by A. W. Gray
Then, once she’d packed and changed, she had exited through the back door and climbed the fence as Commander raised a ruckus and did his best to follow her over. She’d waited at the end of the alley as Sheila made the block, then made a mad dash for the station wagon with her head down. She hoped that in the confusion she’d left the shepherd plenty of provisions. If a washtub of Kibbles ‘n’ Bits and a rain barrel full of water wouldn’t tide Commander over for two or three days, however, Sharon didn’t know what else to do.
Trish and Melanie were in back, bouncing off the windows, jabbering nonstop with luggage piled high on all sides, the idea of missing school for a West Coast trip putting Melanie in orbit. Sharon pictured the ordeal of getting the sky-high adolescent into bed, even after the rigors of a three-hour flight, and decided that the task would be more than Job could bear. Separate rooms, Sharon thought. The only answer will be separate rooms. Darla had insisted that the visitors stay in the Malibu beach house. Sharon pictured pounding surf below, and Melanie plunging to her death on the rocks after trying a tightrope routine on the balcony rail. The station wagon’s headlamps illuminated a sign which said that the south entry to DFW was a half mile ahead. Sheila slowed and moved into the right-hand lane.
Sharon straightened, threw her arm over the seat back, and turned around to face the teenagers. “Tell you what, Melanie. While I’m taking care of business tomorrow, maybe Darla can arrange for you to take the Universal Studio tour. See the shark from Jaws, all that stuff.”
Trish brightened, but Melanie sat back thoughtfully. Now what chain have I pulled? Sharon thought. The single mother bit was really a pain at times. She said, “What is it, Melanie?”
Melanie rested her chin on her lightly clenched fist. “A studio tour would be fine, Mom,” she said. “But if I can, I think I’d like to visit my dad.”
Oh, my sweet Jesus, Sharon thought. It seemed that nothing would stop Rob’s ugly head from rearing for the rest of her life, and now she was headed straight for his lair in La-La Land. Slow-walkin’ Rob, Sharon thought, remembering an old rock ‘n’ roll number from the sixties. Slow-talkin’, slow-payin’ Rob. The s.o.b. had visited Dallas, for Christ’s sake, and he’d been too busy with self-promo to spend any time with his daughter even then. Sharon could imagine what it would be like on Rob’s home turf. “We’ll see,” Sharon said.
“Maybe we could visit his house,” Melanie said. Sheila stirred behind the wheel. Nice subject, Sharon thought. She said, “I don’t know, Melanie. I’m sure he has rehearsals. They shoot part of the show in New York City; he may not be in town.”
“Well, could we call him and ask?” Melanie said.
Sharon turned around to face the front, folding her arms as Sheila steered onto the ramp leading to the airport entry. Of all the freaking times for this to come up, Sharon thought. Any encouragement now would set Melanie up for the hardest of falls if Rob was to duck seeing her. Sharon sighed and watched the road.
“We’ll see, Melanie,” she finally said.
Sharon sat alone in an isolated portion of the passenger boarding area, shades in place, the scarf disguising her hair. She thought she looked like Mata Hari. Sheila and the girls were two rows of chairs away, their backs turned, watching TV on a giant screen which faced the check-in station. Visible through the picture window overlooking the runways, a 747 rolled up to the gate. The walkway extended and clamped onto the airliner’s side. Jet engines whined to a standstill.
There were a dozen or so passengers waiting to board the red-eye, sleepy businessmen mostly, collars undone, and a teenage boy and girl who were holding hands. The television was tuned to CNN, and the picture showed Stan Green bossing a group of medics as they toted David Spencer’s shrouded corpse to an ambulance in front of the Mansion. During the ten minutes she’d been watching, there’d been what seemed like forty thousand clips of David Spencer in Spring of the Comanche plus a like number of shots of Darla in Fatal Instinct. The Fatal Instinct footage included the bloody bedroom slashing, with black rectangles superimposed over Darla’s bare fanny and breasts. There had been multiple showings of the scene in front of Planet Hollywood, of course, with Sharon and Sheila in the background as Spencer grabbed Darla and yanked her toward the restaurant entry. Then there was Milton Breyer, an extra layer of Grecian Formula on his hair as he faced a bank of microphones and laid his case out to the media. And finally—ta-taa, Sharon thought—there was her law school picture complete with cap and gown. The photo made her want to barf, her eyes round and innocent in a sort of ain’t-life-a-ball expression. Sharon testily jiggled her foot and looked away.
