A Date You Can't Refuse Read online

  “This I don't know,” Felix said. “Economics, they don't interest me.”

  We came to a stop at the light halfway up Topanga Canyon. “Intellectual property, customs regulations, film piracy—?” I said, watching him closely.

  He looked at me pleasantly. “Yes? Sorry? What is these?”

  I believed Felix was too much like me—open face, open book—to be faking it. I was willing to bet anything he'd never heard of piracy, let alone dabbled in it. This both relieved and confused me. Felix was up to something and it was something that I imagined that the State of California, if not the entire United States government, might not like. But I was sure it wasn't stolen DVDs.

  So what was it?

  Back at Palomino Hills, someone was having a party. Felix and I waited while the guard dealt with the cars in front of us, doing painstaking security checks, phoning residents, issuing hand-lettered guest passes before letting them through the gates. The Residents lane was closed, blocked by a sawhorse. Behind the sawhorse, the electronic arm was severed and splintered, suggesting some marauding partygoer had hacked his way through with an axe. I inched forward, wondering if this felt to Felix like a police state, having to get through checkpoints just to drive into your own driveway. Felix, however, after studying his cosmetic surgery brochures, opened a Bible and settled in to read.

  I took out my purse sketchbook and began a Happy Rhinoplasty! greeting card, then remembered I was to hand into Yuri a written report about my date with Felix. As I wrote a highly expurgated account of the afternoon, depression overtook me. Probably a combination of stress and sleep deprivation, followed by sex, sadness, outrage, and dismay. And now nausea, because while I was fairly confident about Simon's professional integrity, I was suddenly convinced that he had been sleeping with Lucrezia.

  The nausea grew more insistent. “Felix,” I said, “I need some air.” I hopped out of the Suburban and leaned against it, leaving the door open. There was only one car in front of us now, but if I had to throw up, I sure didn't want to do it out the Suburban's window. Or in front of Felix and Mr. Crabby, the security guard.

  But it wasn't Mr. Crabby, I now saw; it was a new guard, and he was giving grief to the driver ahead of me. “I don't care what your previous arrangement was,” he said loudly. “I only know the rules I was given. You're not on the list, so I can't let you in.”

  “I don't wanna go in,” the driver yelled. “I wanna leave the package with you. I do this all the time. I leave it here, Alik Milos comes and gets it here.”

  “I'm not taking that responsibility,” the guard said. “No one's answering at the Milos residence, and I can't accept packages for them.”

  I walked up to the guard. “I'll take it,” I said. “I'm Wollie Shelley, I live at the Milos compound, and I'll make sure it gets to Alik.”

  “Uh—you sure?” the driver of the car asked. He was just a kid, I now saw. No older than Crispin had been. “I'm just supposed to give it to the guard, nobody else.”

  “I'm the guard,” the guard said, in case anyone was in the dark on that point. “And I'm not taking anything without authorization from the home owner.”

  “It's okay,” I told the kid. “You can give it to me. I'm fairly trustworthy.”

  The kid handed over a small padded manila envelope. “Make sure he gets it, okay? Because I'll get canned if he doesn't.”

  “Really?” I asked. “That's pretty harsh.”

  “That's showbiz.”

  “What kind of work do you do?” I asked.

  “Editing. But I'm just an assistant.” He looked over his shoulder.

  “Where do you work?”

  He mumbled something that sounded like “mouse house,” but I couldn't be sure because he was already doing a U-turn, making his escape.

  Why was Alik Milos receiving packages from some paranoid editor-in-training? There was at least one obvious explanation. There was no return address or label on the package, just the handwritten “Alik Milos,” and that seemed irregular. I kneaded the package, trying to feel what was inside. Bubble-wrapped DVD was my guess. I was heading back to the Suburban when the guard came hurrying after me, clipboard in hand.

  “Would you just sign this, say that you took that package?” he asked. “Sorry, I'm just trying to cover my ass. I'm new.”

  “I figured,” I said, signing my name. “What's going on today?”

  “Wedding reception at the Brophy residence.”

  “And what's up with the gate?”

  “Someone got drunk last night at the bachelor party, rammed through it.”

