by A. W. Gray
Sharon shifted the pay phone receiver from one ear to the other. “The California bar? How did they…?”
“This is the Texas bar, but they’re callin’ as a result of a complaint from a California attorney. You know a…? Just a minute, I got the name written down.” There was a rattling sound over the line as Black put down the phone.
Sharon stood before a bank of phones located on a wall between the men’s and women’s restrooms. She stepped back and peered into the restaurant. The room was a kaleidoscope of color; walls, ceilings, and floors were done in shrieking mural themes, showing red and yellow tropical fish, bright green vines, and water which was an impossible shade of blue. Even the waiters and waitresses were decked out like tropical fish, energetic young men and women in vests and ties which were red, yellow, pink, or green, hustling to and from the kitchen toting trays laden with grilled Atlantic salmon, spotted prawns, or Chinese duck with ginger mango relish. Sharon assumed that the food was terrific, but thought the decorum just godawful. Here and there were glistening saltwater aquariums containing live swordfish, eels, and wiggly octopi. As the maitre d’ had hustled Sharon and Darla to a choice window table, Jack Nicholson had accosted Darla and kissed her hand. Darla had said offhandedly, “Hey, Jack, how’s it going?” and then continued through the restaurant as Sharon practically tripped over her feet, gaping at the famous actor over her shoulder. Darla now sat alone at a table for four. There was a martini in front of her, and a Tanqueray and tonic in front of Sharon’s empty chair. Darla caught Sharon’s eye and smiled a question. Sharon held up a finger and then moved in closer to the bank of phones. There was a clunk over the line as, fifteen hundred miles away, Russell Black picked up the receiver.
“You know a Chet Verdon?” Black said. “Just became acquainted with him.”
“He’s the one complainin’. Says you’re tryin’ to practice law out there without a license.”
“That’s b.s., old boss,” Sharon said. “He was trying to throw his client to the media wolves, and I got in his way. I’ll handle the bar association, Russ. Trust me, we’re okay on that.”
“Just keep your skirts clean. What time is it out there?”
“Nearly seven, I think. Our appointment’s at seven on the nose, but it’s with my old friend Rob. Unless he’s changed, we’ll be cooling our heels for a while.”
“It’s nine here,” Black said. “Which is precious close to bedtime. Where are you? Sounds like a barroom.”
“It’s a restaurant,” Sharon said, raising her voice as two women giggled their way into the ladies’. “Granita, in Malibu.”
“They got Tex-Mex food in California now?”
Sharon laughed. “I don’t think it’s a Spanish word. I think it’s the name of a drink. Wolfgang Puck owns the place.”
“Yeah? I thought he was dead.”
Sharon frowned. “Wolfgang Puck?”
“Yeah. He hadn’ been in a Dracula movie in thirty years.”
Just talking to Russ made troubles evaporate. Sharon grinned broadly. “That’s Bela Lugosi, boss.”
Her smile faded. “You have any word on whether Milt plans to have Darla arrested out here?”
“The D.A.’s staff is mum. I interpret it to mean that they’re goin’ to. You should get ready. Any meetin’ with Milt Breyer, he’s liable to have some arrestin’ officers along.”
“Along with forty million television cameras.”
Sharon backed up and looked once more at Darla, sipping her drink. “We spent several hours at the law library this afternoon,” Sharon said, “along with this California attorney Darla’s hired. I spent some time researching the extradition statutes. If Milton springs a warrant on us, I’m ready for him.”
Black grumpily cleared his throat. “Fightin’ extradition would be a waste of time.”
“I agree. The law is, in order to extradite her, all they’ve got to show is that a valid warrant exists in another state. The only way to stop extradition is to attack the validity of the warrant on its face, and then they’ve got to show their probable cause. I researched it more for Darla’s benefit than ours, Russ. If and when they arrest her, she’s going to panic, and it’s going to take some persuasion to get her to sign the extradition waiver. I’ll have to convince her that her quickest route out of jail is to waive extradition, and that once they get her to Texas we can try to arrange bail for her.” Sharon’s mouth puckered in worry. “They’ve got more evidence than just, Darla was on the scene, Russ. Otherwise they wouldn’t dare charge her. Not even Milton Breyer is that stupid. We’re really going to have to get it in gear.”
