Hollywood Crows (37 page)

B
IX RAMSTEAD WAS FEELING
much more alive after having had a nap and a shower and shave. He dressed in a pale blue Oxford shirt and clean chinos and swallowed some aspirin to diminish the raging headache. He felt resolute enough to resist Margot Aziz now, while the sun was still high enough over the Hollywood Hills and his resolve had not been shattered by six or eight ounces of booze. That’s all it took when he was around her, that alluring young woman so different from his wife.

Bix didn’t believe that Margot was truly in love with him, as she claimed. Her miserable marriage made her think so. But to have a woman like Margot Aziz professing her love for him, so passionate for him, had been overwhelming. Margot wasn’t shy like his wife, Darcey. She was assertive and sophisticated and always knew just what to say. She was mischievous and funny and made him feel more worldly, more important, than he was or ever could be. And Margot made him feel
young
like her.

When Bix was able to step back and analyze it soberly, none of it made sense. They had been intimate for only five months. They’d had sexual encounters only half a dozen times in those five months, always in hotels, where she’d rented a room and waited for him until he got off duty. And always she had provided drinks to allay his fears and guilt. He’d been besotted by this perplexing young woman who claimed she’d never betrayed her husband before meeting Bix, and who made him believe it.

Bix parked his minivan in her driveway and Margot answered the door very quickly. She was dressed the way she often was when they had evening clandestine meetings. She wore creamy tailored pants that hugged her body, a simple black shell, a delicate gold necklace, no earrings, no bling. Her ears were perfect and she seldom adorned them. Her shoulders were wide and square, her tan was year-round.

Bix was glad she was not wearing low-cut jeans and a rising jersey that exposed her muscular belly, as she sometimes dressed for a daytime rendezvous. That’s when she looked most sensual.

“Hello, darling,” she said.

“I can only stay long enough to hear the story and offer some advice,” he said.

“Of course,” Margot said. “Come in.”

When they were inside the marble foyer, Margot said, “Let’s sit on the terrace and admire the smog, shall we? The toxins are so lovely this time of day.”

He followed her through the living room to the sliding doors and walked outside. There was a pitcher of iced tea already there and some smoked wahoo tuna, cream cheese, chopped onions, capers, and a crunchy French baguette, already sliced.

“We’ll smell awful after eating this stuff, but what the hell,” Margot said.

Bix sat, feeling dry-mouthed, and sipped some tea. Then he said, “Tell me about it, Margot. What’s going on?”

“His threats are more overt now,” she said.

“Overt how?”

“He talks blatantly to Nicky in my presence when he’s picking up our son for his overnighter. He makes sure I hear him telling Nicky how beautiful Saudi Arabia is. Or he tells Nicky that he’ll love seeing the Giza pyramids in Egypt. Stuff like that.”

“He’s just trying to goad you,” Bix said. “That guy’s locked into America. In fact, he’s locked into his businesses here in Hollywood. He’s going nowhere.”

Margot loaded up a slice of baguette with wahoo and cream cheese and onion, topped it with a few capers, and handed it to Bix. He thought she had the most beautiful hands he’d ever seen, and, as always, her nails matched the lip gloss she was wearing.

“I always talk to Nicky when he comes back from outings with his father,” Margot continued, “but lately he’s clamming up. I know that Ali has ordered him not to tell me what his father’s planning.”

“He’s five years old, Margot,” Bix said. “Ali’s not gonna be making travel plans with a kid that young. It’s just talk, trying to get Nicky in touch with his father’s culture. That’s all it is.”

“The last time Ali came for him, my son was a different child when he came back.”

“Different how?”

Margot sipped her iced tea and said, “I took Nicky to bed with me that night and I hugged and kissed him and asked him what he and his daddy talked about. And he said, ‘Are you going to come and live with us, Mommy?’ And I asked him where, and he said, ‘When I meet my gramma and grampa.’ And I said, ‘You’ve met your gramma and grampa lots of times. Remember when they came here, and when we drove to Barstow?’ And he said, ‘My other gramma and grampa. Who live far away across the ocean.’”

“That doesn’t imply he’s gonna run off with Nicky,” Bix said.

“I’ve got information from a good source that he’s put the Leopard Lounge up for sale with a broker. It’s all on the Q.T. And he’s dissolving every asset he owns that’s not part of the divorce action. He’s very sneaky. Ali’s got secret assets we haven’t been able to find.”

