Marty didn’t know very much about Lila’s relationship with Theresa, but he knew that it wasn’t very good, and that Lila had very little to do with her. Still, he hadn’t thought she hated her mother. But the look on Lila’s face was unmistakable. Lila did hate her mother. In that instant, Marty knew that he now had the upper hand.
“Why not? It’s a natural, Lila. Think this through.”
“I won’t work with my mother.” She folded her arms across her chest.
“Come on. Don’t be so quick to make up your mind. Don’t you realize what this could do for your career? This could give you an incredible boost, and it certainly would help the show’s ratings. You’ll need those rating points, don’t forget, when it’s Emmy time, and also when you negotiate your next contract.”
“Fuck the points. I said no!”
Marty wasn’t Italian for nothing. And Machiavelli had nothing on him. At last! The worm has turned, he thought to himself. Marty smiled at Lila. “You have nothing to say about it, Lila. I’m only telling you this as a courtesy, as a director to an actress. I’m not asking your permission.”
She should have known! She should have known not to trust him, not to trust anybody! “Who the fuck are you? God? You’re not God, Marty, you’re just a director.”
“And you’re just an actress, Lila. I made you an actress, remember that.” Marty stood up, feeling in control for the first time since he had met Lila. He spoke more casually then he felt. Now he could practice diplomacy, and wind up getting them both what they wanted. “Anyhow,” he said, walking to the edge of the deck, “I haven’t made my final decision yet.”
“About casting my mother?” she asked. Marty could see the hope rising in her eyes.
Marty turned to the sunset for a moment, then turned back and looked directly at Lila. “Listen, I’ve committed to her, but we could make a change.”
“Get rid of her?”
“No. We could feature Sharleen. Have Theresa play her mother.”
Lila sank onto a chaise, as if his implied threat had a physical impact on her.
“But you said I have the lead.” Her wail of betrayal sounded almost childish.
Marty stood up and shrugged. “That was my scenario. But you don’t seem to like it. And we have a play-or-pay contract with Theresa: she’s paid if we use her or not.”
Lila, he could see, was near tears.
“I’m sorry, Lila. I didn’t know you felt this way. You never told me.” He finally had his advantage, and now he was going to push it home. She had had him spinning since they met. Now it was her turn. She wanted something from him? This time, this time, Lila was going to have to negotiate.
She remained seated. “Please, Marty, couldn’t we talk this out? Why my mother? I mean, the idea of the rich girl leaving home is perfect. Sharleen can’t play that. But you want an old bag like Theresa for the show? There must be a million others who’d jump at the chance. Let’s think of someone else. How about Debbie Reynolds? Or Dina Merrill?” A forced smile strained Lila’s face.
Marty almost felt uneasy at Lila’s desperation; almost, but not quite. The taste of his own recent desperation was still fresh. Only last night, he had dreamt about her, had fantasized watching her undress in front of him, seeing her lying next to him, her long, slim body stretched out, waiting for him, her legs open, inviting, then accepting.
“You’re a very beautiful woman, Lila.” He looked directly into her eyes.
Lila stared up at him, then dropped her eyes. “I know you’re attracted to me, Marty. But…” She stopped.
Marty didn’t say anything. He knew his time had come. She spoke again. “It’s not you.” She paused. “I’m…I don’t enjoy sex, Marty. I mean, I never had sex. I’m still a virgin.”
Marty wasn’t buying that virgin bullshit. Anyhow, he wasn’t one of those men that worshipped at the altar of virginity. “You don’t owe me anything, Lila. I don’t want you to feel that you have to do anything. My decisions are based on artistic considerations.”
Lila reached up and took Marty’s hand, pulling him gently back down to the chaise. “But isn’t there something I can do? I mean, Marty, I can’t work with my mother. You have no idea what she’s done. What it’s like between us. I hate her, Marty. I despise her. Please, don’t use her, Marty. Please, please.”
He felt her free hand touch the zipper of his pants, and he immediately grew hard in reaction. He smiled. “Don’t, Lila. You’re a virgin, remember?”
