Guilty Pleasures

by Stella Cameron

  “Getting Rose out takes dynamite,” Dusty said. “You know that. And you’re changing the subject again.”

  “Coffee?” Nasty levered himself to his feet and went to the coffeepot that was always hot. “Geez, I need a jump start this morning.”

  “I’m coffeed out.” Dusty’s gnarled fingers drummed on a bony knee. “What happened last night? You said you talked to the girl.”

  “Polly Crow’s a woman, not a girl. Women don’t like being called girls these days. You’ve got to catch up with the times, buddy.”

  “Shit. Woman, then.”

  “Rose can be persuaded out of that house of hers. She’s got a soft spot for you. And she has good ideas about things like making a place look good. Like this shop.”

  “Nah,” Dusty said, but he avoided Nasty’s gaze. “Rose is one of the best. She knows I’ll never let her down if she needs me. I can’t… well, y’know, expect her to come running because I ask her to.”

  “If you say so,” Nasty said. “But think about it. One of these days you should give her a call and lay a guilt trip on her. Tell her you’re hurt because she hasn’t come down to see our shop.”

  Dusty wrinkled his nose and furrowed his brow. “Nah.” This time he didn’t sound so certain. “You saw that woman last night? That Polly Crow?”

  “I told you I did.”

  “And?”

  “Did that shipment of decompression tables come in?”

  “Yes, dammit. What happened with the woman?”

  “Nothing happened,” Nasty said, and wished his gut didn’t take a nosedive every time he thought about Polly.

  Dusty extended a hand. “Gimme some of that coffee, too.”

  “Sure.” Nasty poured a second mug. “It’s like mud.”

  “Tastes good to me,” Dusty said taking a deep swallow and closing his eyes. “You messed up, didn’t you? Probably asked for her autograph and couldn’t think of more’n two words to say.”

  “Gimme a break, Dust!” Despite himself, Nasty laughed. “What do you take me for?”

  “You didn’t ask for her autograph? And you had a nice, long chat, then?”

  “We talked.”

  “She as pretty up close as she is on the television?”

  “Prettier.”

  “Hah!” Coffee spattered as Dusty gestured triumphantly. “Gotcha. You’re smitten. Stars in your eyes. What time is that fool show on? I gotta get a better look.”

  “Mind your own business. She doesn’t like me, anyway.”

  Armed with paper towel, Dusty wiped up the spilled coffee. “They sleep around, y’know.”

  The logic took a second to follow. “You mean you think Polly sleeps around? Watch what you say, Dust.”

  “Or what? I’m worried about you is all. These movie types sleep around, I tell ya. She’ll screw you and move on to the next candidate. I know all about it.”

  The seething, jumpy agitation beneath his skin made no sense. Nasty took a calming breath. “Do you? How?”

  “I read all that stuff. Married to one poor schmuck. Screwing whoever they’re screwing in the movie. Marry the guy they’re screwin’ in the movie, then screw the guy in the next movie.” Dusty considered his analysis before saying, “You’re a good-looking guy. What they call a real stud.”

  Nasty looked at the clock. “It’s almost time to open.”

  “Yeah.” Clearly enamored with his revelation, Dusty put himself in front of Nasty and did a thorough head-to-toe. “Yeah. A stud. Good-lookin’ if a woman likes tall, blond, muscle-bound men with cold eyes.”

  “I’m not muscle—”

  “Roman always said you could have any woman you wanted.”

  “To hell with Roman.”

  Dusty smirked. “Losing your temper. Now I know I’m gettin’ to you. You gonna see this Polly tonight?”

  “Not if she has her way.”

  Dusty’s impressive white brows rose. “Didn’t take the bait right off, huh. Smart girl.”

  “Woman.”

  “Smart woman. Geez. The smart ones never want to look too easy. You oughta know that. They tease a little. Play it like they aren’t interested. She wants you.”

  This was a conversation Nasty would rather not have, not while he was still raw from being so close to her, from wanting her—and from seeing that he’d accomplished nothing other than making her frightened.

