Glamour Puss

by R. J. Kaiser

  “I promised Luz that if I ever saw you again, she would be with me,” he said, as if to explain the whole thing. His voice was soft, as though addressing a priest, his accent stronger than it had been when he was her unmarried lover and husband-to-be.

  “That’s very considerate, Ricky,” Jade replied. “Too bad you didn’t bring her with you on our first date. It might have saved everybody a lot of trouble.”

  Luz gave him a jab in the side with her elbow and said something under her breath to him in Spanish. Ricky replied in the same whispered tone. Jade realized then he was translating. Luz didn’t speak English.

  In a way, Jade was sorry. It was a pretty good bet the translations were going to be sanitized. But it did eliminate the need for diplomacy on her part. Ricky could add whatever was needed.

  “Ruthie said you’re having a problem and you need to talk to me face-to-face,” he said.

  The utter innocence in his voice made her want to scream obscenities. Still, his credulity seemed beyond reproach. He was not the author of these incidents, the attempt to run down Art Conti, the slashed tires. Impossible. That face? Yet, this was the same guy who in full innocence asked her to marry him, not bothering to mention he already had a wife. Jade decided to plunge ahead according to plan, ignoring the rouged, virgin bride at Ricky Santos’s elbow.

  “I’ve been harassed and stalked,” she said, “people slashing my tires, trying to run down my friends, generally cruising the neighborhood, watching my place. There have been descriptions. An Hispanic guy.”

  She stopped there. Ricky waited for her to go on, only then realizing she’d made her point.

  “You think it was me?” he said, disbelief registering clearly in his voice.

  A flurry of jabs from Luz. Ricky explained. Luz flashed her eyes at Jade as if to say, “Carumba! Are you out of your mind? I’ve had my hand on his cock every minute the past year. He can’t pee unless I loosen my grip!”

  Ricky shook his head, his eyes husband-sad rather than lover-proud. “Jade, if somebody’s bothering you, it’s not me. I swear it. Why would I do this?”

  She only half heard his denial, remembering his lover-lips and lover-eyes, remembering he was the bastard who had deceived her, scorning her love with betrayal. Ricky and his Luz. Ricky and his lie.

  “Why wouldn’t you, dude?” Ruthie interjected, lapsing into ghettoese. “You the only enemy she got. You done worse already!”

  Ricky was clearly annoyed by the accusation, so annoyed that he ignored his wife’s insistent elbow. He focused on Jade. “Look, I know what I did to you was wrong, and I’ve been paying for it. I’ll continue paying for it. Which doesn’t do you any good, I know. But stalk you, Jade? Slash your tires? Why? The only reason I came here was because I thought you needed help. I owed you that, but I had to be honest with my wife. I had to tell her. That’s why we’re both here. I’ve promised never to make the same mistake again.”

  His tone was plaintive. Jade believed him. She knew what he was saying was true even before he came. If Ruthie had manufactured a motive, Luz’s presence belied it. This, to put it simply, was a wild-goose chase. “We haven’t been able to figure out who would be doing this to me and why,” she said, sounding apologetic. “We’re grasping at straws.”

  “How long has it been going on? Have you reported it?”

  Luz had given up her nonverbal imploration and was now in a sulk, giving her elbow a rest. She folded her arms under her breasts defiantly, probably aware it was unlikely that her husband and Jade were plotting a secret rendezvous, but she was miffed, nonetheless.

  “It’s been the last several days,” Jade said. “We thought if it was because of some bad blood between me and you that it would be best to get to the bottom of it now, rather than drag in the police.”

  Ricky shook his head. “I’m innocent, Jade. I swear.”

  Luz snapped something at him in Spanish and Ricky accommodated her with several mumbled sentences, enough to satisfy her, evidently. But Jade hardly noticed. She was replaying his last words: “I’m innocent, Jade. I swear.”