  “Good grief,” I said.

  “Yeah. So I have to sign in residents by hand, and I don't know people yet and have to check ID, which of course every single resident grouses about. But I don't wanna get fired my first day.”

  “Heck no. Where's the guy who's usually here?”

  “Fired.”

  “For what?” I asked.

  He looked over his shoulder, then turned back to me. “You hear about the kid got murdered up on the ridge? Cops showed his photo around, some residents said they'd seen him lurking here. So everyone figures he sneaked in on foot. Maybe the murderer sneaked in too. So everyone's all uptight and management's cracking down.”

  “Unless the murderer was a resident,” I said, handing back the clipboard. “A resident wouldn't have to sneak in.”

  “Good point,” he said. “I'll be sure to tell that theory to everybody.”

  Back in my room in House of Blue, I stared at the package. Could I get a peek inside without committing mail fraud? It was smothered in clear plastic tape, impossible to simply steam open. And once open, would it say “Pirated Property”? No. I'd probably have to play it. And how could I, with a broken computer and no TV in sight? My superheroine, I decided, would have X-ray vision, or laser vision, some kind of vision that could see the contents of DVDs. Meanwhile, there was no way around it: if I gave the package to Alik, I had to give it to him unopened. If I opened it, I had to keep it. Keeping it would get me in trouble if Alik was expecting it and traced the delivery to me. And opening it would be a federal offense, of course. But I was working for the feds, so couldn't I commit a federal offense on their behalf? I tried to imagine Bennett Graham or Lendall Mains springing me from prison. I could maybe see that happening. I could also see Bennett Graham saying, “Wollie who?” And my job was to plant bugs, not steal from Alik Milos, who'd never been anything but charming to me. Maybe this was a movie trailer that he'd been hired to render a psychological evaluation of. Maybe it was on the level. What did I know? Handing it to him would be the safe thing to do, and I could assess his reaction, see if he expressed any guilt or paranoia. That was something, right?

  I changed out of my wrinkled, sweaty, dirt-encrusted designer clothes and into black pants, black camisole, black silk blouse, and flat ballet shoes in preparation for dinner. I felt much better and looked like a cat burglar. I stuck the last bugging device in my pocket and, package in hand, went down the dark hallway, with no idea of what I was about to do.

  Alik Milos's quarters, Parashie had told me my first day, comprised a whole wing of House of Blue one level above the rest of the bedrooms. I tiptoed past Nadja's room, and Zeffie's, and another that I assumed to be Nell's, featuring, visible through the open door, a bookcase filled with endless foreign-language dictionaries alongside a Save the Earth Wetlands poster. I tiptoed onward, then backed up and, with another look around, walked into Nell's room.

  The room was neat, but a desk showed evidence of a work in progress. I looked through piles of papers, then noticed a file box. I rifled through it and saw a file marked “Idioms, Belarus.” I took it out.

  Bingo. On a piece of notebook paper were handwritten notes. The alphabet was Cyrillic, but the writing was neat and the slant was unmistakable.

  It was Nell who'd written on my mirror. But what had she written? And why in Russian?

  She'd been surprised to hear I'd been given Chai's room. Coul
d she have written on the mirror intending the message for someone else?

  I stood still, listening.

  House of Blue was quiet. It was cocktail hour over at the Big House, which would carry through into dinner, and these people took their dining rituals seriously. I was probably okay, but figured I better move on in case. If caught, I would say I was looking for Alik, to deliver the unopened package. The package might be worth more to me, in fact, unopened. But not if I got caught in Nell's room. I left.

  What was I looking for, though?

  I felt like a ping-pong ball, mentally hopping back and forth between film piracy and—something else. The secret room, for instance. I could understand people wanting to shoot, but why underground, in secret? This was America, land of the Second Amendment, so why not just shoot in the open? Unless they were concerned about the neighbors. I hadn't met the neighbors in Palomino Hills, but perhaps they'd have problems with bullets bouncing off the barbecue, their propensity for gate-crashing notwithstanding.

  I knocked on the open door, then stepped into Alik's suite. It was gorgeous. The idea of grown kids living at home evoked images of bunk beds with cowboy sheets, but this bedroom was all gray, black, and mauve, very il modo Italiano.

