The Best Defense

by A. W. Gray

  His dental work was the most noticeable difference. Once upon a time Rob had had a gap between his front teeth, but now he showed a dazzling row of snow white porcelain. There were subtler changes as well, a broadening of the shoulders, a deepening of the chest, likely a result of daily sessions with a personal trainer. His thick brown hair was layered into a just­so tousled effect, the same as it appeared in the TV show. Sharon had liked the sort of confused-but­intelligent aura he’d portrayed in the old days. At least he looked human back then, she thought. The man now gliding toward her might as well have been a toy action figure. Rob wore faded jeans with holes worn at the knees, a blue knit shirt, a denim jacket with the collar turned up, and a gleaming wristwatch which had to be a Piaget. His feet were in white athletic socks and moccasins. He was tan as a tamale and hadn’t shaved, the Don Johnson look, proof that Rob had arrived, and also proof that he was a big enough star to go around dressed like a slob. A perk, Sharon thought, reserved for television idols and eight-year­olds.

  He stopped before her and extended his hands. “Muffin. Hey, how long has it…?”

  Sharon threw Darla a panicked glance. No help there; Darla acted as if Rob’s appearance and demeanor were right in line. Sharon decided that if she didn’t do something in a hurry, Rob might turn to molded plastic. She stood. Rob grasped her hands, then near-missed each of her cheeks with kisses. She wouldn’t have been able to smell liquor on his breath in her current state, but there was an odor of peppermint which could have been a cover-up. Sharon sat down. Rob flopped into a chair adjacent to hers as his bodyguard hunkered at a nearby table. Sharon, Darla, and Rob looked at each other. The restaurant crowd went back to their dinners, exchanging surreptitious glances and chatting among themselves.

  “Two years,” Sharon said. “Before that, eleven.”

  “Hmm?” Rob pinched his chin. “What’s two years?”

  “You asked how long it had been. That’s two years since you’ve spoken to me, eleven before that when I moved out of our apartment in Brooklyn Heights. You’ve never had anything to do with your child since the day she was born, other than pat her on the head when you were in Dallas on a publicity tour. Eleven years of that was my fault because I didn’t want Melanie to see you. Since you thrust yourself into our lives because your agent thought it would make good public relations, the past two years that you’ve ignored her I’ll chalk up to your indifference. Time frames clear to you now?” She smiled.

  Rob didn’t seem to understand, or wasn’t insulted if he did. He raised a hand, palm out, and grinned across the table. “Darl. How’ve you been?” His expression sobered. “Sorry about David. He was the tops, what can I say?”

  Darla’s expression remained deadpan. “He’d appreciate the thought.” Sharon wondered if Darla was mentally comparing Rob’s entrance to her own. God love Darla, but Jesus Christ, there’s hardly room for hers and Rob’s egos on the same planet.

  “Yeah, well …” Rob folded his hands. “Read any good scripts?”

  Darla sipped her martini. “Not lately.”

  “Tough to find,” Rob said. “Tough to find.” He turned to Sharon. “So, you’re a lawyer now.”

  Which I have been for a number of years, as you very well know, Sharon thought. She said, “Right, an attorney. Melanie watches your program every time I’ll let her.”

  Rob frowned in thought. “You mean, sometimes she can’t?” He seemed disappointed. “I do some editing.”

  “Really? What would that be?”

  One comer of Sharon’s mouth bunched. “The nudity.”

  “Aw, that.” Rob waved a hand as if batting mosquitoes. “Hell, you can’t really see anything. Besides, she’s thirteen, isn’t she?”

  “You sound just like your daughter,” Sharon said. “Who came with me on this trip, by the way.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Rob’s brows lifted in surprise.

  Sharon wiped frost from her glass and gave a curt nod. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “And thirteen isn’t old enough for R-rated stuff.” She wondered if the booze wasn’t tipping her just a bit over the edge, and also wondered what Sheila would think about the last conversational exchange. Likely she’d tell me I’m overreacting, Sharon thought.