  Innocent? That was Ricky, and it was not Ricky. Innocent and guilty, guilty and innocent. He was the bastard she’d once loved, but no longer did because it was impossible to love what was not true. But it was also impossible to forget what you’d once so desperately wanted to believe. The funny thing was, he no longer seemed like the man she’d known. He was only the shell of Ricky Santos, lover par excellence. He was but the puff of smoke left after the magic trick, a suggestion of what had once existed, if only in her mind. That former Ricky was dead, and the corpse was tied to the apron strings of this pretty Mrs. Mexico with her fiery cheeks and the black high heels.

  “That being the case, we’re wasting our time,” Jade said. “I’m sorry to have brought you here unnecessarily.” She wanted him to leave very badly and take the mother of his children with him. She wanted him gone, out of her life for good. She wanted no more of his innocence or guilt, his charm or his betrayal.

  Ricky Santos who, after all, knew her more than a little bit, got the message. He took his wife by the hand and stood up. His last offering was a parting glance, a brief look into her eyes that sort of said, “I’m sorry.”

  None of them bothered with goodbye. Rundel held the door open for them. Ruthie managed to look both confounded and suspicious. Jade considered crying, but decided against it.

  “Well, shit,” Ruthie said when Ricky and Luz were gone.

  That pretty well summed it up.

  Pacific Palisades

  Venita was surprised and upset when Arjay said he wanted to take the limo and go out for dinner. It also scared her. She wanted everybody in the household where she could see them, where she could be sure what they were doing, so she could be certain no one betrayed her.

  Venita still hadn’t seen Jugnu, though she’d confirmed he’d been in his room all day. Cala had napped, as she often did in the afternoon. So, with evening approaching, Venita found herself alone, battling her fears in solitude. Hours and hours—nearly a day—had passed since she’d shoved Percy Gaylord over the cliff, and there was still no sign of the police. She’d rehearsed her lines regarding Percy so many times that soon they would no longer sound spontaneous and natural. It was like being onstage and in costume at the theater, but the curtain refused to go up.

  Troy had called her earlier, shortly after she’d had her bowl of soup in her room. He’d been chipper, enthusiastic, upbeat. His mood was in such contrast to her own that she’d welcomed it.

  “How about if I pick up a pizza and we have a quiet little romantic dinner tonight, just the two of us?” he’d said.

  “That would be lovely,” she’d told him, craving company.

  “And maybe if you’ve got some champagne around, you can put it on ice.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Maybe we’ve got reason to celebrate.”

  “You have news?”

  “Let’s just say things are moving ahead. But I’ll tell you about it later.”

  Venita wondered if he was referring to the possibility of his father investing in the film. But she was afraid to hope, especially with Percy Gaylord hanging over her like a sword on a thread.

  Actually, Troy concerned her, if only because she felt control of the situation was passing from her hands to his. The boy was up to something, and he was being secretive about it. Her husband, Ranjit, had successfully manipulated her the same way, keeping her off balance, agonizing. Was Troy that astute, or was this a chance thing? Or perhaps it wasn’t so much his skill as her desperation over the circumstances.

  When Troy had left that morning, she’d been sure the police would have paid their visit and been gone long before his return. She’d even hoped they’d ask their questions and quietly go their way without him ever finding out they’d been here. But the bastards hadn’t shown. Now she found herself craving Troy’s youthful energy, his enthusiasm, his adoration, but above all, his father’s money. She
wanted badly to be queen again—loved and admired and desired, not tormented by the bloody police. She wanted this uncertainty over with!

  By late afternoon she paced so much that she figured she’d easily covered five miles. Her feet were tired and she was spent. Several times she had to restrain herself from rousing Jugnu and sending him off to see what had become of Percy. Was it possible the body hadn’t yet been discovered?

  Arjay had been gone half an hour when Venita decided she couldn’t bear the suspense any longer. It was not inconceivable that she should walk in her own garden. And wasn’t it possible that she might stand by the wall, enjoying the view? Supposing even that the police were on a nearby hilltop watching her every move, surely a casual glance into the ravine wouldn’t be seen as damning proof of anything untoward. She’d simply have to be nonchalant. The probable explanation for this horrible silence was that Percy’s body had not yet been discovered. Undoubtedly it lay there where it had come to rest after the tragic fall. Once she’d confirmed that, she would at least know where things stood.