  Beyond the bedroom was a walk-in closet. After another peek out into the empty hallway, I went to the closet and walked in. Along two walls were paneled doors. With locks. Who locked up their closets? Happily, not Alik. The doors slid right open.

  Inside sat a computer, with a printer, fax, and other office equipment. Why this setup here? The office in Big House was roomier and more comprehensive, so this one would seem unnecessary. Except that this one could be locked. And hidden.

  Hidden from whom?

  I didn't even try to deal with the computer, focusing instead on drawers and cabinets. I found paper products and a good quantity of blank DVDs and labels and cases. Was that significant?

  Maybe.

  Several of the drawers were locked. This denoted paranoia, but not necessarily guilt.

  I moved back to the bedroom and saw, next to the bed, a phone. At last, a phone in House of Blue. I dialed the yogurt shop and left a message that I needed a quart of Very Vanilla within twenty-four hours. I hung up and stared at the king-sized bed. There was no reason that someone with built-in locks everywhere would hide things under the mattress, but I checked anyhow.

  Under the mattress was a gun.

  The phone rang. I jumped.

  Should I answer? Might it be Bennett Graham? Lendall Mains? Simon?

  I grabbed it. “Hello?”

  “Yogurt shop. Can you explain the urgency of your need for Very Vanilla?”

  “Yes. I've come into possession of a small, square—I mean round, the item is round, but the case is square. I assume, because it's in a sealed envelope. Oh, hell, it's a DVD. It's not mine, it belongs to someone here, but it might interest you. Only I wonder if I should hand it over to the person it belongs to.”

  “No. Negative. Hold on to the item until you hear from us.”

  “Okay.”

  “Wollie?” The sound of my name being called in the distance stopped my heart. The voice was Parashie's. I hung up the phone.

  I stuffed the envelope under my shirt and ran out of the room.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Dinner was in progress. Parashie escorted me to my chair, then took her place near Yuri, where she was obscured by a large tureen of cold soup in the middle of the table.

  “Ah, here is Wollie, our new beauty!” cried Vlad. The beefy man rose and raised a glass of wine in my direction. “I ask about you all afternoon. Playing hard to get, eh?”

  “Okroshka, Wollie,” Zbiggo cried with equal enthusiasm, which I took to mean either “live long and prosper” or “try the soup.”

  I summoned a smile and pulled my napkin into my lap, unnerved at being the center of attention. It wasn't just shyness. I was actually “wearing” the DVD, inside its padded manila envelope. It was beneath my spandex camisole, held tight against my abdomen. Thank God the camisole fit snugly. Over the camisole, my black silk blouse effectively hid my stomach, certainly while sitting. Probably I was safe, unless someone touched me, or heard the envelope making faint crunchy noises when I moved. It had been the best I could do, in terms of hiding places, when Parashie had found me in the hallway outside Alik's room. “My father gave me six minutes to find you and return,” she'd said. “You are so late to dinner, and Vlad is here. It makes Yuri crazy when someone is late. Especially if there is company.”

  “Let me just stop in my bathroom and—”

  “No,” she'd said. “First you sit down to dinner and then you get up and go if you have to go. We have thirty seconds only.”

  So now I stared at the bowl of soup in front of me, cold and cream-based, with little flecks of what I took to be ham. I tasted it, but was un-enthused. Put off, even. What else had I eaten that day? Some bread in Beverly Hills, before Lucrezia had killed my appetite.

  Everyone else was eating the soup with gusto—Vlad was slurping his—and listening to Bronwen expound on Maria Callas, whom she considered overrated and shrill.

  “Maria Callas, however,” Yuri said, “appeared at the Met. In 1956.”

  Bronwen put down her spoon and pursed her lips.

  “The fat Callas?” Vlad asked. “Or the foxy one? She lost fifty kilos, the size of our Nadja here.” He put an arm around the triathlete, seated at his right. Nadja, chomping on a breadstick, ignored him.

