by King, Leo
Instead, Richie was pleasantly surprised to see the woman he knew as “Just Sam” from earlier that day. She was dressed in an elegant black cocktail dress, which looked brand new, her blond hair out of her ponytail and cascading about her shoulders, and she was wearing low-heeled black shoes.
Her left hand was still wrapped around something that looked red and plastic. Her cheeks were flushed, as if she had been drinking. She was smiling that small, pleasant, and sincere smile at him, and suddenly Richie felt like the world’s biggest boob.
“Sam,” Richie said, gripping his forehead with both sets of fingers. “Samantha. God, I am such an idiot.”
Samantha, or Sam—whichever—gave a genuinely pleasant laugh, a short and melodious one that held no hint of malice.
“Don’t let that bother you, Richard,” she said as she took her seat, motioning for a nearby waiter to bring a menu. “I get that, literally, all the time. I’m used to it.”
“Fine,” Richie said with an exasperated sigh. “Just… what do I call you, Sam or Samantha?”
“Sam, please,” she said before pointing to a drink on the menu and nodding confirmation to the waiter, who quickly departed. “And what should I call you?”
“Call me confused, bewildered,” Richie said, surprisingly getting another small laugh out of Sam. “Richie, please. I hate it when people call me Richard. It makes me nervous.”
“Nervous?” Sam said, cocking an eyebrow at him. “Why so?”
“It’s just a thing, ya know? It’s who I am,” Richie said, shrugging and leaning back, playing it cool. “And anyway, this morning, I thought I had no chance in hell of meeting you, and now we’re having dinner. Who wouldn’t be nervous?”
Sam again laughed, this one lingering a bit longer, and looked away. “Wow. And here I thought I was going to be the nervous wreck meeting you.”
There was a hint of anxiousness behind her voice that Richie only made out because he himself often had experienced the same thing. He saw her squeeze whatever she was holding in her hand.
Arching an eyebrow, Richie leaned forward and asked, “So what, were you stalking me earlier at the autograph table? Because here I thought I’d have to hunt you down, Sam.”
That comment got a bit of a shy grin from Sam. “Actually, I saw a notice in the newspaper this morning about your appearance. I had to head downtown to the Picayune, and the Ritz was on my way, so I figured, why not get an autograph from one of my favorite authors?” She shrugged.
Richie felt his cheeks get warmer at that compliment. He remembered that brief moment of electricity when Sam’s hand had touched his. Sitting back, he said, “That’s very flattering, Sam, but there is no way you weren’t scouting me, not after all those e-mails I exchanged earlier this week with Mr. Bourgeois.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” Sam replied with a nervous-sounding chuckle, rapidly squeezing the plastic object in her hand. “I had no idea you were in contact with my lawyer before this afternoon. I called him after running errands, he told me about your visit, and I agreed to have dinner with you.”
“Oh,” replied Richie, and then sat back. For a moment, he wondered just how much information Kent was keeping from Sam, all under the pretense of “keeping her safe.” Richie was surprised that the notion of someone abusing Sam in any way made his temperature rise.
He also wondered if Kent had even told Sam that he, Richie, wanted to discuss purchasing a townhome from her. Richie decided that Kent likely did not, given that Sam hadn’t even brought it up. While this was fine with him, as it was really just a pretext, Richie felt it further cast Kent into a negative light.
Pushing those thoughts away, Richie looked back at Sam and saw that she appeared anxious, like a timid animal about to run, and that she was squeezing the plastic object in her hand much like he would squeeze his bottle of pills. A sudden feeling surged up inside him, a desire to shield this anxious-looking woman from whatever ailed her.
Richie wasn’t sure where this desire came from, as it wasn’t one he had ever had before, but it was extremely strong. With that desire came an uncanny feeling of attraction toward her—that frightened face, framed by that sandy blond hair, looked very sexy to Richie.
