He lowered his voice to seduction register. “And I’m a married man. So what? Maybe the two of us could make each other happy for a little while.’’
I cleared my throat. “Would you two like to get a room?’’
Mama laughed. “Don’t be silly, Mace. Paul is just doing what he thinks he has to do to keep his Hollywood reputation intact. Directors always come on to actresses. They don’t mean anything by it.’’
“Since when are you such an expert on Hollywood’s morals, Mama?’’
Paul chuckled. “Nope, she has it pegged exactly right, Mace. I’m known as a rogue and a ladies’ man. It’s hard for a tiger to change his stripes, even when his stripes are getting gray.’’
He ruffled Mama’s hair and patted her on the cheek. “I like a woman who tells it like it is.’’
Mama aimed a superior smirk at me. “See? I told you so!’’
What unfolded next happened fast. Paul cupped Mama’s face in both hands. He pulled her out of her chair, so that she was standing between his legs. He planted a big, wet kiss right on her lips, and then patted her on the rear end. He must have added a pinch, because Mama’s eyes widened and she gave a surprised little hop.
I hadn’t even seen Sal approaching, but suddenly there he was. As he loomed over our table, his eyes looked murderous. “Take your filthy hands off my wife.’’
The words were ice-cold, and all the more threatening because of their lack of passion. Sal held himself under tight control, making the prospect seem more terrifying that this behemoth of a man might explode.
Paul looked up at him like a rabbit facing a wolf.
“No need to get mad, Big Guy.’’ He scooted his chair as far from Mama as he could, and placed his hands on the table where Sal could see them. “I was just having a little fun.’’
“That’s just how people in Hollywood act, Sally.’’
“We’re in Himmarshee, not Hollywood.’’ Sal’s voice was full of menace as he glared at Paul. “Now, I want you to apologize for manhandling my wife. And then I want you to pick yourself up and leave this tent.’’
People at other tables were starting to look our way. Conversations paused. Eating stopped. Eyes turned toward the big man and the movie director.
“I have no problem saying I’m sorry. My bad.’’ Paul’s smile had lost a shade of its devilish quality. “I have no intention of leaving, though. It’s pouring outside.’’
“That’s not my problem,’’ Sal said. “Look at it this way: You can use the rain to cool yourself off.’’
Paul crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not going out in a downpour just because you’re insanely jealous. Besides, if you knew anything about Hollywood, you’d know the director is like a king on his movie set. You can’t order me around. I do the ordering.’’
“Like I said, we’re not in Hollywood. Now, are you going, or do I have to throw you out?’’
“You can’t be serious.’’’
“As a heart attack. Get up.’’
Sal crooked his finger, motioning for Paul to stand. Paul clutched hard at the arm rails of his chair, giving his head a defiant shake.
“No way,’’ the director said.
“Your choice.’’
In a flash, Sal lunged at him, hooking Paul’s neck with one of his beefy arms. He pulled the director backward across the floor, chair and all. Bounce-drag, bounce-drag, bounce-drag.
Paul hung on. People darted out of the way, overturning tables and trays of food. Sal kept tugging. The threesome—Paul, the chair, and Sal, now red in the face—got closer and closer to the exit. No one stepped in to try to stop them.
“Mace, do something!’’ Mama’s tone was urgent. “Sal’s going to mess up my movie debut.’’
I wasn’t as concerned about Mama’s debut as I was about my paycheck. If Paul truly was the King of the Set, I didn’t want him to evict me from the kingdom. I’d earned my pay, putting up with these people. I wasn’t about to get fired before I got it.
As I threaded my way through the tent toward Sal, I noticed Carlos doing the same. We arrived at the big man’s side at almost the same moment. I’d heard Sal panting from several yards away. His face was now three shades beyond rosy, and the veins were popping out on his neck from exertion. If we didn’t do something fast, Mama had a good chance of becoming a widow again.
“You’ve made your point, Sal.’’ Carlos put a restraining hand on his friend’s arm. “Let go of the chair.’’