  The waitress appeared. Rob made a big show of looking the menu over, then said he’d already eaten and ordered scotch neat, water back. His fingertips trembled just a hair, which in the old days had been a dead giveaway that he’d been drinking. He breathed through his nose. Yep, Sharon thought, he’s had a few. Their only real donnybrooks had occurred after they’d been hitting the clubs, and Sharon couldn’t remember being snockered since she and Rob had split the blankets. Until possibly now. I wonder if someone’s trying to clue me in, Sharon thought, that Rob Stanley wasn’t the best medicine for me. The waitress hustled away toward the bar. Rob turned to Sharon and hooked an arm over his chair back. “Speaking of the kid…”

  He reached in his pocket.

  Sharon blinked. The kid. The freaking kid? “Your daughter, you mean?”

  “Yeah, well…” Rob produced a folded-over slip of paper, which he dropped on the table. “That should square things up.”

  Sharon picked up the piece of paper and looked at it. It was a check, payable to Sharon J. Hays, in the amount of fifteen thousand dollars, with the notation in the lower left-hand comer: “child sup, 3 mos.” The account was entitled “Robert Stanley Trust.” The signature was that of everyone’s favorite agent, Curtis Nussbaum. Sharon looked up. “It’s a check,” she said.

  “Money makes the world go ‘round, right?” Rob’s tone wasn’t the least bit apologetic. “Hey, these agents, you have to watch these people. They forget things.”

  “Seems they do. You think this makes us even?”

  Rob seemed to think that one over. “Three months is all I owe, isn’t it?”

  “Three months’ child support,” Sharon said. “That’s all?”

  “Yeah, right. Hey, if I owe more…”

  Sharon’s buzz was accelerating. She pictured Melanie, flying all the way to California only to learn that a tour of movie land would have to substitute for a real-life visit from her dad. Over my dead body,

  Sharon thought. “You owe a whole lot more than this, Rob,” Sharon said. “A whole, whole lot more.”

  Rob’s mouth formed a petulant curve. “Now, wait a minute. My agent has a record, every dime I’ve—”

  “Oh? I thought he forgot things.”

  “Not anything this important.”

  The waitress set down three fingers of scotch along with a glass of water, and hurried off once more. Rob knocked off a full inch of whiskey in a swallow, and chased the drink with H-two-oh.

  “He keeps my finances up to snuff,” Rob said. “Look, Muffin, if you need some money, sure. But don’t be doubting our record keeping.”

  Sharon let the check flutter to the table. “If I need some money. If I need some money? Jesus Christ, you think this is about money?” Her tone went up an octave.

  Across the table, Darla said quickly, “I see someone over there. You guys excuse me.” She got up fast, passing two clusters of tables as she walked up to a man who was having dinner alone and sat down across from him. She said something and smiled. The man’s jaw dropped. Darla daintily picked up a menu and began to read.

  Rob placed one hand over Sharon’s two. “Muffin, you’re causing a scene here.”

  Sharon pushed him away. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

  He rubbed his temples. “Gee, Muffin, I—”

  “And don’t call me Muffin. Ever again. I always hated that. My name is Sharon. Did I ever tell you that pet names suck?” Anger surged through her, stronger than before. She glugged more gin to help her buzz along, and waved her glass at the waitress. The waitress nodded and took off for the bar. People around them were once again staring. Good, Sharon thought. You want the r
eal skinny on this superhero? Okay, folks, lend me your ears. She glanced contemptuously at the check he’d tossed her like a bone, and stowed it away in her purse.

  Rob leaned closer to her. “I think you should calm down.”

  “Sure. Sure, Rob.”

  He touched her arm. “Doesn’t what we used to have, doesn’t it still mean something?”

  She let her gaze soften for a second. “Of course it does.”

  He slid his hand under the table and squeezed her thigh. “That’s my girl.”

  “It means we have a child,” Sharon said. “What else does it mean?”

  His face was inches from hers. He wore a zocko cologne. “You remember making love in Central Park, on that bench with muggers running around?”

  She gently closed her eyes. “God, it was cold.”

  “Before we finished it was warm and wild.” His fingers kneaded her thigh, his touch firm, demanding.