  “She was there, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes.” He couldn’t get her fear out of his mind. It had filled her eyes, tightened her face, driven every word she’d spoken, every move she’d made.

  “And you said she always goes there the same time you do.”

  “I always go there the same time she does.”

  “Okay.” A march to the door and back didn’t soften Dusty’s; irritated expression. “You both go there at the same time. Yesterday you said you thought you were both doing it deliberately. You changed your mind?”

  Nasty thought about it. “I’m not sure.”

  “Well I am. Take it from me, I know about these things. I’ve watched people all my life. The pair of you want inside each other’s pants and you’re doin’ the courtin’ boogie to get there. Time to—”

  “Don’t say that about Polly.”

  “Oh, excuse me.” With exaggerated steps, Dusty backed away. He picked up a feather duster and flipped along the tops of air tanks. “My mistake. I mustn’t talk about the princess as if she was an ordinary female.”

  “She isn’t. She’s something else.”

  “Is that so? What’s different? Ain’t she got tits and—”

  “That’s it!” Nasty put down his mug and scrubbed at his face. “Okay, okay. I’ve got a case on Polly. And I’m touchy about it. Dust, she’s… she’s different. I don’t know how else to put it. She’s different, and I want her.”

  Dusty screwed up his eyes but didn’t reply.

  “You know you said she was scrawny?”

  Still Dusty didn’t respond.

  “Well, you did. She’s even smaller than she looks on TV.”

  “Really scrawny, huh?”

  Nasty gritted his teeth and said, “Really slim.”

  “You don’t like small women.”

  Sometimes winning was out. Nasty exhaled. “I know I’ve always said I like women… Well, I may have said—”

  “You’ve always said you liked plenty of woman to hold on to.”

  “Thank you, Dusty.” This wasn’t going to be simple so he might as well wade on through. “I do, on some levels, like more—substantial women. But Polly’s… She’s…”

  “Different,” Dusty finished for him with a flip of the feathers over the cash register.

  “Exactly. Her hair’s not as blond as I thought. More a kind of gold color, I guess. But all that’s not important. Nice figure. Her eyes are that kind of blue that’s kind of dazzling. But, well—”

  “But all that’s not important?” Dusty suggested.

  “Exactly. What’s important is that I can feel who she is inside.”

  “Sure you can. She’s a stranger you’ve been watching on TV and sneaking around in the dinghy to stare at.”

  Patience was a learned quality, and Nasty had learned it from necessity. There had been too many occasions when impatience could have cost his life. Patience. “Polly Crow’s strong inside, but she’s also under pressure.”

  “So now you’re a goddamn mind reader.”

  “Do you want to go on with this conversation? Or shall we check the deliveries?”

  “What makes you think she’s under pressure?”

  A beige Mercedes convertible, its top down, pulled into a slot in the parking lot out front, and a man got out. Nasty watched him without interest. “I felt it. She’s frightened.”

  Dusty nodded. They both knew better than to really question the potential power of intuition.

  “I think someone’s bothering her. She made some off-the-wall comment about scrambling numbers.”

  “Yeah?” Int
erest sparked in Dusty’s intense eyes. “Like what numbers?”

  “Telephone, I think. She talked about knowing how you can scramble numbers to keep anonymity. I can’t think of anything she’d mean but one of those scramblers people use to block telephone ID.”

  “Why would she say that to you?”

  He wished he hadn’t spent a good part of the night thinking that one over. “She must have decided I’ve been calling her up, I suppose. Using the answering machine from what she said. Maybe she’s getting crank calls.”

  Dusty regarded him for a long time. “Maybe you were right. Things didn’t go so well between the two of you. Maybe this is one of those times when you walk away before anything gets started.”

  “Nothing has got started.”

  “Yeah. Just as well if she’s a kook.”

  “She’s not a kook, Dust. She’s scared.”

  Dusty tossed the feather duster behind the counter. “Paranoid, more likely. Look, if you’ve got an itch, scratch it. That’s what I always say. Find yourself a nice woman and take her to bed. You’ll forget your little songbird.”

  The man from the Mercedes had strolled to the shop and was studying ads posted in the window. “I’m not going to forget her. But you can. This is my business. I’ll deal with it.”