  Taking her parasol, Venita went out onto the terrace, at first sitting at the table under the huge umbrella. For several minutes she stared off in the direction of the sea, though it was in fact the wall that held her attention. What if Percy hadn’t died in his fall? What if he’d spent the day crawling back up the hill, inch by bloody inch? What if at any moment his gory face appeared above the wall, his eyes filled with rage? The image was so vivid. Try as she may, Venita couldn’t banish it from her mind.

  When she was a child afraid of the specters and goblins that haunted the dark corners of her room, her father had given her a torch to keep under her pillow, and when the fear consumed her, he told her to flash the light there to satisfy herself she was safe. Ever since, Venita had tended to attack her problems head-on. And so it was with Percy now. She realized if she were to master this threat, whether imagined or real, she must engage it full-on.

  Rising from the table, she opened her parasol and casually strolled around the pool, making a full circle of it as though examining the condition of the water. Before heading for the pavilion, she stopped at a bed of roses and sniffed several of the blossoms, all the while hearing Percy Gaylord calling to her like a siren: “Come see my bloody corpse, so you’ll know what you have done, murderess!”

  “Oh, I’ll be there in good time, my man,” she bravely replied. “Never you fear.”

  At last Venita reached the pavilion where she made herself sit for a full five minutes, occupying herself by staring at the ocean, following the progress of an oil tanker crawling south along the horizon. Then, with the deliberateness of a holy man on his way to his meditation, she stepped from the pavilion and moved to the wall. For at least a minute she did not look down, staring instead at the neighboring hill and the homes pressed into its side, like nuts in a cake. Finally she lowered her eyes.

  Though the bottom of the ravine was now in heavy shadow, the open area on the fire trail where Percy’s body had come to rest was clearly visible. But there was no sign of Percy. He was gone!

  Though it was what she should have expected, Venita was nonetheless shocked, just as she’d been as a child, the first time she’d shone the torch into the dark corner of her room only to find it empty. Composing herself, she drew her eyes from the canyon floor and gazed at the opposing hillside and the homes that, though remote, were in plain view. It was clearly paranoia, yet she had the feeling that some number of eyes were gauging her every move.

  Drawing a fortifying breath, Venita again peered down the slope, but with the same result—no sign of a body, whatsoever. Spinning her parasol, she strolled a short distance in one direction, thinking perhaps the line of sight she’d had wasn’t quite right. She lowered her eyes and studied the scene from a slightly altered perspective. Still nothing. She moved along the wall in the other direction. Nothing at all. So, if the body had been found, then where were the police? Surely they would investigate!

  Venita peered up at the cloudless sky, imploring the gods for an explanation. Had Percy’s remains been found? Or, had the unlikely occurred? Had he survived the fall? Venita couldn’t see how that was possible, but even if it were, Percy surely would have lodged a complaint. And if he had, the police would have reacted by now. Dear God, was she going mad?

  “Ah-ha! Here you are!”

  Venita gasped. Spinning, she caught the heel of her sandal in the grass and lost her balance. As she went reeling toward the wall, she screamed; the parasol flew from her hand. She was sure she was doomed. But someone grabbed her by the arm just in time, jerking her back from the precipice.

  “Oh my God, oh my God!” she cried as she lay against him, her face pressed to his chest. It was only when she pulled her head back and looked up at him that she was absolutely sure it was Troy.

  “Hey, sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to scare you. You almost fell down the cliff.”

  “My God,” she gasped, her heart racing so fast it felt like it was choking. “I was certain I was going over.”

  “That wouldn’t be too cool,” he said. “You fall down a slope like that and you could end up dead.”