“That still doesn’t mean he’s ready to leave the country. Does Nicky have a passport?”

“Do you know how easy it is to leave this country for the Middle East with a child if you have plenty of money? You just hop in your car and drive your child three hours south and cross the border into Tijuana. After that, it’s a piece of cake to arrange for passports and flights to anywhere you want.”

“Your imagination is getting the better of you,” Bix said.

“There’s more,” Margot said. Then she stopped and said, “Would you mind if I had a drink? It’ll make it easier to talk about.”

He didn’t look pleased but said, “Go ahead.”

She returned with a triple shot of premium vodka, on the rocks in a tumbler, just the way he liked it. With a slice of lime hanging on the lip of the glass instead of a lemon twist inside it, also the way he liked it.

She squeezed the lime into it, took a sip, and said, “Oh, that’s better. That’s much better.”

Bix looked at his watch and said, “Get on with it, Margot. I wanna get home before dark.”

“Why? Your family isn’t home.”

“I’ve gotta feed Annie,” he said.

“She can’t eat after dark?”

“I can’t be here after dark,” he said.

“Why?”

“You’re a vampire, remember?” he said, smiling just a bit.

Margot chuckled then, a sound he loved to hear, and she said, “Oh, darling, I’ve missed you so much.”

“You were going to tell me more,” Bix said, avoiding her amber eyes. “Something you needed my advice about, remember?”

“He said he’s going to kill me,” Margot said suddenly and took another sip of vodka.

“Who’d he say this to?”

“I’m not sure,” Margot said, “but I think it was one of his dancers. I got an anonymous call. My new number’s unlisted, but of course he has it. She could have found it in his desk directory.”

“Why would he be crazy enough to tell a dancer he was going to kill you?”

“He uses cocaine heavily in his office. He shares it with his dancers for sexual favors. When he’s high on coke, he talks way too much. He reveals things he shouldn’t. He mixes his drugs and doesn’t even remember what happened later. That’s what I think happened.”

“What did the anonymous caller say?”

“She said, ‘Be careful. He’s going to kill you and take your son.’ Then she hung up.”

“You didn’t recognize the voice?”

“No, but I’m sure it was one of the dancers.”

“You’re speculating.”

“Based on experience.”

“Did you tell your lawyer.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He’d say what you’re saying. It’s speculation. Someone’s trying to scare me. I’m being an alarmist. Et cetera.” Then she stopped and her chin quivered, and she put her hand to her eyes, saying, “Excuse me, Bix, I’ll be right back.”

Margot Aziz left him there alone with the sweating tumbler full of his favorite ice-cold vodka. His face felt fiery hot and he wanted to pick up the glass tumbler and hold it against his cheek to quell the heat. He wanted to hold the glass against his lips.

She was gone for a few minutes, and when she returned, her eyes were a bit moist, as though she’d been crying, and she held a tissue in her hand to prove it. She noticed that the vodka level in the tumbler had dropped. Only a little. But it had dropped.

She said, “Excuse me again, I want to freshen this.”

Bix Ramstead felt his heart pounding. This woman. The sight of her. The touch of her skin. Her scent. He had the taste of vodka on his tongue, as he always had when he was with her. This was all so familiar and so frightening.

When she returned, she set the tumbler on the outdoor table with the fresh vodka in it and a fresh slice of lime hanging on the lip of the glass. She looked at him in earnest and said, “Bix, you always carry your gun off duty, don’t you?”

“When I come to Hollywood, yeah,” he said. “When I’m at home in Studio City, I’m not packing. Not when I go to the market or to the movies with my kids.”

She said, “Are you packing now?”

“It’s in the car,” he said. “Why?”

“I’m gonna buy a gun as soon as possible. I can’t stand this fear I’m living under. I want you to tell me what to buy.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” he said, “then buy one. Just get a wheel gun. A thirty-eight revolver. They’re simple. They don’t misfire. They’re easy to use. Anyway, you’re never gonna fire it.”

“Any particular make?” she said.

He looked at his watch then and said, “I better be going. I might run into traffic, driving over Laurel Canyon. I don’t think I should get on the freeway tonight.”

