by Alan Cook
"But if you won it would be so great."
It would be. My father would have to admit that I was good for something, for once in his life—and mine. The information would be invaluable to him for planning his defense; even if he ended up selling to James he would be able to get top dollar.
I was a good blackjack player. If I played carefully I could do it. It might take me a while to triple my money, but....
Stan came back to the table and sat down. He looked from one of us to the other. He said, "I sense some indecision, but you're definitely leaning toward action."
He was enjoying this, immensely. I wanted to bust him in the nose. I also wanted to get the better of him and James. I looked at Arrow. She had a gleam in her eye that said, "Go for it." How much of that gleam was from booze? Don't think too much. I said, "We'll do it."
Stan's smile was a mile wide.
I needed to collect my wits. "I get a table to myself. Dealer uses one deck. Betting limit is what I have on the table. Minimum is a dollar."
"Done." Stan smacked our table with the palm of his hand, bouncing the glasses into the air.
He hadn't even gone running to James before he answered, as I had expected. Now he walked over to one of the blackjack tables and talked to the players there. From their glances at Arrow and their smiles and ready acquiescence to giving up their places I gathered that he had told them about the bet.
Things were moving too fast. By the time Arrow and I got to the table there were a dozen of the beautiful people clustered around it, waiting. Waiting for us to lose. I sat down on one of the stools in front of the table; Arrow sat beside me, holding another drink. The dealer produced a number of chips, with values ranging from one to one hundred dollars. As I placed them in piles in front of me he shuffled a single deck and presented it for me to cut.
"Wait a minute," I said. I wasn't ready. I looked around at the wolves surrounding us, waiting for the kill. I conjured up a picture of my father after he found out I had gambled again and lost. Lost my dignity and that of his executive assistant. Made him a laughingstock for James. Probably lost Dionysus to him.
"We're not going to do it," I said, standing up. I took hold of Arrow's arm to pull her away from the table. She resisted.
Stan said in my ear, "You're not going to welsh on our bet, are you?"
"I'm not welshing," I said. "We haven't started yet."
"Do you know what happens to welshers?" Stan whispered. "Remember what happened to Ned."
I shoved him away and grabbed Arrow's arm forcefully enough to pull her off her chair. I had to catch her or she would have fallen to the floor. I guided her, half supporting her weight, toward the stairs as fast as she could walk.
***
I think I over-tipped the cab driver, but I couldn't remember how much money I had given him as soon as we got out of the cab. Actually, I wasn't in bad shape, but Arrow was. She couldn't hold her liquor any better than Stan.
I kept my arm around her as we staggered across the hotel lobby, because her legs were rubber. Once inside the elevator she threw both her arms around my neck and clung to me as if I were a life raft. The feel of her body welded to mine was not unpleasant, but I couldn't give in to it.
Once out of the elevator we slow-danced our way down the corridor in this position and somehow I extracted her room card from her purse and opened her door. Only then did she let go of me as she tottered for the bed, landing face down across it.
I watched her for a few seconds, wondering whether it was safe to leave her like this. She said something I didn't understand; I said, "What?"
"Unzip me."
I closed the door, went to her and performed the requested act. She struggled to get her arms out of her dress, still face down.
"Help me."
I helped her. Once her arms were free she stopped struggling. Stopped moving. Unconscious. On top of the bedclothes. I found a blanket in the closet and placed it over her. Then I headed for the door.
"Wait."
She wasn't quite unconscious. I hesitated. Somehow, she managed to turn over onto her back. She performed an acrobatic routine under the blanket with her eyes half-open. Then the blanket came flying off her, along with her dress.
Arrow lay on her back, quiet again, wearing only black pantyhose.
"Don't you like my body?" she asked.
"It's...it's fantastic," I said, truthfully.
"Then don't go." Her voice became louder.
I mumbled something inane about both of us needing to get some sleep.
"Come here." Louder yet.
