The Best Defense

by A. W. Gray

  “And accompanying David today,” the P.A. announcer boomed, “is the current light of his life…the vivacious … Dar-la … Cow-an.”

  As the mob whooped it up, Sharon laid down her pen. Well, I’ll be double damned, she thought. She took off her glasses, stood, and stretched her neck to see over the crowd. Her, gaze fell first on David Spencer just as he grinned at an overweight woman near the aisle. The lady squealed, shut her eyes tightly, and clasped her hands, and Sharon wondered if she was about to witness a fatal stroke. Spencer turned his attention to someone else in the crowd, and Sharon had to admit that the boy was absolutely gorgeous. He had wavy brown hair and a perfect sunlamp tan,-and light glinted from teeth like snow white curbstones. Spencer’s teeth reminded Sharon of a picture in the orthodontist’s office. She looked across the table at Melanie, and imagined the orthodontist filing a lien on her home. Damn Rob anyway, Sharon thought. Just as she began to get angry all over again, thinking of Rob, David Spencer stopped to blow someone a kiss and Darla Cowan strutted into view. Sharon’s features softened in … envy, yes, but there was a surge of pity as well.

  Darla had weathered the years quite well, thanks. Her waist was trim, her hips curvy and full, her thighs firm as if she’d just stepped off the Stairmaster. Her honey blond hair was fluffed around her face in curls, falling to her shoulders just so. A herd of cosmetologists had likely contributed to the makeup job. The result was more than perfect; in fact, the lipstick outline added a petulant curve to Darla’s mouth which Sharon didn’t recall. No one would ever guess that Darla had ten years on her lover boy, she looked that good. Large, firm breasts tented the front of Darla’s clinging gold lamé … lounging pajamas, Sharon thought, that’s the only way to describe the outfit. As Darla smiled left and right, Sharon noted women around the restaurant shooting catty glances and talking to each other from the side of their mouth. They’re wondering if it’s a silicone job, Sharon thought. Well, it isn’t, girls; they’re real, they’re perfect, and they used to turn me pea green with envy.

  Sheila bent closer to Sharon and said, “You catch her Playboy layout last month? Airbrushing, right?”

  Sharon answered matter-of-factly, “Didn’t have to be, the shape she’s in. And since when do you read Playboy?”

  “A patient left a copy.”

  “Well, hang onto it,” Sharon said. “I’d like to have a peep.” She laughed along with Sheila, then sensed someone watching her and returned her attention to the aisle. Darla had spotted her.

  Darla’s smile dissolved, replaced by recognition, surprise, and consternation, all in the space of a couple of seconds. Then the artificial smile reappeared. She grabbed Spencer’s elbow and whispered something to him. Spencer looked toward Sharon, but not directly at her, and gave a brief so-what shrug. Then he returned to the job of shooting fetching glances in all directions as he moved on toward the stage. Darla left Spencer’s side and made a beeline in Sharon’s direction.

  “Sharon. Sha-ron.” Darla was barely audible over the hubbub from nearby tables.

  Sheila gaped at Sharon, as did Trish, and Melanie regarded her mother as if she’d just grown a second head. “Just an old friend,” Sharon said offhandedly. Then Darla squeezed in between two men in slacks and sports coats, moved up beside Sharon, and kissed first one cheek and then the other.

  More customers crowded around for a better look, forming a circle with Sharon and Darla at the center. Sharon gave apologetic looks in all directions as Darla continued to fawn.

  “I’ve got so much to tell you,” Darla said, her tone childlike, the same begging whine which Sharon would recognize anywhere.

  Sharon grabbed Sheila’s hand. “Darla Cowan, this is my best friend, Sheila Winston, and—”

  “Will you have dinner with me?” Darla didn’t so much as acknowledge that anyone else was in the restaurant. Almost fifteen years fled in the wink of an eye as she looked at Sharon with the same wistful expression she’d used back in Brooklyn Heights when she’d say, sometimes as late as three in the morning, “Want to go for doughnuts? We can rehearse lines together. I’ve got so much to tell you, Sharon.”