Richie didn’t have a problem with women—well, not with getting in their pants—but it was usually just a matter of playing the game until they “opened up.” He rarely felt emotionally invested. While he felt similar desire toward Sam, it was overtaken by an even stronger desire to keep her safe and secure, and near him.
“It’s all right,” Richie said. “I’m probably overanalyzing things, Sam. I am a mystery writer, you know, and I have to look at things from a suspicious and unorthodox angle. It’s what I get paid to do.”
That seemed to satisfy Sam, who relaxed in her chair, her shoulders lowering. “That makes sense.”
After a few long moments of silence, Sam added, “I’ve been a recluse most of my life. This, that is, meeting you for dinner, is a big thing for me.” Sam idly ran her free fingers over her black dress. “I even went out and bought this thing because, well, I don’t even own a dress, or heels. So, I’m still a bit like a rabbit in a trap, you know?” Looking down at her hand squeezing the object, Sam covered it as if protecting it from the world.
Sam’s analogy excited Richie even more, and his desire to put his arms around Sam and ward off all the ugliness in the world increased. It was like she was begging for someone to help her. Having never figured himself as a “savior” type, Richie was surprised that he felt this strongly. Maybe it was just a chemistry she gave off.
“I think I get it,” replied Richie, offering his most charming and gentle smile to Sam. “So, I’ll tell you what then, Sam, let me give you a dinner you’ll always remember. If I’m your favorite author, then we’ll talk about my books. If you want advice, I’ll give it away. Want an autograph, I’ll give you a hundred. Let’s have this dinner on your terms, to celebrate you coming out into the world.”
At that moment, the waiter returned with Sam’s drink, a glass of wine so dark it was almost black, like her dress. Richie raised his nearly empty martini glass and said, “A deal, then?”
A soft hue of pink rose to Sam’s cheeks, lighting up the otherwise hollow face with a splash of real color. She said, “Yeah… I think I’d rather just have dinner than all that, if it’s all the same. Are you this way with all women, Richie, or just the ones who like your older books?”
This honestly caught Richie off guard, and for a moment, he was at a loss for what to say. When he had finally gathered himself back up, he said, “All right, then, that will work, too, Sam. And to be honest, I prefer that, because… Okay, well, I’m actually a lot like you. I keep to myself a lot, and I, how do I say this… ”
A sigh escaped his lips, and he took a few moments to gather his thoughts before continuing. “A lot of people have pushed me into the spotlight really fast, and before this happened, I was nobody special. Now, suddenly, I’m at center stage and I have to act a certain way, talk a certain way, and respond to things a certain way.”
Leaning forward, Richie continued, “So I’ve been pretty much coached on how to be a ‘celebrity,’ such as it is, and, in fact, most of the personality that people see is a façade created by my publicist. And Sam, you are”—Richie stopped, wanting to say one thing, but instead saying another—“someone I feel I can be the real me with.”
The blush that had initially appeared on Sam’s cheeks crept back even stronger than before. She nodded her head in understanding and said, “I guess we’re kindred spirits, then, Richie.”
There was a hesitant moment before Sam exhaled and asked, “So, then, would you be surprised to find out that I’m a writer as well?”
As Sam sipped her drink, Richie thought about what she had just asked. It made sense. Who else could understand a writer as well as another writer? Finally, he said, “Okay, I’m not surprised. But I’ll bite. Sam, what have you written? I’ve never read anything by Samantha C
astille, or even Just Sam.”
“I write under a pen name,” Sam replied, bringing her glass to her lips. “Sam of Spades.”
“Never heard of her,” replied Richie in a candid manner, as he ordered another martini.
Sam removed the glass from her lips and licked them silently before saying, “Ah well, that’s okay. I should have seen that coming. I’m local at best.”
“Oh, that’s fine,” Richie said, giving Sam a wink. “I mean, I was local, at best regional, before The Pale Lantern came out.” He let that last statement linger, before pushing to segue the conversation toward his book topic. “So then, are you planning anything bigger? Looking for a way to get published outside of New Orleans?”
What Richie heard next, however, was not what he expected to hear.