He was using his calming voice, the one for talking suicides off a bridge—or retired tough guys out of a fool’s mission.
I grabbed Sal’s opposite elbow, and leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Mama is positively swooning because you stood up for her. She says if the two of you go home right now, she’ll find a special way to show you her love and appreciation.’’
He hesitated, just long enough for Paul to release his death grip on the chair’s arms, and leap out of the seat. The director scooted quickly away from Sal, glancing around the tent to see how many people had witnessed his humiliation. Pretty much everyone had. As Sal’s breathing slowed to normal, Paul tugged at his pony tail to straighten it. He smoothed his safari jacket, trying to regain some of his dignity.
“You’ve got to be crazy if you think I was really coming on to your wife, man. She’s way too old for me. And she’s not even that pretty.’’
Mama gasped with hurt feelings. That did it. Sal hauled back and hit Paul in the jaw. The force of the big man’s punch sent the director reeling. He staggered backward into one of the serving tables, lost his balance, and tumbled to the floor, taking the tablecloth with him.
Brownies and biscotti rained down, pelting the director in a downpour of dessert.
Barbara finger-combed a hunk of baklava from Paul’s ponytail. She brushed shattered biscotti from the shoulders of his bush vest. She blotted with a napkin at a glob of brownie frosting hanging off his left ear.
“Who does that New York asshole think he is?’’ she asked, loudly. “He probably has a hundred pounds on you, Paul.’’
The “New York asshole’’ had stormed out of the tent after his dust-up with the director. Mama had to run to keep up with her defender’s long strides. My last sight of Sal and Mama was out the tent’s plastic panels, as they ducked under a trailer’s awning to wait out the rain.
“That man is a menace.’’ Paul rubbed his jaw. “I ought to file charges against him.’’
Carlos looked him up and down. His clothes were stained with chocolate, which would be hell to get out in the wash. But aside from that, Paul’s ego seemed the only thing that had suffered any real damage.
“You could do that,’’ Carlos said. “But we might have to get into what you’d been playing at with another man’s wife that provoked him to lose his temper.’’
Barbara leveled a cold look, taking in both of us. “Oh, please. That hillbilly can’t keep her hands off Paul. He was just responding, the way any red-blooded male would.’’
“Why don’t we just say that both of them like to flirt, and leave it at that?’’ I said. “And the insult you want in Florida is ‘Cracker.’ No hills here, hence no hillbillies.’’
I didn’t tell her a lot of Floridians, with roots deep in our sandy soil, wear the Cracker label as a badge of honor. I know I do.
People lined up to pay their respects to Paul. A sympathetic murmur moved through the ranks of cast and crew. I heard someone mutter, “That New Yorker has a lot of nerve. Did you see the way he pounded Paul?’’
Carlos and I took a few steps back, so we’d be out of the way of the sycophants and well-wishers.
Someone else chimed in, “Yeah, Paul wasn’t even doing anything. That huge guy attacked him for no reason.’’
Carlos leaned close to me and whispered, “Nothing like getting your butt kicked by a big guy to make people forget you’re a jerk.’’
I nodded. I couldn’t do more because I was busy inhaling my ex-boyfriend’
s distinctive male scent: sandalwood and spices, and a trace of strong Cuban coffee on his breath. God, how I missed this man!
“So, that was smart of Paul, no?’’ he asked.
I took one last deep breath, hoping the smell would hold me for a while. “No. I mean yes. It was smart of Paul. Surely a man who can’t even defend himself couldn’t be a murderer, right?’’
“Are you asking me if Paul’s a suspect?’’
“Are you telling?’’
“Not a chance,’’ Carlos said.
“Tease!’’
He was stonewalling me, as usual. But I didn’t even mind, because we were talking. He was even grinning at me. I studied his face. Despite the crooked smile, there were fatigue lines around his eyes and mouth. Stress was taking a toll.
“You look tired, Carlos.’’
“Flatterer.’’
“No, you’re still devastatingly handsome. I just meant you look physically beat. Are you sleeping okay?’’
He shrugged. The closed look descended over his features again.
