“You need some time off,” Christal said softly. “It’s none of my business, but given your schedule, I wouldn’t have traded a day off for that photo session—no matter what it paid.”
Sheela barely smiled, cracking one eye to study Christal. “So, you think I looked that bad?”
“No, you were stunning. I would have thought you lived for that moment alone. Now you’re even more hammered than before.”
“Christal, I had to do it. What, you don’t think today was worth a million and a half? Not to mention they’re boxing up everything I wore today and shipping it to the house. Freebies, you see. All the better if I happen to be wearing one of the pieces when the cameras go off.”
Christal blinked. “You’re kidding! A million and a whole fall wardrobe for six hours of photos?”
“That’s right.” Sheela closed her eyes.
“Man, am I in the wrong business. I guess a million five makes up for all the hassle. On the way over here, I thought you were going to fall over from exhaustion. Then, all of a sudden, you were just burning at a hundred and ten watts.”
“It’s a trick. A thing you learn.” Sheela shrugged it off.
“As to the shoot, doing it is partly prestige. My face is going to be all over Spain. Gwyneth Paltrow, George Clooney, Sharon Stone—a lot of American actors have done the El Corte Inglés shoot. It’s the most prestigious department store chain in charming Espana. Doing their shoot is one of those notches you cut into your pistol on the way up.”
“But you just flew in with the morning doves.” Christal glanced at her watch. “Uh, you didn’t even get to go home before coming here.”
Sheela gave her a wan smile. “What’s the matter, Christal? Fame and fortune not all that you thought it would be?”
“It never is, is it?”
“No.” She lowered her voice. “We had to schedule that shoot for this morning. I’m due on the set tomorrow at five. We only had today as a travel day. Bernard wants to finish up my scenes this week. It will put him four million and two weeks ahead on time and budget—and he’s going to need every cent of that in postproduction to fix all the Manny scenes.”
“That encounter with Copperhead really did him in, huh?”
“There wasn’t that much there to start with.” She seemed to be talking in her sleep. “He’s a pretty face. No guts. They don’t make many men with guts these days.”
“Lymon included?” Christal ventured.
“Lymon is definitely excluded. He’s the only man I—”
“Yeah, I know.” Christal glanced out the tinted window as they turned onto Santa Monica Boulevard. Sunset was burning yellow through the smog and glistening off of the surrounding traffic. People were walking along the sidewalks, passing the businesses that alternately sold donuts, video disks, tattoos, lotions, cameras, and furniture from behind glass windows and beneath colorful signs. When she looked back, Sheela was watching her through heavy lids.
“You know?”
Christal nodded, feeling a pull on her long hair where the seat trapped it. “Is it really so impossible?”
Sheela closed her eyes again. “You remember that guy with the camera back there? People or Us or National Enquirer will hand him a couple of hundred for that roll.” A pause. “Do you have any idea how much they’d pay for a shot of Lymon and me in an intimate situation?”
“A bundle, I suppose.” She softly snapped her fingers to get Sheela to look at her before she made a slight nod toward Paul and lifted an inquiring eyebrow.
“He knows,” Sheela answered softly. “But thank you for your discretion.” She straightened, stretching her arms out in front of her. “Why am I telling you this? God I am tired. It’s a warning of what I might blurt when I’m half-asleep.”
“It’s okay,” Christal said. “Look, Sheela, if you ever need a confidante, I can keep my mouth shut.”
Sheela cranked an eye half-open again. “You know … you could make a fortune with what you could learn. Any of the big rags would pay a bundle for an inside story on Sheela Marks.”
Christal laughed out loud. “I could make a fortune smuggling coke in from Colombia, or doing hits for organized crime.” She paused, giving Sheela a wry smile. “Sorry. Not a chance. Look, I’m a native New Mexican. We’re genetically predisposed to both poverty and loyalty. I guess I’ll just have to keep your secrets. Anything else would be a denial of my ethnic and cultural heritage.”
Sheela smiled at that. “You’re just all right, Christal Anaya. A good friend. I don’t have many friends.”