I walked carefully to the edge of the bed, wondering how to get her quiet again so that people in nearby rooms wouldn't hear her.
She grabbed my arm and said, "Kiss me."
I was afraid she'd yell if I pulled away. I sat down on the bed and leaned over to give her a brotherly kiss, but her tongue got in the way.
I knew there were at least six good reasons why we shouldn't have sex, none of which I could remember. Then I thought of one. She was going to regret this in a big way tomorrow morning.
In desperation, I put my hand on her stomach and then slid it under her pantyhose. She closed her eyes. Soon she began to moan. She was asleep in five minutes.
Chapter 13 THE PARTY
Arrow slowly became a human being again as I drove our rental car south on 101 toward the airport. Before leaving San Francisco she had drunk black coffee in her hotel room and then orange juice (my idea) at the restaurant next door to the hotel. She also managed to eat some French toast.
Her short hair didn't need much maintenance, and she looked surprisingly good, if a little pale, in a sweatshirt and jeans. I wondered how much she remembered about our adventures at the casino—and the hotel.
Now, almost her first coherent words were, "I'm sorry about last night.” And then, fiercely, almost to herself, “It’s not going to happen again."
What was not going to happen again? My first thought was egotistical—it must be something to do with me. But the more I thought about it the more I realized that she was speaking about all her actions. She had lost control. She had not acted like a business executive. And executives, as I knew from observing my father, always had to be in control.
I was not blameless. I shouldn’t have used liquor to try to get Stan to talk. That had backfired on us. The best thing to do was to forget about last night altogether. Write it off as a bad dream. Of course, women with bodies like Arrow's didn't appear in bad dreams. Did I screw up by not taking advantage of her? If I had, she would hate me now. And, as I firmly reminded myself, I was going with Esther.
To get the look and feel of Arrow out of my mind, I mentally reviewed what had happened before we left the casino. I congratulated myself on being able to walk away from the blackjack table. A few years ago I might not have been strong enough.
But my gut told me that something bad had happened also. What was it? After some thought it came to me. I said to Arrow, "Stan said something to me as we left."
"I'm never going to speak to Stan again," Arrow groaned. "I thought he was my friend." She ransacked her purse for a headache remedy.
"He said, 'Do you know what happens to welshers? Remember what happened to Ned.'" I changed lanes to pass an 18-wheeler while I waited for her reaction.
She found some pills and swallowed a couple, without water, an ability I envied. She didn't speak for a minute. I couldn't tell whether she had heard me and I was about to repeat Stan's statement when she said, almost too softly for me to hear over the road noise, "That bastard."
I assumed she was talking about Stan. I said, "What do you think he meant by it?"
Arrow pondered. Or maybe she was just trying to clear her head. "I guess it could have been either a threat or a joke. Knowing Stan, I think it's more likely it was a joke—an unfeeling joke. He's got a weird sense of humor. But he's not a very threatening person."
"I'm beginning to suspect that Buchanan is. And Stan works for him.
" I had another thought. "What if it was a slip?"
"A slip? You mean as in 'slip of the lip?'"
"Yes. What if Buchanan was somehow involved in Ned's murder?"
"That's...hard to believe. He's a business man, not a member of the Mafia."
"Maybe there's a Scottish Mafia." I drove and thought. "What are we going to tell my father?"
"About what?"
"About James. About last night."
"Nothing."
"Nothing at all?" Didn't we owe him some sort of report?
"Look," Arrow, said, speaking carefully and not too loudly, "we didn't learn anything he doesn't already know. And we didn't cover ourselves with glory. At least, I didn't. If Richard asks what we did after you talked to the police, I plan to tell him I visited one of our customers. That should keep him happy."
***
I drove the Jaguar to the Emerge fundraiser that evening. Even though I was going as a volunteer and not one of the 950 paid supporters of Emerge, I would be hobnobbing with the cream of Los Angeles society, thanks to the connections of the Board of Directors and the hard work of Esther and her staff, and I wanted to look the part.
