Richfield & Rivers Mystery Series 2 - Stellium in Scorpio (21 page)

"I
think she's getting married or wanting to get married or something," I
lied again.

"I
hope you're not buying anything she's selling," Callie said knowingly.

"Nothing,"
I said, guilty with no reason to be other than Callie's piercing eyes staring
at me. I broke free from her to go into the bedroom and get dressed for the
pitch. We'd made record time and didn't have to leave for our appointment for
an hour. It only took me twenty minutes to clean up and change into a nice
double-breasted suit.

"You
look very sexy," Callie said as I came down the narrow hallway from the
bedroom.

"Well,
thank you." I tried to move past her, but she trapped me up against the
wall and kissed me. Her kisses were so hot that I could barely stand up.

"Are
you trying to wrinkle my suit?" I whispered. Her mouth never let go of
mine, her tongue searching and stroking as her hands deftly unbuckled my belt
and unzipped my slacks. She skipped all the foreplay and slid her hand inside
me, suddenly pinning me back against the wall and making me gasp. She was leaning
fully against me, kissing me hard and long and making me weaker and wetter—her
hands stronger than I had imagined they could be—moving inside me urgently as I
moaned. I could no longer stand, but she held me like steel against the wall as
I sank into her and let go, no longer trying to figure out how a person makes
love against a wall, but just doing it—until there was no wall.

"I
am ruined," I said afterward, breathless.

Still
kissing me, she pulled my slacks up, buckled my belt, straightened my shirt,
and said, "That should take the edge off," and grinned mischievously.

"I'll
never think of this wall in the same way again. Perhaps a wall is nothing more
than a vertical bed," I said.

"Hmm."
She grinned and kissed me again. I began unbuttoning her blouse, but she
stopped me. "Come on, we'll finish this later. You'll be late."

"But
I..."

"It
will give us both something to look forward to." She gave me that
businesslike kiss that meant we were moving on, and I tried to pull myself
together for my meeting.

I
went into the bathroom to repair my makeup and caught sight of myself in the
mirror. "I look so had," I said out loud into the dreamy green eyes
that stared back at me. I practiced furrowing my brow and focusing my vision to
a more businesslike look and finally gave it up. "Now I simply look like a
business person who's been had."

As
we drove, hand in hand, to the Marathon Studio gates, I contemplated Callie's
beautiful profile. "You know, for a woman who only a short time ago
couldn't let herself go in bed, you're definitely making up for lost
ground."

"And
your complaint would be...?" She grinned at me.

We
hadn't been to Marathon Studios since our infamous entanglement with Robert
Isaacs, months ago, which had ended in his being arrested, along with half a
dozen studio personnel. Barrett had survived to continue in her position as
Executive VP of Worldwide Talent, which I assumed meant if your talent was only
continental, Barrett wasn't your gal. The guard at the gate had been alerted to
our arrival. He took our names, barely bothered to locate us on the list, and
waved us through.

"Feels
oddly familiar, doesn't it?" I asked Callie.

"More
pleasant this time," she replied.

"That's
due entirely to the sexual prelude," I said. "By the way, did you
make love to me because we're seeing Barrett and you wanted me to keep you top
of mind?" I teased.

"It's
not a competition." Callie smiled serenely, then paused and added
impishly, "But if it were, I would win hands down."

Barrett's
gay male secretary swooned when we came in, rising from his seat in awe and
respect. "Long time no seeeeee. Let me tell her you're here," he
said, veritably dancing into her office and returning to tell us we were
welcome to go inside. I had personally noticed that Hollywood Studio greetings
could range from rude, when I wanted something from the studio, to orgasmic,
when I had something the studio wanted. Today was an orgasmic day, as if
everyone on the lot had gotten the memo: Be nice, they have something we want.
As we entered ahead of him, the secretary jogged in place in the doorway,
demonstrating his desire to swiftly dash over to the commissary and get us any
special drink we might require. We declined, and he jogged on.