She paused. “If I’m going to be your friend, I’ve got to tell you, I think you’re killing yourself with this schedule. You keep it up, and something’s going to snap.”
“I get a break as soon as we wrap Jagged Cat. If I get too woozy, there are always ways of keeping sharp.”
“Chemicals?”
Sheela’s eyes remained closed. “I hear censure in your voice.”
“Yeah. How many stars OD or wind up so brain-fried on that stuff that they kill their careers?”
“Most,” she whispered softly. “It’s so easy. Just a little pill … and you’re back. Sparkling like a Bulgari diamond and feeling as smooth as an Olay body rub. Suddenly, you’re riding a jetting wave that carries you up and up, rising out of a dull grayness.”
“And then it smacks you like a bug on a bumper unless you take another one.”
“People just don’t understand. I can’t quit, can’t call in sick. Too many people depend on me. Tomaso, Dot, Rex, Tony, Bernard, the studio.” Her voice weakened. “I carry them all, Christal. Without me, they’re nothing.”
“You can’t carry them all forever.”
“I’m running out of me,” Sheela murmured softly. “Running out … empty inside …”
“Hey, just get what sleep you can. I’ll wake you when we’re home.”
Sheela said, “Thank you, Christal,” before she nodded off.
Christal studied her face, wondering at the classic lines that had smiled down on millions from the screen. The woman made magic for the multitudes, was worshiped around the globe. So much so that a Spanish department store would chase her down and pay her a million and a half for wearing their clothes in front of a camera. All that, but Sheela couldn’t be with the man she loved?
Is it worth it?
“You all right?” Lymon asked as Sheela wobbled on her feet. He caught her arm, steadying her.
She blinked and looked owlishly around the paved lot behind the studio. A row of trailers lurked along one of the high walls, each with a thick black electrical cable, water hose, and flexible sewer line running from beneath to fixtures in the pavement. The early-morning sky had an orange tone, deepened by pollution and the fires burning up in the Angeles forest. The weather guys said the wind would be changing sometime after noon to blow it all inland.
Sheela tightened her grip on Lymon and shook her head, as if to rid herself of a bothersome insect. “Just tired, Lymon. Look, get me to my trailer. That’s all. I’ve got time to sleep while the grips and set designers do their thing.”
He tightened his hold on her arm as he walked her toward her trailer. His BMW was perched on its center stand just under the trailer’s awning. “You worry me.”
She gave the motorcycle a hollow-eyed stare. “That was one of the most memorable days of my life, Lymon. No matter what, never forget that.”
“It was just a ride, Sheela.”
“Yes … pure paradise.”
As they walked by the silver machine, the trailer door opened and Rex leaned out. “Good! Back before I’d thought you’d be.”
“What are you doing here?” Sheela’s voice reflected weary acceptance.
“Tomaso wouldn’t let me see you last night,” Rex muttered. “You’re going to have to do something with that guy, Sheela.” He jammed a thumb into his chest. “I’m not the hired help. I’m your manager, not some pastry chef he can … Hey, you okay?”
“Tired,” sh
e said, leaning harder against Lymon. “I just need a nap.”
“Too many twenty-hour days,” Lymon added, knowing it wasn’t his turf, but unable to keep his trap shut.
Rex cued on the protective tone in Lymon’s voice, his eyes sharpening as he noticed the way Sheela had clamped onto Lymon’s arm. “Yeah, well, I’ve got business. Tony’s had two offers. One from Jerry Bruckheimer, another from Donald Petrie. They’re both casting for projects that you attached yourself to. Preproduction starts for both within the week. We’ve got decisions to make.”
Lymon almost lifted Sheela up the steps and walked her back to the small bedroom, elbowing Rex to the side in the process.
“Sheela? You hear me?”
“Later,” Lymon said gently, but shooting Rex a look that would have chilled milk.
“God, give me a break, Rex,” Sheela added. “I almost didn’t get through that last scene. Bernard’s pushing like a maniac. I owe him in return for scrapping that bullshit he’d written into the script.”
