mental note to send the guy to Melrose Avenue for some new threads before letting him on the set.
“ That is it, then?” the writer asked. “A new title. Another writer. A naked woman. No rats. A SEAL team. And Canada.”
“ Almost there. But tell me. Who’s the hell’s the heavy?”
“ A faceless evil. The horror is intensified by the anonymity of its source.”
“ Muddled storytelling, Eddie.”
The writer’s shoulders sagged. “I suppose you could say the villain is the unseen executioner.”
“ Unseen? It’s motion pictures, not radio. How about Anthony Hopkins? Those creepy eyes will pucker your orifice.”
The writer’s forehead knotted like burls on pine. “Putting a face to the evil is unnecessary. The man in the pit believes he is going to die. True horror is not physical pain. It is the anticipation of pain, the realization that death is a certainty, whether by falling into the pit or being eviscerated by the pendulum. Do you understand, sir?”
“ Sure. You don’t like Anthony Hopkins. You want to go younger? My daughter says Clive Owen makes her panties wet. Whadaya say?”
“ Mr. Beazle, I cannot surrender my integrity.”
“ Not surrender. Sell! I’ll get you a suite at the Peninsula. Room service. Blow. You want a hooker? I got a chippie you’ll love. Name’s Lenore.”
The writer pulled himself up, knees wobbling. “If I agreed to your terms, it would indeed be a midnight dreary.”
“ Sit down, Eddie!”
“ I think not.” He took a step toward the door.
“ You’re saying no to money, pussy and drugs? What the hell kind of a writer are you!”
But he was already out the door.
Beazle couldn’t believe it. A moment earlier, the bastard was perched on the edge of the abyss. Beazle grabbed his suit coat and hurried into the corridor, alligator sneakers clomping on the tile. He caught up with the writer at the elevator bank.
“ Eddie! Is it the dough? I’ll double it.”
Two elevator doors opened simultaneously. One attendant, a smoking hot redhead in a black leotard festooned with orange flames, winked and said, “Down?”
The writer recoiled as waves of heat rolled from the open car.
In the other car, the attendant, a petite blonde in a white leotard with snowy wings, smiled angelically and said, “Up?”
“ Last chance Eddie!” Beazle implored.
“ Never more,” the writer whispered, soft as a lover’s lament.
Beazle sighed in surrender. He didn’t lose often, but when he did, it hurt. “He’s going up.”
The writer stepped into the blonde’s elevator, the door closing with a quiet whoosh.
Beazle grabbed a fat cigar from his suit pocket. A Cohiba, a gift from Fidel himself at the Havana Film Festival. Beazle ran the wrapper paper under his nose and inhaled deeply. Not even burning sulphur smelled this good.
Beazle took a double guillotine cutter from his pants pocket and snipped off the cap of the Cohiba. He snapped his thumb and middle finger together, setting off a spark that engulfed the tip in flame. He drew smoke — his mother’s milk — into his lungs, and held it there.
“ There’ll be others,” he said, exhaling a cloud as black as coal dust.
There were always others, drying to sell their souls. Writers who dream of starlets and red carpets and their own insignificant names flickering across the screen. Vainglorious fools, every one, all destined to spend eternity in development hell.
SOLOMON AND LORD: TO HELL AND BACK
“ What aren’t you telling me?” Victoria Lord demanded.
Jeez. Her grand jury tone.
“ Nothing to tell,” Steve Solomon said. “I’m going deep-sea fishing.”
“ You? The guy who got seasick in a paddle boat at Disney World.”
“ That boat was defective. I’m gonna sue.” Steve hauled an Igloo cooler onto the kitchen counter. “You may not know it, but I come from a long line of anglers.”
“ A long line of liars, you mean.”
The partners of Solomon amp; Lord, Attorneys-at-Law, stood in the kitchen of Steve’s bungalow on Kumquat Avenue in Coconut Grove. The place was a square stucco pillbox the color of a rotting avocado, but it had withstood hurricanes, termites, and countless keg parties.
Unshaven and hair mussed, wearing cargo shorts and a t-shirt, Steve looked like a beach bum. Lips glossed and cheekbones highlighted, wearing a glen plaid suit with an ivory silk blouse, Victoria looked sexy, smart, and successful.
“ C’mon, Steve. What are you really up to?” Her voice drizzled with suspicion like mango glaze over sauteed snapper.
Steve wanted to tell his lover and law partner the truth. Or at least, the partial truth. But he knew how Ms. Propriety would react:
“ You can’t do that. It’s unethical.”
And if he told her the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? “You’ll be disbarred! Jailed. Maybe even killed.”
No, he’d have to fly solo. Or swim solo, as the case may be.
Steve pulled two six packs of Heineken out of the refrigerator and tossed them into the cooler. “Okay, it’s really a business meeting.”
Victoria cocked her head and pursed her lips in cross-exam mode. “Which is it, Pinocchio? Fishing or business? Were you lying then or are you lying now?”
For a tall, lanky blonde with a dazzling smile, she could fire accusations the way Dan Marino once threw the football.
“ I’m going fishing with Manuel Cruz.”
“ What! I thought you were going to sue him.”
“ Which is what makes it business. Cruz wants to make an offer before we file suit. I suggested we go fishing, keep it relaxed. He loved the idea and invited me on his boat.”
So far, Steve hadn’t told an outright fib and it was almost 8 A.M. Not quite a personal best, but still, he was proud of himself.
For the last five years, Manuel Cruz worked as controller of Torano Chevrolet in Hialeah where he managed to steal three million dollars before anyone noticed. Teresa Torano, a Cuban exilado in her seventies, was nearly bankrupt, and Steve was determined to get her money back, but it wouldn’t be easy. All the computer records had been erased, leaving no electronic trail. Cruz had no visible assets other than his sportfishing boat. The guy didn’t even own a house. And the juiciest piece of evidence — Cruz fled Cuba years ago after embezzling money from a government food program — wasn’t even admissible.
“ Just you and Cruz, alone at sea.” she said. “Sounds dangerous.”
“ I’m not afraid of him.”
“ It’s not you I’m worried about.”
Victoria punched the RECORD button on her pocket Dictaphone. “Memo to the Torano file. Make certain our malpractice premiums are paid.”
“ You and your damned Dictaphone,” Steve complained. “Drives me nuts.”
“ Why?”
