Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [55]
“The point is …” I drew a deep breath. “A friend of mine is in trouble.”
“I know I’m black and all, but I didn’t do it.”
I opened my mouth, then recognized the jest. “She’s been getting odd mail.”
“This friend, she have a name?”
“None that we bandy about.”
“Do you talk like this to everyone or just us niggers?”
“I can’t tell you her name,” I said.
He nodded. “Okay, so you got yourself a friend getting some spooky mail.”
Succinct. “Yes.”
“And you want to go to this bash, why?”
“I thought I could maybe ascertain who’s been sending it to her.”
He nodded. “So you want to see what’s shakin’.”
I thought about that for a moment. “Yes, but I …” I took a deep breath, and now I did run my hands nervously down my body. “I don’t want anyone to recognize me.”
“You do that a couple a times, nobody’ll get their eyeballs above your tits.”
I actually didn’t know if I should be offended or flattered. Inside me, there is sometimes an odd mix of the lady and the tramp.
“So you’ll help me?” I asked.
He shrugged, a casual lift of linebacker shoulders. “I’m here, ain’t I?”
“Yes, you are.”
“You well known at these Hollywood gigs?” he asked.
“Not really, no. But I don’t want anyone to associate me with my friend, so I’m … I’m kind of going in disguise.”
“Disguise.”
“Yes.”
“Are all you white chick psychologists so crazy?” he asked.
“Maybe,” I said, and he nodded.
“Okay,” he said, and after an elongated moment of discomfort, I turned away. I didn’t look back as I crossed the living room, but I was pretty sure his gaze never left seldom-visited-land.
19
I don’t want any yes-men around me. I want everybody to tell me the truth even if it costs them their jobs.
—Samuel Goldwyn—neatly
summing up the
entertainment business
I had been to a number of Hollywood afterparties with Laney so I thought I knew what to expect. But upon retrospection, I realized the events I had previously attended had come about before she had reached stardom, before she had begun truly mingling with the rich and bizarre. She was on a whole new level of weird now.
As the limo pulled up to the curb near the almost circular DGA Complex, I realized that instead of discussing a game plan, Vincent Angler and I had been reminiscing about our native lands. As it turns out, Vincent had grown up in Cicero, not far from my own roots, and had visited my old place of employment, the Warthog, on more than one occasion. The entire conversation had helped me relax. But as I glanced out the window at the milling crowds confined behind a roped-off section of sidewalk, I felt my nerves crank up. Vincent grinned at me, then stepped out of the car. Flashbulbs flashed. He waved a hand as if he were a prodigal princeling, then reached inside for me. My mouth felt dry as I stepped into the strobe lights and hot-fired questions.
“Mr. Angler, which is worse, directors or coaches?”
“What do you think about the new Lions roster?”
“How’s your knee?”
“Who’s your date?”
One reporter pressed in a little closer than the others.
“What’s your name, honey?”
I opened my mouth for my latest lie, but nothing came out. I realized, rather belatedly, that I hadn’t covered this eventuality with my escort.
“This is Jessica,” Vincent said.
Reporters were scribbling wildly.
“Jessica who?”
“Jessica Rabbit,” Vincent said, and putting his hand on my back, ushered me through the pandemonium. He towered over me. Not an easy feat with me in four-inch stilettos, but one I appreciated considerably more than the new nomenclature.
“Jessica Rabbit?” I said, tone dry as a martini.
“I panicked,” he said.
I glanced up at his face. Panic was nowhere to be seen. In fact, his expression was totally unchanged. Probably the same when he was napping as when he was being targeted by a four-hundred-pound nose tackle. But maybe there was a little something in his eyes. His fingers were now spread across my back. My notably bare back.
“Mr. Angler!”
“Mr. Angler!”
Reporters were still slavering like junkyard