Fool Me Twice

by Michael Brandman

  Her mansion was located in the storied Holmby Hills neighborhood of Beverly Hills. It had once been owned by Groucho Marx, and in its heyday, the gated estate played host to the cream of old Hollywood. It boasted a kidney-shaped swimming pool with a grotto, a Pancho Segura–designed tennis court, a koi pond, which often fell victim to marauding raccoons, and a screening room that Groucho himself had designed, with comfortable seating for twenty.

  “You’ve seen the doctor,” Sarah said.

  “Not much he could do.”

  Sarah reached out and took Marisol in her arms.

  “Please let me help you,” she said. “The agency has a very long reach in this town.”

  “I’m a big girl. I should have known better.” She sighed.

  “I thought he’d be a star,” she said. “I had visions of us as the new power couple.”

  Sarah released her and stepped back.

  “You’ve gotten an offer,” Sarah said. “Picture called A Taste of Arsenic.”

  Marisol looked at Sarah.

  “Starts filming in four weeks. Eliza Morgan is pregnant and had to withdraw. They want you.”

  “Four weeks,” Marisol said.

  She touched her face.

  “What hasn’t healed we’ll fix with makeup,” Sarah said.

  “Can I read it?”

  Sarah reached into her bag and handed her the screenplay.

  “They need to know today.”

  “I’ll read it now.”

  “It shoots on the East Coast. A perfect opportunity to get away from him.”

  “Where?”

  “Small town in Massachusetts.”

  “Which one?”

  “I doubt you’ve heard of it. A place called Paradise.”

  3

  Jesse pulled his cruiser into the circular driveway of the Paradise Country Club and parked in front.

  The red-brick clubhouse was one of the architectural grande dames of Paradise. Constructed in the 1920s, it was colonial in style, ostentatious in appearance, and currently exhibiting multiple signs of disrepair. The average age of the membership was sixty-plus, and rumor had it that enrollment was faltering.

  He entered the clubhouse and headed toward the dining room at the back of the building, the floor-to-ceiling windows of which offered excellent views of the first tee of the Robert Trent Jones–designed golf course, as well as the Olympic-size swimming pool, which was currently being drained in anticipation of encroaching winter.

  The room was nearly empty as Jesse crossed it and approached Carter Hansen’s table.

  Seated with Hansen was selectman Morris Comden, as well as Frances “Frankie” Greenberg, the line producer of the upcoming feature motion picture A Taste of Arsenic, which was soon to start filming in Paradise.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Jesse said as he sat down.

  “We were beginning to give up hope,” Carter Hansen said.

  Jesse smiled weakly.

  “Ms. Greenberg was just explaining the intricacies of filmmaking,” Hansen said. “It all sounds very exciting.”

  Frankie Greenberg was in her mid-thirties, sharply attractive and radiating confidence. She wore a midnight-blue Stella McCartney stretch-cotton bomber jacket, a diamond-print silk blouse, and a pair of slim-cut jeans and open-toed Jimmy Choo sandals. Her jet-black hair was cut boyishly short, in style with the current Hollywood trend. Her dark green eyes sparkled with intelligence.

  “Actually,” she said, “it’s not all that exciting.”

  “Why not,” Hansen said.

  “Why isn’t it exciting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Line producing a movie is the equivalent of running a midsized company,” Frankie said.

  Jesse took a sip of coffee and leaned back in his chair.

  “For instance,” Frankie said, “I’m in charge of running the business of the movie here on location. Long hours. Lots of stress. The studio production manager watches me like a hawk. Exciting? Not exactly. It’s exciting for the executive wonks back in Hollywood, though. They get to shmooze up the creative team . . . the writers, the director, the department heads. They also get to do all of the casting.”

  “And you,” Comden said.

  “I get to hire the grunts.”

  “The grunts,” Hansen said.

