Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [52]
As it turned out, he was also a pragmatist. I considered his query for a second. “I don’t think so.”
“Wow,” he said. “That’s not quite the answer I was hoping for.”
“Looking for more of a thrill?” I asked and he chuckled, inexplicably charmed. Poor guy.
“What’s the favor?”
“There’s an … event that I’m hoping to attend. A Hollywood event. I know you sometimes get invitations and was wondering if I could maybe be your escort.”
He paused a moment. “That might actually be worth getting killed for.”
A little more guilt seeped in. I fought it off. I’m frickin’ amazing at fighting it off.
“What’s the event?”
“The afterparty for Jungle Heat.”
“Jungle … Hey, I think I do have an invitation for that.”
“Yeah?” I couldn’t decide if I should be thrilled or terrified.
“When is that again?” he asked. Mac was, it seems, the kind of unassuming bazillionaire who gets so many invitations to stare at Colin that he can afford to forget about them.
I bit my lip. “Tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Man, I wish I were a girl,” he said.
“Ummm …”
“I have to start looking for a date a full month before the actual event.”
“Does that mean you’ll do it?”
“Is it in Cincinnati?”
“What’s that?”
“’Cuz that’s where I am.”
“Cincinnati, Ohio?”
He considered that a second. “I don’t think they’d make another one.”
“Oh.”
“But maybe if I head straight to the airport, I could hop on a plane and get into LAX before—”
“That’s okay, Mac,” I said. The guilt was becoming a little more invasive. “It was just a whim.”
“It wouldn’t be any trouble,” he said.
“If you like to be strip-searched for trying to rush through airport security.”
“I have been pretty lonely,” he said, and I laughed.
“I’m not sure a strip search is the way to start a lasting relationship.”
“Probably not with a belly like mine.”
I remembered now why I liked him. It wasn’t for his body. “We can talk when you get back,” I said.
“I could make this work if it’s important to you,” he said. “I don’t think Dad would disown me or anything if I left the convention early.”
“What’s the convention on?”
“Shoelaces.”
“Strip-searching is sounding better.”
“I could tell him I just found out I’d knocked someone up and had to go home to take care of things.”
“And that wouldn’t make him upset?”
“I think he might actually be proud. Hard to say, though. He’s been kind of surly lately. I think marriage number five is on the skids.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She’s twenty-four.”
“I’m even more sorry. Listen, Mac, don’t worry about this. I’ll call you later.”
“Really?” He sounded desperate. I opened my mouth to spout … something. “That sounded desperate, didn’t it?” he asked.
“No.”
“Yes it did. Sorry. I meant to say, of course you’ll call me. I’m very rich.”
I laughed. “And nice,” I said. We hung up a few moments later. I dialed the phone again barely three seconds after that.
“Eddie?”
“Chrissy McMullen, Ph.D.,” Eddie said. I could hear him settling into his easy chair, oozing muscle and charm. Eddie and I had dated briefly. The fact that he was as interested in men as I was had eventually put something of a damper on our relationship.
“I need a favor,” I said.
There was a pause. “Is this the kind of favor that will get me killed?” he asked, and I scowled into the phone.
“Why do people keep asking that?” I said, and he laughed.
“What do you need?”
“A date. For tonight.”
In the end it was a no-go.
After that there was a long procession of additional calls. I may have, in the past, mentioned my impressive number of old flames. I’m closing in on four score. I think I called most of them … excluding the convicts and the guy who had died after trying to jump the train tracks on his motor scooter.
By five-thirty I was feeling a little desperate. Because, although crashing a Hollywood afterparty might seem like a stupid idea to the uninitiated, I had made up my mind. And once that happens it’s hard to unmake it … at least if it involves Colin Farrell and cummerbunds.
“Officer Tavis?” I said.
“You must be calling