But she didn’t listen. Or didn’t hear him. She had the zipper down, and his penis between her perfect lips before he even knew what she was doing. Right there, on the deck, in the fading pink light of the sunset. Oh, God, he thought, as the warmth of her mouth enveloped him. He looked down to see her beautiful head moving at his crotch. A beautiful head giving beautiful head. He swelled in her mouth. This wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind, what he had dreamed about, but it was a good place to start.
The phone beside Theresa rang. She turned to Kevin. “Be a dear and answer it for me, will you? I’m hoarse.”
Reluctantly, Kevin did, then handed the phone to Theresa, knowing she would want to take this call. “It’s Paul Grasso.”
Theresa smiled brightly, as if it were a camera, not a phone, she was speaking into. “Paul, darling. How are you?”
“One minute for Mr. Grasso, please.” Then Theresa was put on hold.
Christ, she hated that! Put on hold by a secretary! “Am I old-fashioned, or doesn’t anyone dial their own phones in this town anymore?” she asked aloud as she held for Paul. Then he was on the other end.
“Yes, Paul. How nice to hear from you. Where’s the script?”
As she listened to him, both the color and the smile drained from her face. No. It wasn’t possible. No fuckin’ way. Theresa tried not to let her feelings show in her voice, but the effort was too great. “What do you mean, they’ve gone with someone else? Who’s gone with someone? You mean you’ve gone with someone else. You’re the casting director, for chrissakes, aren’t you? Why? I demand to know. I wanted that part. That’s my part. I have the right to know.”
Theresa was now sitting up on the edge of her chair. Grasso, the goddamn cocksucking dago prick. It was him. Him and Lila. “Lila made you do this, didn’t she?”
Theresa understood now. He mumbled something. “Out of your hands!” she cried. “Out of your hands! And right up your ass. You and Lila! Both of you together! She was jealous. She couldn’t let me be on the same show with her. She’s afraid I’d walk away with the spotlight. She couldn’t stand to see me in the spotlight. So she gets her way, and I get nothing.”
At the other end of the phone, Grasso was yammering. Across the room, Kevin sneered. “Fuck the money. It’s not the money I care about!”
Theresa stopped for a moment, trying to catch her breath. She felt like she was losing it—in front of Kevin, but, worse, in front of Paul Grasso. A nobody. A nothing. He disgusted her, a nasty wop toad of a man. She mustn’t let him hear how desperate she was for the part How desperate she was to prove to everyone—to Lila—that she was still on top. How desperate she was to work, to get before the public again.
She forced her voice to frigid normalcy. Icy calm. “Well, Mr. Paul Grasso, I can see we have nothing else to say to each other. Of course, you realize, you will be hearing from my attorney.” She paused. “I don’t care that I get paid anyway. I want that part!” She slammed the receiver down, then flung the phone across the pool, where it clanged against the stone garden wall.
She looked over at Kevin, who, up to this moment, had said nothing, hadn’t even moved. “I guess you heard all that,” Theresa said to her old friend.
Kevin leaned back on his hands and crossed his legs. “You were heard on Capistrano. Killed off a flock of swallows while you were at it.” Theresa was not in the mood for Kevin’s so-called humor right now. “Theresa, I am sorry. But perhaps it’s for the best.”
Theresa snapped her head up, her ey
es almost bulging in unconcealed rage. Perhaps she had to show some control in front of Paul Grasso, but not before this blackmailing bastard. “For whose best? Lila’s? Certainly not mine, Kevin.”
“I just mean that maybe you and Lila shouldn’t be around each other, especially in a work situation. Let things continue to calm down. Wait until you both have had more time apart. You can both use a rest from each other. And then bring us together again. Give Lila what she needs.”
“How the fuck would you know what she needs? What did she tell you?” Theresa shrieked at Kevin, now standing over him, her fists clenched by her side.
Kevin looked up into her face, the sun coming from behind Theresa causing him to squint. “Nothing, Theresa. Only the usual rebellious-teenager stuff. You know that.” Kevin put his hand across his eyes to shade them from the glare.
“Listen to me, you little hustler. I know that you’re gloating over this. And that you still hope to cash in big-time with Lila some day. But you can forget it! I wouldn’t wish you on Saddam Hussein, much less my daughter.”
Kevin narrowed his eyes, turned abruptly, and began to walk away.
