In Cold Blonde (15 page)

She turned to the final picture, Blake Hunter.  The rape had been
his idea.  He’d been the one to shoot the video.  He was the one who
sent the disgusting pictures of her to all his friends.

She had saved the best, or worst, for last.

Ryan was in a great mood.  He walked down the hallway of the
Hollywood Division anxious to get the day started.  The place was bustling
and everyone seemed to be happy.

He strolled into the bullpen, then stopped dead in his tracks.  A
man was sitting in the guest chair at the edge of his desk.  The man’s
back was to him but Ryan recognized what he was wearing, a mechanic’s
coveralls.  Then the man turned to face him – it was the tow truck
driver.

The driver leapt to his feet, rushed up to Ryan.  “I saw you on TV,
thought I recognized you.”

Ryan was literally speechless. 

The driver continued.  “Saw how you won this huge lottery.  About
six months ago I bought this Lotto ticket at a 7-Eleven, and there was this
real impatient dude behind me.  I glanced back and got a good look at him
and, I swear to Christ, it was you.  See, the thing is, I dropped that
ticket as I came out of the store, didn’t realize it until I got home, then
sort of forgot about it until I saw the news last night.  So I’m thinking
maybe this giant jackpot isn’t yours at all.  That it actually belongs to
me.  You didn’t happen to find that ticket, did you?  Maybe pick it
up as you came out of the store?”

Ryan looked at him for a long time before finally answering.  “No,” he
said.  “I bought that ticket myself.  And I’m sorry but I don’t
recognize you.”

The tow truck driver flushed with anger.  “Liar.”  Then he
pulled out a knife and plunged it into Ryan’s chest.

“No!” Ryan screamed, sitting up in bed. 

Syd sat up next to him.  “Ryan?  You okay?”

He looked around, disoriented.  He was at home.  The lights
were out.  The clock on the bedside table said 3:17. 

It had been a dream.

“What happened, sweetie, you have a nightmare?”

“Yeah, weird.  I haven’t had a nightmare since I was a kid.”

“Want to talk about it?”

He looked at her.  “The tow truck driver showed up, wanted to know
if I found his Lotto ticket.  I lied to him, told him I bought the ticket
and he pulled a knife.”

“Wow, gotta love the subconscious.”

“Not really.”  Ryan got out of bed, walked into the bathroom, ran
cold water into his hand, splashed it onto his face.  Ryan didn’t usually
remember his dreams and rarely had anxiety dreams, so the stark reality of this
one upset him.    

“You must really want that money.”

Ryan glanced in the mirror, saw Syd standing behind him.

“I guess I do,” he said turning to her.  “You know, I never thought
that much about money.  Sure my dad had it when I was growing up; we lived
in a huge house in Beverly Hills and I went to an expensive private school, but
I was just a kid growing up.  I honestly didn’t pay that much
attention.  When I went to UCLA I had my mustang and lived in a tiny dorm,
didn’t bother me a bit.  And when dad lost his money and Anne and I had to
make do with a small studio apartment, I didn’t mind.  I was happy. 
When Anne left, I stayed in that studio for three years, never dreamed of a
bigger place, never wanted another car; I was busy at work, happy,
satisfied.  I only moved to this apartment because the other building went
condo.  And I like the extra room, but I didn’t lie in bed dreaming of a
big house, swimming pool and three-car garage.”

“And now you do?”

“No, not exactly.  But suddenly I’m
noticing
things.  As
we walked into Tony Roma’s there was a guy getting into a Bentley; royal blue,
luscious leather interior.   I bet it was fast as hell.  And
driving home we passed this house on Valleyheart, an old Tudor with outdoor
lights illuminating the walkway and trees.  It looked so…comfortable.”

“Uh oh,” Syd said.  “The infection is spreading Ryan, a new car and
house today, a private jet tomorrow.”

Ryan laughed and then said, “You never told me what you thought of Anne’s
idea, about me keeping the money and setting up a foundation.”

“It doesn’t matter what I think.”

“Of course it does.  I value your opinion.” 

Syd considered, not what she thought about his taking the Lotto ticket,
but whether she would tell Ryan.  She didn’t want to become the bad guy to
Anne’s good guy.  She didn’t want to become a spoilsport.  Nobody
likes a party pooper.  Still, if he did value her opinion, maybe she could
stop him from making a mistake. “Even if I tell you taking the money is a
terrible idea?”

