traffic, noisy and constant, sounded in the distance. He was halfway to the hotel when he spotted the big black car parked opposite.
Grant crossed the road toward the Mayfair but walked straight past the front entrance. He went into the Seventh Street Dollar Store next door instead to buy a bottle of chilled water. There was a display of fruit near the door consisting of bruised apples, discolored oranges, and several bunches of bananas going brown in the heat. The car was chugging exhaust fumes across the road. Grant smiled as he looked at the ripe bananas, then at the car again. He remembered Eddie Murphy disabling a car in Beverly Hills Cop by stuffing a banana in the tailpipe and briefly considered doing the same. He dismissed the thought as unworkable because they’d already seen him, and paid for the water.
Then he changed his mind. He bought a selection of rotting fruit and asked for it bagged, then stepped back out into the sun. Traffic had eased. A smile broke out on his face as he trotted across the road humming Harold Faltermeyer’s “Axel F” theme. The jaunty tune lifted his mood. He eyed the tailpipe as he approached but knew stuffing a banana in there wasn’t really an option, so he walked past it and slapped the passenger door.
Hawaiian number one didn’t flinch in the driver’s seat. He’d been watching Grant in the rearview mirror and leaned over to wind the window down. Grant was still humming. The Hawaiian smiled through the open window.
“You think you pretty funny, don’t you?”
Grant stopped humming and shrugged. The Hawaiian nodded as he spoke.
“I like that movie. You too big and white to be Axel Foley, though.”
“It was originally going to be Sylvester Stallone.”
“You too big for him also. Guy’s a fuckin’ midget.”
“No. The guy played R2D2 was a midget.”
This time the Hawaiian shrugged.
“You are no midget.”
Grant held up a hand in appreciation.
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Where’s your friend?”
There was nobody else in the car.
“Gone walkabout. Like Crocodile Dundee.”
“I like the theme for that too, but I can’t whistle it.”
Grant held up the bag of fruit. “There’ll be too much just for you. Some fruit since you’re always out here watching on stakeout. Couldn’t afford the sandwiches and stuff like in the film.”
“Crocodile Dundee?”
“Beverly Hills Cop.”
He handed the fruit through the window and immediately realized his mistake. Cold, hard metal pressed into his back, and the second Hawaiian spoke quietly.
“Not walkabout. I’m more like that boomerang in Crocodile Dundee. When it goes away, it always comes back.”
Grant dropped the bag on the passenger seat. The gun felt big. It was pushed firmly against his spine. Rule of thumb about holding somebody at gunpoint is to keep out of that somebody’s fighting arc. The closer you are, the more chance of being disarmed with a rapid spin and defensive arm strike. Rule of thumb doesn’t apply when the gun is shoved right in your back. No matter how fast you are, you’re never going to be quick enough to prevent the gun being fired at point blank range.
Grant let out a sigh. Rule of thumb about a situation like this is not to worry about what you can’t control. If they’d wanted to shoot him, they would have done it already. If they didn’t want to shoot him, then a proposition was coming. He waited with his knees flexed and arms relaxed. Just in case.
The proposition was more of a demand.
“Get in. Somebody wants to talk to you.”
Hawaiian number two opened the back door, and Grant got in.
The gunman got in with him and the driver nodded. He threw the bag of fruit out the window, then set off down the road, humming the “Axel F” theme.
Badly.
THIRTY
The driver flicked the turn signal on Santa Monica Boulevard and waited for traffic to clear so he could turn left. There was an ornate chapel at the entrance. It had a red-tiled roof and a stained- glass oriel window on the gable end. At first glance it reminded Grant of the Alamo except without the battle scars. He read the sign on a patch of neatly trimmed lawn next to the chapel.
HOLLYWOOD FOREVER
C e m e t e r y
Funeral Home
Flowers & Gifts
6000
To Grant it felt like turning into the drive of an exclusive golf club, and he supposed Hollywood Forever was as exclusive as it got. You had to be dead to get in there, but more importantly it helped to be famous.
The black car drove slowly and respectfully as if leading a funeral procession and turned left at the chapel through the gates. A wide tarmac road network encircled the cemetery with two extra driveways, one running up the spine and the other going across the middle, forming a crossroads near the crematorium. The car followed the left-hand driveway along the northern edge behind the strip mall. The tall, thin palms formed an honor guard on either side of the road.
Grant scanned the horizon for possible threats. There were no drug cartel gunmen waiting to greet him. There were no long black limousines with tinted windows. Even the Hawaiian sitting next to him had put his gun away. The car crawled past marble tombstones and ornate crypts. A scattering of tourists and well-wishers sauntered around the graves, taking pictures. Spectacular flower arrangements turned the open spaces into a riot of color and relaxation in the sunshine. Scent from the blooms was only spoiled by the fried onion and candyfloss smell from a concession stand near the gift shop. Having a gift shop and burger joint seemed incongruous in a place of worship, but that didn’t appear to discourage Americans. As if to emphasize the point, Grant could see the Hollywood sign on the hills in the background and several rooftop billboards advertising the latest movie blockbusters.
The car stopped at the junction with the drive that cut across the middle of the cemetery. A twin marble tomb marked the grave of Cecil B. DeMille, king of the religious epic. The driver ignored it and turned right toward a manmade lake. A crypt the size of a small house stood on an island in the middle of the lake with swans and lily pads. A man whom Grant had never seen before stood on the bridge to the island. He turned at the sound of the car but didn’t wave. Inside the car, the atmosphere turned frosty. Both Hawaiians tensed in the presence of their boss.
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