“Oh, that game?”
“Or we could just get out of here and see L. Q. another time.”
Citrin got up from her chair.
“Or. We could not.”
She sat next to Grant on the chaise longue. He had to shuffle over to make room and nearly fell off the end. The missing end, if it had been a settee. She leaned into him, put one arm around his waist, and rested her head against his chest. If she were a cat she’d be purring.
Grant rested one arm across her shoulders and gave them a gentle squeeze. “I thought you said you were a shy girl.”
“I said I’m an old-fashioned girl.”
“Is this old-fashioned? Like dating your high-school sweetheart?”
She spoke into his chest.
“You think I’m not a sweetheart?”
He squeezed her shoulder harder.
“I think you’re beautiful.”
She raised her head and smiled up at him. Grant lowered his to meet halfway. They looked into each other’s eyes and neither spoke. Citrin snuggled her body into his, getting comfortable. Grant used his free hand to stroke her cheek. He touched her lips with one finger, then took hold of her chin and tilted her mouth so he could kiss it. She responded straightaway this time with soft, gentle nibbles of his lips in return. It felt good, this intimacy that wasn’t going to lead to sex. Not here. Not now. This was simply getting-to-know-you time. Like a first date with your childhood sweetheart. Except it was their second.
She closed her eyes as he kissed her.
Grant kept his open and watched her face become calm and happy.
He saw something else as well.
He kissed her on the forehead, then sat up. He could see their reflection in the mirrored doors on the middle wardrobes. They both looked tanned and healthy. She looked darker than him. The Italian heritage. He moved his head slightly to one side and then the other. At a midway point their reflections dulled slightly and there was a glint from behind the glass. Citrin raised her head.
“Was it something I said?”
He quickly kissed her on the nose, then slid out from beside her.
“You ever see From Russia with Love?”
She sat up.
“The one with Sean Connery? A British secret agent with a Scottish accent?”
“As opposed to the Spanish immortal or the Russian submarine commander with a Scottish accent?”
“Point taken. The one where he sticks a hair across the wardrobe doors and pours talc on the briefcase catch?”
He stood up and walked over to the wardrobes.
“That’s the one.”
“You spotted a hair across the wardrobe?”
Grant stood in front of the mirrored doors. He stepped to one side so the light could reflect off the smoked glass. He held a hand up in front of the center door and moved it up and down. The reflection changed when the light was blocked out.
“It’s also the one where he makes love to Tatiana Romanova in the bridal suite. She fingers his scar and he turns her over in front of the mirror. The shot pans up and you can hear an old cine-camera behind the glass.”
He yanked the door open. There were no clothes rails inside. The middle shelf had been removed and a small CCTV camera fastened in its place, angled down toward the bed. Any romantic thoughts he’d been having on the chaise longue vanished. He hadn’t even begun life as the latest reality TV star yet and he was already fed up with being caught on camera. The intrusive photographer had already cramped his style with Geneva Espinoza. Being filmed with Robin Citrin was a step too far. He moved aside so she could see the miniature camera.
“Smile. You’re on Candid Camera.”
Citrin didn’t smile. She looked mildly embarrassed. Not like she’d been caught in a compromising position but like she’d rather keep her private life private. Grant nodded at the impartial observer.
“Boot’s on the other foot now, huh?”
She stood up, annoyance creasing her brow, and slipped into her shoes. Grant realized it had been the wrong thing to say and tried to dig himself out of the hole.
“That wasn’t a swipe at you, by the way.”
“What was it a swipe at, then?”
She still sounded angry. He closed the wardrobe and walked over to her. Took her face in both hands and bent to kiss her forehead and nose and lips. By the time he reached her lips she’d calmed down. He stepped back and looked into her eyes.
“A swipe at the inequities of life.”
It was a good line. It seemed to appease her. Grant wasn’t worried about the hidden camera in the wardrobe, though. He was thinking about a static camera view of a gray-haired man on a cream settee and the pert-breasted teenager keeping him company. Smoke and mirrors. Not so much a porn shoot as a hidden camera.
Fifteen minutes later. Music thumped into the night, a mixture of modern classics and tuneless rubbish. Grant yearned for the soundtracks of Lalo Schifrin and Ennio Morricone. If he ever got introduced to the host, he might suggest that for the next party. After their brief spell inside, they’d come out of the side door.
The house was a long, low structure with peaked roofs and dormer windows. It was built on three levels climbing up the hillside into the woods. There was a traditional Hollywood swimming pool and acres of sculptured gardens with patio lights scattered along the winding paths. The pool had underwater lighting and naked female swimmers.
Grant followed Citrin around the pool and along the garden path toward the extensive patio. People were mingling and laughing and exchanging stories while drinking fancy cocktails that looked more alien than some of the people drinking them. The colors were ghastly. They reminded Grant of those scenes in the Star Trek movies that were supposed to be the Star Fleet bar. The only things missing were a handful of Tribbles and Captain Kirk. The rest of the alien quotient was provided by some of the females wandering the decking. Grant leaned close to Citrin so she could hear him over the music.
“Maybe we should just leave and find somewhere a bit more peaceful.”