Ryan looked at Syd like she was crazy.  “It’s not a terrible
idea.  In fact, it’s the only
sane
thing to do.   If I
don’t take it, no one does.  The money disappears into the California
general fund.”

“So taking something that isn’t rightfully yours is okay because you’re
going to use it to help people?”

“Yes, exactly.” 

“Then why not rob a bank and distribute the money to the poor?  Or
steal a car and give it to someone stuck taking the bus?”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“Yes, it is, Ryan.  The ticket isn’t yours!  Hey, according to
your rules, it’s actually mine.  I’m the one who found it in the glove
box.”

That caught him by surprise.  “Do you want the ticket?”

“Fuck no.  Anyway, I found it in your car so technically it’s still
yours – if you don’t count the tow truck driver, I mean.” 

“So, you think I should just tear the Lotto ticket up, burn it;
what?  Syd, I’ve been on TV; all my friends think I’ve won millions of
dollars, friends I want to help, and you want me to say, hey everybody,
actually I just found the ticket on the sidewalk so I can’t accept the forty-seven
million dollars.”

“Thirty-four after taxes.”

Ryan smiled.  “Thirty-four after taxes,” he repeated.  Somehow
that brought the argument back down to earth but one fact remained.  “Syd,
if I don’t take the money, everyone will think I’m a chump.”

“And if you take it, you’re a thief.”

Ryan let out a long sigh.  Technically he knew she was right, but
god damn it, Anne was right, too.  The world isn’t black and white; we
have to live in the gray.  It wasn’t until then, that moment, that Ryan realized
how much he
wanted
to take the money.  But he also wanted Syd’s
approval, her blessing.  “Don’t you think I could do a better job of
redistributing this wealth than a bunch of crooked politicians?”

“Yes.”

“So what’s the problem?”

Syd sighed, knowing she’d lost.  “There is no problem, Ryan. 
Take the money.  I know you’ll do great things with it.  And,
frankly, I’d love to ride in a Bentley and live in that house on Valleyheart.”

“But I want you to be as excited as I am.”

Not going to happen, she thought.  But that’s not what Ryan needs to
hear right now so she said, “I will be, I promise.” Then something occurred to
her.  “Did we just have our first fight?”

“I guess we did.”

“Good,” she said slipping into his arms.  “I just love make-up sex.” 

“Is there any kind of sex you don’t like?”

A montage of images fluttered through Syd’s mind, things she’d had to do
as a hooker and hated: being beaten by bondage freaks, getting pissed on, getting
shat on, fucking a dwarf in front of a bunch of drunk fraternity brothers, having
everything from carrots to dildos to cigars stuck up her vagina, having
everything from carrots to dildos to cigars stuck up her ass. 

Syd focused on the hazel eyes of the man she loved, her finger traced his
dimple.  “If it’s with you, sweetie, there is no kind of sex I don’t like.” 
She kissed him.  “Now shut up and fuck me.”

Blake Hunter woke up staring at a huge pair of tits.  He rolled over
to find another huge pair of tits.  Ah, what a way to start the day.

The breasts belonged to two hookers, Emmy and Amy, or was it Annie and
Erin?  No matter, he was sure those weren’t their real names anyway.

He’d ordered them up at the last minute, sort of a spur of the moment celebratory
reward after one of his photographers scored a topless photo of pop sensation,
Tiffany Brooks.  Mario had been hiding in a tree across the street from Tiffany’s
estate for two days, hoping for a shot of her sunbathing topless or fucking the
pool boy or just watering the flowers.  Something, anything of Tiffany in
her new house would be tabloid gold.  But she’d never left the
house.  Then yesterday, she finally came out for a swim. 
Topless.  And a delighted Mario started shooting the first
ever
topless photos of Tiffany Brooks.

The pictures were worth a fortune.  Blake would sell them worldwide
through BHPIX, his photo news company that fed the voracious hunger of the
worldwide tabloids.

Blake sat atop the paparazzi pyramid with a staff of six highly paid
photographers willing to harass, intimidate, lie, cheat and steal to get a
marketable shot.  Blake also had a network of waiters and waitresses,
bartenders, hostesses, valets and salesclerks who, for a cash commission, would
call in when a celebrity showed up.  Not to mention an army of publicists
and agents who
wanted
their clients photographed.

