The Notorious Pagan Jones

by Nina Berry

“Former client.” Anger surged as Pagan narrowed her eyes at him. “I got the notice of termination from the agency, Jerry. That was one piece of mail they made sure I received while in custody.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for your trial.” Jerry took another cigarette out of a gold case and tapped it on the desk, feeling his pocket for a lighter. “And I’m sorry about that notice. It wasn’t kind.”

  “No, but it’s what big Hollywood agents do when their clients kill people, right?” Pagan watched as Devin Black leaned in with a silver lighter to ignite Jerry’s cigarette. He flicked the lid shut on the flame, and Pagan caught a glimpse of red on one side. As he pocketed it, the design became clear—a silver Zippo lighter with the Ace of Hearts engraved in red.

  He couldn’t possibly have the same exact lighter as Miss Edwards. Which meant…

  Her gaze flew to his face. He caught the movement and locked eyes with her. That corner of his mouth was curving up again, only now he looked like a mischievous boy who’d gotten away with something.

  Who was this guy? Pagan hadn’t even seen him come close to Miss Edwards, so how the hell had he gotten ahold of the lighter Pagan had seen her deposit in her skirt pocket just moments before?

  “I never meant to hurt you, Pagan,” Jerry was saying. His lips trembled slightly as he drew on the cigarette. “It was the shareholders who insisted on letting you go. Not me.”

  Pagan forced herself to look back at her former agent. He was a part of this, too. But somehow she thought he didn’t quite know who he was dealing with in Devin Black. Either way, something about the situation was making him sweat. “You look nervous, Jerry. Don’t worry. I didn’t bring my shiv.”

  Jerry exhaled a short laugh in a gust of smoke. “I see they haven’t ironed the smart aleck out of you yet, kid.”

  Pagan’s legs were wobblier than they should have been. Something beneath her feet was shifting. She didn’t know what it was yet, but it was big. She slid down into the hard chair facing Jerry. “I’m the bad influence here. The others are just thieves and truants, not killers.”

  “What happened to you was an accident.” Jerry took the cigarette out of his mouth with his index finger and thumb, smoke trickling from his nose. “You were a child, a girl who lost her mother in an unimaginable way. We all should have seen it coming a lot sooner.”

  Pagan had heard those words before. “Instead you gave me a brand-new Corvette for my sixteenth birthday, and I used it to drive Daddy and Ava off a cliff. Thanks a lot, Jerry.”

  Jerry looked up sharply, the veneer of concern falling away. “You can’t blame me for what happened. I didn’t stick the bottle of vodka in your hand–”

  “Jerry.” Devin’s low voice was a warning.

  Jerry shut his mouth, lips tight. He stubbed out the second cigarette next to the first one like he was smashing a cockroach.

  Pagan looked back and forth between the two men. Jerry was one of the most powerful men in Hollywood. Nobody talked to him that way, yet Devin Black had just gotten away with it.

  Pagan cocked her head toward Devin. “Who is this character, Jerry? His suit’s nicer than yours, so he can’t be your new assistant.”

  Jerry cast a sideways look at Devin and felt for his cigarette case again. “He works for the studio.”

  “Nobody from any studio would interrupt Jerry Allenberg like that and still have a job five minutes later.” When Devin shrugged and didn’t reply, she asked, “What have you got on him?”

  Devin shoved himself away from the wall, picked up Jerry’s cigarette case off the desk, took out a cigarette, and offered it to Pagan. “What I have on Jerry, Miss Jones, is a deal for you that’s going to make you both a lot of money. He wants you back as a client, because the studio needs you to star in Bennie Wexler’s new comedy.”

  Astonishment bloomed through Pagan, followed by relief. Her fears of someone coming to put her in prison weren’t going to happen. At least not yet. This was some Hollywood scam. But why torment her with an impossible scenario?

  She ignored the offered cigarette. “Bennie Wexler hates me. Before that he hated my mother. He kicked her off the set of Anne of Green Gables. The man won a statue for Best Director, but you’re saying he’s going to direct his next movie—” she spread her hands wide, taking in all the beige-walled, barred-windowed dreariness around her “—here? Because, in case you forgot, this is my vacation home for the next year and a half.”