“How come you keep sayin’, ‘we’?”
Sharon watched the ceiling. Gee, this was going to take some diplomacy. “If Dallas County indicts Darla, we’re going to represent her. You and I.” She held her breath, waiting for the tirade.
There were five seconds of silence. “I knew it,” Black said. “You’re fixin’ to get our business in a wringer. Thought you said she had a lawyer out there.”
“What she has is a front. A guy you wouldn’t believe. Darla’s a babe in the woods, and all these wolves are more interested in book and movie deals than they are in defending her. She’s my friend, Russ, and I’m not about to desert her.”
“You bein’ the lady’s friend is the whole problem, Sharon. Plus the fact that you’re a potential witness. You can’t be her lawyer.”
Sharon collected her thoughts. “You can,” she finally said.
“Me? First I got my assistant treadin’ on the edge of legality; now she wants me to join in the act. I suppose now you’re goin’ to say, you’re my second chair.”
“Yep. Think, Russ. I might have to testify that Darla and I went to dinner. That’s all. I’ve got no other conflict. Darla can’t get better help than Russell Black, and that’s a fact.” Sharon mentally crossed her fingers. Russ normally didn’t take to buttering up, but he had a soft spot where Sharon was concerned.
There was a rustling noise over the line as Black fiddled. He cleared his throat. “We’d have to make it clear that you’re not the lead attorney from the get-go.”
Relieved air whooshed out of Sharon’s lungs. “That’s the spirit, boss. I knew you’d—”
“I ain’t sayin’ I will, and I ain’t sayin’ I won’t. I’m sayin’ I’ll sleep on it. Which it’s time for me to do. If Milt Breyer has the actress arrested out there, you get on the honk to me. Listen, Sharon, I got the name of the place where Milt an’ Stan Green are stayin’ if you—”
“I’m a step ahead of you. I’ve already left word for them at the Beverly Hills Hotel. We’re set up for one o’clock downtown at the Criminal Courts Building.”
“How’d you know where to leave a message?”
“Let’s just say I know Milt and how he’d operate on the county’s expense account,” Sharon said. “Wow, I’d hate to have to pay the tab at the Polo Lounge. Look, boss, I need to go. I’ve sort of left Darla hanging.”
There were five seconds of silence. “Sharon?”
Black said. “I’m here.”
“This bar association business can be serious.”
“She’s got a California attorney, I already told you. I’m just in an advisory capacity. There’ll be a brief hearing where she waives extradition, during which I’m only her out-of-town counsel. Once they get her to Texas, you can take over from there.”
“I haven’t said I’d—”
“Thanks, boss, you’re the best in the world. You take care, now.”
She hung up and hurried through the restaurant to the table where Darla was toying with her martini. The actress ignored the stares from nearby patrons, and Sharon now understood why celebrity became the ultimate pain. They’d spent the afternoon with attorney Preston Trigg, then had arrived at the Malibu Colony Mall a couple of hours early for their dinner date with Rob. With time t
o kill, the women had decided to window-shop, and the mere sight of Darla Cowan peering at dresses and skimpy underwear in the Victoria’s Secret display had caused clerks and passersby to behave like raving lunatics. Victoria’s Secret employees had rubbernecked themselves into a lather, and one deranged woman had approached with a drooling baby and asked Darla to kiss the child. Sharon thought it a credit to Darla that she had the nerve to appear in public at all.
Sharon sat down at the table. Her fanny had barely touched the springy velour seat when a waitress appeared as if by magic. She was a coed-looking brunette with her hair in tight curls, and wore black, slim pants along with an orange vest, white shirt, and chartreuse bowtie. “Need a few more minutes, Miss Cowan?” she said. “Or are you ready to order?”
Sharon buried her nose in the menu, sipping her gin and tonic as she looked over dishes such as “Grilled Atlantic Salmon, presented on a luscious bed of roasted Chino com salsa,” or “Alaskan Spotted Prawns resting amid saffron riscotto and crispy ginger,” all entries priced from twenty to thirty bucks. She wanted to ask what came with the main dishes, then noted separate prices for veggies (God, five bucks for a squash and zucchini combo, Sharon thought), blinked, and swallowed hard. Darla was footing the bill, but criminy. Sharon pretended to be torn between a couple of items while waiting for Darla to order.