I drove confidently into the Paramount lot at the Melrose Avenue entrance and flashed my invitation at the guard. When he found out I was a volunteer he told me to make a U-turn and park in the garage across the side street from the studio.
So much for being a part of high society. I found a space on the second level of the garage next to a concrete post and snuggled the car up close to it, leaving plenty of room for someone to park on the other side. Someone who hopefully wouldn't inflict any dents on the Jag.
I crossed the street and went into a side entrance of Paramount. This time my invitation got me waved through and onto the lot. Dressing-room trailers lined the studio streets, while the large hanger-like buildings containing soundstages, somber and plain on the outside, restricted my view.
I rounded a corner and a huge sky-wall loomed up into the real evening sky, painted blue with white fluffy clouds. Why was it necessary to have fake blue sky in Los Angeles, where the sun shone almost every day?
The Paramount water tower also broke the skyline, white with a blue Paramount logo on the top of the tank, complete with stars. Stars, the symbol of Hollywood.
Past the sky-wall I came to the New York street set, where the party was. A red carpet with a theatrical rope on either side guided me to the festivities. Facades of brownstone row houses made the scene come alive, while a four-story brick building with concrete crests under the windows looked real until I got close enough to look in those windows at the barrenness within.
Two of the New York streets, which intersected in a V, were filled with 95 round, white-clothed tables, each with 10 chairs around it. Waiters bustled from table to table, setting the necessary utensils and dishes. A centerpiece of cut flowers adorned each table. Esther and her crew had thought of everything, even the weather, which was unusually warm for an evening in Los Angeles.
A small army of volunteers sat at other, rectangular tables, without tablecloths, eating box lunches to fuel them for handling the onslaught of guests, who would soon start arriving. I picked up one of the cardboard boxes of food and a bottle of apple juice and spotted Jeri, the plump, eternally pleasant volunteer coordinator who worked for Esther.
"Everything all set?" I asked her, raising my voice above the chatter of the volunteers.
"Knock on wood," she said, tapping her head with her knuckles. "Esther's around here somewhere—as usual, doing 50 things at once."
"I'll catch up with her later," I said. I knew she would be busy all night and didn't expect to get any of her time. Jeri turned to talk to somebody else and I contemplated sitting at one of the long volunteer tables to eat my hamburger and apple, but I didn't know many of the volunteers and I was too restless to sit.
I leaned against a low stone wall that bordered the open area near the red carpet and took a generous bite of bun, beef, tomato and pickle.
"Hello, Karl," a voice said and I looked up to see Pat Wong, the client who wanted to be an airport shuttle driver, also carrying a box lunch.
"Hi Pat," I said, shaking his hand. "Are you working tonight?"
"I wanted to give something back in return for all the help I've received from Emerge. My interview went well and I'm got a second one scheduled for next week. If I don't blow that..."
"Good news. By the way, you're looking very dapper. Nice suit."
"I got it from the clothes closet at Emerge."
It was a close fit. And he had gotten a haircut. It's amazing what hope and a little help will do for a person. We ate and chatted for a few minutes. I thought of something. "I don't like to bring up the past, but didn't you tell me you were living in San Francisco when you were arrested for dealing?"
Pat nodded. "I'm not going back. I've got to stay away from there. I don't want to get sucked back in..."
"May I tell you a story about what happened to a friend of mine? And maybe you can tell me how plausible the police version of what happened is." I told him about Ned, how he had been found dead off Grant Avenue, shot several times, with cocaine in his car.
Pat heard me out, and then said, "It doesn't ring true. You're telling me a white devil—excuse me, Karl—who doesn't even live in San Francisco is dealing in Chinatown? Did he have any Chinese friends?"
"I have no idea."
He shook his head. "That's as fishy as the seafood markets on Grant. Let me make a phone call. Is there a pay phone...?"
"I don't have a credit card," I said, knowing that Pat had little money.
"That's okay. I can call my uncle collect."