It was a great business but not the one Blake had hoped for.  He’d
wanted to be a director.  As far back as high school he always had his
video camera with him, shooting events at school and small movies with friends. 

He went to USC Film School, distinguished himself with a couple of
student films and got a job directing a low budget independent movie right
after graduation.  There was this adorable teenage girl in the cast, only
fifteen, and Blake flipped for her.  He pursued her relentlessly during
shooting, finally getting into her pants the last day of shooting.

And that’s exactly how her mother found her daughter when she
unexpectedly walked into her trailer; her daughter’s pants off, Blake’s pants
off and Blake’s reproductive organ inserted snuggly in her fifteen-year-old
daughter’s reproductive organ.

Statutory Rape. 

No matter that Blake was her tenth or eleventh lover, the girl couldn’t
be sure.  No matter that the girl tried to convince her mother not to
press charges to protect her reputation and career.  Her mother called the
cops, Blake was arrested and on advice of his consul, Zachary Stone, he pled out
to two years in state prison for statutory rape.  The girl spoke in Blake’s
defense at the sentencing, and Stone managed to convince the judge to send Blake
to Avenal State Prison, a minimum security facility, where he wouldn’t be gang-raped,
tortured or killed. 

But talk about a career ender.  When Blake got out of prison, he
couldn’t get arrested.  As a director, that is.  He’d become friends
with the guy who shot publicity pictures on his movie and the photographer
moonlighted as a paparazzi.  He asked Blake if he wanted to work with him
and Blake was a natural.  He was also an entrepreneur and within a couple
of years put together his network of photographers and snitches.

He was also a master at digitally manipulating the pictures his staff
shot, highlighting and sometimes enhancing things such as cellulite for
magazines looking for Stars-at-their-Worst shots, or thinning a thigh here or
increasing a breast size there for a Stars-at-their-Best story.

Blake lived in small beach house on Carbon Beach, one of the twenty-four beaches
that make up the twenty-seven mile Malibu coastline.  He got the down
payment selling pictures of Angelina Jolie going down on Brad Pitt.  No
matter that the photo was later proved fake, a product of his digital mastery;
he’d already raked in three quarters of a million dollars.

Blake was short, with jet-black hair and thick eyebrows.  He spoke
in rapid, profanity-laden bursts of words and was unabashedly rude. 

He put one hand on the breast of each girl then twisted the nipple. 
With a start, both girls yelped and sat up in bed.  They were both blonde
and billed themselves as a sister act, but they weren’t related. 

They’d treated Blake to an incredibly hot lesbian love fest, fueled by
Stoli shots and cocaine, before he finally dove in and screwed them both. 
And he woke up horny. 

“The snake needs servicing girls,” he said.  It’s amazing how crude
you’re allowed to be when you pay two thousand dollars a girl.  “But
first, do me a favor and warm up on each other.”

The girls were actually in love with one another so they happily fell
into each other’s arms and began to make out.   

Blake grabbed the remote control and turned on the 60-inch LCD hanging on
the wall.  As they girls ravished each other in front of him, the muted
news played behind them.  There was a weather map on the screen, another
beautiful Southern California day in the offing and then the screen cut to a
picture of Colin Wood.

It took Blake a couple of seconds to register it was the picture of his
friend, Colin Wood.  Blake hit the Mute button.  “…found dead in his
car outside the Havoc nightclub.  Police aren’t speculating on a motive
for the murder right now, but are asking for the public’s help in identifying a
blonde woman who was last seen with the actor.  Ironically, one of the
detectives investigating the murder has just hit the Lotto.  His name is…”

Blake hit the mute button.   Colin was dead.  Jesus. 
They’d been friends since high school and would still hang out every once in a
while.  Blake remembered Colin’s old girlfriend, Abigail.  She was
hot.  Blake always wanted to take a shot at her, but resisted because he knew
it would bug Colin.  But now that Colin was dead…

Blake smiled; Abigail was a struggling actress so it would easy to get
her number.  His eyes shifted to the girls who now had their faces planted
in each other’s vaginas.  He watched them gobble each other up, but he was
thinking about Abigail.