Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [114]
The waiter brought the duck and Stan waved it away.
“I don’t want that,” he commanded, back on form, “I’ve changed my mind. Bring me the grouse instead.”
“But, Stan,” objected Jessie, “they’ve brought it and we’re all ready to eat. It’ll take ages to get you something else.”
“Fifteen minutes, madame,” explained the waiter.
“That’s all right.” Stan leaned back and felt in his pocket for his cigar case. “You go ahead and eat. I’ll wait for my grouse. And after that, waiter, I think we’d all enjoy the iced mango mousse.” He winked at Mrs. Johnson. “You’ll love it,” he promised. “It’ll cool you down after all that flaming duck.”
Stan had finished two glasses of the Leoville Las Cases by the time the grouse arrived. It smelled delicious, and rested neatly on a round of toast and pate.
“Pâté twice, Stan,” noted Jessie reprovingly, inspecting his plate.
“Good,” said Stan, digging in, “I’m starving.”
They had finished their duck—Jessie privately felt that Stan had been right, they should have ordered something else—and were sitting, drinking wine and watching Stan eat. That’s why it came as such a surprise, seeing him turn suddenly purple in the face like that, unable to speak, just gasping as if he couldn’t get enough air. He was dead before they knew it.
17
It hadn’t taken as long as Bob Ronson thought it would to infiltrate Rory Grant’s entourage; in fact, it didn’t take much to crack the scene at all, just the right clothes, the right car, an endless supply of money in your pocket, and the name of a good dealer.
The fact was that Rory was a simple soul, not as well endowed in the smarts department as in the physical, and he was, by nature, friendly. And unquestioning. You claimed you knew so and so, who knew so and so, you showed up at the right places often enough, and he figured he’d known you for years. Even so, thought Bob, tying the laces of his Nikes, ready for a tennis game with Rory, the guy was physically impressive off screen as well as on. He had the body of an athlete and in fact was a good one—he would sure as hell trounce Bob on the court today. Rory moved like an animal whether he was dancing or simply sauntering down the street, and yet he had the clean-cut appearance and wide grin of an engagingly innocent boy. Until he’d had enough coke and paranoia took over. It always hit him like that—old friends became instant enemies, people at the studios were accused of “spying” on him or plotting against him. His wide blue eyes grew narrow and flickered restlessly from side to side, as if he were trying to spot his enemies in the act of bad-mouthing him. And, of course, new friends became his confidants. There was no doubt about it, Rory’s bad coke habit would make Bob’s task easier.
Bob picked up his Gucci tennis bag and checked its contents. Tucked in with his racket, towel, sun visor, clean shirt, and shorts was a neat little package—gift wrapped. It was time to move in on Rory.
“Good game, Bob,” called Rory, jogging up to shake hands.
Bob gave him credit mentally for not having leapt the net.
“Beat me hands down.” He grinned. “I can’t keep up with you, Rory.”
“Just need a bit more practice, that’s all.” Rory toweled his sweat-soaked hair as they sat on a bench by the court, catching their breath. “How about a swim to cool of?”
“I thought I’d go to the club and steam my aching muscles.” Bob slid his racket into the bag and zipped it up. “What y’doing