“One drink,” she said. “For the road. For old times’ sake. In a little while the traffic will be light and you can whiz home and feed Annie.”

He hesitated just long enough for her to know she could pull it off. She slid the tumbler full of vodka in front of him and said, “I’ll fix myself another.”

Then she got up and went to the kitchen. She took her time, and when she returned, she saw that the vodka level had dropped again, but this time more than a little. And she had poured a triple shot into that one.

“Darling,” she said, sitting with her fresh drink. “Thank you for coming. There was no one I could turn to. Nobody I could trust but you.”

His hand trembled when he picked up the tumbler and drank again. “I’ve gotta get away from here before sundown,” he said.

Margot chuckled again and, yes, he absolutely loved the sound of it. Just as a massive swarm of insects rose like ashes in the sky, tainting his lovely view of multicolored shards of smog over Hollywood.

The crack pipe was red-hot when Leonard Stilwell put it down on the sink counter that evening. He’d finally been able to score some rock at Pablo’s Tacos, and he’d driven straight back to his apartment with the rock and with four chicken tacos loaded with guacamole. He’d stayed well away from Hollywood and Highland for fear of running into that pair of cops who looked to him like surf rats.

The crackhead dealer who’d sold him the rock said that he had six grams for sale, and Leonard said, “Wrap it up. I’ll take it all.”

“Cool!” the dealer said. “Plastic or paper?”

Leonard had been smoking ever since, trying to watch TV but unable to concentrate. When he was feeling both mellow and elated, that combination he loved to feel, he decided to take the advice given to him by Ali Aziz and turn in early for a good night’s sleep. The envelope with the capsules was on the cheap little nightstand beside his bed and he shook out three capsules. But then he thought he’d better not push it and dropped one back inside the envelope. He popped two in his mouth and washed them down with a beer.

Then he stripped down, got under the covers, and prepared himself for sweet dreams. Nobody who saw the pile of Ben Franklins he’d stashed inside a pot in the kitchen could say that Leonard Stilwell was anything but a Hollywood success story.

The sun had flamed out unnoticed in wispy clouds of rosy smoke without Bix Ramstead giving a single thought to vampires. Two hours after he’d taken that first sip from Margot’s drink, his speech was somewhat slurred, his eyes were 80 proof glossy, and night was on them, light sparkling all over Hollywood.

A large raven flew up from the canyon into the blue-black sky with wildly beating wings, screeching at a mockingbird that was diving at the ebony flyer. Bix Ramstead watched that raven escaping from the feathered tormenter, seeing it fly away from the Hollywood Hills to the safety of its nesting place.

Margot saw him watching it and said, “It’s getting too cool and dark for ravens and crows. Let’s go inside.”

When they were seated side by side on one of the enormous pistachio green sofas, he tried to focus on the glass sculpture hanging from the travertine wall and convince himself that he was not drunk. Mellow music from several speakers surrounded them, and the lamps in the living room and foyer were on dimmers and had been turned low.

“Hope you don’t mind that it’s all Rod Stewart tonight,” she said. “I’m still an old-fashioned girl from Barstow.”

“In the oldie song ‘Route Sixty-six,’ Barstow is mentioned,” Bix said, having trouble pronouncing consonants. “You ever heard it?”

“Really?” Margot said. “Don’t think I know that one.”

“You’re too young,” Bix said. “Ask your mom and dad.”

“I think I will, next time I see them,” she said. “By the way, they’re as worried about Ali stealing Nicky from me as I am. He’s their only grandchild and they adore him. They hate his father, of course, and they hated it when I was a dancer at the Leopard Lounge. They never understood that I did what I had to do to get by. Hollywood is a pitiless place.”

“What’s your dad do?” Bix said, trying not to gulp this drink. Sip, he told himself.

“He’s retired from the post office,” Margot said.

“A civil servant,” Bix said. “Like me.”

“Bix,” Margot said, looking more serious, “would you do me a huge favor and bring your gun in here?”

“What? You wanna shoot crows on the hillside? I’m a Crow, remember?” Those consonants again, they were getting tangled on his tongue and in his throat.

But it sounded exceptionally funny to him and he laughed before taking another big hit from the tumbler. He was trying to remember if this was his fourth or fifth drink. He was sure he could handle six, but Margot poured so heavy he was going to stop after five. Was this number five?