“And the fact that her intentions weren’t honorable troubled you?” I couldn’t resist asking.
“I can’t tell you how many times she paraded me up and down the dock, like I was some kind of prized poodleor something.” He took a long, deep breath. “Popper, she used me!”
“Imagine!”
“She’s history, man. Anyway, it’s definitely time to move on, and I thought that since you’re out on the East End, maybe I’d come out and, you know, make the scene.”
I didn’t bother to tell Marcus that no one “made the scene” anymore. I was too busy trying to think up an excuse. “Well...they don’t give me much time off—”
“That’s okay. If there’s one thing the Marc Man excels at, it’s making his own good time.”
The Marc Man? I was glad he wasn’t there to see the way I was rolling my eyes.
“So listen, Popper, I’ll be in touch,” he continued. “But I wanted you to know I’m back in the good old U.S. of A. and ready to par-tay.”
And I’m ready to vo-mit, I thought grimly after we hung up. All I needed was a visit from Marcus Scruggs to complicate my life even further. But as I turned on the ignition, I pushed the thought aside. Knowing Marcus, he probably wouldn’t make good on his threat. Since he had the attention span of a two-year-old toddler combined with the libido of a fifteen-year-old boy, it probably wouldn’t be long before he’d moved on to some other distraction—undoubtedly of the female variety, and hopefully much closer to home.
I was humming as I strolled across East Brompton Green toward my bug-bedecked booth. My lunch with Nick had put me in such a good mood that even the possibility of a visit from Marcus Scruggs couldn’t ruin it. Or maybe something else had elevated me to such an optimistic state: the promise of a clandestine rendezvous with a mysterious busboy that would yield me some telling new information about Chess and Devon’s dark side.
Lost in thought, I suddenly became aware of someone walking beside me. Glancing over, I saw it was Shawn and his sidekick, Rufus.
“Hey, Rufus!” I chirped. “How’s our star?”
“Aw, so it turns out he’s not the only pretty face in this town,” Shawn answered glumly. “But even though he didn’t win any ribbons, I’m still his number one fan.”
“And he’s clearly yours.” I didn’t mention that the loyal bulldog undoubtedly had a lot of competition. “Speaking of animals, you never mentioned you had a cat.”
“A cat?” Shawn looked puzzled for a few seconds before saying, “Oh, you must mean that nasty black cat that hangs out on my property. I call him Lucifer.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Interesting name for a pet.”
“He’s no pet,” he insisted. “He just kind of moved in.”
“Poor thing. You might want to make his adoption official. By feeding him, I mean.”
“I guess there’s no harm in that—as long as he stays outside,” Shawn mused. “I don’t think Rufus is interested in sharing me. Especially with a feline!”
I glanced at the adoring pet at his side, who at the moment was gazing at him with moist, soulful eyes. “I think I have to agree. Speaking of man’s best friend, I’d better get over to my booth—”
“Actually, there was a reason I was looking for you. I realize this is short notice, but I was wondering if you were free tonight.”
I guess I looked shocked. He quickly added, “What I mean is, there’s a party this evening. I thought it might be a good opportunity for you to learn more about Devon Barnett and the circles he traveled in. Their edges, anyway.”
“Well, I—”
“We wouldn’t have to stay that long,” he insisted. “I just need to put in an appearance. In fact, you’d be doing me a favor, since I have nobody else to go with.”
Right, I thought. Like Shawn Elliot has trouble finding a date—especially for a glamorous soiree in the Bromptons.
The fact that he could have taken practically any woman in the Free World made me realize he really was doing me a favor.
“It sounds great,” I told him sincerely. “What kind of party is it?”
“It’s a screening, over at Russell Bolger’s.” He grimaced. “Hugo Fontana’s got a new movie opening next week: Pulverizer4: Armageddon.”
“A comedy, huh?”
He chuckled. “Yeah, right. Unfortunately, you’ll probably have to sit through the whole thing. But there’ll be a cocktail party afterward that’ll give you a chance to mingle. Who knows what you’ll find out?”
