I take a seat at the end of a crowded picnic table behind the food stand and settle in with my chilidog. I’m about to sink my teeth into my favorite way to consume a gazillion sloppy calories when my cellphone rings. I glance at the ID before answering, relieved to see it’s Jack calling.
“Hey, there! Nice surprise. My God, I miss you! Are you still in Seattle?”
“Actually, I’m in Minneapolis, but I’ll be back in LA soon. Can’t wait to see you, darling. I’ll catch a flight as soon as I finish up with HSI out here.”
“I appreciate you keeping our homeland secure, thank you very much. Why are you in Minneapolis? Aren’t you still investigating the death of the Ukrainian girl in Seattle?”
I can picture Jack raising an eyebrow, wondering how I figured out which case he’s on. “Yes,” he says wryly, “there’s a connection I’m following up on.”
“Do you know yet what happened to her?”
“We’ve picked up some leads, but it’s the tip of an iceberg. Nothing I can go into now. Anyway, I’m back in the office writing up a report. I’ve been thinking about you and had to call.”
His voice is warm and intimate, making me smile. I picture him at a desk, wearing a crisp white shirt, tie loose at the collar, and brushing his hand across his short-cropped hair.
“What’s happening with you? Weren’t you going to start coaching the new Jinx?”
“Chelsea? Oh, very top-secret stuff I can’t go into now,” I tease. “She stole my hat, but that’s just the tip of my iceberg. Now she’s disappeared and I’m looking for her and my hat. What’s the world coming to?”
“I ask myself that every day. Besides missing you. I’m really sorry we didn’t get out to Two Bunch Palms.”
“Hey, no apology necessary. It’s your job. But I miss you, too, Jack.” Not that anyone in the vicinity is listening, but I turn my knees away from the table and cup my hand around the phone. “If you were here, I’d invite you over to Donna’s house for pot roast in Guinness tonight.”
“Sounds delicious. Save a plate of leftovers in case I make it back tomorrow.”
“Really? Great! Want me to pick you up at the airport?”
“Thanks, but I’ll have to go directly to a debriefing. How would you feel about dinner at Chez Jay, if I can break away?”
“I’d love it. Whatever works for you, just give me a ring.”
“Take care, Meg. See you soon.”
“Bye. See you.” I can’t make myself press End Call. I wait until the screen goes dark, then tuck my cellphone back in my pocket.
My chilidog is cold, but I don’t care. Thoughts of Jack race through my mind, lifting me out of the morass left by my encounter with Elaine and the police. I have a job, change in my pocket, a roof over my head and a full belly. That’s far more than I had a year ago and enough to put me back in a good frame of mind. If only Chelsea would turn up, life would be close to perfect.
One irritant, of course, remains. Of all the acting coaches in the world, why would Chelsea end up with Dirck? I can imagine their sessions together, with him urging her to make Jinx grittier, more real than I played her. But one of the reasons the original Holiday series was such a success is that Winston and I found that sweet balance between humorous jousting and the serious aspects of the crimes we solved.
Take the Fourth of July episode. Jinx played a tough undercover role in a story about a terrorist cell, with a final chase sequence in the Statue of Liberty that paid homage to Alfred Hitchcock’s Saboteur, one of Dougie’s favorite films. Perhaps Dirck has forgotten how much research I did to prepare for episodes dealing with gun smuggling, identity theft and child abduction. For a plot that hinged on domestic violence, I arranged to live in a women’s shelter for several days.
What kind of preparation did Chelsea do, other than learning some hat tricks from me? Even as the question crosses my mind, it jolts me into sitting up straighter. Could Chelsea have run into trouble delving too deeply into research for her character?
I push the basket with the remains of my chilidog aside and pull up Dirck’s number on my cellphone. He answers instantly.
“Hey, you heard from Chelsea?”
“No, sorry. But that’s what I was calling about.”
“I hope you’re not still sore I said anything about the read-through. You know me, I don’t hold back.”
“No, no, it’s not about that.” I decide not to distract him with the news about Elaine’s arrival. “I was just wondering if you could tell me a little about how you and Chelsea worked on the role. This pilot episode involves Jinx infiltrating a high-end escort service. A woman’s been killed, someone the Magician knew, so Jinx has to go undercover.”