“I’m writing a series about the killings that started up two nights ago,” Sam said, a bit of an annoyed look on her face, “from the standpoint of it being a Bourbon Street Ripper copycat.”
If Richie had been drinking at that moment, he would have spewed it all over the table. Immediately, his eyes cast downward and his fists, now in his lap, tightened. What the flying hippopotamus fuck! This was an idea I’ve had for months, months, and this bitch is going to come along and swipe it out from underneath me?
As he felt himself getting more and more upset, he remembered his conversation with the woman in the red dress the previous night. She had plainly asked why Richie didn’t try solving the murders himself. That made him think—why write about a fictional copycat, when the real one would be just as, if not more, lucrative?
Immediately, Richie’s brain went into overdrive, forming a plan to work this situation to his advantage. There was a genre similar to mystery, called True Crime, where the author examines a real crime, including the evidence and the people involved, and lays out the entire investigation for the reader to follow. While it was essentially nonfiction, it was a very profitable niche.
Richie figured that he could write the True Crime story based on the current real-life investigation, while Sam could write her fictionalized version.
And we could use each other as resources. That will work.
“Sam… ” Richie finally said, looking up and seeing that she was watching him cautiously. He realized that he was getting anxious again, and he had left his pills up in his room. The sudden desire to swipe all his goals to the side and protect Sam flooded back into his mind. He pushed down his rising anxiety and focused on the woman before him.
“The truth, Sam,” Richie began, “is that I’ve been toying with the idea of a Vincent Castille story myself, but I for one think it’s an excellent idea for the granddaughter of the original Bourbon Street Ripper to write a copycat story, or whatever it is you are doing.”
That seemed to disarm Sam, who nodded and placed down her drink. “Okay,” she said, “go on.”
“Well, Sam,” continued Richie, his mind and mouth going into autopilot, “I’d like to help you with your endeavor. Not as a co-author or anything, just as a coach. You know, impart some tips on what I did to make The Pale Lantern so successful.”
Richie moistened his lips. Here was the big part of the whole deal. “In return, I want to write about this real investigation that the New Orleans police are doing, especially if the killer ends up being a real copycat.”
“Ah,” said Sam, nodding to show she understood. “So you will help guide me in writing the fictional story, and in return, you want me to help you with a True Crime version of this story?”
“Exactly,” Richie replied, the talk of business pushing the last of those anxious bubbles out of his mind. “You can help by allowing me to access anything of your grandfather’s that you may have, allowing me to interview you about him, and helping me get in touch with the detectives who were originally on the Bourbon Street Ripper case.”
Sam leaned back and gave a long hmmmm, finishing with an inhale through the nose, before saying, “Well, this is definitely forcing me to face these issues head-on. So, as long as we help each other, and not just ourselves”—she offered her hand to Richie—“you have yourself a deal, Mr. Fastellos.”
Taking the offered hand and shaking it, and noting how smooth it was, Richie said, “All right then, Miss Castille, we have an accord. Shall we drink on it?” Richie raised his glass.
Sam clinked her glass against Richie’s, but then added, “Well, drinking is good, too, but I’d prefer if we ordered some food as well. I haven’t eaten since noon today.”
Richie laughed and said he thought ordering dinner was an excellent idea.
At eleven fifty at night, with the restaurant nearly closed, Richie and Sam were still going, laughing over stories of their managers and publicists.
Beneath their glasses, which clinked together with whatever they were drinking at the time, was a double plate of mostly eaten bananas Foster. All around, the restaurant was being cleaned, the staff giving the two writers a wide berth.
Richie had consumed several martinis, and was tipsy enough that his speech slurred. He could tell from looking at Sam that she was quite drunk.
He had adopted the same mannerisms as her, to appear just as drunk to her. It was a charade he was used to when with a woman—if he acted as drunk as her, she’d be more comfortable around him.
“Wow,” Richie said, his speech just garbled enough to make him sound like he had his own Cajun accent. “So this Caroline chick is always busting not only your hump, but your buddy Jacob’s as well?”