  “Not fifty kilos,” Yuri said. “Maybe thirty, thirty-five. Eighty pounds. Her voice, shrill or not, was her message, but in today's marketplace, Aristotle Onassis and her extreme makeover would be her hook.”

  “What does this mean, ‘hook’?” Felix asked.

  “You missed the lunch lecture,” Yuri said. “The hook is that which you pitch to Entertainment Weekly or the producer of the talk show that will catapult you to fame. In your case, the hook is in your book title. Jesus made you skinny.”

  “Jesus gave me my life,” Felix said, eyes shining. “He is the way, the truth, and the life. John, chapter fourteen, verse six.”

  “Nobody cares for that,” Vlad said. “Religion will not book you on Larry King.”

  “Sure it will,” Kimberly said. “He had Tammy Faye Bakker on, and she was already dead.”

  “Felix, your faith is your message,” Yuri said. “You can quote the Bible once the cameras roll, but what gets you on the show is Jesus removing a high percentage of your body fat. That's your hook. You are our Maria Callas.” He turned to Bronwen. “How much do you want to sing at the Met?”

  “More than anything,” Bronwen said.

  “More than dessert?” Yuri asked. “Or baguettes? More than fifteen hundred calories a day?”

  Bronwen had no answer. I pitied her, having her diet discussed over dinner. Or at all.

  “Pass me the bread,” Vlad said. “Yuri, fat people sing at the Met every night.”

  “Musicality is not the only criterion,” Yuri said. “Stardom is component parts. Talent, beauty, sexuality—you overlook any of these, let alone several of these, at your peril.”

  “Beauty?” Bronwen asked. “It is beauty to be a twig?”

  “Nobody's endorsing twigs,” Kimberly said. “A healthy body mass index is the cultural standard, Bronwen. I don't mean to be rude, but deal with it.”

  “BMI,” Zeffie said, “is not so important as cholesterol and blood pressure. LDL. I prefer LDL below one hundred, everyone.”

  I saw Zeffie in a new light. Now she sounded like a physician.

  Grusha entered and tapped Vlad on the shoulder. “Line one,” she said. “Bratislava.”

  “Soccer team,” Vlad said, rising. He made a gesture with his finger to his nostril, which I took to mean “drug problems,” and followed Grusha out of the room.

  Plunk!

  Something had fallen into the soup tureen.

  Parashie stopped talking.

  It seemed we all looked at
the soup, and then, collectively, looked up.

  At the chandelier.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Bronwen and Felix, seated closest to the tureen, brought their napkins to their faces, wiping away spots of soup that had landed on them.

  “What is that?” Parashie asked.

  The bug. My bug. It couldn't be anything else. My bug was swimming in that tureen.

  The soup was more milky than creamy; if it had been thicker, the bug would've sunk more slowly, maybe taken a moment to float on the surface. This was buying me some time. Think, Wollie! I screamed to myself.

  “Was it a bug?” Bronwen asked, standing to peer into the tureen.

  She knows! I thought. They know!

  “A scorpion?” Zbiggo asked. “This is a scorpion, I think.”

  Okay, they don't know.

  “We don't have scorpions in L.A.,” Kimberly said. “The eastern part of the state, yes. Here, no. Tarantulas, maybe.”

  The thought of a tarantula throwing itself into Grusha's soup, even though I knew it wasn't the case, made me ill all over again. Don't throw up, Wollie, I thought. Whatever else you do, don't throw up. Look at something besides the soup.

  Except that I had to look at the soup. A normal person would be looking at the soup, or at least at Yuri, who was now standing, ladle in hand. He fished around in the gigantic tureen. I could hardly keep staring at my bread plate. Someone would notice. Okay, I would focus on the tureen itself. Ceramic and overly painted, maybe something Grusha brought over from the old country.

  Grusha! Did I hear those shuffling footsteps? Grusha mustn't know about this. If she saw the bug, she'd know in a second where it had come from and who was responsible—

  “Grusha's going to be very unhappy,” I blurted out, “if something's ruined her soup.”

  Yuri's eyes met mine. “True enough.” He let go of the ladle as she walked in. “Grusha, have we any more of the red that Vlad brought over for us last year?”

  “The pinot noir? The Russian?”