“Shawn, I’d love to.” It really was an offer I couldn’t refuse.
“Why don’t I pick you up at the guesthouse around six?”
I hesitated, imagining Nick’s reaction. “Maybe it would be better if I picked you up.”
“Sure, whatever. Just knock on my door when you’re ready. I’ll be waiting.”
I was absolutely thrilled over the opportunity to go to a party that would give me a closer look at the celebrity scene that Devon Barnett had found so intriguing—especially one that was being held at the scene of the crime. And most of the guests would probably be people who had known him—if not personally, then by having their names smeared by him at some point in their careers.
Of course, first I had to overcome a major stumbling block. Nick.
I’ll just be straightforward, I decided as I headed toward the guesthouse late that afternoon. Surely Nick won’t begrudge me the chance to go to a Hollywood party that will probably be the most glamorous event I’ve ever attended. And he’ll just have to understand that Shawn is doing me a real favor, that he’s turning out to be a good friend....
All my resolve to be strong slipped away the moment I opened the door.
Nick stood in the middle of the living room, holding what looked like a white towel. He was studying it, the expression on his face puzzled, enraged, and hurt, all at the same time.
It took me a few seconds to realize that the bundle in his arms was Shawn’s bathrobe, embroidered with the initials “S.E.”
“Hey, Nick,” I said with forced cheerfulness.
He just glanced at me questioningly.
“It’s not what you think,” I said. It took me about two seconds to realize how ridiculous those words sounded. “I wore that here the day I arrived because my clothes got splattered with mud....It’s kind of funny, actually. See, when I was driving here, I got lost and—”
I noticed then that Lou was lying under the coffee table, his eyes moving back and forth between the two of us, no doubt picking up on the tension that was sending invisible sparks flying around the room. I was relieved when Max came trotting in from the bedroom with his favorite squeaky toy, a hot pink plastic poodle, dangling from his jaws.
“Not only am I competing with a dead guy,” Nick said coldly. “I’m also competing with some Tinseltown Don Juan!”
“It was completely innocent!” I insisted.
“So you keep saying,” Nick replied. “Again and again and again.”
“If you don’t trust me, I don’t see how we can have much of a relationship!”
“Maybe that’s the bottom line. Maybe we don’t have much of a relationship!”
I opened my mouth to protest, but Nick held out both hands to stop me. “Wait. Let’s not do this. Look, Jess, you and I have the whole evening ahead of us. Why don’t we find a nice, quiet restaurant, someplace romantic, and you can tell me the whole story behind that idiot’s bathrobe being in your bedroom, and—”
“I have a feeling you’re not going to like this very much, either,” I interrupted. “I’m going to a screening tonight. With Shawn.”
I braced myself for a tirade. Instead, he just blinked. “You’re joking, right?”
“Nick, it’s a really good chance for me to talk to people who knew Devon Barnett,” I went on, speaking too quickly, “and even a few who—”
“Tell you what, Jess,” Nick said icily. “You do whatever you want, with whomever you want. But do me one small favor: Let me know if you ever
decide, once and for all, that you want me to be part of your life. Okay?”
He grabbed his car keys and stormed out.
I stood frozen to the spot, not quite able to believe what had just happened. My eyes stinging, I told myself he’d come back.
He has to, I insisted, biting my lip. He left behind all his CDs.
Chapter 9
“The more I see of the depressing stature of people, the more I admire my dogs.”
—Alphonse de Lamartine
As Shawn and I zoomed into Russell Bolger’s driveway, the tires of his red Ferrari sending up a spray of tiny pebbles that set the valet parking staff jumping, I saw I wasn’t the only one who’d started thinking of the estate as the scene of the crime. Russell had summoned an impressive amount of extra security for the evening. In addition to the legions of guards from a private security firm, there was also a Town of East Brompton Police car parked discreetly behind a clump of trees.
