“What’s that in your hair?”
“It’s not confetti.”
“Niko came in and said you were on the tube. Hold on.” He came back on the line. “He says that guy you’re talking to is the one who was at the hospital, at Bascom Palmer.”
“He’s right. Lieutenant McDonald. That’s him.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“What the hell happened? Wasn’t that much action when I went on the beat with you. Wish I’d been out there.”
“Oh, sure, you could have been shot at too. The studio would have loved that.” Did he have any concept that this was real life where dead was dead?
“Who’s the little blonde?”
“That,” I said with emphasis, “is Angel.”
“The baby killer? She doesn’t look that bad.”
“They never do. Why did you call before, if Van Ness or Wendy didn’t ask you to find out if we knew about Johnson?”
He hesitated before answering. “I can’t just call and say hello?” He sounded hurt.
“Sure.”
“Good. But I did have reasons. I called for a favor, and to gripe about my day. Nobody shot at me, but they might as well have.”
“What?” I tried to sound sympathetic while wondering what the favor was and whether he understood that I was fighting a deadline.
“Lexie doesn’t want to be a mother.”
“What?” I pushed away from the VDT screen.
“The script is changing as we speak. Two more new writers; now we’ve got a chief and three assistants hacking away at it. Van Ness is wrapped around Lexie’s pinky. She’s playing him like a violin, and he’s pulling the writers’ strings. She doesn’t want to play the mother of a ten-year-old. Not her image, she says. He agrees. So now the kid is out of the picture.”
“Roland Starrett? He’s so cute.”
“His parents aren’t. They manage him. He’s their meal ticket. They’re mad as hell, threatening to sue.”
“He’ll get paid anyway, won’t he?”
“Yeah, they have to buy him out, but his parents say this damages his career, that child actors have a short work life and he turned down another movie role and a TV series to do this. They want what he would have been paid for all three, plus damages.”
I made sympathetic sounds as I watched the clock.
“Then some nut sneaked into the wardrobe trailer out at the port where we were shooting today and slashed a lot of the clothes. Hopefully they can be replaced. If they can’t, we may have to reshoot what little we’ve done.”
“Who do you think did it?”
“I know what you’re thinking but she hasn’t been seen.” He sounded thoughtful. “Stephanie never pulled that kind of stunt before. But if d be a relief if it was her; then we’d know we don’t have some lunatic in the crew.
“But worst of all, remember Walder? Broke his leg out at the nuclear reactor site?”
“The guy from the Coast?”
“Yeah. He’s got gangrene.”
“Whoa, I betcha it’s from the bacteria, acrochilia or something, in the muck out there. Harmless except to frogs unless it mixes with hydraulic fluid. Survivors from another big jet crash out there years ago lost limbs to gangrene after minor injuries. This guy was in an accident, a backhoe or swamp buggy, right? I bet that’s it. Transmission fluid probably has the same effect. Stirred up with the bacteria in the swamp, it turns into something really nasty. How’s he doing?”
“They’ve got him in a hyperbaric chamber. Flew his family in from LA. The union refuses to let anybody work at the site until the reactor is stable.” He sighed. “It’s listing again. They’re talking about blasting now. If they can blast down to solid coral rock, they can anchor the thing.”
“I really don’t think they should. Is that the favor? I’m not making a buy for you. No blasting caps, no dynamite, no way—”
“The AIDS benefit. I wanna make sure you’ll be there.”
“Isn’t it, like, fifteen hundred dollars a ticket?” He had to know I don’t travel in those circles.
“I don’t mean buy a ticket. You’d be, sort of, hostess.”
“But the Atwaters will be there. The high rollers, the movers and shakers. Probably your producers. I don’t think they’d be comfortable—”
“Screw them. I’m letting ‘em use my house, my name.”
“Do I have to work in the kitchen?”
“You don’t even have to know where it is.”
“I already know.” This was tempting. I lunged for the brass ring. “I know Lottie would love to go. So would my mother.”
