In Cold Blonde

by James L. Conway

  She had a class with Adam first period, English. Alice got to school earlier, took her seat and waited. A few seconds after the bell Adam hurried in, he looked ragged, hung over. Good, Alice thought, I’m not the only one in pain.

  His eyes immediately went to Alice; he seemed surprised she was in class, and then he quickly looked away, embarrassed, Alice thought, guilty.

  She wanted to catch up to him after class, tell him it was okay, she wasn’t going to say anything, but he hurried out the door as soon as the bell rang. She got a couple of glimpses of Blake and Colin during the day as they were changing classes but they ignored her.

  The final bell rang and everyone went about business as usual. Alice felt a great sense of relief. She was terrified the boys would tell their friends a sanitized version of what they’d done last night and she’d be besieged by snide looks, whispers and ridicule. But as she walked home, alone as usual, everyone ignored her, as usual.

  Everything changed the next morning. When she got to school she could almost feel it in the air.

  A buzz.

  About her.

  Boys were looking at her, whispering, smirking. Girls were staring with a mix of disgust and pity.

  They know, she thought. Adam, Blake and Colin had told everyone. But no, it was even worse. Lizzy Grinaldi, a fuzzy-haired member of the nerd herd, and the closest thing to a friend Alice had, grabbed her in the hallway and pulled her into an empty classroom.

  “How could you?” she said.

  “How could I what? What have you heard?”

  “You mean, what have you seen, don’t you?” she said, showing Alice her cell phone. There was a picture on the screen of Alice, naked, spread-eagle on the pool table. She hit a button, a new shot, this time of Alice with a penis in her mouth. Then a shot of Alice making love with a man. The image only showed the man’s butt, so there was no telling who it was. And a final shot of Alice being penetrated by a pool cue.

  “Oh, my God,” Alice mumbled. “Where did you get these?”

  “They were emailed to a few guys last night who turned around and emailed them to all their friends who emailed them to their friends. It’s gone totally viral, Alice. Everyone has seen them, and there are even rumors of a video. What were you thinking?”

  “I was drugged, Lizzy. Raped. I don’t remember any of this.”

  “Did you go to the police?”

  “No.”

  Lizzy was shocked. “Why not?”

  “You wouldn’t understand,” she said, fighting back tears. Then Alice ran out of the classroom.

  Lizzy chased her, calling out, “Who did this to you?”

  Alice ignored her, racing past startled students out of the school, all the way home.

  But a tsunami built in her wake. Lizzy told her friends that Alice was drugged and raped and they told their friends and by lunch Blake, Colin and Adam heard. Colin was afraid Alice might go the police so he called his dad who called his lawyer, Zachary Stone.

  Meanwhile, Alice told her mother what happened when she got home from school. Her mother had called her father at work at Knotts Berry Farm, who listened, furious, to the story and promised they’d talk about it and decide what to do when he got home.

  And that’s what they were preparing to do that night when the doorbell rang. Zachary Stone was at the door and needed to speak to them urgently. Once he determined that they hadn’t yet contacted the police, he launched into his pitch. The parents of the boys involved are so sorry for what happened to Alice. They would like the ability to punish the boys themselves without calling in the authorities and were offering a five-hundred-thousand-dollar settlement fee in return for the Waterman family’s cooperation.

  “A half a million dollars could make a lot of dreams come true,” Stone said. “You’d be able to pay for Alice’s college education and still have plenty of money left to buy a new car, put an addition onto the house or take a family vacation to anywhere in the world.”

  Alice’s Mom exploded. “My daughter is not a whore who can be bought for half a million dollars!”

  “All right then,” Stone said calmly. “Go to the police and let’s take the case to court. But I should warn you, there is a very good chance that because of your daughter’s sexual history, the boys will be acquitted while your daughter’s reputation will suffer irreparable harm.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Cliff, Alice’s father, demanded.

  Alice had told her parents about the rape at Colin Wood’s house, but her parents had no idea that she was sexually active. In fact, she’d given them every reason to believe she was still a virgin. Her heart sank as Stone turned to her and asked, “Do you want to tell them or should I?”