  “The movie shoots in West Berlin.” Jerry rested one blunt-fingered hand on a pile of paper in front of him. “The judge has agreed to let you out of here, if you sign this contract to do the film and agree to a court-appointed guardian.”

  Pagan lowered her lashes to mask her anger. “Jerry, Jerry. It isn’t nice to tease.”

  “It’s no joke.” Jerry exhaled noisily, blowing the smoke upward. “The studio really wants you on this project.” He glanced at Devin Black, who nodded, as if in approval. “You’re still under contract to them. I don’t know who pulled the strings, but if you agree to do the movie under the conditions spelled out here, Judge Tennison will grant your parole. It’s a supporting role, but it’s good. It’s funny, and it suits you. Bennie starts rehearsal in Berlin in three days, so be a good girl and say yes now.”

  Nothing he was saying allayed her suspicions, and she hadn’t been a good girl for years. “Three days? What happened—did the original actress get killed or something?”

  “Worse. Pregnant.” Jerry reached under the contract to pull out about a hundred pages held together with brass fasteners. “You’ll like the script. Bennie’s usual mixture of farce and heart. You’ll play the teenage daughter of an American businessman living in West Berlin who falls in love with a Communist from East Berlin.”

  He laid the script in front of her. The cover read Neither Here Nor There. Written by Benjamin Wexler & I. S. Kopelson. Universal Pictures.

  Pagan stared at the familiar logo, not blinking. This was actually happening. It made no sense. But it was real.

  Jerry coughed, and she realized a long silence had elapsed. She pursed her lips in cool consideration, even though her blood was beating hard through her veins. “So, you’re saying that after the movie is over, I won’t have to come back to Lighthouse?”

  Jerry’s chest rattled with another cough. “After the shoot you’ll have to report weekly to a parole officer until you turn eighteen. But you’ll be free.”

  Pagan erupted out of her chair with such force that Jerry flinched back and Devin Black straightened from where he was slouching against the wall. She paced to the door and back and halted, then grabbed on to her chair. She didn’t like that she needed something to steady herself, but after so long in confinement, after worrying about Mercedes, and thinking they were going to put her in a real prison, the prospect of imminent freedom was the most terrifying thing of all.

  The last time she’d truly been a part of the real world had been the worst time of her life. It made solitary seem like a cozy nest.

  “Judge Tennison called me a menace to society in front of every reporter in town.” Her voice was hoarse. She cleared her throat. “He said Hollywood was a festering pit of sin, and he cast me as lead sinner. Why would he give a damn what the studio wants and let me out?”

  Jerry shrugged, casting another sideways look at Devin. “Everyone has a price, even a judge. Or maybe he saw the light. We’ll never know for sure.”

  “Beyond that,” she went on, “the whole world knows I’m a disgrace. Tabloids make up lurid stories of my exploits behind bars. Why would a studio risk giving a decent role in an award-winning director’s next big movie to me?”

  Jerry shook his head. “A young lady accepts that the men in her life know what’s best for her. I’m the closest thing you have to a father—”

  He didn’t get to finish because Devin Black cut in
, his voice casual. “Haven’t you heard? Bad publicity sells even more movie tickets than good publicity. People are curious. With you in the movie, it’s a guaranteed blockbuster.”

  He wasn’t wrong, but she knew better than to trust him. Pagan gave him a cold smile. “And why is it, I ask myself, that Jerry Allenberg is taking orders from a kid in a Savile Row suit who’s young enough to be in college, maybe even high school? I’m sorry, Mister Black. But I’m not signing anything until my lawyer looks it over.”

  Devin Black’s eyes danced over her in a way that made her conscious of the uneven neckline of her uniform, of her sagging stockings and scuffed sneakers. “I hear you’re in solitary confinement for two weeks because you and your roommate nearly escaped.”

  At the mention of Mercedes all her assumed coolness fell away. “Do you know how she is?” Her voice shook. “Did she make it?”