She looked as if she was about to say yes when her eyes suddenly darted across Grant’s shoulder. He turned to follow her gaze and saw the tall man with a Davy Crockett jacket and cowboy boots coming toward them through the decorative arch. The grin was unmistakable. James Coburn in his heyday.
It was too late to escape.
“It’s life, Jim, but not as we know it.”
L. Q. Patton was standing on the patio with a cold beer and a grin. One hand was indicating the wildlife around them. Citrin was standing to one side. Grant was in the middle.
“Is that from the song or from Star Trek proper?”
“What song?”
“Star Trekkin’. A spoof.”
“Never heard the song. The quote was from the TV show. Doc McCoy to Captain Kirk.”
“T. J. Hooker.”
“That wasn’t one of mine.”
“One of yours if you were Stephen J. Cannell?”
“Which I’m not. I’d have loved to have done The A-Team though.”
“I preferred The Rockford Files.”
“Yeah, you said.”
Grant glanced around the patio. The decking was crowded but not as full as the house. Picture windows ran all along the south- facing walls, giving Grant a reverse view to what they could see from inside the house. People standing and talking, some kissing and cuddling. At least two snorting coke on a glass-topped coffee table. The scene it reminded Grant of was that one in Kiss Kiss Bang Bang where Robert Downey Jr. was at a Hollywood party full of weird and wonderful people. Whenever Downey was asked what he did, he made up a different story. Nobody listened. Nobody cared. They just said yes, then drifted off. Grant felt like he’d been kidnapped by aliens and dropped right into the middle of that scene.
Aliens were a recurring theme to
night. A woman who was practically naked had been painted completely blue. She was wearing a skimpy bikini that no doubt hid patches of bare flesh to allow her skin to breath. The blue woman was only one of many strange sights wandering around the split-level house and grounds. Grant shook his head.
“So, is this how the rich and shameless spend their Saturday nights?”
Patton surveyed the crowd.
“It isn’t Saturday night.”
“Figure of speech.”
“You see? You’re getting the hang of this. Reality TV is just a figure of speech for the visually impaired.”
“TV for the blind, you mean?”
“TV for the less intellectually inclined.”
Grant smiled. “TV for thick fucks.”
“On the scale of human achievement among the great American viewing public, there are more thick fucks than rocket scientists. And they all pay to watch TV. This is show business. We go where the money is.”
Citrin tugged at Patton’s sleeve and jerked a thumb toward the barbecue deck. Three chefs were busy grilling steaks and burgers and sausages. The smell of cooked meat and sizzling onions drifted across the patio. Smoke swirled around the cooking area. A man walked out through the smoke like a wraith from the mist.
“Talking of money. Here he comes.”
Patton turned to look at the figure swathed in smoke who was talking to everyone he met as he crossed the barbecue deck. He was patting people on the shoulder. He was grinning almost as much as L. Q. Patton. Grant followed their gaze and watched a solid, athletic guy who was on the wrong side of fifty but the right side of healthy. If Patton was James Coburn, then the newcomer was Burt Lancaster. Patton’s grin broadened.
“Perfect timing, Jim. Here comes the man I want you to meet.”
The man cleared the smoke and spotted Patton’s upraised hand. He came across the patio with measured strides. Unlike Patton, he was wearing tan loafers, blue jeans, and an open-necked shirt revealing a triangle of hairy chest. The hairs were tinged with gray like the short-cropped haircut but were sparse and wiry. Grant thought there was something familiar about him. Something other than a passing resemblance to Burt Lancaster.
Then it came to him, and a shiver ran down his spine. It was hard to tell because he’d only seen the guy from behind with a fixed camera angle. The general shape was the same—the well-groomed hair sliding toward gray. The hairy chest. Grant wondered if they matched the hairs on his shoulders.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Smoke and mirrors. That’s what Grant was thinking as Nathan Burdett came through the smoke to greet L. Q. Patton. The smoke part was obvious. The mirrors went back to what he’d discovered in the guest room. Smoke and mirrors. A technique used by illusionists to make a trick look like one thing when it was really something else. Everything was different depending on how you looked at it.
Grant managed to contain the surprise at where he thought he recognized the guy from. Not from The Scalphunters or Birdman of Alcatraz but from the static camera pointed at the back of his head while a naked Angelina Richards sucked his cock. Patton introduced them, and Burdett held out a hand. Grant shook it. James Bond’s friend-or-foe detector worked a treat. The handshake wasn’t firm and dry. Burdett’s hand felt as clammy as a just-shit turd, not easy in the dry heat of Southern California. There wasn’t a hint of red in his eyes, that was something, but Grant distrusted him straightaway.
None of that showed in Grant’s face as he smiled at his host. “You sure know how to throw a party.”
Burdett grinned his appreciation of the compliment. “This is LA. It’s a party town.”
He let go of Grant’s hand. The guy had the limp grip and sweaty palm of a banker that was at odds with the tan and movie-star grin. Burt Lancaster would be spinning in his grave if he knew this guy modeled himself on the Hollywood legend. Grant kept the smile relaxed and friendly.
“I particularly like the synchronized swimming team.”