  “Tell us what?” her mother asked.

  So Alice told them. Told them she’d been having sex since sophomore year with a number of boys. And that even before then, she’d been with boys in others ways.

  Her father turned beet red listening to her. He finally held out a hand, saying, “Stop.” He turned to his wife. “Did you know all this?”

  Alice’s horrified mother said, “No.”

  “But a lot of kids at school know it, Mr. Waterman,” Stone said. “And if we go to court, the whole world will know. Your daughter may claim she was raped and drugged but the boys say she came willingly, drank too much on her own volition and wanted to have sex with them.”

  “That’s a lie,” a mortified Alice said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “And with her sexual history,” Stone went on, “What jury is going to disagree?”

  Alice’s Mom and Dad exchanged a defeated look.

  “But we can avoid the legal circus. The families are very sorry for what happened, and like I said, are willing to pay five hundred thousand dollars to make the matter disappear.”

  Alice was about to say no, I’m going to the police when her father said, “Make it a million. Make it a million dollars and we won’t file charges.”

  A shocked Alice looked on as Stone took out his cell phone, made a brief phone call. She tried to catch her father’s eye, but he was pointedly looking away from her.

  “Deal,” Stone said.

  But no one was happy in the Waterman household. Alice’s father took her promiscuity as a betrayal and shunned her. Alice’s mother was ashamed of her and worse, knew that all the other mothers would badger her about her slutty daughter. She started sniping at Alice, relentlessly criticizing her.

  At school, it was worse. Everyone knew her parents got a huge cash settlement. Some kids thought Alice’s parents sold her out. Others thought the boys should never have paid a cent. She was mocked, the butt of jokes, ostracized.

  Her first suicide attempt was three days later.

  Alice turned off the water, grabbed a towel and dried herself off. She had her TV tuned to NBC. It was 11:00 p.m. and the newscaster led with the day’s top local stories: a fire in Culver City, a metro bus collision in Van Nuys, and a robbery in a Denny’s restaurant on Wilshire Boulevard. Nothing about a body found at the Bel Air Regent. So far, so good.

  She slipped into a worn Angels tee shirt and walked into the living room/dining room/kitchen/bedroom. She picked up the red magic marker and stared at the picture of Adam Devlin. “Sorry, baby.” She drew a circle and a slash through his face.

  She turned to the final picture, Blake Hunter. The rape had been his idea. He’d been the one to shoot the video. He was the one who sent the disgusting pictures of her to all his friends.

  She had saved the best, or worst, for last.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Ryan was in a great mood. He walked down the hallway of the Hollywood Division anxious to get the day started. The place was bustling and everyone seemed to be happy.

  He strolled into the bullpen, then stopped dead in his tracks. A man was sitting in the guest chair at the edge of his desk. The man’s back was to him but Ryan recognized what he was wearing, a mechanic’s coveralls. Then the man turned to face him — i
t was the tow truck driver.

  The driver leapt to his feet, rushed up to Ryan. “I saw you on TV, thought I recognized you.”

  Ryan was literally speechless.

  The driver continued. “Saw how you won this huge lottery. About six months ago I bought this Lotto ticket at a 7-Eleven, and there was this real impatient dude behind me. I glanced back and got a good look at him and, I swear to Christ, it was you. See, the thing is, I dropped that ticket as I came out of the store, didn’t realize it until I got home, then sort of forgot about it until I saw the news last night. So I’m thinking maybe this giant jackpot isn’t yours at all. That it actually belongs to me. You didn’t happen to find that ticket, did you? Maybe pick it up as you came out of the store?”

  Ryan looked at him for a long time before finally answering. “No,” he said. “I bought that ticket myself. And I’m sorry but I don’t recognize you.”

  The tow truck driver flushed with anger. “Liar.” Then he pulled out a knife and plunged it into Ryan’s chest.

  “No!” Ryan screamed, sitting up in bed.

  Syd sat up next to him. “Ryan? You okay?”