“Right. Sure thing. Like I tell all my students, you want to get your imagination in play, but first you have to spend time learning about the real-life people portrayed, delve into their world—” Dirck’s voice has gone into professorial mode; time to cut him off.
“Right. In this case, it’s the world of high-class prostitutes. Did you encourage her to do that?”
“Yeah, you know, you gotta dig deep, go all the way. The attitude, motivation, the actual experience of hooking up with a john, that’s all part of it.”
“Do you think she actually set herself up as a call girl? Did she give any indication she’d checked out an escort service?”
“All I know is that there was an actor who dropped out of my class in New York that she kept in touch with. Apparently he had some connection to an escort service and she followed up on it.”
“You know his name?”
“Yeah, Jerry Schlitz. He goes by Jeremy Sloan. A few bit parts, works as a bartender.”
“You know where?”
“No, the guy left owing me money for class. I don’t expect to hear from him again.”
“Okay, thanks. If I hear anything, I’ll let you know. Bye.”
“Hey, wait—” I press End Call and jot the name Jeremy Sloan on a napkin. Could the guy in the red convertible be the bartender and sometime-actor? If so, the fact that he allegedly skipped out on paying Dirck for his acting classes but can afford to drive a pricey convertible, leased or owned, is intriguing. It’s not a secret that most bartenders earn more than most actors, but this guy—if it’s Jeremy Sloan—has managed to strike it rich.
I settle back to explore the apps on my fancy smartphone, a castoff from Donna when she upgraded. It’s a godsend, and one I can afford on her family plan. In the browser search bar, I slowly tap out Jeremy, which becomes heavy for no good reason. I am well aware that my atavistic fingertips manage to clumsily misspell everything, and autocorrect only corrects that which needs no correcting. It’s my supposition that the next generation of newborns will come equipped with small knobs on their thumbs that relate to the size of miniature keyboards. Lucky them.
I finally manage to enter his full name. What pops up on my screen are many Jeremy Sloans, but only one of the candidates is depicted in what looks like an actor’s eight-by-ten glossy: a dark-haired, handsome babe-magnet with a brooding expression.
“Well, aren’t you cute,” I murmur as his other headshots appear on the screen. “Where do we find you, Mr. Sloan?”
It turns out Jeremy wants to be found. Even without requesting to become his Facebook friend, I discover he bartends at Gilligan’s Bar and Grill. I also check IMDb and discover he recently costarred in episodes of two TV series and has a role in a horror film that’s in post-production.
I look up Gilligan’s, located in Westwood Village, and see that they have happy hour beginning at four o’clock. The location and timing suit me fine. It seems almost too easy. I check my watch and head back to my car.
Parking in Westwood Village requires cunning and native knowledge. With the UCLA campus and hospital on one flank, Wilshire Boulevard on another, and museums, theaters, shops and dense housing packed in the middle, unmetered parking is virtually nonexistent. But I find a spot two blocks from Gilligan’s at five minutes to
happy hour. With a bit of luck I’ll find the place not yet jammed and Jeremy Sloan already on duty behind the bar. At happy hour prices, I can probably even afford a glass of wine to aid in digesting my chilidog.
Gilligan’s, occupying a pie-shaped corner on the southeast reaches of the commercial area, is in a quaint, low-slung hacienda-style structure of the sort that once defined Westwood Village. But while the building is old, the bar and grill is relatively new to the neighborhood and looks far more upscale than the pizza joint previously located there. Bushes planted in large earthenware pots form a hedge lining the sidewalk, partially concealing a flagstone patio with heat lamps, oversized upholstered ottomans and two-seater couches.
I pause on the corner to check messages on my cellphone, but also to peer surreptitiously through the curtain of greenery to get the lay of the land. Even at this hour, the bar is more crowded than I hoped it would be, but there’s an empty stool available and a dark-haired bartender that could be Jeremy Sloan.