  Her voice took on a husky quality. “Could you show Melanie around the studio tomorrow? It’s all she’s talked about the whole trip, getting to see you.”

  His chin tilted. “I got a shoot.”

  “How about before the shoot? Or after. It would tickle Melanie to death to watch you perform.”

  “I’m going to be busy all day.” He put his lips close to her ear. “But tonight I’m reserving for you, babe. I’ve got a place up Highway One. Fifteen minutes.”

  Her eyes popped open. “Rob,” she said. “Take your fucking hand off my leg.”

  He tilted his head, his expression mild.

  “I’m not quivering for your body,” Sharon said. “I know that’s hard for you to believe. I’ll give you a count of two to let go of my leg. Then I’m going to scream. Remember my performance in Mansion of Terror? The show was a stinker, but at least I left ‘em with their eardrums vibrating.”

  He jumped back as if he’d touched a hot coal. “What’s—?”

  “You’re going to show Melanie around. You’ll be at Darla’s beach house at ten a.m., capiche?” Sharon accepted a fresh drink from the waitress, picked up the glass, and swigged.

  He leaned back and folded his arms, looking irritated. “No can do, Muffin.”

  She gritted her teeth. “Sharon.”

  He angrily waved a hand. “Sharon. No can do. I got a business meeting.”

  “Which you’ll postpone.”

  He pushed back from the table. “We’re current on the support. Nice seeing you.”

  “I’ll forget the money if you’ll only start giving your child what she deserves.”

  “That was in another life.” He started to rise.

  “Which spills over to haunt you in your later years. I know it’s tough to swallow, but it does. Sit down, Rob. I want to tell you something.” Sharon’s gaze moved past him, to the table where Darla now had a shrimp cocktail in front of her, engaging a total stranger in conversation. Wonder if it’s on his tab or hers, Sharon thought.

  Rob relaxed, leaned up, and crossed his forearms on the table. “Make it fast. I’ve got a lady waiting for me.”

  “Oh? What happened to your panting for me?” Sharon folded her hands. “You won’t like this. But, at least for tomorrow, you’re going to function as something other than a sperm dispenser, which is all you’ve done for the last thirteen years.”

  “I’m paying my support.”

  She sighed. “Okay, Rob, a one-time sperm dispenser and a sporadic cash dispenser. Is that better? Tomorrow you’re going to be a love dispenser, even though we both know you’ll be faking it. You’re an actor, though, it’s what you do. Have you watched any television this week?”

  “Now, don’t start in on me,” Rob said. “It wasn’t me who told the press we had a kid.”

  “Oh, I know that. It was a creep named Milton Breyer. I just asked you if you’d watched any television.”

  He looked uncertain. “Well … sure I have.”

  “Seen me giving any interviews?”

  Now he was thoughtful. “I wondered about that.” “Unlike you,” Sharon said, “I don’t make my living

  by being in the spotlight. I’ve had to hogtie Darla to keep her away from the press, but it’s worked. After she and I meet with the Dallas D.A. in the morning, it might not hurt for her to speak out. If she gives an interview, I might give one as well.”

  His expression clouded. “About David’s murder?” She shrugged. “Among other things.”

  He looked away from her. “They’ll want to know about us.”

  Sharon nodded. “You bet they will. What’s going to happen when the public learns I moved out because I discovered you were gay?”

  He touched his chest with the palm of his hand. “Me? Come on.”

  Sharon showed her best smile of innocence. “It sent Ellen’s ratings through the roof. Wouldn’t it do the same for yours?”

  “Our personas are different. Hey, I’ve got a lot of gay friends, but…” His eyes widened. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Not for anything in the world,” Sharon said, “except my daughter. Gay, Rob. I had to move because I couldn’t afford to replace my underwear you were stretching out of shape by wearing it all the time. How’s that going to affect the viewer the next time you go”—she tucked her chin, deepened her voice, and curled her upper lip—“‘Give it up, punk, or I’m bouncing you off the walls.’”

  He tried a bluff. “You’re living in the past if you think being gay’s going to hurt an actor’s career.”