Once inside, I saw that the studio executive had good reason to worry about keeping the premises safe—and tumbling ice sculptures were only part of the picture. The artwork he owned—including a Picasso, a Matisse, and a Monet I could only assume were the real thing—could have been the basis for a small museum. In addition, I spotted a glass chandelier that looked like a Chihuly and an egg, most likely a Fabergé, placed unassumingly on an end table.
Given the impressive collection Russell Bolger had amassed, I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised that his house also had its very own theater, with a large open area outside it that served as a lobby. The room was the size of a small auditorium, with a large stage, complete with thick velvet curtains the color of an expensive burgundy. But it was also suitable for viewing movies. In fact, it was equipped with plush, dark red velour seats, plastic cup holders, and a screen as big as the ones I’d seen in my local multiplex. It even had its own popcorn machine, made to look like an old-fashioned red cart with oversized wheels.
Yet as I followed Shawn into the theater, a glass of champagne in hand, I noticed that there was one very distinctive feature that differentiated this theater from your average, run-of-the-mill movie house: the audience. Tonight’s crowd was as star-studded as Oscar night. Aside from my own celebrity date for the evening, I spotted at least a dozen other actors I recognized from television and film. I also saw a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, a few well-known novelists, and a Swedish fashion model who’d retired at age twenty-two after marrying the head of a record company.
Despite the impressive guest list, the focus of the evening was undoubtedly Hugo Fontana, the star of the film and tonight’s guest of honor. All eyes were upon him as he sauntered into the theater after everyone else had taken a seat. He was dressed casually in khaki pants, a black polo shirt, and a loose-fitting wheat-colored linen jacket whose clean lines emphasized his broad shoulders and massive chest. His square jawline was accentuated by a serious five o’clock shadow, giving him an air of insouciance that belied the importance of the evening.
A tall, lanky man strode into the theater beside him, trying to look just as relaxed but not quite succeeding. Russell Bolger, no doubt. While Hugo took a seat in the front row, the man I assumed was our host for the evening stepped in front of the screen and motioned for everyone to quiet down. He was exceptionally good-looking, the type of individual who exuded such confidence that he automatically became the center of attention. His dark hair was peppered with gray, and his tanned skin had the weathered look of someone who’d spent a lot of time on a yacht. Even from a distance, I could see that he had the same hazel eyes as his daughter. When he smiled, I saw the resemblance even more clearly.
“I’d like to thank you all for coming tonight,” Russell Bolger began, his voice filling the room as he spoke into a microphone he’d pulled from out of nowhere. The sound system in the modest-sized auditorium was so powerful I half-expected him to introduce the Rolling Stones. “It’s exciting for me to see so many familiar faces. I promise you’re in for an action-packed evening. In case anyone doesn’t know why we’re here, it’s because we’re about to have the pleasure of watching one of the greatest actors of all time, Hugo Fontana, do what he does best.”
After pausing for some light applause, he continued smoothly, “Just to give you a little background, Hugo is one of those rare individuals in Hollywood who truly was an ‘overnight success.’ I’m proud that I’m the person who discovered him, back when he was working as a waiter. I knew the minute I laid eyes on him that he had real star quality. Good thing, too, since I seem to recall he couldn’t get my order straight.”
Russell waited until the polite laughter died down. “Even though he’d only come to L.A. from New Jersey a few weeks earlier, I cast Hugo in the first Pulverizer movie. It was simply called The Pulverizer, since none of us dreamed it would turn out to be such a phenomenon. But the film was more than a box-office smash that set new records. Its star immediately struck a chord with his audience. Men loved his movies for the action. They saw Hugo Fontana as someone they’d like to be. But women loved him, too. He is amazingly charismatic, someone female ticket buyers couldn’t get enough of. Suddenly, everybody was saying Hugo’s signature expression, “In—your—dreams!” He punched out each syllable, using a distinctively New York accent. The audience laughed appreciatively.
“The rest, as they say, is history,” he continued. “The success of The Pulverizer led to two equally successful sequels, Pulverizer 2: The Devastation and Pulverizer 3: The Annihilation. Together, these films put my production company, North Star Studios, on the map. I hope— and expect—that this fourth Pulverizer movie will be just as big a hit. I owe Hugo Fontana a lot—as do movie-lovers all across America and throughout the world.”