Rex made a sweeping gesture to include the two brad-clipped scripts and a clutter of paper that he’d placed on the table in the small booth. “Yeah, well what about—”
“Later!” Lymon snapped, and maneuvered Sheela into the small bedroom.
She smiled up at him. “Thanks, Lymon. Wake me a half hour before my call, all right? Hot coffee? And maybe time to run through my lines before I have to walk over for makeup?”
“Yeah, you’ve got it.” He smiled at her, running his thumb over her eyebrow. “For now, you sleep.”
“You’ll be here?” Her fatigued eyes pleaded with his.
“I’ll be here. And the coffee will be ready. Strong and black.”
“See you soon,” she murmured, and turned before flopping on the bed. He wasn’t sure, but he thought she was already asleep as he pulled her pumps off of her feet.
He closed the door, passed the mirror-lined dressing room, and found Rex in the small kitchen. The manager was seated half out of the booth, his tie loose over a powder-pink shirt, his suit coat hanging open. Rex was watching him as if seeing him for the first time.
“Cut her some slack, Rex. She’s walking wounded.”
Rex’s eyes had turned a cold blue; the set of worry and distaste lay on his lips. “Lymon, what the hell are you doing here?”
“Doing?”
Rex waved a hand at the bedroom. “You acting as her assistant now, as well as her bodyguard? Maybe thinking a little Whitney Houston and Costner gig is going to fall into your lap?”
Lymon managed a narrow smile as he bent, opened the fridge, and pulled out a can of the nasty light beer that Sheela kept there. He popped the top, took a swig, and made a face. He tapped the can with a finger. “You know, if it wasn’t for marketing, they’d never sell this swill.”
“Is that a fact?” Rex was looking even more hostile.
“Yeah, but you hire a firecracker ad agency, pay some big-name football players enough, write a cute script for them, and you can even convince all those hardworking blue-collar stiffs that watered-down pilsner tastes good.”
Rex might have been looking at a bug. “So, just what are you trying to sell me?”
“Nothing, Rex. Not a single thing.”
“Right. What is this shit you’re pulling with Sheela?” His expression hardened. “You’re the hired help, Lymon. The muscle. Period. You getting me?”
“You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.” Lymon took another swig of the beer and sat down across the table from Rex, meeting his eyes across the scripts and paperwork.
Rex broke contact first, leaning back and slapping his hands on his legs. “I don’t want her hurt.”
“Then give her a break,” Lymon indicated the paper cluttering the table surface. “Come on, tell me the truth: Can’t that wait until next week? The lady is killing herself. She wasn’t kidding. She was like shredded paper in that last scene. She could barely manage her lines. She was on the verge of collapse. Bernard didn’t notice. He thought she was spot-on—given that she was supposed to be whacked-out after running from the police for days—but everyone else in the room was holding their breath with their fingers crossed.”
“Wait just a fucking minute! Who appointed you as her keeper?” He blinked, as if struck by something. “God, you’re not in love with her, are you?”
“Fuck you, Rex.”
“You poor deluded idiot! You listen to me, and you listen well. If you’re in over your head, it’s time for LBA to move on, and I’ll find someone else to see to Sheela’s security.”
Lymon felt himself starting to bristle. “I don’t work for you, Rex.”
“Oh, yes you do, buddy. I’m the guy who brought you in, remember? It’s my signature on your check. I run Sheela’s affairs.”
Lymon rolled the fragile aluminum can between his fingers. “Okay, go ahead and fire me.” He glanced back at the closed bedroom door. “But do it after she finishes shooting, will you? Like, maybe after the cast party? The studio has rented Dan Tana’s for all of Friday.”
“Then, you’re history, pal.”
Lymon arched an eyebrow. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there. But, I don’t think so. You’re forgetting, you may sign my checks, but the lady back there brings in the bucks. In the end, we both work for her.”
Rex smiled thinly. “You don’t want to push this, Bridges. When it comes right down to where the shit hits road, she’ll back me. She needs me a hell of a lot more than she needs you. She might be the talent, but I’m the brains behind her business empire.”
