The Thief: You’re kind of already crying. Or else where is all that snot coming from?
The Heroine turns away from The Thief to stare winsomely into the mysterious night.
And to dab her nose.
Winsomely.
The Heroine: It all adds up to one thing—you’re getting on that plane where you belong. Nine times out of ten you’ll end up in jail otherwise.
The Thief: Probably not. I’m pretty crafty.
The Heroine: You’ll regret it if you don’t go—maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but—
The Thief: Next week, maybe.
The Heroine: Sure.
The Thief: I’d definitely regret being in jail during March Madness.
The Heroine: Whatever!
The Thief: We’ll always have the Dress Barn.
Angle On: The Thief taking The Heroine into his arms. They kiss, and kiss and kiss, until it gets a little awkward for the ground crew of American Airlines flight 663, watching nearby.
Baggage Handler: What are these people doing out here? No one boards from outside…
The tragic couple pulls apart and re-button their pants.
The Thief: Here’s looking at you, kid.
The Heroine: That’s it? How about ‘I will love you forever’? Why don’t you say that?
The Thief: Last night I said, ‘I will love your butt forever’. You appreciated the sentiment at the time.
The Heroine: Just get on the plane.
About an hour after my sad goodbyes with Sam, I stood in the Grauman’s Chinese Theatre forecourt beside Meryl Streep’s footprints—I drew strength from them through osmosis. Silly, but all I could do was replay my goodbyes with Sam. Although he hadn’t told me he loved me, I decided to pretend that he had, that he’d slobbered undying odes of passion on me like I was Captain Taco. And that I’d been dressed like Ingrid Bergman.
I’d better pay attention to the task at hand, unpleasant as he was. From my vantage point, the theatre itself was magical in the evening lights—they washed the iconic landmark in golden shades and red splashes. Tons of tourists still thrummed about, which had been my plan. I’d managed to lose the news crews at my place by donning a black, bobbed Halloween wig from when I’d dressed as Clara Bow. Sunglasses hid half my face, even though it was much too dark for them now.
I missed Sam like he was an AWOL limb. His laughter. His laughter with me. His laughter at me. I was glad he’d disappeared—no reason for him to be here. Besides, I recognised Jolly Roger nearby despite his oversized cowboy hat, and the wearing of actual pants. Sam had sent reinforcements.
I shifted, nervous. The angles of the gun poked into my lower back. A nearly irresistible urge to scratch at the plastic hair on my head consumed me.
My phone told me Scott was five minutes late. Then ten. I wandered to one of the golden doors beside the main entrance to the theatre and surveyed the scene from there. That was when I spotted him. He’d made no effort at disguise and swivelled his assy pubic-hair head around in the middle of the forecourt, hunting for me.
Good. I approached him from behind and tapped him on the shoulder, making sure I could see both of his hands. He spun about, jumpy, and eyed my oversized backpack with menacing glee. He grabbed my arm, fingers digging in like spindly vises. “Hello, bitch,” he said, charmingly.
“Hello, Scott Coulter. Yes, it’s me, Samantha Lytton. You won’t murder me and my family, as you previously threatened to do, because I am now returning the stolen Picasso you originally…stole. Do we have a deal?”
With a smile capable of freezing molten lava, he said, “Sure.”
He had to let me go so I could hand him the backpack. He tore into it and saw what he’d come for. His colourless lips grinned, for real this time.
‘Sure’, my ass. What a lying sack of shit.
In that moment, I was even happier I’d called the police and spilled my guts about everything.
All of a sudden, a dazzling array of Maglites shone on Scott’s face, blinding him. I dived onto the concrete and covered my head with my arms, as Officer Fitzgerald had instructed me to do. Matt Damon’s handprints were right under mine. I prayed to Jason Bourne for safety.
“Scott Coulter,” said Officer Sexy somewhere above me. The unmistakable crinkle of handcuffs locking sounded. “You’re under arrest for grand theft, kidnapping—”
“And being a total ass-gopher,” I offered helpfully.
She ignored that and began reading his Miranda rights. From my ground-level vantage point, I saw feet moving in a circle away from our little group. I peeked for a sign that I could cease grovelling into Mr Damon.