  “Dinner?” Sharon said hesitantly. “Looks like you’re pretty committed to me.”

  A woman nearby said to her male companion, “Who’s the brunette? What was she in?”

  Sharon’s cheeks were suddenly warm. She said,

  “Look, Darla, I …”

  “You have to, Sharon.” Darla’s look was pleading.

  Once upon a time Darla had interrupted Sharon and Rob in the throes of passion. She’d walked right in sometime after midnight and demanded that Sharon have a heart-to-heart with her right then and there. You never knew about Darla, what she was going to do. “I don’t know,” Sharon tried, “I’ve got my daughter with me, and I’m working on a case.”

  “You have to, Sharon.” As if they’d last seen each other yesterday instead of thirteen years ago at La Guardia, when Sharon had boarded a flight for Texas with Melanie in her arms. Darla was pushy, demanding, and in spite of it all a damned good actress. And above everything else, especially during the last months of Sharon’s unmarried pregnancy, Darla had once been a loyal friend.

  “You have to, Sharon,” Darla said again.

  Sharon gave a little shrug. “Sure, if you want.” You’d just have to know this lady, folks, she thought. If she refused, Darla was likely to cause one helluva scene.

  Darla backed away. “You won’t forget? Second limo outside. Wait for me. We’ll go somewhere quiet. You have to, Sharon.”

  Sharon nodded, and hoped that her reluctance didn’t show. Then Darla was gone, the plastic smile back in place, tripping down the aisle in pursuit of David Spencer. The couple climbed onstage to loud applause and a few shrill wolf whistles.

  Melanie said, “How do you know her, Mom?”

  And a man behind Sharon said jokingly, “Can I have your autograph, ma’am?”

  And Sheila said, “How do you do, Madame Celebrity?”

  Sharon was embarrassed. She sat down quickly and picked up her legal pad. “Just an old friend,” she said, almost to herself, then grabbed her pen and took notes like mad.

  2

  “Sure, she’s insecure,” Sharon said. “But aren’t we all?” She inhaled coolish air. It was five­thirty and getting dark; in another week daylight saving time would kick in. Planet Hollywood had shut down after its two-hour grand opening, leaving the crowd to wander around and gape at the row of waiting limos. The celebs were still inside, the beautiful people partying apart from the rank and file.

  “She didn’t look insecure in Fatal Instinct,” Sheila said, “wrapping her legs around that guy. I was afraid my date was going to jump me right then and there. Sexiest thing I’ve ever seen on the screen.” The women stood inside the ropes separating the crowd from the limos. A few minutes after the restaurant had shut its doors, a uniformed chauffeur had come out and called Sharon’s name. Sheila had been surprised. Sharon hadn’t been; in spite of her faults, Darla Cowan had always been true to her word.

  Over near the grandstand Melanie and Trish flirted with two boys who looked to be around twenty years old. Not a step closer, young man, Sharon thought. Sheila looked toward the girls as well, and a worried frown appeared.

  “You’d never believe it now,” Sharon said, “but Darla used to wear baggy clothes to hide her figure. The first time, gee, about six months after I met her. A bunch of us went out to one of the directors’ place; on Long Island. He had a pool. It was the first time I ever saw her in anything less than tent size, and when she came out in that bikini you could hear jaws popping all over the place. We were determined to make it on talent in those days. Made a pact against nudity. Were we ever full of it, huh?”

  “If you believe her reviews, her talent is all in those gazooms.”

  “She’s a good actress, Sheila.”

  “Does
well on the heavy breathing.”

  “I’m telling you, she can act. I did Midsummer Night’s Dream with her once, in a theater down in SoHo. She stole the show.”

  “With her clothes on?”

  “Darla would have committed hari-kari before she would have done that Playboy thing back then. She nearly rode her morals out of the business, and starved to death until that Fatal Instinct role. They can say what they want, but I’ve never had a truer friend. Including you, and that’s saying a mouthful. When I was pregnant, she came by every day. The last view I had of New York, Melanie in my arms as I entered the sky walk, Darla at the gate waving to me.”