“Great. Bring ‘em as my guests. We’ll have a table.”
The day did not turn out an absolute bummer, after all. Lottie was delighted, and my mother—who called, frantic, after hearing I had been shot at and missed—hung up thrilled and totally gaga about what to wear to the season’s big event.
And the cops had news. The shooters had abandoned the Bonneville in a West Dade canal. Finding it was no major feat of modern police work. The canal was a popular dumping spot for hot cars, so popular that two other rusting hunks were piggybacked beneath the Pontiac, spotted because its backside was sticking up out of the water. No surprise that it had been stolen from South Beach a few nights before.
Mrs. Goldstein, who had also seen TV, welcomed me home with her special chicken soup, a hug and some news of her own.
“A lovely girl, a friend of yours, was here today looking for an apartment. She said you sent her, but I told her we don’t have a vacancy. She wanted to know all about you.”
Somehow I knew before she told me.
Stephanie.
I was already beat-up and bruised, and now Lance’s stalker was sniffing at my trail. No point calling the cops. If snooping was a crime, I’d be doing hard time. No reason to pester Lance. He had his own problems. What could he do anyway? The woman had shadowed him for years, and he had not been able to stop her. Maybe Stephanie had now satisfied her curiosity about me. If not, I would handle her myself, try to talk some sense into her.
My chance came next morning. Gloria said a woman had called several times but left no message. Next time I picked up the telephone it was her.
“Ms. Montero.” She sounded perky. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“You’ve got me.”
“This is Stephanie Carrollton, Lance’s fiancée? We met at his home?”
“Of course I remember.” Who could forget her banshee screams and departure in police custody?
“I thought we should talk, woman to woman.” She sounded earnest.
“I think so too, Stephanie.” I rubbed my forehead and leaned forward in my chair.
“I’ll get right to the point. I’ve seen you with Lance and drought that before you begin to harbor any illusions or false hopes, you should be aware that he is not available. We have been, and still are, very much committed to each other.”
“Stephanie, I don’t believe that is the case, or that it ever was. I think deep down you know that.”
“You’re wrong. Every relationship has its ups and downs. We’re working things out.”
The only background sound was some faint easy-listening-type music. “Where are you?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Your family is concerned. I think you should contact them.”
“They want to keep Lance and me apart,” she said impatiently. “They’ve never wanted us to be together. But they’re going to have to accept the fact that Lance is my family now. We belong together, especially at this time. I’m sure you’ve seen the stories. This film is very important to his career.”
“Stephanie, you have to accept the fact that he doesn’t feel the same way you do.”
“That’s not true!” She sounded sincerely indignant. Talk about illusions and false hopes. Had I not known better, I would have believed her myself. “Lance w
anted me to come down here. When he sent for me—”
“He sent for you? How? When?”
“We communicate in our own special ways,” she said softly.
“Stephanie, you will only get in trouble if you persist in this. You’re gonna wind up in jail, or a hospital, or hurt. This is a dangerous city. You shouldn’t be running around out there alone.”
“Don’t you threaten me,” she said angrily.
“I’m not. I’m telling you straight, woman to woman. You have got to get a life. Think about all the wonderful things you could do. You’re healthy, attractive, and have the means to live anywhere, do anything. You could have it all.”
“Lance is all I need.”
Over his dead body, I thought. “He doesn’t feel the same.”
“You’re wrong,” she said stubbornly. “The first moment I saw Lance, my whole future flashed before me. He knew it too. Mystics have told me that we were married more than once in past lives. We’re soul mates. We share a destiny. Some things are meant to be. We will be together.”
Oh, Lordy, I thought. “Stephanie, you need help. You have to see someone.” The words echoed inside my head: the same ones I’d heard from people who care about me. Clearly, Stephanie was not about to listen any more than I had. Was I as deep in denial as she was?
“You’re just like all the rest of them. My family, and that Niko.” She spat out the words. “And Lexie Duran, that tramp, and all the others. None of you can keep us apart.”