“Where do you think you’re going?” she screamed in panic.
“I’ve heard enough for one day, Theresa. I’ll be back when you calm down.”
40
Flora Lee opened her eyes to the pounding at her front door, and, in the darkness that now surrounded her, she couldn’t find the light switch. She heaved herself upright on the edge of the bed, and became aware of the weight in the bed next to her. Dobe. He was still asleep. What time is it? She made out the green figures on the clock on the table next to her bed. Four-thirty-three. A.M. She could remember flirting with him over dinner at Sharleen and Dean’s, and then Dobe had offered to take her home. She just knew he’d be a wild man in bed, but they’d stopped at a bar, and then another, and—well, she often didn’t remember the rest of her evenings.
The pounding took on a new intensity, so she struggled upright, and began to feel her way out of the room toward the front door. “Who is it?” she croaked to it.
“Police.”
Holy Jesus! What were they doing here? “What do you mean, the police? How do I know you’re the police?”
She peered through the peephole and saw the badge being held up in front of it. She looked down at her nakedness and said, “Just a minute till I get some clothes on.” She snapped on the living-room light, and looked around at the empty glasses and bottles on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Flora Lee closed her eyes for a moment, trying to remember, then pushed open the door to the bedroom, the light from the living room coming in over her shoulder.
What she saw in the bed was so frightening, she couldn’t scream, or even move. The pounding at the door was harder now. Flora Lee put her hands to her mouth to keep from shrieking. What had happened? Why was Dobe lying in her bed with her kitchen knife sticking out of his chest? What had she done? Jumping Jesus Christ!
She grabbed her coat and rushed to the door, grateful the police were here. Her hand was on the doorknob when it hit her. They’re going to think I did it, she thought. She stifled a sob, but since the pounding continued, there was nothing to do but open the door to let them in.
There was only one cop, and he was in plainclothes. He flipped open his wallet and showed his badge and ID to her. He stepped into the room warily, and looked around. “We have a complaint of a fight, screaming coming from this apartment. Are you all right, ma’am?”
It wasn’t the first time the neighbors had called the cops. Probably Mrs. Ramirez, the bitch. But she couldn’t remember no yelling. Flora Lee slumped down on the sofa. The plainclothes cop looked at her, then moved over and put the coffee table right. “What’s wrong, miss? What happened?” He sat down on the sofa next to her.
He seemed very nice. Flora Lee didn’t know what to do, but she knew she had to tell the policeman about the dead man in her bed. “I been drinking. I didn’t know nothing till I heard you at the door…” Flora Lee began to cry. She wished she were sober enough to think.
“Go ahead, tell me,” the cop said, very gently.
Flora Lee tried to stop sobbing, and pointed her finger toward the bedroom door. The cop stood up quickly and walked into the bedroom, was in there for what seemed like a long while. Maybe he’s not dead, Flora Lee thought. Maybe Dobe’s still alive. As she was about to get up to go in the bedroom, the policeman came back into the room, closing the door behind him. “Lady,” he said, taking a small card from his pocket, “I got to read you your rights. I’m arresting you for murder. ‘You have the right to remain silent…’”
“Wait, wait,” she wailed. “I didn’t murder nobody. We were just having drinks, and, the next thing I know, I’m waking up next to him dead and you’re pounding at the door.”
“Let me finish reading you your rights. ‘You have the right to an attorney…’”
“Listen to me,” she nearly screamed. “I didn’t do it. It must have been a heart attack, or a burglar. It couldn’t have been me.”
“Why not?” the cop asked.
“Because I never hurt nobody in my life. And he was a real nice man, real nice to me. He’s a friend of my kids. A gentleman.” She began to sob. “I don’t know how this could happen. Dear God, on my word as a Christian, I didn’t hurt him.”