  “Make it?” Devin asked, his voice sharpening into a crisp, almost-British tone. “You mean they didn’t tell you?” He shot a blazing look at the door, behind which, no doubt, Miss Edwards still waited, then placed a warm hand on Pagan’s upper arm. “Miss Duran is doing well and is out of the hospital. They brought her back to the infirmary here this morning.”

  Relief washed over Pagan, so acute, so powerful that she had to blindly find the chair and sit again. “Thank God, thank God,” she said under her breath. It wasn’t really a prayer. Or maybe it was.

  “There’s no need to worry about your roommate any longer,” Devin said, stepping closer to her. Was he trying to reassure her some more? Or was he moving in for the kill? The contradictory signals were dizzying. “So, if you take this job, not only will you get out of here forever, but we’ll make sure your friend gets the best of care, spends no time in solitary, and no extra time will be added to her sentence. You can give this to her.” He picked up Jerry’s gold cigarette case and handed it over. Jerry didn’t protest, and it sat heavy in her hand. “If you say no, you’ll go back to solitary and what happens to Miss Duran is anyone’s guess.”

  Pagan regarded him steadily. He wanted her dizzy—to keep her off balance, and to get what he wanted. She took his long-fingered hand and pressed the cigarette holder back into his palm. “In that case, my answer is definitely no.”

  Devin looked down at the shiny metal, lips curling ruefully. “Definitely no?”

  Pagan nodded. “Definitely.” It hurt to refuse. But if he was trying to extort her into cooperating, the whole situation had to be too good to be true. She had a funny feeling she’d be safer getting beaten by Miss Edwards here at Lighthouse. She’d learned that if you gave in to a threat, all you’d done was ensure more threats down the road.

  Devin’s eyes were thoughtful. “You’re not the only one to ever make a mistake, you know.”

  She studied him. Where was this going? More misdirection? “Believe me, I know,” she said. “I live with a hundred and fifteen mistake-prone teenage girls.”

  Devin went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “Make a big enough mistake early in life and it can destroy everything,” His words were like Susan Mahoney’s stiletto, slicing into her, conjuring up her own countless errors.

  But he wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were staring off at some faraway place, somewhere raw, somewhere that made him ache. “Ruin enough lives and you’ll ruin yours.”

  It sounded personal. What lives had Devin Black ruined? Or was this another cunning attempt to pull her in?

  “But if you’re very lucky, sometimes, someone offers you a second chance.” He turned back to her, smiling. “And if you’re smart enough to take that chance, it’s just possible that the thing you long for most, that thing you crave more than anything, will happen.”

  Pagan sat very still, not wanting to give away how his words affected her. She couldn’t put a name to it, but he’d touched a place inside her she hadn’t known was there. “Tell me, Mister Black,” she said. “What do I crave more than anything?”

  “Redemption.” His voice pulsed with a passion that echoed in her mind. “This is your chance.”

  Redemption. That was so far from possible that it hadn’t even occurred to her. She searched the riotous mess in her brain, the thousand conflicting feelings and thoughts that only alcohol had ever silenced.

  In A.A. they called it recovery. That was a much more manageable word. Redemption, with its vaguely religious overtones, promised a slate wiped clean, a complete deliverance that was too much to hope for. She couldn’t hang on to that, because it would never, could never happen, no matter what strange hunger for it the complicated Devin Black seemed to have.

  “Sounds more like a chance to be bullied and blackmailed.” She shook her head with finality. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “I see.” Devin swallowed hard. Was that regret in his eyes?

  But then he swiveled with sudden grace, scooped up the contract and script on the desk, and dumped them into a sleek briefcase. “Let’s go, Jerry.”

  Puzzlement crossed Jerry’s face as Devin snapped the briefcase closed. “But you said—”

  “Pagan Jones can’t take a chance,” Devin interrupted, sliding the briefcase off the desk. “After all she’s been through, I understand.” He glanced at Pagan, who was glaring at him. “Wasn’t your mother born in Berlin?”

  Her scowl became uncertain. “What? Yes. After my grandfather died, my grandmother moved to California with Mom when she was around two.”