“Listen,’’ I said, “even if you don’t want us to be a couple anymore, that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped caring. Who else will watch out for you if you freeze me out?’’
“Perdóneme. Forgive me, niña.”
His eyes softened, and he reached toward me. I thought he was going to caress my shoulder. I steeled myself for the shiver of desire I always felt at his touch. But the touch didn’t come. Catching a glance at his wristwatch, he stuck his hands in his pants pockets instead.
“Am I keeping you from something?’’
“Sorry,’’ he said. “I do have to go. The police chief’s been holding regular news conferences to occupy the media. He’s trying to keep them in town, and away from the movie set and crime scene.’’
“Good luck with that. The ranch road looked like a parking lot for TV live trucks when I drove in this morning.’’
“Yeah, I get dozens of shouted questions every time I come and go. Anyway, the chief wants me in town to talk to reporters at this afternoon’s briefing, notwithstanding the fact I have absolutely nothing new to report.’’
The expression of dread on his face was almost comical. He looked like he’d just been gowned and prepped for a colonoscopy.
“You’ll do fine,’’ I said. “I’ve seen you dance around questions. Just give them the Martinez Glower. You’ll terrify those reporters into submission.’’
“This is the national media, Mace. They’re sharks, and sharks don’t get scared. Just this morning, the muscle guys on the movie’s security team found a reporter from NBC’s Today show nosing around. They tossed him out, none too gently. He just laughed and said he’d find another way to get on the set.’’
He glanced over his shoulder at Barbara and Paul.
My eyes followed his. The director was accepting handshakes and back pats. Barbara stood at his side, whispering occasionally into his ear. Otherwise, she watched him with the adoring gaze of a political spouse. Everyone was treating Paul like he was lucky to have survived an unwarranted attack by a crazy man.
Sal was a little crazy, which I chalked up to him being married to Mama. But giving the obnoxious director a punch in the kisser was warranted, as far as I was concerned. I felt a smile on my lips as I thought of Paul tumbling over that table. It was a shame about the ruined desserts, though.
Suddenly, I sensed Carlos staring at me. I quickly ran my tongue over my teeth to check for chocolate traces. I’d scooped a brownie off the floor and eaten it, in accordance with the five-
second rule. Carlos’s face was unreadable.
“What?’’ I asked him.
“I was just remembering something.’’
Something good? Something bad? I wanted to ask him to elaborate, but I didn’t. Maybe he was remembering why he’d been so angry at me.
“I’d like to continue this conversation later,’’ he said.
“That sounds ominous.’’
“Not at all.’’
Well that had to be good, right?
“I’d like that,’’ I said.
“Me, too. Very much.’’
As I watched Carlos leave, my heart swelled with something like hope.
_____
I’d taken a seat in the food tent away from the lunch crowd to make some phone calls. I checked in with my boss at Himmarshee Park, to see how the place was surviving without me. Rhonda said, a little too quickly, that everything was going great.
I called my Aunt Jo to check on one of my two cousins named Bubba. This was the Bubba who couldn’t stay out of trouble. He’d gotten out of jail, only to land in the hospital with a broken arm. He flipped his all-terrain vehicle doing donuts on the football field at Glades High.
“You know what a redneck’s last words are, right, Mace?’’ my aunt asked on the phone. “ ‘Hey, y’all … watch this!’ ’’
The fact his mama was cracking jokes told me bad Bubba’s condition wasn’t critical.
By the time we finished chatting, the sun was coming out. The rain was barely a drizzle. I was about to leave the tent when I heard Barbara’s voice, a harsh whisper. She’d cornered Johnny Jaybird in the shadows, away from center stage where Paul still held court.
The assistant director’s head was cocked toward Barbara, who towered over him. Her hands were stuck on her hips, scolding-style. I stepped behind a towering stack of canned sodas to listen in.
“You have no right …’’
“I’m Toby’s manager, Jonathan,’’ she hissed. “I have every right.’’
“This is his personal life, Barbara. It’s none of your business.’’