  “Distant locations are frequently chosen because of the tax advantages they offer. Millions of dollars are often rebated back to the production company by cities and states eager to have their business. Like here. The only caveat is that the rebates are dependent on the movie hiring local workers.”

  “The grunts,” Hansen said.

  “Yes.”

  “You mean the more locals you hire, the greater the cash rebates,” Comden said.

  “Yes,” Frankie said.

  “And you get to hire them,” Hansen said.

  “And manage them, too. I also get to devise the shooting schedule and then supervise it. I monitor each day’s progress according to that schedule, and God help us if we fall behind.”

  “How could you fall behind,” Hansen said.

  “That’s exactly what the bigwigs in Hollywood ask.”

  “And how do you answer them?”

  “If we fall behind?”

  “Yes.”

  “I blame everything on the director.”

  Jesse smiled.

  “Actually, it’s all in the anticipation,” Frankie said. “It’s my job to know how we’re faring as each day progresses. If we fall even fifteen minutes behind schedule, I know it and I pounce.”

  “On who?”

  “On them all. Like a ton of bricks. I threaten them. I threaten to fire them. I’ve even been known to threaten their lives.”

  “A nice girl like you,” Comden said.

  “Nice is illusory,” she said.

  “Meaning?”

  “I’m lethal,” she said.

  Jesse grinned.

  They all sipped their coffee in silence.

  “Who did you say was going to star in A Touch of Arsenic,” Comden said at last.

  “Marisol Hinton,” Frankie said.

  “She’s a wonderful actress,” Hansen said.

  “Beautiful, too,” Comden said.

  Frankie didn’t say anything.

  “Most of your communication regarding Paradise will involve Chief Stone here,” Hansen said.

  Frankie turned her attention to Jesse.

  “Chief Stone,” she said.

  “Jesse.”

  “Nice to meet you, Jesse. I’m afraid we’re going to shoot up your town.”

  “We promise not to shoot back,” he said.

  “Chief Stone is known for his trenchant wit,” Hansen said.

  “Then I’m sure we’ll get along fine,” Frankie said.

  The breakfast wound down. The two selectmen finished their coffee and stood. After Comden shook Frankie’s hand and Hansen gave her an awkward hug, they said their good-byes.

  Frankie lingered for a few moments. As did Jesse.

  “You think making movies is hard,” she said. “Next to a breakfast like this, it’s a cakewalk.”

  Jesse smiled.

  “He doesn’t like you, does he,” Frankie said.

  “It’s that obvious?”

  “Let’s just say you aren’t cut from the same cloth.”

  Jesse didn’t respond.

  “We’re going to be a pain in the ass, you know.”

  “I do know.”

  “May I apologize in advance?”

  “No apology necessary. Actually, I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Tell me that again in week three.”

  Jesse smiled.

  “Are you a native or an import,” she said.

  “Import.”

  “From?”

  “L.A.”

  “Really?”

  “Angeleno born and bred.”

  “Really?”

  “LAPD veteran, too.”

  “Really?”

&nbs
p; “Are your conversational skills always this limited,” he said.

  “No. Uh, no. Forgive me. You surprised me,” she said.

  “Because I’m from L.A.?”

  “I had no idea. Me, too.”

  “From L.A.?”

  “Burbank. My father was an accountant at Warner’s.”

  “Family business,” Jesse said.

  “Once bitten,” she said.

  Jesse smiled.

  “How did you wind up here,” she said.

  “Long story.”

  Frankie didn’t say anything.

  “Would take an entire dinner to tell it properly,” Jesse said.

  “Are you suggesting we have dinner?”

  “I am.”

  She looked at him.

  “Okay,” she said.

  He looked at her.

  “Goody,” he said.

  4

  Ryan Rooney remembered the first time.

  He had been cast in a hastily assembled potboiler called Tomorrow We Love, which was filming in Santa Fe, New Mexico, starring Marisol Hinton. Ryan was playing a small-town schoolteacher with whom she fell in love after he had improbably managed to save her life.

