Full Black - Brad Thor [20]
A fatigued yet knowing look crept across Salomon’s face. Hollywood was packed with wannabe actors, wannabe screenwriters, and wannabe directors. Anyone with even a semblance of power who could help get a movie made was under constant assault by those looking to break into the business. Producers, in particular, had pitchman horror stories, including being wooed while in the dentist’s chair, as well as the mother of all famous stories, involving a producer being pitched at a rather sensitive moment in her gynecologist’s office.
“What difference does it make?”
He was being cagey again and Ralston pressed him on it. “Why do you keep holding out on me?”
The producer looked up from his coffee. “I’m not holding out on you.”
“You’re not answering my questions and I’m beginning to think maybe Hank was right. Maybe you were making porn. Maybe you ran up a huge drug debt with the Russians too and they came to collect.”
“I’m not making porn,” insisted Salomon, “and you know me. I have never touched drugs in my life.”
Ralston did know his friend and he didn’t believe for a second that Salomon was making porn or into drugs, but he didn’t like having his questions parried. “Larry, I’m going to chalk a lot of your current condition up to—”
“My current condition?” interrupted the producer. “What are you talking about?”
Ralston held his hand up for him to stop. “What happened tonight would put anyone into shock. Add to it that this would have been Rachael’s birthday.”
“It is Rachael’s birthday.”
“No, it isn’t. It’s the anniversary of Rachael’s birth. She’s gone, Larry.”
Salomon went off like a flare. “You think I want you to spell it out like that? You think I give a good goddamn about how you see it? She wasn’t your daughter, Luke. Don’t you ever forget that.”
The outburst was so intense it froze Hank in mid-scramble over his eggs at the stove.
Ralston motioned for the old SEAL to bring the bottle of Bushmills from next to the fridge.
As Hank placed it on the table and retreated to the stove, Ralston pulled the cork from the bottle and poured a generous amount into each of the coffee cups. He was feeling the effects of everything that had happened as well. A little anesthetic would be good for them.
Salomon took a deep drink of his Irish coffee and said nothing. Ralston respected the silence, just as he had hours earlier in the producer’s driveway. Even Hank maintained a respectful distance in the kitchen.
“I’m sorry,” the producer eventually said.
Ralston reached out and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “There’s no need to apologize.”
“Jeremy and Chip were good people; good filmmakers. I think Rachael would have liked them. And they her.”
“She was a wonderful girl, Larry. You have every right to be proud of her.”
The producer smiled, taken away for a moment by a thought from a happier time in his life. As his attention returned, his expression became more serious. “I met Jeremy and Chip at a social function.”
“If you don’t mind my asking,” said Hank as he brought over three plates of food and set them down on the table, “how’d you lose your daughter?”
“Let’s not go there,” Ralston replied, trying to protect Salomon.
“That’s okay.” Looking up at Hank, the producer said, “My daughter was murdered during a trip to Israel three years ago.”
Hank sat his considerable frame down onto a chair. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope they caught the fuckers and strung them up.”
Salomon shook his head. “Unfortunately, they didn’t catch them. That’s the hardest part for me. How can anyone move on, knowing that person, or persons, is still out there and probably still committing unspeakable acts? How do you even begin to let that wound heal?”
Ralston knew that talking about Rachael would only end up sinking Salomon deeper into depression, so he decided to change the subject. “So you met Jeremy and Chip at some social event, right?”
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