When she returned her attention to the television, she at first thought that the David Spencer murder segment was over. The TV picture showed a play in progress. There were two actresses center stage, and they were obviously in dramatic conflict. The dress was early 1900s, and in the background was scenery depicting a train station. Bit-part actors stood on a platform, waving good-bye as if the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe had just left town. Sharon thought it nice that off-Broadway was at last getting some recognition. Then she narrowed her eyes and leaned intently forward. God, she thought, there’s something familiar here. Now, where on earth did CNN get this freaking footage?
She remembered the play, all right, Avengers and Lovers. No way could she forget the production, and she recalled in detail all three performances before the theatrical supply company had showed up to repossess the scenery and costumes. The theater had been in Hell’s Kitchen, a lovely walk for Sharon and Darla from the subway station at 50th and Eighth Avenue past muggers, rapists, and cross-dressing whores. There’d been no dressing rooms, and they’d had to put on their costumes in full view of alcoholic stage hands. The playwright’s uncle had been the producer, and had spent a lot of time organizing parties to include himself, an unsuspecting actress or two, and one of the producer’s bankroll men. Sharon and Darla had fallen once for the come-on, then politely excused themselves when the producer’s buddy had trotted out porno films.
Sharon grinned in spite of herself as she mouthed the line along with her image on television: “You are nothing but a trollop, Winfred Dismore. You will never be woman enough for Jeffrey. Never.” She wondered if this was the performance when Darla had broken into giggles in the middle of Sharon’s dialogue. Yep, there she goes, Sharon thought as Darla’s shoulders began to heave for the viewing pleasure of the CNN audience. She can’t help it, ladies and gents, Sharon thought, this performance was the night after the producer lured us over for the porno party, and Jeffrey happened to be the dirty old bankroll man’s name. Sharon recalled that the playwright had been running around with a camcorder during the performance, and now she suspected that the insipid little worm had sold this footage to the media for a bundle. She briefly considered looking up the playwright in the Manhattan phone book, calling him and demanding that he cut her in on the proceeds, which were likely more than Avengers and Lovers’ entire take at the box office. Sharon’s grin faded instantly as an image of Rob flashed on the screen.
It was a shot which Sharon had seen over and over, Rob dressed in his tough detective’s suit from Minions of Justice, a public-service ad telling teenagers to stay free of drugs. God, Sharon thought, the news hounds are kicking that dead horse again. Her gaze shifted quickly to Melanie, and the slump in her daughter’s posture told Sharon all she needed to know. The TV announcer was telling the world that this bozo of a star had knocked up Sharon Hays long ago in New York City. And that Melanie Hays was Rob Stanley’s bastard child.
Sharon lowered her head and reached under her sunglasses to wipe a tear away. He’ll see you on this trip, Melanie, Sharon thought, that I promise you. If the s.o.b. is in town, I absolutely guarantee that he will.
The 747 banked over the ocean and did a one-eighty to head back to the east, then floated in over twinkling lights as far as the eye could see, and finally laid stripes of rubber on LAX’s tar-ve
ined runway. The landing jarred Sharon into wakefulness. She looked around in confusion for a second, and actually reached for her bedside alarm to turn the buzzer off. No clock radio there. No bedcovers, either, no Commander scratching at the door. She worried about the shepherd for a moment, picturing him whining morosely in anticipation of his masters’ return, and finally gazed out the window as the brightly lit terminal drew closer and closer. The airliner rolled smoothly on, and in the distance freeway flashers blinked. City of Dreams, Sharon thought. Stars that never were, parking cars, pumping gas, and practicing freaking law. Melanie was in the aisle seat, and peered excitedly around her mother for a glimpse of California.