  Truth was, he hated the script, and under different circumstances would have passed on it. But the chance to be seen opposite Marisol Hinton outweighed the movie’s many shortcomings.

  Ryan was closing in on thirty. Although the Hollywood consensus was that he had promise, he had yet to score a breakthrough.

  He had tirelessly worked the system and was usually considered for most of the big roles in his age range. But now he was starting to compete with the next generation of wannabes, and he was fearful of slipping farther down the ladder.

  So he accepted the role. He had no idea how much he would come to regret it.

  The shooting of Tomorrow We Love was hampered by bad weather, resulting in numerous delays. Spirits were damp. Tempers were short.

  There was tension between Ryan and the director, an inexperienced wunderkind who had caught the brass ring with a short film he wrote and directed that had been nominated for an Oscar. Their volatile disagreements made the set toxic.

  But the production delays had encouraged a kind of friendship between Ryan and his personal driver, Bruce Stewart. On one of Ryan’s Saturdays off, Stewart promised him a mind-blowing experience, and visited Ryan’s hotel room with a stash of Shabu, the latest incarnation of the designer drug crystal meth.

  Ryan was generally wary of taking drugs. He was afraid they might negatively impact his work. But the tension on the set had made him depressed and cranky, so he paid close attention when Stewart showed him how to fire up the Shabu.

  At first Ryan felt nothing. He took another toke, and when it finally hit his system, it rocked him. He had never before experienced anything like it.

  After Stewart left the hotel room, Ryan was alone. He became aware that the drug was producing in him euphoria unlike any he had ever known.

  He was mostly an unhappy person, and he had been since childhood. Generally, he was angry and insecure, guarded and secretive. He was normally on edge and anxious.

  But the drug relaxed him. He began to feel loose and easy. And he felt omnipotent. For some odd reason, a goofy grin lit up his face.

  His mind was racing. He believed that nothing was beyond his reach. He felt emboldened in a way he could never have imagined. And he was unbelievably horny. He had a desperate need to get laid.

  Marisol Hinton flitted across his mind, but he quickly dismissed the idea as too far-fetched. She was the star, after all. He considered his makeup person, then the script supervisor. Finally, the second assistant director came to mind. He rejected them all. He felt it would be unseemly for him to be banging members of the crew.

  He thought again of Marisol. She had been nice to him. Flirty, even. On top of everything else, she was drop-dead gorgeous. And he was feeling so, so good.

  They were staying at the same hotel. On the same floor, to be exact. He knew she was there alone. When they first met, she mentioned that she had been single for a while.

  Ryan made his decision.

  What the hell.

  He wandered down the hall and knocked on her door.

  “Who is it,” Marisol said.

  “It’s Ryan.”

  “Ryan?”

  “Ryan Rooney.”

  She opened the door.

  She stood there, wrapped in a loosely tied hotel bathrobe. Her rich auburn hair cascaded around her neck and shoulders in wispy curls. She smelled of musk. Her eyes were wide, her expression open yet knowing.

  “This is a surprise,” she said.

  “May I come in?”

  “Sure,” she said, standing back to allow him to enter. “What brings you to my door on such a gloomy day?”

  “I don’t know. You were on my mind.”

  “I was?”

  He couldn’t stop looking at her mouth.

  “Yes.”

  “In what way?”

  He suddenly took her in his arms and kissed her.

  Surprised, she pulled away from him.

  “What’s gotten into you, Ryan,” she said.

  He stared at her, his intentions barely concealed.

  She moved farther away.

  “This is so unexpected,” she said. “Perhaps it’s not such a good idea, your being here. After all, we are working together.”

  “We’re playing lovers,” he said.

  “That’s just it,” she said. “We’re playing lovers.”

  “I like playing your lover.”

  He stepped closer and kissed her again.

  She stepped back again.

  “Maybe I’m not making myself clear,” she said.