Citrin narrowly avoided digging him in the ribs again. Burdett glanced across at the swimming pool.
“Not exactly Busby Berkeley, but they get by.”
“Did you know that silicon implants are heavier than natural breasts?”
Citrin looked away. Patton grinned. Burdett laughed and shook his head.
“I didn’t know that. I guess we’d better employ more lifeguards. We don’t want anyone drowning. This is LA—there’s more plastic here than in Silicon Valley.”
Grant waved at the view of downtown Los Angeles through the decorative arch. There were at least two helicopters buzzing across the night sky, searchlights lancing into the dark.
“LA seems to have more of everything. Actors. Film crews. TV shows. It’s the bank robbery capital of the world, I’ve been told.”
“If robbers wanted to make real money, they should steal the budget of any Hollywood movie. Hundred million average these days.”
“Not rob the budget of a reality TV show?”
“That would still net them a decent profit. Not the big league, though. The money I’ve put up for some projects would make your eyes water.”
“You don’t just do TV, then?”
Burdett held one hand up, fingers spread.
“See those fingers? Covered in pastry, the number of pies I’ve got them stuck in. Keep hoping that one of them will come out with a plum. Like in the nursery rhyme.”
“My dad never read me nursery rhymes.”
“You get the picture, though? My projects are diverse and wide ranging.”
Grant didn’t mention that diverse was the same as wide ranging. He realized that in Hollywood it was all about how it sounded or how it looked, not the reality of the words. He wondered if Burdett had a finger in the porn industry.
“Well, the party-throwing pie looks pretty healthy.”
“Thanks. Glad you could come.”
“Just a thought, though”—Burdett’s grin faded to a half smile that looked strained. He didn’t like having his judgment questioned. Grant kept his tone light.
“This being Hollywood”—he indicated the horizon to the west—“over there, anyway. But this being the movie capital of the world, you throw a party like this, how about using film soundtracks instead of dance music? A bit of Morricone or Schifrin. Elmer Bern-stein. Jerry Goldsmith. The theme for Lonely Are the Brave would fit perfect in the background. Then you could hear yourself think.”
Burdett appeared to consider that for a second, then his grin returned.
“The plaintive horn solo with guitar. Like he used in First Blood. The first Rambo movie? Yes, I see your point. Maybe Bullitt or Dirty Harry.”
“If you wanted to throw in some Brit influence, there’s always Get Carter and The Long Good Friday. Gangster stuff with a difference.”
Burdett was back to his old self. Grinning like a fool.
“I’ll look into that for next time. See if there’re any soundtracks in the house.”
Grant glanced at the split-level home. “Nice house, though. Can’t argue with that.”
Burdett followed Grant’s eyes. “Not bad, is it? I’ve used it before.”
Grant was surprised. He was thinking about the camera behind the mirror. “It’s not yours?”
“Hell no. Don’t want all these airheads fucking up my carpets.”
“That’s a point.”
“Or drowning in my pool.” Burdett waved an arm to include everything around him. “In this business, you can always find someone who’ll lend you their house.”
“So it seems.”
Burdett offered his hand again, and Grant shook it.
“Mr. Grant. Nice to meet you. Everything L. Q. has told me about you is true. I think you’re going to make me a lot of money.”
“More than robbing banks?”
“Enough to keep the wolves from the
door.”
Burdett let go of Grant’s hand and slapped Patton on the back. He spun on his heels and marched back across the patio, greeting and backslapping all the way. Grant wiped his hand on his jeans. Citrin noticed and smiled. Patton said farewell too, and pretty soon Grant was alone with Robin Citrin. Alone in a houseful of heavy drinkers.
“Can we go now?”
She nodded and began to walk toward the parking lot. Grant fell in step with her. Citrin took his hand.
“Want to come back to my place for a nightcap?”
“I don’t wear a nightcap.”
She laughed. The laugh was dirty and full of promise.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Robin Citrin lived in a bungalow on Los Grandes Way at the foot of the Griffith Park hills. She had the corner plot just off Winona Boulevard. At the top of the hill behind the housing development the Griffith Park Observatory searched the night sky for stars, while below and slightly west of the bungalow Hollywood catered to stars of a more earthly nature. If Nathan Burdett and L. Q. Patton had their way, Jim Grant would soon become one of those stars.
Grant still wasn’t a hundred percent sold on the idea.
It was late but nowhere near midnight when Citrin pulled the car into the carport at the side of the house. They’d been chatting all the way across town but now they fell silent. This felt like a more important moment than being picked up from the hotel or making love in his room. Grant got out and walked to the corner of the house. The slope of Winona meant the houses lower down the hill didn’t obstruct another perfect view of downtown Los Angeles in the distance. He wondered if there was anywhere in LA that didn’t have that view.
The car door slammed behind him.
“You’re a bit of a night gazer, aren’t you?”
She was standing beside the car, twisting the keys nervously around her fingers. It was the only sign that she felt the tension building. Other than that, she looked calm and collected and drop- dead gorgeous. Her smile looked genuine enough. Her body language exuded self-confidence. Apart from the keys. He turned and walked back toward the car, never taking his eyes off her.
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