There was a prolonged pause. Andrew Bomstad had once been my most ill.u.s.trious client. But that was before he'd ingested enough v.i.a.g.r.a 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 s.h.i.t 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 Jungle Heat afterparty." afterparty."

"Jungle Heat?"

"It's a spin-off of Amazon Queen." Amazon Queen." I paused. He said nothing. "Patricia Ruocco's show." 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 pa.s.sing of the girdle when the doorbell rang. With one last glance in the mirror, I trotted barefoot through the living room.

Harlequin rumbled two deep-throated barks, then rested on his laurels and watched the door with a c.o.c.ked head.

Probably Ramla with a concern about her sister, I thought.

But gazing through the peephole I saw a man. Big, black, and bulging with muscle, he was scowling at my disheveled front yard with what looked like an equal mix of awe and contempt.

For a moment I considered hiding behind the wall and pretending I wasn't home, but chances were good that he was actually my date.

It was a testament to my courage ... or my stupidity ... that I opened the door.

"Vincent Angler?" I said. I was holding Harley back with one knee, stretching the mermaid dress to its coppery limits.

The man on my stoop skimmed me with his dark-syrup gaze. "White chick with the great legs?" he asked.

"I thought I was going to meet you at the coffee shop."

"I was in the neighborhood," he said.

"In Sunland?"

"In California."

"Ahh." I nodded stupidly. Harley was leaning heavily against my leg, trying to get a whiff of our guest's genitals.

"That is one big-a.s.s dog," he said.

"He used to be a linebacker," I said.

It was then that Ramla stepped onto her stoop. She was eyeing Vincent like he was a wolf and I a mutton chop. "Is everything with you okay, Christina?"

I gave Vincent a smile I hoped looked charming instead of apologetic. "Yes." I gave her a little wave. "Everything's fine."

She was scowling above the gauzy swirl of her head scarf. "I should not call the 911?"

"Yes," I yelled.

There was a pause. "Yes, I should call them. Or yes-"

"Don't call them," I said.

She paused for a couple more seconds, then nodded briskly and returned to her house.

Angler was watching me with brows cliffed low over his eyes. "The 911?" he asked.

"I, ahh ... thought I saw a suspicious character earlier this evening," I lied. There seemed little point in admitting some people were still inherently terrified of big black guys with muscle. Even more pointless admitting that one of those people was moi moi.

"Suspicious character?" he asked.

"Yes," I said. "Skinny little white guy."

He was glaring at me. Or maybe he was just looking.

"White. Very white," I added, and he chuckled finally.

"You gonna let a n.i.g.g.e.r in or what?" he asked. "It's hotter than s.h.i.t out here."

"Oh, yes, sorry," I said, and grabbing Harley's collar, pulled open the door.

It wasn't until then that I noticed the limo parked behind my Saturn. It looked like a thoroughbred humping a Shetland pony.

"Is that yours?" I said.

"You said it was black tie."

"I didn't say black car."

He grinned crookedly and stepped inside. "I had something else planned."

I closed the door behind him. "I'm sorry if I disrupted your evening."

He shook his head, eyes gleaming as he skimmed my sleek, sausage-casing dress. "Not a problem."

I cleared my throat and managed not to squirm. "Do you mind if I turn him loose?" I asked, nodding toward Harley.

"He going to eat me or something?"

"You're awfully large."

"You ain't seen nothin' yet," he said. I let Harley go and turned. I was starting to blush, and truth to tell, I wasn't sure why. He may have been referring to the size of his ego, for all I knew.

"Do you want something to drink while I finish getting ready?" I asked, but privately I wondered what I would give him. Generally, real people aren't thrilled about the prospect of drinking the magic Green Goo Laney serves, and it had been a while since I'd ventured into Trader Joe's for nutrients.

"You fill out that dress pretty good," he said.

"Umm." I resisted running my hands down my body like Zsa Zsa or t.i.ttering like a tween. "Thank you." Steady now Steady now, I thought, and put on my professional face. "But perhaps we should clarify clarify this evening." this evening."

He straightened a little, pushing out his chest and filling his nostrils. It was pretty impressive. "Clarify away."

"This isn't really a date."

His brows rose a little. "So that rag is just something you wear 'round the house?"

I thought of a dozen snooty answers to that, then decided on, "Yes."

His eyes gleamed as he glanced at the gown's train. "Good for sweeping the floor and such, I suppose."

"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 n.i.g.g.e.rs?"

"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 did run my hands nervously down my body. "I don't want anyone to recognize me." run my hands nervously down my body. "I don't want anyone to recognize me."

"You do that a couple a times, n.o.body'll get their eyeb.a.l.l.s above your t.i.ts."

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 a.s.sociate 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. 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?"