  He looked around, disoriented. He was at home. The lights were out. The clock on the bedside table said 3:17.

  It had been a dream.

  “What happened, sweetie, you have a nightmare?”

  “Yeah, weird. I haven’t had a nightmare since I was a kid.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  He looked at her. “The tow truck driver showed up, wanted to know if I found his Lotto ticket. I lied to him, told him I bought the ticket and he pulled a knife.”

  “Wow, gotta love the subconscious.”

  “Not really.” Ryan got out of bed, walked into the bathroom, ran cold water into his hand, splashed it onto his face. Ryan didn’t usually remember his dreams and rarely had anxiety dreams, so the stark reality of this one upset him.

  “You must really want that money.”

  Ryan glanced in the mirror, saw Syd standing behind him.

  “I guess I do,” he said turning to her. “You know, I never thought that much about money. Sure my dad had it when I was growing up; we lived in a huge house in Beverly Hills and I went to an expensive private school, but I was just a kid growing up. I honestly didn’t pay that much attention. When I went to UCLA I had my mustang and lived in a tiny dorm, didn’t bother me a bit. And when dad lost his money and Anne and I had to make do with a small studio apartment, I didn’t mind. I was happy. When Anne left, I stayed in that studio for three years, never dreamed of a bigger place, never wanted another car; I was busy at work, happy, satisfied. I only moved to this apartment because the other building went condo. And I like the extra room, but I didn’t lie in bed dreaming of a big house, swimming pool and three-car garage.”

  “And now you do?”

  “No, not exactly. But suddenly I’m noticing things. As we walked into Tony Roma’s there was a guy getting into a Bentley; royal blue, luscious leather interior. I bet it was fast as hell. And driving home we passed this house on Valleyheart, an old Tudor with outdoor lights illuminating the walkway and trees. It looked so…comfortable.”

  “Uh oh,” Syd said. “The infection is spreading Ryan, a new car and house today, a private jet tomorrow.”

  Ryan laughed and then said, “You never told me what you thought of Anne’s idea, about me keeping the money and setting up a foundation.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think.”

  “Of course it does. I value your opinion.”

  Syd considered, not what she thought about his taking the Lotto ticket, but whether she would tell Ryan. She didn’t want to become the bad guy to Anne’s good guy. She didn’t want to become a spoilsport. Nobody likes a party pooper. Still, if he did value her opinion, maybe she could stop him from making a mistake. “Even if I tell you taking the money is a terrible idea?”

  Ryan looked at Syd like she was crazy. “It’s not a terrible idea. In fact, it’s the only sane thing to do. If I don’t take it, no one does. The money disappears into the California general fund.”

  “So taking something that isn’t rightfully yours is okay because you’re going to use it to help people?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “Then why not rob a bank and distribute the money to the poor? Or steal a car and give it to someone stuck taking the bus?”

  “It’s not the same thing.”

  “Yes, it is, Ryan. The ticket isn’t yours! Hey, according to your rules, it’s actually mine. I’m the one who found it in the glove box.”

  That caught him by surprise. “Do you want the ticket?”

  “Fuck no. Anyway, I found it in your car so technically it’s still yours — if you don’t count the tow truck driver, I mean.”

  “So, you think I should just tear the Lotto ticket up, burn it; what? Syd, I’ve been on TV; all my friends think I’ve won millions of dollars, friends I want to help, and you want me to say, hey everybody, actually I just found the ticket on the sidewalk so I can’t accept the forty-seven million dollars.”

  “Thirty-four after taxes.”

  Ryan smiled. “Thirty-four after taxes,” he repeated. Somehow that brought the argument back down to earth but one fact remained. “Syd, if I don’t take the money, everyone will think I’m a chump.”

  “And if you take it, you’re a thief.”

  Ryan let out a long sigh. Technically he knew she was right, but god damn it, Anne was right, too. The world isn’t black and white; we have to live in the gray. It wasn’t until then, that moment, that Ryan realized how much he wanted to take the money. But he also wanted Syd’s approval, her blessing. “Don’t you think I could do a better job of redistributing this wealth than a bunch of crooked politicians?”