“Only eleven here,” Sharon said, her voice crackly with sleep. “The nightcrawlers are barely awake in Los Angeles. Jet lag will make a zombie out of me.” The first-class flight attendant, a woman in her forties with honey blond hair, passed down the aisle flipping open overhead luggage compartments. Melanie told Sharon that if her father was in town, she was certain he’d take her on a tour of the studio. “I just know he will, Mom,” Melanie said. Sharon didn’t answer, just reached out and touched her daughter’s cheek. Then she pinched her own chin between a thumb and forefinger, and watched the runway roll briskly under the wing.
They deplaned in the lead, with business-class passengers straggling along behind, Sharon and Melanie pulling their rolling carry-ons. During the flight Sharon had thought, to hell with it, and had shed her disguise. It’s the real me, folks, wilted hair, no makeup, the entire freaking horror show. If anyone recognized her fifteen hundred miles from home, it would be a shock to her.
Melanie was nonstop movement, forging excitedly ahead, acting as if the check-in desk in L.A.—which was identical to the one in front of the gate at DFW—was the neatest thing she’d ever seen. Sharon trudged wearily along, wondering if the thirteen-year-old would sleep a wink during the entire trip. Sharon watched her with a wry cant to her mouth, then stopped a few feet past the check-in desk and looked around.
She didn’t know what she was looking for. It was a given that Darla wouldn’t leave her wandering around LAX like Little Match Girl, but she was just as certain that a world-famous personality—particularly one involved in the Media Blitz of the Week—wouldn’t be standing at the gate waving a hanky. She felt a twinge of uncertainty as fellow passengers shook hands with greeters or hugged their wives or husbands, and she was within an inch of heading for the bank of phones at the head of the escalator when a hand touched her arm. A pleasant male voice with a British accent said, “Miss Hays? Sharon Hays?”
Sharon turned.
The map didn’t go with the voice at all. He was a couple of inches over six feet with thick graying hair, had the shoulders of a hockey goalie and the weatherbeaten features of a mountain climber. He was dressed in a dark suit, and his manner was as respectful as his tone. “Lyndon Gray, Miss Hays. I’m driving for Miss Cowan this evening And this is Mr. Yadaka. He works with me.”
Sharon shook hands with Gray, and offered her hand to Yadaka as well. The second man was Oriental and was shorter than Sharon’s five-nine by a couple of inches. He was very slim with athletic movements, and Sharon suspected that this guy could handle himself. This pair could call themselves drivers, assistants, or whatever, but Sharon immediately pegged them as a couple of well-trained bodyguards. Yadaka’s grip was light and fleeting. Sharon said, “How do you do?” The Oriental smiled and bowed.
Gray surveyed the gate area, missing nothing, his gaze taking in every nook and cranny. “Your traveling companion?” he asked.
“Sure.” Sharon raised her voice and called out to Melanie, who was reading a lighted ad for the Century Plaza Hotel. “Melanie. Over here.” Sharon frantically waved. Melanie approached, warily regarding the Englishman.
“Mr. Yadaka will get your bags, miss,” Gray said.
Sharon and Melanie handed over their ticket folders with claim checks stapled inside. Yadaka accepted the folders and mounted the escalator, taking steps two at a time on the way down. As Sharon watched, the Oriental hit the lower level at a jog and took off in the direction of the baggage claim.
“Good,” Gray said. “Come along, please.” He stood aside while Melanie climbed aboard the moving staircase, waited for Sharon to get on, and then brought up the rear one step above her.
As the escalator rolled downward, Sharon said over her shoulder, “Darla’s not with you?”
“Miss Cowan is waiting in the car.” Gray looked apologetically upward. “Afraid there’s a bit of a problem.”
“Oh?” Sharon turned partway around.
“Seems the newsies got wind. We gave them the slip on the way in, but I suspect you’re in for some jostling when we leave the terminal. Mr. Yadaka and I can handle them if you’d like. You need merely walk straight ahead, eyes front. If you’d prefer to answer a few questions, feel free. A warning is in order. If you do answer a single question, they’ll keep firing away until their muskets are empty.”
Sharon’s posture sagged. “Poor Darla. They won’t leave her alone, huh?”
“As a rule, no. But celebrity sightings in Los Angeles are nothing new to newspapermen, and the media has ample background on Miss Cowan to use without ever speaking to her. I think you’ll find it’s you they’re interested in.”