  “Everybody needs somebody. Everybody is somebody. Somebody needs everybody.” Dusty sang the theme from Polly’s Place. His singing voice wasn’t great, but he could carry a tune. “You could just tell her you’re taking notice of her theme song, and you’ve decided she’s the somebody you need.”

  “Thanks, Dust. If I can’t think of a better line, I’ll use that.” The guy outside looked fortyish. Stocky. Strong, with the kind of moves that said he knew his strength, that he was sure of himself.

  “Maybe we should open up,” Dusty suggested.

  A shaved head, eyes so dark brown they were almost black. A flash of gold when he parted his lips from square teeth with a wide space upper front and center. “Thinks he owns the world,” Nasty commented. “Must have cost him a fortune to look that casual.”

  “City type,” Dusty said. “In shape but lives soft.”

  Automatically, Nasty studied the man’s hands. “Yeah. Why would a guy shave his head?”

  “’Cause he’s tryin’ to pretend he doesn’t care if he’s losing his goldilocks.”

  Nasty hid a smile. “Maybe we don’t like him, huh?”

  “Maybe.” Dusty laughed from his belly. “Just sizing up the unidentified male. Old habits die hard.”

  “Let him in.”

  Taking plenty of time, Dusty worked the bolts loose from the top and bottom of the doors and flipped open the lock.

  The man sauntered in immediately and stood in the middle of the shop. A whiff of spicy cologne contaminated the rush of cool, clean morning air through the doors.

  “Momin’,” Dusty said.

  “Good day.”

  Affected bastard. Nasty ground the gum between his back teeth and said, “Need some help?”

  “I might.” The man’s dark eyes took in Dusty and moved instantly to Nasty, who got the long, slow, insolent treatment. “The diver, huh?”

  The diver. “I dive. You?”

  “Name’s Spinnel. Jack Spinnel.”

  Spoken as if Nasty—and everyone else in the world—ought to be impressed. “Nice to meet you, Jack.” Any man could be allowed an occasional lie.

  Jack Spinnel ambled along the mask display, idly picking up first one, then another. “How’s business?”

  “Great,” Dusty said, and dislike glinted in his eyes. He raised his brows at Nasty. “Looking for anything in particular?”

  “How long have you been around here?”

  Nasty’s trouble antennae rose. “This is our second year.”

  “Winters must be slow.”

  “People dive in the winter.”

  “Yeah?” Spinnel dropped a mask back—into a tray of snorkels. “I’d have thought it was too cold.”

  “We’re talking scuba. Wet suits. We do avoid taking people through ice.” Not a ghost of a smile touched Dust’s lips. “Person could get hurt—or lost—-diving through ice.”

  Spinnel looked toward the lake. “Hell, I didn’t think it ever got that cold here.”

  Nasty moved the gum from one side of his mouth to the other and said nothing.

  “You been here in winter?” Dusty asked.

  “Last winter.” Spinnel sounded vague. “Most of it, anyway.”

  “That a fact?” Very deliberately, Dusty retrieved the misplaced mask and put it back where it belonged. “And you’re planning on taking up diving this winter?”

  “No. I’m a producer.”

  The coffee Nasty swallowed was cold. He didn’t ask what Spinnel produced. Neither did Dusty.

  “And a director, and writer,” the other man continued. “I’m from Los Angeles.”

  “Figures,” Dusty said.

  Jack Spinnel frowned. He used a well-manicured forefinger to stir around in a box of rubber washers. “We might be able to use this place. It’d be good for your business.”

  Too little sleep and too much tension had shortened Nasty’s temper. “Maybe you’d like to explain who you are and what you want,” he said. “I’ve got a feeling you think we know. We don’t, Mr. Spinnel.”

  “Jack, please.” His smile endowed them with a flash of gold. “I produce, write, and direct Polly’s Place. Sorry. I should have mentioned that up front.”

  “Yeah.” Dusty glowered as washers spilled into lengths of hose. “Might have been a good idea. My granddaughter watches the show when she comes.” His unwavering stare warned Nasty to keep his mouth shut. Since Junior didn’t have a grandfather, Dusty had appointed himself surrogate.