“Hey, Russ!” someone called from the back of the room. “Is there going to be a Pulverizer 5? I want to know if I should invest in North Star!”
Amidst the laughter that broke out, Russell shot back, “It’s hard to say. After all, who knows what comes after Armageddon? And now, without further ado, I invite you to enjoy the long-awaited Pulverizer 4: Armageddon. ”
He sat down amid enthusiastic applause. The lights went out, and I sat back to watch my first Pulverizer film.
While I hadn’t given much thought to what the next two hours would hold, I realized immediately that the movie’s title should have tipped me off. I gripped the armrests so tightly my fingers ached as I watched Hugo—a.k.a. Dino Gigante, “the Pulverizer”—in action. He ferreted out a cowering drug dealer by wresting open the trunk of a Mercedes with his bare hands, then twisting the sheet metal into a cylinder and bonking him on the head with it. He picked up a second villain by the ears, held him at arm’s length, and twirled him around a half-dozen times before lobbing him directly in the path of an oncoming garbage truck. He stacked a few hundred pounds of heroin in front of a fire hydrant, crouched down to open it with his teeth, and watched with satisfaction as the bad guys’ booty was reduced to a dangerously addictive pool of oatmeal.
And that was just the first five minutes.
By the time the movie was over, I was exhausted. I’d seen more blood and guts in those 118 minutes than I’d encountered in my entire career as a veterinarian. It was a relief when the lights finally came back on, the last of the screen credits still rolling up on the screen, accompanied by the loud, menacing music that constituted The Pulverizer’s theme song.
“Another blockbuster!” I heard someone say as I filed out of the screening room with the other guests. “I just love the way he says, ‘In—your—dreams!’ ”
“Hugo’s done it again,” the woman heading up the aisle in front of me gurgled. “They sure don’t make men like that anymore.”
“How’d you like to jump in the sack with him?” her friend countered, giggling. “I bet pulverizing drug dealers isn’t the only thing he’s good at!”
My head hadn’t yet stopped spinning, and it wasn’t only from all the Hollywood-style violence I’d just been subjected to
—enough to guarantee that Pulverizer 4 would be a box-office hit with his macho, action-loving fans. While Hugo Fontana was certainly the embodiment of power, at the same time he managed to generate an amazing amount of sex appeal on screen.
When it came to muscles, nobody had him beat. His arms and torso were perfectly formed, as if Michelangelo himself had created the man out of marble. Although his muscles could best be described as “bulging,” there was a certain beauty, and even grace, to his rounded biceps and triceps and his well-developed abs. Either sweat, oil, or some other Hollywood trick gave his olive-toned skin a sheen that made him look even more unreal—and more powerful. He was also classically handsome, with a Roman nose, that remarkably strong jawline, and intense dark brown eyes fringed with extraordinarily thick black lashes.
I hated to admit it, but I’d come to understand Hugo Fontana’s appeal. I could even imagine plunking down a pile of bills for a movie ticket, just to see him in action once again.
A splash of cold water on my face was definitely in order.
“I’m going to pop into the ladies’ room,” I told Shawn. “I’ll catch up with you in a minute.”
I headed down a short hallway and opened a door I suspected would take me where I wanted to go. But instead of finding myself in a bathroom, I confronted black walls, thick velvet curtains, looping ropes, and electrical boxes.
“Oops,” I muttered, realizing I’d accidentally stumbled upon the entrance to the backstage area. I backed out and tried again, immediately spotting a door labeled “Actresses.” When I noticed a second door that said “Actors” right across the hall, I knew I’d found the right place.
I ducked inside, then stood in front of the large mirror hanging above the three sinks. I was checking to see if I looked as drained as I felt, when the door opened and Kara Liebling floated in.
“Jessie!” she greeted me brightly. “What a nice surprise!”
I was just as pleased to see her. “I noticed you in the audience, but I was sitting toward the front.”
Putting on the Dog Page 15