Whatever Darla had, Sharon would order the next cheapest thing.
Darla tossed the menu aside. “What’s the pizza?”
The waitress recited from memory. “Specially roasted chicken with an olive sauce, prepared in our wood-burning oven.”
Sharon flipped her menu over. Pizza? She didn’t see any …
“You have the potato gazette?” Darla asked.
“With smoked salmon, Miss Cowan. Excellent season for Alaskan salmon this year. Long spawning season.”
“All right,” Darla said, “I’ll have that along with the chicken soup!” Her forehead wrinkled. “No egg noodles in the soup, right?”
“Certainly not. Angel hair pasta, is that all right?” Darla nodded and sipped her martini.
The waitress turned her smile on Sharon. “And you, please?”
Sharon stared at the menu in desperation, like a horseplayer with minutes until post time. She said, “I don’t find any soup.”
Darla took the menu from Sharon’s hands. “You won’t,” Darla said. “Order the soup. You’ll like it, and picking something not on the menu makes you automatically one of the in-crowd.”
Sharon looked at the waitress and shrugged helplessly. “I’ll have what she’s having,” she said.
“Oh, and we’re expecting someone,” Darla said. “Rob Stanley. I don’t know if he’ll enter from the front or the kitchen, but watch for him, will you?” She examined her martini, which was half gone, and looked at Sharon’s near-empty glass as well. “And bring us two more of these, all right?” Darla said.
The waitress nodded, smiled, and walked away. “One of the only places in the world I’m in my element,” Darla said after the waitress had left. “And to tell the truth, I can make better soup at home. Ordering something not on the menu at Granita, it’s what we’re supposed to do along with all the other phony…” She looked toward the entry. “Rob will be late.”
“You think I don’t know? I lived with him, remember?”
“No, Sharon, I think he’ll be extra late.”
Sharon watched an octopus wave its tentacles in an aquarium across the way. Good old Rob was a topic she’d as soon avoid. She said to Darla, “Because I’m here?”
“Yes.”
There was a sudden tightness in Sharon’s chest. “I’m not crazy about seeing him, either. Other than the one time in Dallas, and that for about five minutes, Rob and I haven’t had a conversation since I moved out of the place in Brooklyn Heights. Melanie just turned thirteen, so add nine months to that … Don’t think I want any of his precious time for me, Darla. But he’s going to see Melanie, that’s the least he can do. If it lowers his star-studded standards to greet me in public, that’s just tough. All he’s got to do is give his daughter some of his time, not that he can ever give her as much as he owes. But if he’ll just make some sort of effort where his child is concerned, I’ll be just as satisfied if he pretends be doesn’t know me.”
Darla’s expression was soft and sad. “I think you’ve got the roles reversed.”
“My role or Rob’s role?”
“Both. Rob doesn’t look down on you.”
Sharon scratched her nail across the tablecloth. “I don’t know. He is a big star and all. Runs in a different echelon now.”
“I’m a pretty big star myself. What echelon do you see me in? If I wasn’t lucky enough to have you here, I’d be sitting by myself. Rob doesn’t want to see you because he’s scared to death to be with someone who doesn’t worship him.”
“I don’t think I could buy that,” Sharon said. “He might be afraid because he hasn’t been paying his child support, but that would be the only reason.”
“No, it isn’t. He’s not worthy of your time, and he knows it. Just like I know that I’m not.” Darla managed a small chuckle. “It’s ironic. You’re tying yourself in knots thinking Rob’s gotten too big for you, when in reality he’s sunk miles beneath what he was when you knew him. Right now he’s getting up his nerve, fighting the terror of facing you. Instead of being antsy, you should feel sorry for him.”
Sharon had some of her drink and bit down on the lime. Bitter juice flowed across her tongue. She pictured Melanie on the plane, her body wriggling like a contortionist’s, her eyes dancing at the thought of seeing her all-American dad in the flesh. “Just so long as he comes, Darla,” Sharon said. “Just so long as he comes.”