I wondered where there would be a pay phone on a movie lot. At that moment Esther walked up and gave me a quick hug. She was wearing a smart pantsuit, designed for maximum mobility. She looked radiant. She was in her element.
"How's it going?" I asked.
"It's going," she said. "There's no stopping it now."
I introduced Pat to her as a success story. She was always looking for success stories for the newsletter she published. They shook hands and he asked her if she knew where a pay phone was.
"Use this," she said, handing me her cell phone.
"How will I get it back to you?" I asked as she zoomed away.
"I'll find you," she called over her shoulder as she disappeared into the growing crowd.
Pat punched in a number and carried on a rapid conversation that I couldn't understand. After a minute he disconnected and said, "My uncle knows about this man, Mr. Mackay. The story was in the paper. My uncle says he thinks the cocaine was planted."
"Does he have any idea who murdered Ned?" I asked.
Pat shook his head slowly. "He wouldn't make a guess."
I thanked him. It was time for me to get to work. I went to the table where raffle tickets—excuse me, opportunity drawing tickets; we weren't supposed to use the word raffle, and the $20 asked for a ticket was a donation to Emerge—were being sold. I took a book of tickets and walked over to where the car itself was on display, a Porsche Boxter convertible, sleek and white.
Since it was for a good cause I felt only a little like a hypocrite, selling tickets for something I personally wouldn't want to own. Not that the car wouldn't be fun to drive, but I couldn't see paying income tax on the value of the car, or the insurance for that matter, to say nothing of the license fee, which was based on its value. And when I had tried to sit in it I had barely fit into the driver's seat. Completely impractical—perfect for rich Yuppies.
The atmosphere was contagious for spending money. Not far away, rows of donated art objects, dresses worn by actresses, tickets for sports events and the “Rosie O'Donnell Show,” and even mini-vacations were being sold in a silent auction; write down your name and a bid—pay later.
The beautiful people of Los Angeles strolled by, the men in sport coats, the women mostly in black, with varying degrees of décolletage. I mentally compared them to Arr
ow in her black dress; they all came up lacking.
I played the part of a circus barker, calling to the strollers and drawing them in. My line was, "Wouldn't you like to own this car?" Many smiled and stopped to look at it. Some bought tickets. A pretty young lady hurried up waving a hundred-dollar bill and purchased five tickets. Cool. Women had never thrown money at me before.
The dinner started and the guests sat down at the 95 tables. I wandered over to where I could see the stage set up at the V where the two "dining" streets came together. Morgan Freeman, of the movie, Driving Miss Daisy, was the emcee, and he welcomed everybody in his rich, melodious voice. Sherry Lansing, who had been head of Paramount for eight years—since 1992—spoke. Some super-volunteers were being honored. One was a close friend of Rosanna Arquette and Rosanna gave a ringing tribute in her honor. Esther, with the help of her board members, was connected with everybody in the entertainment industry.
Later, when Rosanna was leaving she walked close by me with an entourage of young women. She was petite—smaller than she appeared on the big screen. Seeing celebrities in person confirmed for me that they really existed and weren't just media creations. But was this proof? Even Mickey Mouse seemed real at Disneyland.
I found Esther and returned her cell phone. She had a brief chance to relax since the program was going so well. I stayed with her and her team while they discussed the cleanup, which was already starting even though most people hadn't left yet. In the background, a live auction was being conducted, with items such as the use of convention facilities going for five figures.
A successful evening. I stayed and worked until everything was done. Because we were busy, I didn't talk much to Esther—didn’t have to look her in the eye. When the work was complete I went to her to say goodnight. It was late.
"You throw a good party," I said.
"Thanks. And thanks for all your help."
"You must be exhausted."
She nodded. The adrenaline had worn off. She didn't invite me to go home with her and I didn't ask. Maybe I should say something.... Somehow the evening wasn't complete. I told myself that there was no reason for me to feel those stabs of guilt about Arrow. I was on the verge of hanging around, looking awkward.