  Still holding her, he leaned out and looked down. Venita gasped, clinging to him. Her body began to tremble. “Oh, please…”

  Troy grinned. “What’s the matter? I won’t let you fall.”

  “Please, Troy, this isn’t amusing. Set me down.”

  He eased back from the precipice and deposited her on the grass, a few feet from the wall. He gave her a big grin.

  “You are a monster, Troy Hampton!”

  The accusation made him laugh. “Yeah, that’s me.” Then his expression became quite sober. “How’s your day been, Venita?”

  He said it as if he knew. She heard it in his voice. He could just as easily have said, “The cops been here yet?”

  But, it wasn’t possible. Troy had been asleep, dreaming his libidinous young man’s dreams.

  “It’s been quiet,” she replied calmly, despite the wild rhythms of her heart.

  She pressed her body close to his. Troy gestured toward the parasol.

  “Want me to get that for you?”

  “Good heavens, no!”

  “Why not? It’s just right there.”

  “No, absolutely not. Don’t mind the parasol. Let’s go inside.”

  Taking him firmly by the arm, she pulled him toward the house. True, the parasol, bright red and hanging on the bush, would be like a flag, drawing attention to the fateful spot from whence Percy Gaylord had fallen to his doom, but at this juncture Venita hardly cared. She wanted to go in the house and get as far away from the bloody wall as she possibly could.

  Her head cleared and her heart finding a more normal rhythm, she said, “What then is your news, the cause for celebration?”

  “It’s not yet a done deal because there’s still work that I have to do, but everything’s in place.”

  “For what?”

  “Bringing in a couple of mil for our movie.”

  “Troy, you can’t be serious.”

  “I won’t jinx it by saying more, but the first shot in the battle is about to be fired, Venita.” He laughed and added, “So to speak.”

  Beverly Hills

  Ever since Amal had called, asking if he could come by, Stella had been on pins and needles. “I want to discuss the project,” he’d said. “I’ve been sparring with my muse the last few days and I thought your insights might be helpful.”

  He couldn’t have any idea how much those words had thrilled her. She was being wooed by a famous movie director, and not for her body—Amal Kory was in love with her persona, her talent, her mind. Finally someone had seen what she truly had to offer.

  Pacing about her room, she pondered the development. Of course, Mac’s money was a factor in this, an important factor. But she also knew Amal wanted his film to be successful. The man was not just a businessman, he was an artist. He spoke not so much from the mind as the soul.

>   And yet, without capital, there would be no film. And unless Mac could be convinced to put in seed money her position was not secure, no matter how much Amal admired her talents. She just couldn’t allow this final opportunity of a lifetime to pass her by. Mac would have to be brought around, whatever the cost.

  The door chimes sounded and Stella’s heart gave a little hop. That would be Amal. He either had something to tell her or there was something he needed to find out. And he undoubtedly had questions about Mac’s intentions. Unfortunately she had no definitive answer. But, if she could just keep him on board until she got Mac straightened around, she might still realize her dream.

  Since Bonny had the evening off, Stella answered the door herself.

  Amal, suave, even dashing in an exotic, eccentric way, stood on her doorstep, his limousine sitting in the drive. “Stella, my dear, how lovely you look.” He took her hand and kissed it.

  “Come in, Amal.”

  They went into the sitting room. Stella offered him an aperitif, but he declined. They made small talk for several minutes, then he said, “May I discuss the project with you?”

  “Certainly, Amal.”

  He looked terribly thoughtful and serious. She waited, not knowing what to expect.

  “As you know, I’m totally consumed by On Distant Shores,” he said. “Once my muse gets a hold of something, she won’t let go until it becomes a work of art.”

  She was so relieved he didn’t wish to discuss finances. “I know exactly what you mean!”

  “I was going over the screenplay again last evening and, well, frankly, Stella, I think Hilda Grimsley needs tweaking.”

  “How so?”

  “In my view, she’s the most stock of Warden’s characters, which is unfortunate because I think she has so much potential, opportunities for complexity. And I think the part could be expanded, as well.”