The interior is cool, bathed in bleached sunlight filtering through a domed skylight. A giant urn filled with eucalyptus and yellow day lilies perfumes the air. I perch on one of the stools at the curve of the bar near the entrance to get a good view of the room as well as the two bartenders on duty. I look at the menu teepee on the bar to check the happy hour prices, waiting to catch the eye of the lanky young man I’m pretty certain is Jeremy.
He nods and makes his way toward me, moving in a leisurely amble that doesn’t cost his long legs too many strides. He gives me a welcoming smile and tosses his head back as though that would keep his hair from flopping becomingly across his forehead. Haircuts like his don’t come cheap.
“Hey, how you doing?” he says, wiping his hands on a bar towel.
“Good, thanks. I’ll have a glass of your happy hour pinot grigio.”
“Make it two,” says a deep-throated, all-too-familiar female voice. I know without a sideward glance that Elaine has joined me at the bar. My stomach takes a quick elevator ride, but I manage to cover my shock.
“Coming right up, ladies,” he says, sliding a napkin in front of each of us before going off to get our wine.
“This where you do your drinking these days?” Elaine asks.
“Thought I’d give it a try. What a surprise. Are you meeting someone?”
“Who would I meet?”
“Whoever you want.” The stool next to mine is occupied, but Elaine manages to wedge herself close to the bar, her face inches from mine.
“Guess I’ll just keep you company. You mind?”
“Why would I?” I smile, wondering how long she was watching me before announcing herself.
Elaine smiles, too. “You might have some business here, something you wanted to do without me hanging on your shoulder. You going to be here long?”
“I don’t know. Happy hour is over at seven. Are you waiting for my seat?”
“Nope. I’m good standing.”
I could probably keep this up as long as Elaine can, but having a few minutes alone with Jeremy doesn’t look like it’s going to happen. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him ambling back toward us with two damp-looking glasses of white wine. He sets each down on a napkin. “There you go.”
“Great. Thanks.” Elaine picks up her glass, peeling the napkin from the bottom where condensation has soaked into it. “Cheers,” she says before taking a sip.
“Cheers yourself, Elaine.”
I catch the quick look the bartender gives Elaine when I mention her name. “You ladies want any bar snacks?” He slides the teepee in front of us. “Calamari. Lobster sliders. Tuna rolls. Lotsa good stuff here.”
“Thanks. Maybe later,” Elaine says. “Did I catch your name?”
“Me? Hey, I’m Jeremy. Welcome to Gilligan’s. You gals been in here before?”
“First time,” Elaine says. “Why? Do I look familiar to you?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “I was gonna say you remind me of someone.”
“I wonder who that might be.” She looks directly at Jeremy, and I can tell she’s going for the zinger. “Maybe you know my daughter, Chelsea Horne? People say we look alike.”
His face tells me he knew this was coming. He raps his knuckles on the bar and says, “Yeah, I know Chelsea. You two could be sisters.” He gives her a winning smile. “I bet you hear that all the time.”
“Not often enough.” She leans in, her hands tight hammers on the bar. “You look like a good kid, Jeremy. I’ve got a hunch you know where my girl might be. You want to spill it?”
“I wish I knew.” He looks down the bar, takes a breath. “Look, could you just hang on a minute? I’ll be right back.”
“Jeremy, wait. You’re not going off to call Chelsea, are you?” My voice is soft, but I see a look of alarm on his face.
“Now? No. I texted her again before my shift started. She hasn’t gotten back to me.” He looks at Elaine. “I mean, I don’t know what’s going on with her. Sorry, but I gotta close out a check. I’ll be back.”
We both watch Jeremy head to a computer screen at the end of the bar. “So how did you find him here?” I ask.
“He left messages for her on the answering machine. No number, but he mentioned Gilligan’s. You?”
“Just heard they knew each other, so I Googled him. Nothing’s a secret anymore.”
“Except where she is. That’s what I came here to find out.” Elaine takes a long swallow of wine and sets her glass down. “I don’t know what you have in mind, but she’s my daughter. If this jerk knows where she is, I’ll get it out of him. Not you. This is between my kid and me, got it?”
“Got it. I’ll just finish my wine.”