  “I’ve got a cowriter for some segments. Mary Reese. You’ve probably seen her name. But it’s my show. My idea.”

  Nasty lowered himself back into a chair and tented his fingers. In time this guy would get to the point.

  “I asked about you around town,” Spinnel said, addressing Nasty. “Everyone’s seen you. No one knows you.”

  Slowly, Nasty met Spinnel’s eyes. “I guess I’m not gregarious.”

  “You’re silent, that’s what they say about you. Not easy to talk to.”

  Nasty took in a long breath through his nose. “Sorry to hear I’m not a likable guy.”

  “Expensive sailboat, I’m told. And you live aboard.”

  “Am I supposed to be impressed because you ask questions and get answers.”

  “I always get the answers I want,” Spinnel told him. “People in this town like me. They like the show. They’re glad we chose this location. It brings a lot of money into Kirkland.”

  “Bully for you,” Nasty said. “Your point?”

  “I may not be the only one who wonders about you.”

  “Give me names.”

  Spinnel turned the comers of his mouth down and shrugged. “It’s not important. I can make my point without naming names. But if you make enemies in a small community, it could get hard for you to do business here.”

  “That’s a threat,” Dusty said explosively. “Where do you think you get off coming in here and threatening us. Fuck off, asshole.”

  “Charming,” Spinnel said, without bothering to look at Dusty. “My point is that you’d better work at staying in line and getting along with people.”

  “Or you won’t spotlight us on your show?” Nasty said amazed at the man’s balls.

  “Most businesses in this town would do anything to be featured on Polly’s Place. The print shop says their business has quadrupled since they were on. And ask those crazies who run the voodoo dolls and tell-your-fortune joint. Belinda and Festus. We had to do that one carefully—stick to the homemade soaps, and candles. Feel-good herbal tea. That kind of thing. But they’ve never had it so good.”

  “I’m happy for them. Is this the way you approach all your prospective features?”

  “You aren’
t a prospective feature—yet. I just want you to think about making sure you don’t offend anyone. Especially me. I can be a bad enemy. I could also be really easy to get along with.”

  “Maybe I don’t care about getting along with you.” Nasty didn’t want to play this game anymore. “Maybe I’m just not a very friendly guy.”

  “But you like good-looking women.”

  The pieces of this puzzle dropped abruptly into place. “What man doesn’t?”

  Spinnel’s laugh wasn’t pleasant. “That’s not the point. The point is what you do about it. I’ve seen you before. And so have some members of the cast and crew. Nice Zodiac.”

  Subtle as a tank in a churchyard. “I’ve got a Zodiac. I use it—a lot. But I don’t have the only Zodiac in Kirkland.”

  “You’ve got the only Zodiac that hangs around the docks in front of the condos where Polly lives.” Spinnel’s humid brown eyes turned hard. “She takes walks on those docks in the evening. And you hang around there every night at about the same time, Ferrito.”

  “Hey—”

  “Don’t worry, Dusty,” Nasty said rapidly. “This is between Jack, here, and me. I’ll handle it.”

  “She’s high-strung,” Spinnel said.

  Nasty tapped his fingertips together and squinted through them. “Is that a fact?”

  “I know her very well.”

  How well? Nasty didn’t say anything.

  “What troubles her, troubles me. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  “Sure. You’re concerned about the welfare of your star. No Polly, no show. In other words, you hope I don’t plan to knock her off the dock one night and drown her.”

  From the corner of his eye, Nasty saw Dusty close his eyes. Spinnel squared his shoulders. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

  “Yeah. But I never was much good at cracking jokes.”

  “Polly’s more than a TV personality to me,” Jackie-boy said. “Much more. Am I getting through to you now?”

  Nasty regarded the man. He subjected him to the kind of careful scrutiny he’d received himself, and said, “I’m trying to be real open. I’m trying to see what you’re telling me, or what I think you’re trying to tell me.” And he couldn’t picture Polly Crow with this joker. If he could, he wouldn’t like it.