  Sheila leaned on the fender of the lead limousine. There were four of the jazzy autos parallel to the curb, three white Lincolns and a long gray Cadillac, each one equipped with blackened windows.

  “Darla does Shakespeare,” Sheila said. “Might make a good title for her next film.”

  “Her acting is no joke. Don’t think those sex scenes don’t require some ability.” Sheila arched an eyebrow.

  “As in talent, dopey,” Sharon said. “Plus four thousand miles of nerve. You can say what you want, but Darla knows where stardom lies.”

  Sheila was all at once composed and serious. “However she may have changed, it will be more rather than less.”

  Sharon studied her friend. Sheila was in her psychiatrist’s mode, intelligent features relaxed in thought. Finally Sharon said, “More rather than less of what?”

  “It’s the celebrity syndrome. It would change you, it would change me, it would change freaking Mother Teresa, for God’s sake. These people expect to be idolized. She won’t be the same old buddyroo, that you can count on.”

  “Maybe. I’m only going to dinner with her.”

  “If she…” Sheila trailed off, her gaze now back to the grandstand.

  Sharon turned her head. One of the boys, a tall blonde with a surfer’s tan, had his hand on Melanie’s shoulder in what was a great deal more than a platonic gesture. Sharon felt a surge of panic. She stood away from the limo and moved over to the rope. “Melanie. Melanie, come here a minute.”

  Melanie looked disdainfully skyward, then disengaged herself and came over with more than a little sass in her walk. The thirteen-year-old seemed a bit puffy of late. Water retention. Melanie’s periods were likely to begin soon, and Sharon had stocked up on the tampons in anticipation of the great event. Melanie’s adolescence was going to be as much fun as a root canal.

  “We were talking, Mom,” Melanie said, folding her arms.

  Oh, terrific, the respectful years. “Who are those boys?” Sharon said. Sheila edged up nearer to listen in. Over by the grandstand the young guys continued to engage Trish in animated conversation. Trish grinned and wriggled like a puppy. “Who are those boys?” Sheila parroted.

  “Mom already asked me that. They’re these guys we met. See you later.” Melanie turned on her heel and 1lounced away.

  “You stop right there, young lady.” Sharon had had it up to here, and the sharpness in her tone turned heads among the crowd. Melanie halted in mid­flounce. Her mouth curved in a pout. Sharon said, “We want to know who they are, and what you all are talking about. How old are they, anyway?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “In a pig’s freaking eye. How old are those boys?” Melanie put fists on hips. “Oh, give me a break.”

  “I’ll give you a break,” Sharon said. “How would you like for Mrs. Winston to take you home, right now?”

  “We aren’t doing anything.”

  Sharon did a toe tap. “I’ll be the judge of that. Who are they, Melanie? Right this minute.”

  “If you must know…”

  “Damn right I must,” Sharon said.

  “Their names are William and John. They’re not groping us or anything. They’re impressed that you know Darla Cowan.”

  Sharon and Sheila exchanged a look. “How do they know that’s who I’m waiting for?” Sharon said.

  “Are you ever out of it, Mom. Everybody around here heard that chauffeur talking to you.”

  Sharon breathed a bit easier. What Melanie said was true enough; when Sharon had ducked under the rope with Sheila in tow, a murmur had rippled through the crowd. The boys were now keeping their distance, speaking softly and politely to Trish. Sharon said to Sheila, “Guess it’s okay, huh?”

  Sheila gave a quick—but uncomfortable—nod. “Seems to be. We’re probably too mother-hennish, old girl.”

  “Okay, Melanie,” Sharon said, “have it your way. But we’ll be watching you. Don’t get out of our sight, are you listening to me?”

  Sharon stood uncomfortably by with Sheila while the beautiful people exited the restaurant and drove away, Bruce Willis giving a thumbs-up sign before climbing the limo after his glamorous wife, Schwarzenegger lugging a toy machine gun, emitting a booming laugh as he sprayed imaginary bullets through the crowd. Chuck Norris made his exit in a buckskin jacket, taking a stance as if ready to deliver a karate blow. The crowd whistled, clapped, and ooh-ed and ah-ed. The caravan loaded up and disappeared around the corner, headed down Elm Street toward Stemmons Expressway, leaving one lone Caddy stretch standing at the curb. Sharon stood first on one foot and then the other. Still no Darla, still no David Spencer.