  “Maybe I’m not making myself clear,” Ryan said, closing in on her.

  He touched her hair. He took a handful of it and pressed it to his nose and lips.

  “You smell wonderful,” he said.

  She didn’t say anything.

  He gently slid his hand along her cheek, stopping at her lips, which he traced with his fingertips.

  She sighed.

  He moved his hand down her neck. He lowered his head and brushed his lips against it.

  She didn’t stop him.

  He untied her bathrobe and reached inside. She shuddered.

  He removed the robe, put his arms around her, and pulled her into him. He kissed her again, softly at first, then with more urgency. His hands roamed her back.

  She leaned away for a moment and looked in his eyes.

  Then she took his hand and led him into her bedroom.

  By the time he returned to his own room early the next morning, they were bound to each other.

  5

  When Jesse arrived at the station, he found reporters from the Paradise Daily News and the local TV station already camped out in front. They shouted questions at him as he walked by.

  Jesse called to Molly as he headed for his office.

  “Would you be so kind as to join me,” he said.

  “You forgot the ‘Good morning’ part,” she said.

  She stood up and followed him inside.

  He was already seated at his desk, thumbing through his phone messages.

  “Courtney Cassidy,” he said.

  “You got that right,” Molly said. “Seems you busted Paradise’s most notable debutante.”

  Jesse didn’t say anything.

  “The DA’s office called. Marty Reagan is anxious to speak with you.”

  “She’s been put in a cell?”

  “And relishing every minute of it, too. For the last half-hour she’s been hollering, ‘Police brutality.’”

  Jesse selected one of the messages, picked up the phone, and dialed the number.

  “Jesse Stone for Mr. Reagan,” he said.

  Marty Reagan picked up the call.

  “What in hell have you done,” Reagan said.

  “Who, me?”

  “Yes, you. I�
��ve gotten calls from half the lawyers at Cone, Oakes. I gather she’s in custody.”

  “‘She’ being . . . ?”

  “Don’t fuck around, Jesse. The Cassidys are out for bear.”

  “She ran a stop sign and nearly totaled two vehicles. She was texting at the time.”

  “And that’s why you arrested her?”

  “She did manage to break a few laws.”

  “Her old man’s Richard Cassidy.”

  “I don’t care if he’s Hopalong Cassidy. The driver of the car she hit still hasn’t regained consciousness.”

  “So what do you suggest I do?”

  “Make her the poster girl for a ‘No Texting While Driving’ campaign.”

  “Which means?”

  “Charge her to the full extent of the law. Alert the media. Request jail time and a hefty fine. Stir the pot. Seek the death penalty. You know, the usual.”

  “You mean the usual for people you don’t particularly like.”

  “Listen, Marty, we don’t even know whether the other driver is gonna survive. Things could turn out a whole lot worse for her if he doesn’t.”

  “Don’t exaggerate. In the meantime, the girl’s seventeen. No priors. And she’s exceptionally well connected. Plus, I’m hearing that the guy’s condition isn’t that serious.”

  “So?”

  “So none of this is going to fly, Jesse. Richard Cassidy has enormous influence in this town.”

  “You mean he throws his money around?”

  “That, too. She’ll be out in less than an hour.”

  Jesse sighed.

  “Do the best you can, Marty,” he said.

  “Don’t hold your breath on this one, Jesse. Arraignment’s at noon.”

  “Fast.”

  “Money talks.”

  “You need me there?”

  “You’d only make things worse.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Jesse said.

  “I’ll call you,” Reagan said.

  6

  Sarah Fine’s office,” the voice on the other end of the line said.

  “Hi, Karen. It’s Marisol.”

  “Hi, Ms. Hinton. Let me see if I have her.”

  After several seconds, Karen came back on the line.

  “You’re on with Sarah,” she said.

  “Hi, honey,” Sarah said.

  “I’ll do it,” Marisol said.

  “I knew you would.”

  “It’s a good script.”