“You can get up now, Ms Lytton.” Officer Fitzgerald offered a hand and hauled me to my feet. I thought she liked me a bit better after I’d called and given her a big, fat collar. And demonstrated that there was method to my stupidity. I’d told her the whole, sordid story. There was no way around describing both Sam and Scott as kidnappers, but I’d said Scott had been the really violent one. The only things I’d left out were Jane—no need for her to want to come after me—and the sexy times with Sam.
If Sam hadn’t been a wanted man before, he sure was now.
“Ms Lytton!”
I turned towards the street and into a camera. Officers began taping off the area in front of the theatre and ushering bystanders out. Nicolette pulled me from one, now two—oh, shit—three reporters. “This is a crime scene,” she said, super officially. “Please back away.” Saved by police tape. I shrugged one shoulder to the news vans and laughed the pent-up giggle of the free. I wondered how much of this criminal takedown they’d filmed, me disguised like a real spy in my wig and glasses.
Nicolette drew me away from the street. “We’ll take you in a squad car back to my precinct. One of my men will get your car.” Her digs were in the valley, near my apartment.
I yanked myself out of her grip. “Can I just walk beside you? The cameras are rolling, and I’d like to look less like a felon, please. Salvage something of my life, you know. I’d also like to call my lawyer.”
She shrugged and kept walking. Once we were in her car, she gave me a pointed stare. “How long have you been friends with Ellen?”
“Forever. She made high school bearable.”
Her face full of incredulity, she started the car. Ellen was just as silly as me, but she’d had more success in her chosen artistic career. Nicolette was obviously puzzled about why such a great writer hung out with a loser like me. Thankfully, Ellen considered being able to perform every Monty Python funny walk a virtue.
“Are we square?” I asked. “I mean, I know I lied to the police in a mega-official way. However, there were extenuating circumstances. Now you have an airtight arrest with the painting in the scumbag’s hands, and a recording of him admitting everything.” I scratched at the tape between my boobs.
“One of the scumbags.” She gave me a pointed look.
“Mmmmm-hmmmmm,” I semi-agreed.
“You’ll testify, of course.”
“Of course.”
I wondered what Sam/Nate/Sam’s new name was.
First thing I did at the police station was remove my wire. Tape plus boobs equalled no. Then I gave my statement regarding Scott’s arrest. No one appreciated my dramatic retelling of the events. Rubes.
My performance finished and recorded for future posterity…and trials…I called Deborah Diaz, Attorney to the Stars™. She appeared on the scene with lightning quickness. I suspected she was part demon. Not that that was a drawback, especially if she was your demon. A perfectly-hewn chestnut pixie haircut accentuated her elfin cheekbones and enormous brown eyes. She looked like the million bucks she’d win you.
As luck would have it—good luck or bad luck, who could say?—she agreed to represent me pro bono because I was getting so much press. If I were paid for any interviews she’d get a cut. I was notorious, see? I wasn’t sure how legal that was, but if it were legal anywhere for your lawyer to get a cut off your Ma
ury Povich appearance, it’d be LA.
Back at my apartment, I told her my story. Her eyebrows rose higher and higher. When I’d finished, her big eyes glittered. I could almost see her counting gold bullion.
“By tomorrow morning, you will be known as the beautiful, courageous, innocent, young…ish actress who brought down a violent international art gang. We’ll get you an agent first thing. You’ll do Barbara Walters, of course. Not any cheap, yellow-journalism-type shows. Then a couple of small roles in artsy, Oscar-type films, and you’ll be on your way. You’re a modern, classy Mata Hari.”
“Fuck yeah!” I replied, classily. Hey, when I sell out, I do it in style.
She narrowed those owlish peepers and said, “We’ll send you to my colourist tomorrow—keep the red hair, but…improve it. Did that come from a box? Don’t even answer. It’s giving me cooties from over there.” Upon further inspection, she added, “Now would be a good time for you to try to lose five pounds, too.”
I bristled. “Only five?”
“Excellent thinking—ten.”
Sighing, I shook her hand. I knew I wouldn’t do any better with another lawyer. Another lawyer would tell me to lose forty. Afterwards, they’d sell the story, ‘Failed Actress Dangerously Underweight’, to Them Weekly magazine. I was starting to like Deborah and her immaculate, four-thousand-dollar suit—anyone who used the word ‘cooties’ in real life was okay by me.