Darla was right. Rob was even later than usual, an hour on the nose, to be exact, and by the time he arrived Sharon had worked up half a snootful. More than half, actually, and if it hadn’t been for the delicious chicken noodle soup resting in her belly to dispel some of the alcohol, Sharon might’ve been wearing a lamp shade on her head. Her normal limit on gin and tonic was two drinks. The one set before her at the moment was either number four or five.
Darla was saying, “Way down in Tribeca, wasn’t it?” Her martini glass was half full, and was Darla’s third or fourth. She didn’t seem giddy in the slightest, and Sharon thought that Darla’s capacity had increased considerably. Once in a club over in Jersey, Darla had gotten sick on a couple of beers.
Sharon giggled into her napkin. “No, the one in Tribeca that did an el foldo was called Aunts and Other Enemies. This was the thing in Hell’s Kitchen. You remember, you broke out laughing in the middle of my most important line. ‘You are nothing but a trollop’—”
“‘Winfred Dismore,’” Darla finished. Her eyes grew big and round. “God, that dreadful producer…”
“Porno Pete, right,” Sharon said. A man across the room was watching her. She briefly met his gaze. He smiled in greeting and lifted his glass in a toast. Sharon looked quickly away. All through the restaurant people were staring at Darla, nudging each other and talking in whispers. A half hour earlier Jack Nicholson had left, and heads had snapped around at every table he passed.
“And that’s the clip they showed on TV?” Darla looked incredulous.
“Threw me as well,” Sharon said. “There weren’t any networks covering that turkey when we were doing it. I seem to remember that tweaky little writer with a video camera.” She sipped her drink and pinched her numb forehead. Loss of feeling in the cranial area was a sign that she was getting into her cups.
“God, yes,” Darla said. “He tried to shoot me while I was dressing.”
“I thought about calling him up,” Sharon said. “I suspect he sold that footage for…” She trailed off. Darla’s gaze had shifted toward the back of the room. Sharon turned. Unobtrusively, Rob had come in.
Or not unobtrus
ively, actually, more like a man who pretends to sneak around, all the while knowing that his feigned stealth will draw more attention than normal behavior. Rob milked the scene for all it was worth, entering from the kitchen, stiffening in mock surprise as rubbernecking diners stared at him, then giving a few you’ve-caught-me nods of acknowledgment. He slowly scanned the room—he knows god-damn well where we’re sitting, Sharon thought, five’ll get you ten that Darla’s already told him we’ll be at her usual table—until he finally zeroed in on Sharon. He looked her over. Then his lips formed sort of a James Dean, I’m-cool-but-casual expression. He raised a hand, made a pistol with his thumb and forefinger, and shot her with an imaginary bullet.
Excuse me while I barf on the table, Sharon thought. Anger fueled with gin and tonic welled up as she cringed in embarrassment. A hundred heads turned as one, searching for the object of Rob’s attention. What do I do now, Sharon thought, yank off my panties and heave them into the crowd? Men and women stared mutely at her, their jaws working as they chewed on salmon or Chinese duck. A lady on Sharon’s right said in a stage whisper, “Is she an actress?” then paused as if listening, and then said, “That’s not who she is. That old gal would be sixty by now. Does resemble her, though.” Sharon lifted her own glass in Rob’s direction, smirking hatefully as she did. Darla gave her an odd look. Sharon wondered briefly if she should now toss the drink over her shoulder, smash the glass on the fireplace.
A thick-bodied, balding man followed Rob in, dogging the actor’s tracks, an older-model version of Yadaka and Gray. Your bodyguard won’t save you, Rob, Sharon thought. If you don’t do something for your daughter while she’s in town, it’ll take a hundred bodyguards just to protect you from me. Rob strolled toward her like Redford on a Streisand alert. The way we were was a little bit different from Bob and Barbra, Sharon thought, heat which didn’t work half the time and shower nozzles which sprayed tepid, rusty water. The rust would disappear from the stream about the time the water went from lukewarm to ice cold, giving one a choice between freezing to death and bathing in flakes of oxidized iron. She had a slug of gin and tonic, reflecting on how Rob’s appearance had changed.