Fun and Games - Duane Swierczynski [64]
Maybe all this time she should have been rooting for them.
Because once everything comes out in the open…
This time, Factboy was in the bathroom legitimately—taking a quick leak—when the phone in his cargo pants pocket buzzed. He shook, zipped up, then checked the screen and smiled. A Google alert on Lane Madden. He read it, then read it again, just to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him or somebody hadn’t linked to an Onion piece or something. Then he autodialed Mann.
“She’s at Musso and Frank,” Factboy said. “Right now?”
“Right now.”
“Doing what?”
“Having drinks, apparently.”
There was a pause on the line; for a moment Factboy worried that Mann would be thinking he was playing a joke, or fucking around with her for some reason (though he’d never dare). Instead she said:
“You know, I could kiss you.”
And with that, the call terminated.
Factboy’s face melted into a loose grin. It wasn’t that he relished a kiss from someone like Mann—even if she was hot, she was still scary as fuck. No, what made Factboy happy was that warm, fuzzy glow of job security, the knowledge that he’d done well, and that he could bask in it for a few minutes. When he rejoined his family at dinner, his wife was pleasantly surprised he’d returned so quickly.
And Factboy told his kids that, yes, they could order ice cream out on the back porch after they finished their meals.
O’Neal eased himself onto a wooden bench in the Lake Hollywood dog park. Hands and legs scraped to hell, bruising all up and down his back, head throbbing, eyes watering. What hurt most, though, was his pride. They have a word for henchmen who fuck up. And that would be… ex-henchmen. He could imagine Mann berating him. If he hadn’t gone after them solo, they wouldn’t have a van loaded with gear and sensitive information now, would they?
As if on cue, his cell vibrated.
Mann. “
We’ve got approval on a budget extension. But we need to wrap this up right now. No excuses, no more mistakes.”
“I’m fine, Mann, really, thanks for asking.”
Mann ignored him. O’Neal supposed he should know better than to expect concern about his well-being or health. In her mind, O’Neal had fucked up.
“I have two new team members bringing a vehicle,” Mann said. “I’ve got your position. Stay where you are. We’ll come get you.”
“Do you even know where they are?”
“Yeah. I know.”
“And you’ve got a new narrative in mind?”
“Of course.”
At long last the waiter placed the Manhattan on the table in front of Hardie. Sparkling reddish amber, packed with fresh ice, a vision of Heaven if Hardie ever saw one. But he shocked himself by not touching it. Not until he figured out what was up with Lane, who was staring at his drink.
“What is it? What’s wrong? I mean, besides the—well, obvious?”
Lane picked up a fork from the table, then pressed her thumbs against it until her knuckles turned white.
“I’m going to tell you something I haven’t told anybody.”
“Okay.”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“Okay.”
Lane told her story.
Three years ago—January.
They’d been goofing around in her new car, speeding down Mulholland Drive in the late afternoon. He said for a real thrill you had to do Mulholland in the dark, in the rain, going like 90 miles per hour. She told him he was ridiculous. He told her that he should drive, really show her what the car could do. The car was factory-new. Delivered yesterday. Yesterday she’d been on a shoot, the last day. The car was a present from the director. The car was a thing of high-speed beauty. She loved it, and loved that it made Blond Viking God jealous. She could tell.
The delivery guys woke her up. The shoot had been long, grueling. She was fried to the point of not knowing what day it was, or what a normal routine felt like. This was always the case; it took a few weeks of film detox before she felt normal again. By then she’d be diving back in for her next role. Which was fine. She wanted to keep busy. She liked being busy. She’d heard a term—journeyman actor—and liked it. It meant she wouldn’t flame out quickly. She preferred to have