Barrett's
office was impeccably decorated. She'd had it completely remodeled since we'd
visited last, maybe to entertain her guests, or perhaps just to entertain
herself. Lots of leather and polished wood and museum quality objet d'art
adorned the sweeping lines of her cherry-topped desk, held in suspension by
nearly unseen silver legs in the shape of nude women whose arms stretched
overhead, in a 1940s Esther Williams dive style, to hold the desk top aloft. A
leather minimalist chaise stretched out near the window, beckoning someone to
read a manuscript while enjoying the studio grounds. Her shelves were lined
with elitist trophies, including some for rowing. She rose to greet us, wearing
her signature pressed and pleated, cuffed dress pants, with expensive patent
loafers peeking out from under them. Her shirt was the most expensive item,
light blue textured cotton with navy accents around the buttonholes and a tiny
navy crest. She was tall, flat chested, and smoothly gender-agnostic from her
tiny gold earrings to her pinkie ring and gold coin cufflinks.

"I'm
so glad you came," she said, in a double entendre every female writer in
Hollywood could attribute to her. "And you too, Callie, of course."
She extended a long, graceful arm, indicating we should take a seat together on
the leather couch across the polished coffee table from two chairs where she
and Jeremy would no doubt be seated. "Are you going to tell me what you're
pitching to Jeremy?"

"No."
I smiled.

"Then
I can't jump in and help you if things go south." She gave me an
I-warned-you shrug.

"South
is fine." I shrugged back, truly not caring.

Moments
later Jeremy came huffing in the door with a thick, black, battered satchel
briefcase that I couldn't imagine was still being manufactured in modern times.
His shirt had a lunch stain on it, his glasses needed a good cleaning, and his
shoes had never seen polish.

This
guy has to be rich and for real, or no one would give him the time of day. He's
a nebbish,
as my Jewish friends would
say.

Barrett
took his briefcase and stowed it away, remarking on what he might be hiding in
it, including his mother, based on its weight. Nothing seemed to faze Jeremy.
He was oblivious to insult and seemed only to be made nervous by his own
personal time schedule. Barrett began with the usual "You remember Teague
Richfield and Callie Rivers," and then we all shook hands, and said our
hellos, and created small talk for a few minutes, after which Barrett set the
stage with, "Jeremy has funds to deliver six pictures this year, and he's
come to me for suggestions about the type of films that would be
groundbreaking, but relatively low budget. So, that's why I asked Teague to
leave her work in Las Vegas for a day and come over and pitch her absolute
favorite theatrical to you." Barrett tossed the line off with the
confidence of someone who embraced exaggeration as a staple of good business.

For
a split second, I wished I had given this more thought. He was a big-time
Hollywood director. He might be a schmuck, but he was a schmuck with bucks, and
this was possibly my moment. I glanced at Callie, who gave me a riveting look
that clearly said, "This is a great story, go for it."

"Okay."
I looked at him thinking,
If you interrupt me one fucking time, I'm out of
here.
"This is a love story between two women, one of whom is about to
complete her religious training to become a nun, and the other who is married
to an abusive husband. In the course of getting counseling from the younger
woman, the married woman falls in love with her." I paused, giving Jeremy
time to order a scotch, or scratch his crotch, or do something that would
irritate me, but he never took his eyes off me. I went on for another fifteen
minutes, describing the way the relationship developed, and what motivated
them, psychologically and physically, and the moment of crisis in the middle of
the film, and the climactic ending, and then I paused.

No
one spoke for a few seconds. Then Jeremy slapped his leg with his hand like
some old-timer hearing a funny joke, and yelled, "I love this film! I'm
going to make this film. It's risky, it's romantic, it's a little raunchy even
for Middle America. It will be talked about. We'll film it in New York. Do you
have a treatment? I need a two-, five-, ten-page treatment, whatever tells the
story. Get that to Barrett, and she'll get it to me, and we'll take the next
step. I love it!" He stood up. "Sorry, I have another pitch meeting
across town. We'll be seeing each other. Good. Very good." And he left.