“Oh, come on,” Sharon said. “I’m not even part of the story here.”
Gray’s tone was tinged with sympathy. “Yesterday you weren’t. Tomorrow you may not be again. But the media has zeroed in on you, Miss Hays, as evidenced by the pictures of you over and over on the telly. You being a former actress, in addition to the Rob Stanley clips, all that has whetted media appetites considerably. Miss Cowan has advised that you’re not officially her attorney, but that’s the way you’ve been introduced to the world. The first reporter to come up with an interview will consider it a career boost. They will devil you to death if you let them. People in Miss Cowan’s position are used to the attention. You’d best become accustomed to it as well, at least on your journey through movieland.” He smiled impersonally and professionally. “It’s what I do, Miss Hays. Take my advice, it’s a zoo out here.”
During her starving actress days Sharon had envisioned just this scenario, rapid-fire questions coming from either side as she moved down a human corridor made up of reporters, minicams grinding, and bodyguards protecting her flanks. In her fantasy she was entering the Palladium on Oscar night, wearing a strapless and backless number she’d picked up on Rodeo Drive for five thousand bucks or so, and the newspeople were dying to know what she thought of her chances of taking the Best Actress award. She’d even imagined her own zippy response, something like, Oh no, not me, Kathleen’s work in Body Heat was simply stunning, didn’t you think? Actually, of course, she’d be hoping that Kathleen had a wreck on the way to the ceremony. As she’d run the gamut of reporters, she’d been giddy with ecstasy.
The reality was a bit of a letdown. The press was about as she’d imagined, young men and women in everything from suits and ties to jeans and T-shirts, waving steno pads and ballpoints in her face as the TV folks brandished microphones and cameramen pointed lenses in her direction. Sharon was far from ecstatic, however; she was exhausted and felt stupid as well. She walked at a fast clip in chilly night air, chin down, her gaze riveted on Melanie’s carry-on as it rolled along ahead of her.
Yadaka and Gray must once have been Secret Service agents. The Brit and the Oriental moved along in half crouches and seemed to look everywhere at once, their gazes wary and watchful. The jostling became fierce as they passed the taxi stand; Gray shoved a skinny male reporter aside and then gently bumped Sharon in recoil. He uttered a crisp British “Excuse me, miss,” before resuming his stalking posture, but Sharon had leaned hard enough against the guy to feel his shoulder rig. Driver, my foot, Sharon thought. He answers to Double-oh-something-or-other, and pinches Moneypenny’s bottom on his way in to visi
t with M.
Melanie was in princess mode, ogling the reporters and giggling coquettishly, and any hope Sharon had harbored of the teenager sleeping a wink tonight went flying out the window. Twenty steps away, a shiny black Lincoln stretch waited at the curb.
A woman called out on Sharon’s left, “What years were you on Broadway, Miss Hays?”
To which Sharon wanted to answer, It wasn’t on Broadway, it was off, and it was sometime during the Jurassic era, but kept her head down and kept on trucking.
A man with a hoarse voice said loudly from the right, “Have you formed a plan for defending Darla Cowan as yet?”
Which caused Sharon to pause in mid-stride, wanting to say, I’m not defending anybody, bozo. Besides, Darla hasn’t been charged, don’t you read your own paper? Damn Milton Breyer and his public innuendoes all to hell. She ignored the question, but made a mental note that the next time she bumped into Breyer, the pompous ass was in for a tongue-lashing.
Yadaka jumped nimbly ahead, opened the limo door, and hustled Melanie into the passenger compartment. Sharon glanced over her shoulder. The skycap whom Yadaka had recruited pulled his cart dutifully along, and Sharon thought the poor man looked scared to death. She turned back to the front, pushed down on her carry-on handle with a solid click, then scooped up the weightless piece of luggage and entered the limo as Yadaka smiled and bowed. The limo’s passenger section had seats facing each other, and Sharon plopped down so that she looked out the rear window. Yadaka slammed the door, shutting out the noise just as a reporter screamed, “Miss Cowan? Any comment?” The limo’s wraparound stereo played “Tara’s Theme.” Sharon blinked in shock as the trunk lid popped up and cut off her view. There was a series of thuds as the skycap tossed luggage into the trunk.