  From within the restaurant a hoarse male voice yelled, “God damn you.”

  Sharon and Sheila exchanged a look of alarm. A murmur rippled through the crowd of two hundred or so.

  Darla Cowan bristled out, high heels clicking. She said over her shoulder, “Get your own damned limo.” She hurried down the steps.

  David Spencer followed at a run. He grabbed Darla’s arm and yanked her backward. “You’ll go when I tell you, bitch.”

  A quick-flash illuminated the warring couple. Sharon glanced into the mob as a man lowered a camera.

  “Let me go, you bastard.” Darla twisted and struggled.

  Spencer hauled her toward the restaurant entry. “Beat the shit out of you.” His voice was thick and his words were slurred.

  Oh, Christ, Sharon thought. Spencer wasn’t a big man but was pretty muscular; a woman alone was no match for him, no way. Sharon took a long stride toward Darla. Sheila pulled on her arm. “Keep out of it. Something like that is dangerous. You don’t know what you might be getting into.”

  Melanie yelled from beyond the ropes, “Stay away from them, Mom.” The concern in Melanie’s voice touched a nerve. Usually she only wants to get rid of me these days, Sharon thought.

  Darla freed one hand and slapped Spencer’s face.

  A red mark appeared on his cheek, but he didn’t let go of her.

  Sharon acted on impulse. She broke free from Sheila’s grasp and moved forward, marched past Darla, put both hands in the middle of David Spencer’s chest, and shoved as hard as she could. “You leave her alone.” Sharon felt dread and instinctively tensed, expecting the matinee idol to haul off and belt her as well. Instead, Spencer stumbled drunkenly backward. He made one weak effort to right himself, then over he went, tumbling headlong onto the sidewalk. His head struck the bottom restaurant step with a sound like a bat hitting a soft melon. Blood ran from a gash on his head. He put his hands over his face, rolled over, and began to moan.

  Oh, my God, Sharon thought, I’ve killed the guy.

  The crowd had surged against the ropes, and Sharon looked helplessly around at the sea of faces. She locked gazes with a slender, rugged-looking man who wore a fringed buckskin jacket and wide-brimmed hat, Crocodile Dundee style. He spread his hands in a shrug and smiled at her. Sharon looked back down as David Spencer wiggled wormlike away from the step and grabbed for her ankle. She took a step back and covered her mouth with her hand.

  Darla broke free and sprinted for the limo, sobbing out of control. Another camera flashed. She crossed the sidewalk, threw open the door, and looked frantically arou
nd. “Get in, Sharon,” Darla yelled. Her voice quavered. “Please hurry. Oh, my God …”

  Spencer took another futile swipe at Sharon’s foot.

  She hesitated. Sheila called out, “Go, kid. The guy’s not that hurt, and he had it coming.”

  Sharon went over and squeezed Sheila’s arm. “Just get the girls home, okay?” Sharon said. Then she hurried over to the limo and half fell inside on plush upholstery. She smelled new leather.

  Darla climbed in and slammed the door. “Anywhere, just … take us anywhere away from here.” She covered her face, her shoulders heaving.

  The driver watched over the seat back with his mouth agape. He nodded, pulled the bill of his cap down over his eyes, put the limo in gear, and accelerated away from the restaurant. He slowed in traffic to duly note the time of day in his logbook, scribbling rapidly while keeping one eye on the road.

  As the driver notated his log, Sharon had a final glimpse of David Spencer through tinted glass as the actor rolled onto his side, lay his cheek on his folded hands, and closed his eyes. His blood dripped on the sidewalk. Two black-and-white DPD vehicles pulled to the curb in front of the restaurant. Four policemen jumped out and sprinted toward the fallen actor. Darla’s sobs filled the interior of the limo. The driver sped up, and as Sharon sank back on plush leather cushions, the scene in front of Planet Hollywood vanished behind the side of a building. Sharon’s breathing was rapid and her hands were trembling.