“You’re a Christian?” the cop asked. He sighed. He was a nice-looking guy, about fifty-five maybe, tanned, wrinkled face, brown hair. Maybe now he’d be a little more on her side. He sat back down on the sofa next to her. “Is there anyone you can call? Someone who can come to the jail right away? I’m not supposed to do this; I’m supposed to wait for you to make your call from jail, but, seeing’s how you and I are both Christians, well, maybe, just this once…”
Flora Lee looked up; the first glimmer of hope passed over her since she had flipped on the light and looked at her bed—only moments ago, but it seemed like years. Would a blow job help, too? No, she figured, murder was more serious than that. “Oh, yes. I got a son and a daughter. Maybe you know her. Sharleen Smith? I could call her. She’d take care of everything. She’s got lawyers, and money and…”
“Sharleen Smith? You don’t mean that actress on television, do you? That Sharleen Smith? She’s your daughter? You’re Sharleen Smith’s mother?”
Flora Lee nodded, animated. Maybe she could get out of this mess after all. Who would believe that the mother of a famous star would kill someone? “Yes,” she said, as she reached for the framed picture on the end table and handed it to the cop. “See? That’s my baby.”
The cop studied the picture for a moment, then handed it back to Flora Lee. “Anyone can have a picture of a star. I have a picture of Sharleen Smith at home myself. A fine woman, and a good Christian.”
“But, see, it says ‘To Momma, Love from your daughter, Sharleen.’ That’s me. Momma.” She waited while he mulled it over. Then he stood up, and began to pace back and forth. Flora Lee watched him, her eyes eager. Finally, he stopped pacing and stood in front of her. “If she’s your daughter, you have her private number, right? Let me have it.”
Flora Lee ran to her pocketbook and took out the card with the number on it. The number she was never supposed to share with anyone. “Here it is. I always carry it with me, ’cause I can’t remember numbers.”
The cop took the card and sat in a chair next to the phone. “Okay, lady, I’m going to give you a chance. Because, in this town, television is important and we don’t want to mess up the Industry. But if you’re lying, and this isn’t Sharleen Smith, or she don’t know you, you’re in big trouble. Murder One gets the death sentence in this state. Now, what’s your name?”
“Flora Lee. Smith.” Well, maybe she better not lie. “Flora Lee Deluce.” She began to explain. “See, I wasn’t actually married to Sharleen’s daddy. I’d been married, but Deluce ran off. Me and Dean Smith Sr. had been together, oh, seven, eight years. Dean Smith was her daddy. My husband. Well, let me explain.�
� Flora Lee talked about those days back in Arkansas, and then the move to Texas, and desperation, and about Dean Sr., and Dean Jr., and all what happened. But then, after a few questions, the cop stopped her.
“Now, is this all the truth?” he asked. “You got birth certificates and all?”
“Well, I don’t no more. But they have ’em at the hospital. See, I had another baby there, too.” She was about to launch into the story.
“And what was your maiden name before Texas, back in Arkansas?” He was busy taking notes, which made her nervous. He stared at her now. “If you’re lying now, Mrs. Deluce, you’re going to fry.”
“I’m not lying,” she whispered.
“Okay, Mrs. Deluce. I want you to go into the bathroom and take yourself a hot bath. Wash off all that blood. And clean out the tub. Real thorough. Don’t come out till I call you. Understand?” He picked up the phone and placed it on his lap.
“Could I…? I mean, I’m awful shook up. Look, I’m trembling. Could I take a drink before I go in? For my nerves?”
“Take the whole bottle in with you, I don’t care. Wash up real good, but don’t try to get away. I already checked the window.”
Flora Lee closed the bathroom door behind her, turned on the taps, then quickly unscrewed the top of the vodka bottle, and took three long pulls on it before coming up for air. Then she took three more. She placed the bottle on the edge of the tub and sat on the commode, waiting for the alcohol to hit.
How in the name of a bad bull’s balls did I get into this? she thought. What happened? Did someone come in and kill Dobe while I was passed out? Maybe he killed hisself. No, the knife was in the middle of his chest. Christ Almighty! Could I have done it? In a blackout? Flora Lee knew all about blackouts. She was used to drinking and then finding herself in dingy rooms with dirty men she didn’t know. But she had never hurt nobody before while she was in a blackout.
But that she couldn’t know for sure. Maybe she did and couldn’t remember. Oh, sweet Jesus, get me out of this. I don’t want to die. I’ll stop drinking if You just help me. For the first time in almost a dozen years, Flora Lee dropped to her knees for something other than a blow job. Oh, please, sweet Lamb of God, please help me, she prayed.
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