Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [53]
“I’m calling to see if you have an invitation to the Jungle Heat party.” In my zealot’s quest for tickets I had almost forgotten his propensity for sexual harassment.
He paused a moment. “Sure,” he said, “and after that I’m going to have tea with Angelina and Brad.”
“So you’re in L.A., then?”
He chuckled. “I was just there. Why would I go back?”
“I thought you might be stalking me.”
“Well … I’m a little busy right now. But maybe this weekend.”
I stifled a sigh. “So that’s a no?”
“Yes,” he said. “But I could maybe buy a couple theater tickets if you promise to show me your boobs.”
For a moment I considered a couple snappy comebacks, but in the end I just hung up.
After that I sat staring at my address book and biting my lip until insanity got a good firm hold on my psyche. I dialed a moment later.
“Yeah.” Vincent Angler had once been a defensive lineman for the L.A. Lions. Big and black and as aggressive as sin; even his voice was scary. But maybe it was all a cover-up. Maybe he just acted scary to hide his sexual orientation. When I’d last seen him, years ago, it hadn’t been widely known that he was gay, but I had a sixth sense about such things. The fact that he had eventually begun to pursue an acting career had added credence to my theory. Not that every actor was gay. There were several whose sexuality I absolutely refused to call into question. Once again Colin Farrell sprang nimbly to mind. But he was quickly displaced by the thought of Angler, who had kindly confirmed my suspicions by coming out of the closet some months ago.
“Mr. Angler?” My voice sounded as if my sphincter were being squeezed in a winepress. “Who is this?”
“Christina McMullen.” I had met him, too, while investigating a murder. Apparently felonies are an excellent way to expand one’s circle of acquaintances.
“Who?”
Generally speaking, it is not a good sign when your prospective date doesn’t recognize your name. Even worse when he sounds irritated by your presence on the planet.
“We met a few years ago. I was Andrew Bomstad’s psychologist.”
There was a prolonged pause. Andrew Bomstad had once been my most illustrious client. But that was before he’d ingested enough Viagra to arouse a pachyderm and chased me around my desk like a hot-footed cheetah. After scaring the bejeezus out of me he had dropped to the floor, deader than an alligator handbag.
“The white chick with the great legs?” Angler asked.
Ummm … “Maybe.”
“We had drinks and shit at the Hole?”
“Yes.” I cleared my throat. “That’s me.”
“Huh. What do ya want?”
“I was wondering if … possibly … you had invitations to the Jungle Heat afterparty.”
“Jungle Heat?”
“It’s a spin-off of Amazon Queen.” I paused. He said nothing. “Patricia Ruocco’s show.”
“Yeah?”
“I know you’ve been doing some acting lately, and thought …” I shrugged, hoping his career was going better than I suspected. So far as I knew he had gotten about thirty seconds of screen time, most of which was shared with a half a dozen other extras. “Maybe you had access to the party.”
The pause was deep enough to sink a battleship. “I could maybe get my hands on a couple of invitations if I had me a reason.”
My heart was lodged somewhere in my esophagus. “After we met … at … the Hole … you said I should call if I ever needed help.”
“Was I high?”
“Not so you were incoherent,” I said, and he listened as I gave him the details.
Forty-five minutes later I was cleaned, partially dressed, and marvelously coiffed. If marvelous coiffing involves a strawberry blond wig that one borrows from one’s BFF.
I had told Vincent I would meet him at the coffeehouse on Rosemary and Pine, so I had to get a wiggle on.
My bridesmaid gown boasted one broad shoulder strap and a back that plunged down to no-man’s-land, or at least very-seldom-visited-land. At the very bottom of the valley a rhinestone pendant made my caboose more noticeable than was probably absolutely necessary. I was just mourning the passing of the girdle when the doorbell rang. With one last glance in the