“Look, Stephanie,” I said, getting tough myself. “I am not your problem. But I will be, unless you leave my landlady alone and stay away from my place. Is that clear?”
“You were nearly killed,” she said bitterly. “Too bad they missed. Just stay away from Lance. Or you may not be as lucky next time.”
Oh, swell, I thought, as she hung up.
12
Stephanie’s threats had a definite impact. I instantly accepted when Niko called to say Lance was inviting me to lunch.
It was neat to simply inform the desk that I was doing lunch with the film people. Me, the reporter who normally eschews lunch hours out of fear that I’ll miss something. No problem. Fred had kept his word, though Gretchen looked grim.
Niko called from the lobby, and I went down to meet them.
The Town Car was nowhere in sight. Today it was a white Rolls-Royce Corniche convertible, with red leather upholstery and the rag top down. Lance looked very South Beach, strikingly handsome in a ribbed cotton sweater and white linen slacks. He sat in the driver’s seat.
“Hey, I’m taking you to my favorite restaurant.” Niko held my door as I slid in next to Lance; then he climbed in back, with Dave.
The convertible emerged into sparkling sunshine, and a brisk breeze riffled our hair. It had been years since I had ridden in an open convertible, since about the time unruly Miamians had begun pitching bricks and Molotov cocktails into passing cars.
But this was the exhilarating sort of day that lifted spirits and evoked feelings that all was right with the world. The spirit was contagious.
“God invented convertibles for this kind of weather,” Lance said, wheeling out toward the Boulevard.
“Henry Ford might dispute that.”
The red Taurus I saw pull out from behind the News building reminded me of something.
“I forgot to mention,” I said. “Stephanie called today, and she has been to my apartment, talking to my landlady.”
“Niko,” Lance said, braking slightly. “You hear that?”
He and Dave leaned forward so I could fill them in.
“And if I’m not mistaken,” I added, fastening my seat belt and checking the side mirror for the Taurus, now gaining on us, “there she is.”
Their heads all swiveled.
“Watch it!” I warned. My foot automatically mashed a nonexistent brake pedal. Even a Rolls-Royce has no controls on the passenger side. Lance swerved to avoid a lumbering Metro bus, as its driver and passengers peered down, goggle-eyed at the superstar who recklessly zoomed on by.
“Now I know why you usually have other people drive,” I said.
“I can’t believe it,” Lance muttered. He grinned and hit the gas. “Let’s lose her.”
Oh, no, I thought. This was why I always prefer driving my own car, even though it puts a damper on dating.
We flashed onto the MacArthur Causeway, traveling east toward the Beach, the Taurus in hot pursuit.
“Where are we going?” I imagined Stephanie creating a huge scene in some crowded swank restaurant like the Delano or Joe’s on trendy South Beach and our departure in a glut of police cars, paddy wagons, and paparazzi. The idea made me queasy. I related somehow to Stephanie and, despite her animus, would take no pleasure in seeing her manhandled and hauled away again by the cops.
“It’s a surprise,” Lance answered, as he swerved across two lanes and hit the gas. At the peak of the high west span, surrounded by turquoise water, the pastel towers of Portofino and South Point rose against the eastern skyline.
Stephanie might be crazy, but she was not stupid and she was certainly resourceful. South Beach is a short strip of real estate. This convertible would not be hard to spot. She would track us down.
I touched Lance’s shoulder. “Maybe we should go back. No point in creating a situation.”
“No way! No problem.” He grinned like a man with a secret. Maybe we were en route to his Star Island house. But then why did he bother to pick me up? I could have driven there myself, or Niko could have come for me.
I glanced back, the rushing wind lifting my hair. The Taurus, a good half mile behind, had just crested the high rise of the west bridge. Lance veered to the right. An irate cabby leaned on his horn. Lance smiled and waved. The driver recognized him, tooted back, and flashed a thumb’s-up. Teenage girls packed in a Buick screamed “Lance!” in unison. They and other drivers slowed to let him across and into the right lane.
