He asked, “These writers, they make a lot of money too?”
“Yeah, and this one is also directing.” She started working her thigh against his hand, eyes shut and face softening for a second. “He figures he doesn't need characterization if he's stylish enough, with the angles and music. Lots of rainy shots at night and quick edits. He wants to play the role of the killer too.”
“Sounds like he just wants a cheap feel but still say he was acting. While he wrenches you to death.”
She reached over the side of the bed and brought up three more scripts. “This one, they're trying to pitch it as science fiction. Called
“In shiny latex outfits?”
“And high heels.”
More lesbian scenes, Dane thought, shifting onto his side so he could stare at the curve of her jaw, where the light showed the soft blond hairs just beneath her ears. It couldn't be hard to make a profit in Hollywood just so long as you knew a few strippers.
He reached for her drink, took a sip, and nearly gagged. Jesus, Kaluha, the hell did anybody ever drink it? “You got only regrets about doing
“It sorts of annoys me that all anyone remembers is the pole scene. But I wouldn't call that a regret exactly.” A crease appeared between her eyes. “Not yet anyway. Feels like it could become one.”
He looked around the bedroom, stared through the open door at the living room beyond, thinking how this place probably ran about 2 million.
She picked up on it and told him, “It's not drug money that's paying the bills here. My husband really did make a lot of cash through his films, before he fucked it all up. Property, stocks, a couple of good productions. The lawyers say more of his assets will be frozen soon. I need to start getting back into the game.”
Dane wondered why, then, if she needed to play it so straight, was she bringing him along to premieres instead of some hot director or producer or actor? “You want to break into serious roles?”
“I'm not interested in doing Lady Macbeth, if that's what you mean. But I'd like a film with some real dialogue, a fleshed-out character behind it. Maybe keep my nipples under wraps.”
“What kind of movies did the Monticelli clan want to invest in?” It was the second time he'd asked. The first was right after playing around with the swing the other night, after Vinny had stepped in, then stepped back out of that particular existence. He didn't get an answer then, as they got frisky in the funky seat.
“I'm not sure, but it had something to do with the daughter.”
Dane's chest tightened. “How's that?”
“The old mobster's daughter. She wants to be in pictures. She wanted him to set her up with the beginning of a career. Like it's easy to do, buy your way into a production company, tell the investors your daughter's going to be the star, even though she's never even been in a high school play.”
“You sure about this?”
“I'm sure of what I heard, but I don't know how true it is. People love to sling shit, especially at anyone who might be trying to steal their credit.”
“Who'd you hear this from?”
“Just gossip between a couple of my husband's cohorts. Nothing serious, just a bunch of talk.”
She stared at him with a real curiosity, like she was waiting to see what this information might do to him. He kept getting the feeling that she knew more than she was telling him, but he couldn't see how that would fit in with anything else. He stared back at her the same way and she let out a giggle like he was just being goofy in bed.
So Vinny wasn't getting into the film industry to make money, he was doing it for Maria. Vinny used to talk a lot about the history of the neighborhood, pointing out the buildings where the silent era movie stars once lived. If Maria wanted to be in film, Dane figured it was because of that. Growing up in Headstone City, on the hill that still held on to the respect and history of Meadow Slope.
“You know her, don't you? The daughter, the one I was just talking about.”
“Yes,” Dane told her, and could hear the ache in his own voice and the hint of puzzlement. Still not sure why he cared so much about Maria, but glad to have anything in the world that made him feel this way.
“That voice you used just then,” Glory said, “the way you just spoke… you care a lot about her, don't you?”
“I hardly know her anymore. Haven't seen her in years. We grew up together and for a while I thought maybe-”
“You've had a thing for her since you were a kid.”
“Yeah. All the guys from the neighborhood do.”
“You want me to help her out? Introduce this mafia princess to a few people? I could make a couple calls. Get the ball rolling for the Don. Maybe he'll make a movie where I could keep my shirt on all the way through. Or at least until the third act. You want me to try?”
Dane sat up in bed, looking at her. He grabbed and lit a cigarette, trying to decide if Glory was making the offer in that jealous woman trying-to-rise-above-it sort of way. Or if she was acting buddy-buddy with him, like they were only pals now, because their relationship had just hit the wall.
He said, “No, Glory, don't do that.”
“Why not?”
“If her family has any strings to pull, let them pull 'em. You don't want to get involved with any of that again. Look where it got your husband. Besides, the Brooklyn mob should stay the hell out of Tinseltown. That place sounds too crazy even for them.”
She dug through the bundle of their clothes on the floor, searching for her panties. She found his jacket, and an uneasy grin flooded over her face.
Now a slow, dramatic turn of the head, like she was staring into a camera, preparing to speak her lines.
He sat there smoking, waiting for it.
Glory Bishop yanked out the.38 and held it away from her like a plate of bad fish. “You got something you want to tell me?” she asked.
“Ah-”
You couldn't even lie in bed with your girl for an hour without your past catching up to you, even here between the silk sheets. If she went into his other pocket, she'd come out with JoJo Tormino's wedding ring for Maria Monticelli. The dead followed you down to the mattress.
“I'd like an answer, Johnny. The hell are you doing with this?”
Some questions you didn't bother to answer. He furrowed his brow, wondering if he should get into the whole story now. She waited for an answer, which kind of bothered him. All this time and he still didn't know her husband's name, and she wants Dane to explain himself.
“So you're packing heat.”
“Heat?” He smiled at her. “If you're going to say that, you might as well go really old school and call it a ‘roscoe.'”
“What's the Brooklyn argot, then?”
“I don't know. I just say ‘carrying my gun.'”
It got her working the muscles in her jaw, head tilted back a little so she could look down on him like Sister Bernadette squaring off on him in the fourth grade. “You want to tell me why? Explain how dangerous the world of limo driving can be? I could've gotten up in the dark to get a drink of water and blasted my foot off, for Christ's sake. You bring a gun into my home and don't even mention it to me? Why?”
“I've got some issues with an old friend.”
“Pretty serious issues, I'd say.”
“Yeah, but we'll work it out.”
The tip of her tongue jutted and wet her top lip. “Without one of you dying?”
“Well, no, probably not,” he said.
“Oh for the love of baby Jesus.”