Maybe that’s all she needed to hear from me. The tension ebbs from Elaine’s face, her fist relaxes on the bar. “Sure, take your time. Drink up.”
We both watch Jeremy deliver the check to the customer, take a credit card, then return to the register. He gives us a quick glance before dropping the leather folder back in front of his customer. The bar is filling up, the noise level increasing as people crowd around us. Jeremy pours beer, makes two margaritas and delivers a plate of calamari.
Minutes pass, my tension rising. Elaine finishes her wine and signals Jeremy for another. He looks at me and I shake my head.
“Going easy on the booze, Meg? Probably a good thing. This could take a while.”
Jeremy hurries toward us, setting a glass of wine down in front of Elaine. He picks up the empty glass, his head swiveling between us. “You know, the place is jumping this time of the evening. I’m not going to have a chance to talk. Besides, I really don’t know where Chelsea is. I’ve been trying to reach her.”
“I know. I heard your messages,” Elaine says, clamping her hand on his arm. “You knew who I was, right?”
“Sort of. I mean, she mentioned you once or twice. I saw a picture of you at her house, that’s all.” He turns to me, smiling. “And Chelsea was thrilled she’d be working with you, Miss Barnes.”
“Really? If that’s the case, Chelsea’s an even better actress than I thought.”
“Oh, yeah, couldn’t get over it.”
Elaine looks at him in disgust, releases his arm and grabs her wine glass. Seeing her reaction, I can’t resist goading her.
“I love coaching Chelsea. We had a great time together. I heard you’ve got a movie coming out soon—a horror flick, right? Congratulations.”
“Enough with the sucking up, you two!” Elaine slams down her glass, sloshing wine. “Where’s my daughter?”
“I really don’t know.” He wipes up Elaine’s spilled wine with a bar cloth. “I just wish she’d get in touch.”
“But everything was good between you two?” I ask.
“Yeah, great. I just figured she was immersed in preparing for the filming. You know how it is. Look, it’s really busy here. I’ll try to get back over later, okay?”
“And bring me another glass of wine,” Elaine calls out as Jeremy hurries off.
“That framed picture of me is on her bedside table. I guess they know each other pretty well.”
“Are you surprised?”
“Can’t say I am. She knows how to pick a stud, I’ll give her that. But he looks like a dope to me.”
I glance down the bar. Jeremy is far enough away that he couldn’t have heard Elaine’s comment above the din. I’m not sure she would care if he had.
I flinch at the tug on my hipbone, then realize my cellphone is vibrating in my pocket. I pull it out, see Donna Bendix on the ID and turn to Elaine. “Sorry, I’m going outside so I can hear this call. Please, take my seat.” I rush for the door as Elaine slides onto my stool.
“Donna? Hang on. It’s noisy in here.” I step outside and hover near one of the giant flowerpots. “Can you hear me?”
“Where are you? Sounds like a party.”
“No, just happened to bump into Elaine, my stunt double on Holiday. We’re having a drink. I’ll tell you about it later. Anything you want me to pick up on the way back?”
“No, I was just hoping you could give me a hand with something before dinner.”
“Fine. See you soon.”
There’s no point in hanging around for a quiet word with Jeremy. With Elaine in earshot, I’m not about to ask him if he set Chelsea up to meet with a call girl for research.
Before going back inside Gilligan’s, I reach into my shoulder bag for a ballpoint and quickly write my phone number and Please call me! on a scrap of paper. I fold the note inside my in-case-of-emergency twenty-dollar bill and head back inside. Without looking at Elaine, I push through the milling crowd to the far end of the bar, where Jeremy is standing at the computer monitor.
“Hey, Jeremy, I gotta run.” He looks up and I reach across the bar to press the money into his hand. “Here, this should cover my drink.” Impulsively, I hand him one of Donna’s flyers from my handbag. “I’m also in the catering business.”
“Thanks. It was great meeting you.”
“You, too.” I nod toward the twenty. “Please, call me.”
Before he can respond, I turn away and speed-walk toward Elaine, who’s been watching me. “Hey, sorry, but gotta run. I’m meeting someone. I paid Jeremy, so you’re on your own. Enjoy!”
Jinxed Page 9