I
was stunned and said nothing. Callie gave me a big smile. Barrett rose and
paced proudly like a lion across her den. "So, you think I just fuck with
you! Ha! He just bought your story, Teague. Great story. Who's representing you
now?"

"I
don't have an agent. I use my attorney."

"You're
so stubborn. Why not an agent?"

"Agents
don't get my work; they like very commercial stuff. Besides, let's enjoy this
moment in which we just sold something without an agent."

"Have
your attorney call me. We need to cut the deal," she said.

"I
write the script," I said firmly.

"Sure."
She dismissed my remark, but I knew the battle to come. "Okay, you two go
back to Las Vegas. I'll be in touch. This is exciting. Callie thinks so."
Barrett beamed at Callie.

"Very
exciting," Callie said with genuine enthusiasm.

"Try
to get your serious friend here to be enthusiastic," Barrett teased.

"I'll
work on it," Callie said, and we left.

In
the car, Callie hugged me, and kissed me, and congratulated me, until it began
to sink in that one of my favorite films was finally going to be made.

"Let's
go pick up Elmo and celebrate!" I said.

∗ ∗ ∗ ∗

The
road trip back to Las Vegas would have been long and tiresome had it not been
for our ongoing speculation about shooting the picture in New York and how much
fun we'd have there. We were already talking about how we'd have to teach Elmo
what "quiet on the set" meant. I began practicing with him.

"Elmo!
Quiet on the set!" I shouted, and he let out a piercing bark several
octaves above his normal bark. We jumped involuntarily and then giggled.

"Elmo,
come on," I continued, "quiet on the set!" The excited tone in
my voice told Elmo something big was coming, and he barked louder.
"Elmo!" I reached behind me and took his jowls in my hand to get his
attention. "Quiet—" I whispered, and he interrupted with a bark.
Callie was convulsed in laughter.

"He's
going to need more work, but not in the car, I'm almost deaf," Callie
said, and Elmo barked again. She hugged his big thick neck. "Elmo, you're
going to be a star!"

Elmo
licked Callie on the cheek in a very ungentlemanly manner.

"I
can't blame you, Elmo. I've wanted to do that all night." I grinned at
Callie.

Callie
used an antiseptic wipe to clean her face while I patted Elmo's large head.
Success on the horizon made everything okay.

My
cell phone rang. A female voice said, "You return at great peril."
The line went dead as Callie stared at me.

"Blocked
call," I said and repeated the warning the woman had just given me.
"I swear that voice sounded like Loomis, the front-desk manager. Why would
she be warning us not to come back?"

"How
would she have your cell number?" Callie asked. "Wait, she does have
your cell! You gave it to her and said don't remove anything or put anything in
our room without calling me. She's in a position to know a lot about what goes
on there. Maybe she's not trying to scare us, but just trying to save us. Rose
is next, Teague. I have to go back there."

"Well,
you're not going alone," I said and took her hand, all conversation about
the movie put on hold.

Across
the Nevada state line, just outside the Las Vegas city limits, a police car
pulled up behind us. I was doing eighty-five and reflexively slowed to
seventy-five. He flipped on his red lights, signaling for us to pull over.

"Damn!"
I said.

"How
fast were you going?" Callie asked.

“Ten
over," I replied. I fumed over how much this was going to cost me as he
opened his car door and got out. He wasn't overly tall, chunky, with an
antiquated crew cut and dark wraparound sunglasses. He wore his gun holster
high on his hip like all the cops I'd ever known and clenched his metal ticket
book, snapping it against the side of his leg in a statement of aggravation,
indicating he might have been tailing me longer than he liked before I realized
he was behind me and pulled over.

"Just
be careful, Teague. You have a combative square in your chart today."