What was he doing? He slowed, then left the causeway, bumping across weeds and green grass onto Watson Island. All that was out here was an airstrip for Chalk’s seaplanes and a heliport for sightseeing tours. “This doesn’t go anywhere,” I protested.
“Oh, yes, it does.”
The Taurus had tied up the fast lane and was signaling trying to cross three lanes of traffic.
Lance hit the brakes, and we skidded to a stop on the tarmac. “Let’s go, Niko! Come on.” He grabbed my hand and tossed the keys to Dave. “We’ll call when we need a pickup!”
Dave nodded and slid behind the wheel, blond hair shining in the bright light.
The three of us ran toward a waiting Suncoast chopper, propeller already churning. Lance scrambled aboard, helped me in; then Niko followed. “Let’s go! Let’s go!” Lance said.
The pilot nodded and we spiraled into a crystal-blue winter sky, with breathtaking Biscayne Bay, Miami, and the islands below. As we rose we could see Dave pulling out onto the causeway headed east for Star Island. He waved as we hovered for a moment. The Taurus was careening across the grass after a feat of death-defying lane hopping. It stopped, the door opened, and Stephanie scrambled out. She stared sky-ward, right arm outstretched. We were too high to tell, but it seemed to me that she was calling Lance’s name.
I could not help laughing with elation at the beauty of it all, the cool crisp air, the vivid blues and greens, the clouds, the sea, and the glittering city. There was the Miami News building, staid and solid on the bay. I visualized the stuffy newsroom I had just left and laughed again.
“Wave! Wave!” Niko said, pumping his arm at Stephanie. We were all grinning. He had the pilot radio back to base that anyone inquiring should be informed that we were bound for Bimini.
“Bimini?” I asked.
“Nope.” Niko looked smug.
“You know we’ll pay for this,” I said, gasping for breath. “She’s mad as hell already.”
“Forget her. She can’t to
uch us,” Lance said. “Nobody can. Let me see that now,” he added, inspecting the bruise, now a lovely shade of lavender, on the side of my face.
“You were right,” Niko said. “She does need a stunt double.”
The view intrigued me: the Coast Guard base; ships and small boats trailing rooster tails on the bay. We skimmed a thousand feet above the traffic streaming north and south on U.S. 1. The vivid hues of Architectonica stabbed at the sky; Haitian freighters meandered along the Miami River; flags fluttered over the U.S. Customs building. The look, the colors, and the geography of Miami never fail to move and excite me.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” I settled back. “I thought we were going to your favorite restaurant.”
“I forgot to mention, it’s in Key Largo.”
We followed the narrow ribbon of U.S. 1 south as I tried to ignore the throb of the rotors, which awakened something primitive deep inside me, making me think about sex.
Below, the deep blue of the Atlantic on one side and the brilliant turquoise of the Gulf of Mexico on the other were divided by a single silvery strip of concrete, the overseas highway.
We landed in a waterside parking lot and dined at the roadhouse where they claim the movie classic Key Largo was filmed.
“That’s why I had the urge to come here,” Lance said, as we relaxed over drinks at a wooden table over-looking the water. Niko sat at the bar ten feet away, drinking coffee.
“What?” I had been imagining Stephanie, at the helm of a powerboat halfway to Bimini. Or pulling into the parking lot behind us. I did not doubt her powers of persuasion.
“You remind me of a young Lauren Bacall.” He reached across the table, brushed my hair back off my forehead, and gazed through me with dark, smoldery eyes.
“No resemblance,” I blurted. “I’m shorter and—’
He cut me off, that famous, slightly sneering mouth shaping and relishing each word. “I mean the essence of the woman, the way you carry yourself. I saw it in that TV news clip yesterday, even after the shooting. You know who you are, where you are. Your eyes have a look, as though they’ve seen everything and nothing is a surprise. It makes me want to try to surprise you.”
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