The next few days were a whirlwind of lies and videotape, but, unfortunately, no sex. I tried not to moon over Sam as Deborah had me plucked, sanded, waxed, polished, makeupped and interviewed by all the right people. I couldn’t tell the public too much, because of the pending trial. I spilled just enough to make it seem like I was a heroine for the ages, able to defeat huge crime rings with a bat of my young…ish fake eyelashes.
I acquired an acting agent, who was shocked I could actually, you know, act. He’d signed me before checking. And told me to lose twenty pounds. I had three auditions in the following week. For actual, real movies! The last film I’d auditioned for was Zombie Strippers 3. Surprisingly, I’d been able to pick up the thread of the plot without having seen Zombie Strippers 1 or 2.
I’d arrived!
Chapter Twenty
Party at the Roller Drink
Despite Deborah’s desire that I go with her to a shindig to celebrate a reality TV star’s birthday/release from jail/new country-punk album, I begged off and spent Friday evening the best way I knew how—roller skating with Ellen.
Perhaps this was why I was still single.
The Moonlight Rollerway was our second home. A badly carpeted place to go when your criminal boyfriend had disappeared and left your heart shattered across the rocks of desolate despair. During Ellen’s last break-up we’d sneaked in flasks of martinis, and I’d held her up as she’d bobbled in mirror-ball-lit circles singing the lyrics to ‘All By Myself’ no matter what music was playing. They went surprisingly well with the melody to ‘Stayin’ Alive’.
With my white skates strapped on, and my pink wheels turning, nothing seemed as horribly horrible. But awesomely boogeying backwards to ‘Car Wash’ hadn’t quite done the trick tonight. After a couple of drooping turns around the rink, we retired to the snack bar to drink and eat salty things. I’d lose twenty pounds tomorrow.
The shards of my emotions glittered brighter than the disco ball. I shared that beautiful piece of poetry with Ellen.
“No more beer for you, Edgar Allen Pathetic,” Ellen said.
I grabbed the beer she had stolen from me—the tug of war sloshed warm Michelob over both our hands. Wiping my fingers on my jeans, I cried, “No! I need it. I miss Nate’s beautiful green eyes.”
“Sam.”
“Fucking Sebastian Featherbrain the Third for all I know.”
“I thought he had brown eyes.” Disgust writ large on her exasperated face, Ellen grabbed a fistful of tiny napkins and cleaned the beer spilling across our picnic table.
“He had both!” Tears slid down my already crusty cheeks. I wasn’t drunk yet, but I was too lubricated to stop the emo brigade. “He was so good in bed. That man could do things with his—”
“Okay.” Ellen stood up and came around the table to me. “As much as I adore talking about the magic of the penis, we’re gonna go home now.” I clutched my mug of shitty beer and shook my head. “I have cheese at my place,” she dangled, enticingly. I lifted my eyebrows. “Change out of your skates, sad panda.”
“I’ll wear them home.” I blew my nose in a wad of napkins made of sandpaper and lurched to my slippery feet. Haltingly, I rolled towards the exit. “Maybe one of my stalker reporter friends will tape me in them, and I can star in a remake of Xanadu.”
My bestie opened the front door for me. “Yes. What the world needs now is a redheaded Olivia Newton-John who can’t sing.”
“My name is Kiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” I shouted to the parking lot. It seemed unimpressed.
Also unimpressed was Jane, standing in the shadows next to Ellen’s little blue Beetle and pointing a gun at me.
I ran smack into the back of the car and grabbed at something, anything to stay upright. The damn spaceship-shaped vehicle foiled me. I slid down it, boobs first, until the asphalt stopped my momentum in a most inhospitable way.
“Ellen, run!” I screamed. God bless her stupid self, she did the opposite. In three long strides, she sprinted to Jane and tackled her from the front. They both disappeared into the darkness of the shrubs surrounding the parking lot. I scrambled to my knees. “Ellen!”