“What? Make her choose? Me or you? Bullshit! I stopped playing that game in the fifth grade. She needs both of us. Just as we are, not fighting over her like twelve-year-olds.” He leaned forward, pointing a finger. “So, here it is. You do what you do, and I’ll do what I do, and we’ll both do what’s best for the lady, all right?”
Rex watched him in distasteful silence for a moment, then said, “Yeah, right.” He used his left hand to scoop up the stack of papers, pointedly leaving the screenplays behind. “When you think it’s all right, could I make an appointment with Sheela to go over her investment portfolio? And maybe you could schedule those two scripts into her free time? Bruckheimer and Petrie really need an answer … if you think you could get around to it.”
Lymon shook his head. “You’re being an asshole, Rex.” “And you’re not?” He stopped at the trailer door. “Who’s the asshole here? Me? You’re the one who thinks you can romance Sheela. Let me remind you of something. If you remember Houston and Costner in The Bodyguard, you’ll recall that it didn’t end well for either of them.”
27
Hank was walking down yet another hallway to another meeting. This time it was a hallway at the Hilton, but the eerie feeling of trouble had started chewing on his gut. He stopped at the door and knocked softly as he glanced up and down. A maid stepped out to the cart he had passed and gave him but a cursory notice as she lifted a stack of towels.
Hank hesitated for an instant when the door opened. Instead of Neal Gray, a striking woman stepped back, saying, “Come in.”
Hank walked past her, fully aware of her fascinating gray eyes and hair like freshly spun copper. She had pulled it back into a French braid that hung partway down her back. She wore an elastic tank top that flattered her breasts and tight brown cotton slacks were molded to her legs in a way that left little to the imagination. Expensive sandals hugged her feet.
The lady-killer smile he gave her was instinctual. She smiled back, eyes measuring, but interested. Ah, she was one of those—one of those few women who were completely satisfied with themselves. She knew just who and what she was, and God help the man who tried to play silly games with her. She’d shut him down like a Disney ride in the rain.
“Hank Abrams,” he said as she closed the door behind him.
“April Hayes,” she returned. Her accent was cultured, educated, perhaps with a hint of Midwestern twang, but he couldn�
�t be sure.
He entered the room to find the couch occupied by a short-statured dark-haired woman with an intense face. She wore a white blouse and gray jeans. Her shoes were loafers. “Gretchen Smith,” the shorter woman told him as she stood to shake his hand. Her dark brown eyes were probing, antagonistic. He pegged her as just the opposite—a woman who had never found herself. The intense expression was meant as cover for a deep-seated insecurity.
“My pleasure.” He looked around, trying to keep from glancing at April again. “Is Neal here?”
“In a moment,” April told him easily as she walked to the small bar. “Drink?”
“Scotch, if you’ve got it.”
“We do.” She shot him a knowing smile that sent a tingle along his backbone. “Single malt, neat, with a water back, right?”
“Right,” he agreed, playing along with the game. He tried to ignore the head-to-toe scrutiny Gretchen was giving him. “How long have you been with Verele Security?”
Gretchen’s face went sour. April’s smile remained warm and welcoming as she said, “We’re not. We work for Genesis Athena.” She poured from a bottle of Glenlivet. “I was in law enforcement. LAPD.” She handed him the scotch, their fingers touching for the briefest of instants. It felt like electricity.
He saw her pupils react. Interesting. For a moment their eyes held. “So, you didn’t like LAPD?”
Her smile teased. “I was on the fast track to detective. A chance meeting with the Sheik changed my direction, my paycheck, and the amount of bullshit in my life.”
“Cool!” Gretchen quipped as she seated herself at the couch again. “It’s life-story time.”
Hank turned, a pleasant smile on his face as he took in the woman. “And you? Been with the Sheik for long?”
Gretchen frowned as she looked up at him, trying, no doubt, to figure what he was angling for. “Three years. Genesis Athena hired me because of my brain.” She said it as if that was her only asset.
At that moment the door to the rear opened, and Neal Gray stepped out. Hank caught a glimpse of an ornate bedroom, the sheets rumpled and askew. So, did that mean that Neal and April were an item?
The Athena Factor Page 27