  “Right. Gays have come a long way in the world. But your main viewership is straight guys, sitting around in their undershirts and fantasizing after the kids are in bed. Trust me, Rob. Your sponsors will have a cow.”

  He studied his hands. “Jesus Christ.”

  “And the Virgin Mary and all the angels,” Sharon said. “You’re going to show your little girl around tomorrow, and you’re going to treat her like she’s the most important thing in the world to you. You’ll be faking it, of course, because both of us know that nothing could ever take your own place in your life. I don’t even care if you have a few photographers around, ‘Rob Stanley’s Domestic Life’ and whatnot. Melanie would love to have her picture taken with you. But you will do it, Rob, or you may as well get ready for a role in The Boys in the Band. Don’t worry, though. The gay community makes for small box office, but they’re loyal to a T.”

  His forehead wrinkled. His jaw thrust forward. “This is nothing but blackmail.”

  “Yeah,” Sharon said, grinning. “Isn’t it cool, though?” She stood. “You’ve got a lady waiting, and Darla and I have people at home. My daughter for one, the one who’s dumb enough to pine away for you.” She took a step away from the table, then paused. “Ten in the morning, Rob. If you’re not there, the interview begins around one. We’d love to have you, if you’d care to sit in.”

  The limo ride from Highway One to the beach house cleared the cobwebs from Sharon’s mind, but she wasn’t sure that rational thinking was helping matters. The cool night air in Malibu had sobered her completely—and made her think, God, was it really me causing that scene in front of all those people?—but with stone-cold sobriety had come misgivings. Rob would appear Johnny-on-the-spot in the morning, of that she was certain, but the question she couldn’t answer was whether or not she wanted him to. After years of arching her back, rejecting all suggestions she create any sort of relationship between Melanie and her father, here she was throwing her child at the guy and resorting to blackmail in the process. With Sharon’s threat hanging over his head, Rob would play loving dad tomorrow, but what effect could that have on Melanie in the future? Would the teenager now feel that the door was open for her to contact her father at will? If that was the case, Melanie was in for years of heartbreak. Sharon wondered if she’d traded one day of happiness in her little girl’s existence for a lifetime of the child’s feeling reje
cted. Two short years ago, Rob was no more real to Melanie than a fairy-tale prince, but now … Sharon leaned her head back against the cushions, used the electronic button to lower the window a fraction, and let the wind blow on her face and riffle her hair. A tear ran down from the corner of her eye.

  As the limo rolled between the enormous entry boulders and approached the beach home, Sharon’s heart came up in her mouth. Before the gate sat two police cars, rooftights flashing, along with two dark­colored four-door sedans. Off to one side were two TV mobile news units. Six vehicles in all, and Sharon didn’t have to wonder who’d alerted the media. Three cameramen leaned on the fender of one of the vans, shooting the bull, minicams hung by their sides. Darla stiffened and gasped. Sharon reached over and squeezed the actress’s hand. “As of right now, right this second,” Sharon said, “don’t say a word to anyone except me.” Darla sniffled and cradled her forehead in her palm.

  Sharon threw open her door and hit the ground at a trot before Gray could bring the limo to a standstill.

  She slowed to a walk as she approached the gate, her high heels crunching on gravel. She marched past the two units who stood guard near the patrol cars, walked up to the four men in suits who leaned on the gate, hands in pockets, and said professionally, “Can I help you gentlemen?”

  The tallest suit stepped toward her. He was smooth­faced and clean-shaven, a man pretty near Sharon’s own age. He snapped open a wallet and produced a picture ID. No badge, Sharon thought with some relief, this isn’t a local cop. The man said, “Agent Moretta, miss, FBI. I have a warrant. Is Darla Cowan with you?”

  So the fibbies were still in the picture, which made sense. Federal agents could move faster than county cops in securing warrants, under the theory that Darla could have traveled interstate to avoid prosecution. Any federal charges would be quickly dismissed once Darla was in custody, of course, to be replaced by whatever Texas indictments Breyer could come up with. Involuntarily, Sharon’s upper lip, curled.