“Yeah,” replied Sam, her own speech muddled as she sipped her fifth Crown and cola. “She is… Richie, she’s a real bitch. I mean, I try to get along with her, but the more I give, the more she takes.” Sam rested her free hand over her heart in a melodramatic fashion. “I’m only one person. I can only do so much.”
Richie positively howled with laughter at that. “That is why—right there—that is why I never wrote for newspapers.” He paused. “Unless I had to.” Another pause. “For money.”
Nodding, Sam finished off her drink and sat back. “Richie, I’m going to be totally honest here.”
This got Richie’s attention. He sat up as straight as he could and looked Sam in the eyes.
Sam continued, “I really thought you’d be a dick, but you turned out to be pretty cool. Thank you.”
That got a sharp laugh out of Richie, who slammed back his fourth martini. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sam. I’m a totally likeable fellow!”
As Sam snickered at him, Richie continued, “But that’s okay, because from the way Kent described you, I thought you would be a psycho-chick who would be ready with a lawsuit in one hand and a gun in another!”
That made Sam laugh out loud and gulp down the last of her wine before saying, “I’m not that bad. Okay, maybe I was, but dammit, I went out and had dinner with someone tonight. This is the first time I’ve come outta my shell since I was twenty. I’m proud of myself.”
As Richie smiled to himself at Sam’s comment, she added, “We should do this again, Richie.” She reached out and touched his hand for a moment. “I mean, if you want to, that is… ”
Richie again felt a charge rush through his body at Sam’s touch, stronger than the first time. For a long moment, he stared at his hand where she had touched him. Her touch felt so strange and yet so familiar. He had never felt anything like that sensation before.
Richie looked up at Sam, who was smiling back at him. His anxiety was replaced by the confidence only brought about by alcohol, and he felt very masculine.
Clearing his throat, Richie reached over and touched his fingers to Sam’s hand, saying, “Tell you what, Sam. How about we have coffee tomorrow morning? We can go over the book ideas together. And let’s choose someplace you are comfortable with, like your place.”
“Coffee, huh?” Sam asked, tapping her bottom lips with her finger. “Sure, why the hell not! Come over to my house tomorrow morning.”
Sam reached into her back pocket and pulled
out a card with an address. Sliding it over to Richie, Sam said. “How does eight o’clock sound? We can have breakfast, fresh coffee, and work on our book ideas.”
Richie, who was certain that a sober Samantha Castille would never have invited him over for breakfast, thought that was a fantastic idea. Just as he was about to suggest that he pick something up for their breakfast, the head waiter approached the table with their bill.
“Pardon me,” the waiter said in a cordial voice, “but we are closing in five minutes. Can you, please… ?” Holding out the bill, he offered a pleasant but tired smile.
Before Richie could do anything, Sam reached out and tossed a plastic card onto the plate. “Here. On me,” she said, winking at Richie.
Richie was stunned. He hadn’t seen the bill, but he was sure the total had to be over two hundred. Two filet mignon dinners, not to mention that many drinks, couldn’t be cheap.
Remembering his conversation with Kent earlier that day, he realized that Sam must be extremely wealthy.
“Sam,” Richie said with a twinge of guilt for all those martinis he had drunk, “I’ll pay you back tomor—”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Sam replied, tilting her nose up. The waiter brought the receipt and Sam started to factor in a tip.
“At least let me handle the tip, Sam,” Richie said, reaching into his jacket pocket and taking out his money clip. Sam seemed to agree with that, as she zeroed out the tip column and signed the slip. Richie quickly tossed a fifty on the table, then another ten, just in case the concierge might somehow get involved.
Soon, the two writers, tired and with varying degrees of intoxication, stumbled out into the hot air of Canal Street, Richie reaching out an arm to hail Sam a cab. Finally succeeding, he opened the door for Sam and helped her inside. Once inside the cab, Sam regained her composure before thanking Richie for a wonderful dinner.