“That’s the key word, ‘business.’ What you want for him is bad for his business and it’s bad for mine.’’
“That was yesterday’s Hollywood. Things are different today. I just want him to be honest. He should respect who he is.’’
“Oh, grow up! How many action heroes can you count who are out of the closet?’’ Barbara rounded her fist into a goose egg, and shoved it under his nose. “Zero.’’
Johnny Jaybird stumbled back, arms flapping to protect his wounded side. “Maybe Toby doesn’t want to be an action hero.’’
“Toby is too young to know what he wants. It’s my job to tell him. You’re probably just after him for sex anyway.’’
“God, Barbara! He’s a minor.’’ Johnny’s lip curled with disgust. “I’m ‘after him’ to make him stop living a lie. Besides, Toby’s your client, not your slave. There’s still a little thing called freedom, even in Hollywood.’’
She sneered. “Freedom? I don’t think so. Not freedom to be a mega-star as well as a faggot.’’
He absorbed the ugly slur like a slap.
Before he could respond, Barbara stuck her face inches from his. “Keep your faggot hands off him.’’ The words dripped venom. “If you don’t, there will be consequences. Maybe the next person who fires a loaded gun at you will be a better shot.’’
His eyes widened; his mouth dropped open. Johnny’s face showed the shock that surely mirrored my own.
I rapped on the door of the production trailer.
Inside, I could hear Barbara on the phone, but I couldn’t make out the words in her rapid-fire Bostonese. Maybe she was reporting the latest brouhaha on the film set to some Hollywood gossip columnist. I could just imagine the headline:
Cursed Project Director Pummeled by Big Apple Bully.
I figured I’d better intervene before she painted my mama as the Hicksville Hussy who started it all. I banged harder on the side of the trailer.
“Come!’’
As I entered, she looked up, covered the receiver with one hand, and pointed to a chair in the corner. “Sit!’’
What’s next, Roll Over?
Barbara made nice on the phone, saying her goodbyes. It was strange to hear a pleasant tone coming out of her mouth, just like a normal person.
“Mmm-hmm, okay … I’ll be home in time for you
r father’s funeral, just as soon as the authorities release his body.’’ She reached out and gave a framed photo on her desk a tender stroke. “Give my darling granddaughter a big hug and a kiss.’’
So Barbara had not only been Norman’s wife, she was a mother and a grandmother. For some reason, that surprised me. I hadn’t known Satan’s female twin was capable of human reproduction.
Hanging up, she glared at me. “So, it’s Marsha—the hillbilly offspring; daughter of the town slut. Have you come to apologize for your mother?’’
“Not exactly,’’ I said. “And my name is Mace.’’ I didn’t bother reminding her about the hills.
“What can I do for you, Mace?’’ Barbara made a show of looking at her watch.
No time for a preamble: Good. I sat in a chair in front of her desk and summarized what I’d overheard between her and the assistant director. “It sounded to me like you were threatening him.’’
Her eyes went round, a caricature of innocence. “Me? I don’t make threats, dear.’’
“I know what I heard.’’
“Well then, you must have misunderstood. That can happen when you become involved in things that are none of your business.’’
“Anyone should make it their business to try to stop a crime, or to see that the person who already committed one is caught and punished.’’
She sneered. “Aren’t you the good citizen!’’
“How much do you want to keep Johnny Jaybird away from Toby?’’ I asked. “Enough to plant a loaded gun when you knew they might rehearse that scene? Enough to shoot Johnny yourself ?’’
“Everyone knew Toby had the scene, and he’d definitely rehearse it,’’ she said. “The schedule on a movie set isn’t a secret. As for me ever shooting someone? That’s patently ridiculous. I don’t know one end of a gun from the other.’’
Her tone and her face signaled the line of questioning was closed. She tapped her fingers on the desk, then looked at her watch again. I decided to take a shot at my other suspicion about Barbara. “I hope I’m not keeping you from making your regular phone call.’’
The tapping ceased.
Mama Sees Stars: A Mace Bauer Mystery Page 18