  “Berlin’s a strange place these days,” Devin said. “Divided between Communist and capitalist, with thousands of East Germans fleeing across the border to the West every day. The rumors are that the East Germans won’t wait much longer to do something drastic. I thought you might want to see where your mother was born while you’re shooting the movie, find your grandparents’ former home, before everything changes. By the time you get out of this place, it may be too late.”

  The knuckles of Pagan’s hands, gripping each other, were white. “You think something big’s going to happen over there?”

  Jerry drummed the desk with his fingers. “In June, the leader of East Germany said he has no intention of building a wall.”

  Devin gave him a knowing look. “Walter Ulbricht studied politics under Joseph Stalin. Trustworthy he is not. Every other part of East Germany is cut off from the West. And the East Germans have just completed construction of a rail line that completely circumvents Berlin. How long can they continue to allow their best-educated citizens to flee?”

  Pagan was only half listening as Jerry asked another question. Whether by accident or design, Devin Black had touched on the only real mystery left in her life. She knew all too well why Daddy and Ava were dead. But when Mama took her own life, she hadn’t left a note. She’d never mentioned suicide and had shown no signs of depression. Up to the end she’d been the same: cheerfully in charge; planning the next move in Pagan’s career; pushing Ava to practice her piano three hours a day; organizing the next fund-raiser for the German-American Heritage League.

  So every day since she’d died, Pagan still asked the question: Why? Why had Mama abandoned them? Every day the wound reopened, fresh and painful as the moment it had happened.

  After Mama was gone, movies and photo shoots had kept Pagan busy. She had even fallen in love. But only alcohol had closed up the wound. For a little while, at least.

  Psychiatrists had told her that her mother’s suicide wasn’t her fault. They said it had nothing to do with her. But how could they know that for sure? They hadn’t spent long hours on a movie set watching Mama, a frustrated actress, act out Pagan’s dialogue for her when she messed up a line. They hadn’t heard Eva and Arthur Jones arguing late into the night about how Pagan’s latest bump in salary might not cover that month’s bills. Everything—the big house in the hills, Ava’s private school, Mama’s designer clothes, Daddy’s cars—they all would continue to exist
only so long as Pagan was perfect.

  Pagan knew all too well that she was nothing but a collection of flaws, a rich stew of defects, a ratatouille of failings and weakness. And in lieu of another explanation, she couldn’t help thinking that maybe that’s why it had all come crashing down and Mama had died.

  Maybe.

  Maybe not. The shrinks didn’t understand how the uncertainty about why Mama had wanted to die gnawed at Pagan. If Pagan could find the answer to that question, she might truly come to understand that this one thing, at least, was not her fault.

  Maybe that answer lay in the place Mama was born. Berlin.

  Now here was a chance, not just to get out of this horrible place, to be free, but to explore an unknown corner of Eva Jones’s life. A chance that would not come again.

  “I’ll do it.” The words split open something that had long been closed inside her. She stayed very still, hoping she wouldn’t cry.

  The two men, in mid conversation, stopped speaking. Devin Black’s long-lashed eyes held a knowing look that should have bothered her, but didn’t.

  He’d succeeded in manipulating her this time. But it didn’t matter, not in the long run. What was important was that soon she’d be able to hunt down the answers she needed, whether they were in Berlin or somewhere else.

  “I said, I’ll do it.” She gave them her best I’m practicing patience look.

  With a flourish, Devin put the briefcase on the desk and unsnapped the clasps.

  Jerry took out the contract and laid it in front of Pagan. “Are you sure?”

  Devin Black shot him a suppressing look. “An excellent choice, Miss Jones. One I’m sure you won’t regret.”

  She took hold of Miss Edwards’s best fountain pen. “Worry about your own regrets, Mister Black. How soon do I get to see Mercedes?”

  Devin peeled back the top pages of the contract to show her the signature line. “Why not immediately? Then we’ll send a car for you at four o’clock this afternoon. You’ll spend the night in your own home. Tomorrow you’ll fly to Berlin.”