“Shut up,” said an angry, quiet voice behind me. I turned around to find Jolly Roger’s jolly roger in my face. And his pistol. I wasn’t pleased to see either. Roger turned his attention to the scuffle in the shrubbery. “Girlie, get off Jane or I’ll shoot your friend’s head off.”
Ellen fell onto her butt in a twist of branches, a rebellious set to her mouth. Jane rose like Venus from the waves and brushed off the dirt daring to cling to her grey pantsuit. “Let’s go somewhere to talk, Miss Lytton. I believe you have something of mine.”
I had no freaking idea what she was talking about. I’d never even so much as go to another museum in my life, and I definitely never wanted to touch another piece of jerky art. “I don’t have shit of yours, Jane. Let us go.”
She ignored this. Roger hauled me to my skates while Ellen hurried over to help. He made a quick search of my purse and Ellen’s, removed our cellphones and handed the bags back to us. Imperious as ever, Jane began to walk towards the far corner of the parking lot. Roger got behind Ellen and me, his hand in his pocket, the unmistakable bulge of a gun there in his windbreaker.
“Ellen,” I whispered. She put her arm around my shoulders as if to steady me and leaned her head in closer. “Un-ray hen-way I ay-say o-say.” During our second temp assignment, Ellen and I had perfected our Pig Latin, much to the chagrin of, well, everyone who came into contact with us. Hey, data entry was not as exciting as it sounded.
“Ot-nay oing-gay ithout-way ou-yay,” she whispered back.
We were almost at Jane’s creepy kidnap van. “O-nay ime-tay oo-tay rgue-aay.” With all my slightly drunken might, I pushed her away and screamed “Un-ray!”
Ellen bolted towards the entrance to the roller rink. I launched myself at Roger. I might not be able to sing, but I could roller skate like the wind. In two seconds, I flattened him across the pavement, leapt over his struggling form and zoomed towards the street. Jane raised her voice behind me—finally, she didn’t sound calm and collected. The echoes of my nemeses soon faded until I heard nothing save the rushing wind in my ears. I made it to the street and down four blocks before the dark van caught up with me.
To my credit, have you ever tried to outrun an eight-litre van while in skates? It was over quickly. The side door opened. Roger’s buddy Wendy scooped me up and into the confines of the vehicle before I could cry, “Why won’t you assholes leave me alone?”
The only good
part of this scenario was that Ellen was not in the van too. Roger’s ponytail practically stood up in indignation as he steered the vehicle. Beside him sat Jane, her still unbelievably firm chin raised and not deigning to turn towards me, huddled in the back under Wendy’s wiry body. I didn’t have to smell Wendy’s interesting perfume long—she pinched my nose and held my mouth closed. I thrashed and fought back with everything I had, but she was so heavy, the tears sprang into my eyes, and fear burned my lungs and…and…
* * * *
“Where is my Picasso?”
With this now-familiar refrain, Jane awakened me from my happy slumber. Happy because when I slept, I dreamt of Sam and me flying in our own plane. I didn’t remember where we went, only that we zoomed amongst the clouds for what seemed like endless days. I navigated the jet without being scared. It was an amazing sensation—weightless, joyous. I didn’t have to be an eight-hundred-number psychic to decipher what the dream meant. Who wouldn’t rather be free with the man they lo—lusted after than on the floor of some basement with a giant, nasty, throbbing headache.
“Where is my Picasso?” Jane repeated, irritation ruffling the syllables.
I sat up slowly, pressing my hand to my chest, which was gladly taking in air once again. “The police have it. They got it when they arrested Scott. It was all over the news.”
We were in a cement block room, empty but for a single door, a folding card table and the desk chair Jane sat in. Why couldn’t anyone kidnap me to a hot tub or Mexican restaurant? My stomach rumbled. Jane sneered. I guessed her body parts had better control. I pressed my fingers into my aching forehead and wondered what the hell time it was. Time to stop drinking, as the old saying went.
“Bullshit.”
My head popped up. Pristine Jane cussing was akin to my mother approving of something I did.
“Scott was given a copy. Where is my painting?”
“What?” My mind spun like the pink wheels on my feet. “How can that be? Sam stole the painting back and put it in his car. Then he gave the painting to me. How—?”
The Dimple of Doom (Samantha Lytton) Page 22