  “Yes.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  Syd sighed, knowing she’d lost. “There is no problem, Ryan. Take the money. I know you’ll do great things with it. And, frankly, I’d love to ride in a Bentley and live in that house on Valleyheart.”

  “But I want you to be as excited as I am.”

  Not going to happen, she thought. But that’s not what Ryan needs to hear right now so she said, “I will be, I promise.” Then something occurred to her. “Did we just have our first fight?”

  “I guess we did.”

  “Good,” she said slipping into his arms. “I just love make-up sex.”

  “Is there any kind of sex you don’t like?”

  A montage of images fluttered through Syd’s mind, things she’d had to do as a hooker and hated: being beaten by bondage freaks, getting pissed on, getting shat on, fucking a dwarf in front of a bunch of drunk fraternity brothers, having everything from carrots to dildos to cigars stuck up her vagina, having everything from carrots to dildos to cigars stuck up her ass.

  Syd focused on the hazel eyes of the man she loved, her finger traced his dimple. “If it’s with you, sweetie, there is no kind of sex I don’t like.” She kissed him. “Now shut up and fuck me.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Blake Hunter woke up staring at a huge pair of tits. He rolled over to find another huge pair of tits. Ah, what a way to start the day.

  The breasts belonged to two hookers, Emmy and Amy, or was it Annie and Erin? No matter, he was sure those weren’t their real names anyway.

  He’d ordered them up at the last minute, sort of a spur of the moment celebratory reward after one of his photographers scored a topless photo of pop sensation, Tiffany Brooks. Mario had been hiding in a tree across the street from Tiffany’s estate for two days, hoping for a shot of her sunbathing topless or fucking the pool boy or just watering the flowers. Something, anything of Tiffany in her new house would be tabloid gold. But she’d never left the house. Then yesterday, she finally came out for a swim. Topless. And a delighted Mario started shooting the first ever topless photos of Tiffany Brooks.

  The pictures were worth a fortune. Blake would sell them worldwide through BHPIX, his photo ne
ws company that fed the voracious hunger of the worldwide tabloids.

  Blake sat atop the paparazzi pyramid with a staff of six highly paid photographers willing to harass, intimidate, lie, cheat and steal to get a marketable shot. Blake also had a network of waiters and waitresses, bartenders, hostesses, valets and salesclerks who, for a cash commission, would call in when a celebrity showed up. Not to mention an army of publicists and agents who wanted their clients photographed.

  It was a great business but not the one Blake had hoped for. He’d wanted to be a director. As far back as high school he always had his video camera with him, shooting events at school and small movies with friends.

  He went to USC Film School, distinguished himself with a couple of student films and got a job directing a low budget independent movie right after graduation. There was this adorable teenage girl in the cast, only fifteen, and Blake flipped for her. He pursued her relentlessly during shooting, finally getting into her pants the last day of shooting.

  And that’s exactly how her mother found her daughter when she unexpectedly walked into her trailer; her daughter’s pants off, Blake’s pants off and Blake’s reproductive organ inserted snuggly in her fifteen-year-old daughter’s reproductive organ.

  Statutory Rape.

  No matter that Blake was her tenth or eleventh lover, the girl couldn’t be sure. No matter that the girl tried to convince her mother not to press charges to protect her reputation and career. Her mother called the cops, Blake was arrested and on advice of his consul, Zachary Stone, he pled out to two years in state prison for statutory rape. The girl spoke in Blake’s defense at the sentencing, and Stone managed to convince the judge to send Blake to Avenal State Prison, a minimum security facility, where he wouldn’t be gang-raped, tortured or killed.

  But talk about a career ender. When Blake got out of prison, he couldn’t get arrested. As a director, that is. He’d become friends with the guy who shot publicity pictures on his movie and the photographer moonlighted as a paparazzi. He asked Blake if he wanted to work with him and Blake was a natural. He was also an entrepreneur and within a couple of years put together his network of photographers and snitches.