Richfield & Rivers Mystery Series 2 - Stellium in Scorpio (24 page)

"Weird
guy," I remarked. "I mean, contrast Giovanni the prayerful with
Giovanni of the ghoul pool. It's like he's two different people."

"Something
strange about the priest." Callie's brow furrowed.

"You
mean aside from the fact that he wears a dress, never has sex with a woman, and
has a cannibalistic desire to eat the body of Christ?" I said, making
light of the belief system ingrained in me when I was a child.
"Archeologists a hundred thousand years from now are going to have a field
day with this set of beliefs."

"I
don't know, just the aura around him. I feel like I know him," she said.

"Are
we speaking this lifetime?" I asked, as the priest stepped back inside the
chapel.

"Don't
make fun, Teague, you're distracting me," she said.

"That's
my goal, to distract you!" I kissed her neck while Giovanni, oblivious to
us, got into his car and drove slowly down the hill.

"Okay,
we were fooling around and we missed him!" she said.

It
was true; Giovanni was out of sight now. I leaned back in the car seat and felt
the wind blow in through the open window. "I was always bad on stakeouts. I
couldn't focus."

The
double doors swung open again and we spotted Sophia taking her time exiting the
church, dipping her hand in the holy water and crossing herself. The priest
talked with a parishioner, and Sophia lingered there in the courtyard, watching
him complete his duties, and then approached him, smiling and attentive. The
two of them laughed and chatted.

"She
must have come straight over here," I said. "Like she's afraid if she
talks to us, she needs the Last Rites or something?"

"I
think she's trying to find out what's going on up here with the money, just
like we are."

I
was about to suggest we leave so that she wouldn't feel threatened if she
spotted us, but then I saw the headstone a hundred yards away from the car.
Callie saw it too.

"Maybe
it's a cemetery," she whispered. We drove slowly across the dirt and rocks
to the old headstone west of the church, and there surrounding it were other
flat markers, some of them dating back to the 1800s. "A cemetery next to a
building with an X on it," Callie said, referring to the map given to her
at the casino.

I
looked over her shoulder. "Leave it to a Spiritualist. That's not an
X,
it's a cross. This has to be the place." I turned my back to the
markers and faced the direction of the hotel.
Two miles? Five miles? How
long would a tunnel have to be? And does this mark the location?

"It
does," Callie answered the unspoken question in my head. "Now we have
to find the entrance to the tunnel."

I
clocked the distance back. Slightly more than five miles and then just a short
drive down the Strip to the Desert Star, and the bright lights, and the valet
parker with the giant feather in his hat. We were back in the swing of Vegas
nightlife, both still trying to decide what the cemetery meant.

"Where's
the tunnel entrance? Under a tombstone like a big fake rock used to hide house
keys?" I asked flippantly.

My
cell phone rang and I stood outside by valet parking to take the call. I mimed
to Callie to go on into the bar and order me a drink.

"Hello?"
I said loudly into the phone, shouting over the roar of the traffic.

"Teague,
it's me, George. I've been on the phone with Jocowitz's counsel, who's a dick.
You there?" I assured him that I was. "So they don't want you to do
the script. They want to hire someone who's written for Jocowitz before.
They'll pay you for the first draft—"

"Then
they won't get the story rights," I said sharply. "Tell them they
just lost the movie."

"Well,
I told them you might agree if you—"

"No!"
I nearly shouted. "They don't rip off the idea, have a crony write it, and
then fuck up the script. Tell them thanks, no deal, goodbye."

"You
sure?"

"I'm
sure," I said.

"Makes
my
life easy. Talk to you later." He hung up.

That's
always the way it is! Love ya, love your work, love your writing, love to steal
your stuff, love to fuck you over, love to pay someone else, who’s not as
bright but who I know from PS 180 in the Bronx. Fuck Jeremy Jocowitz,
I thought. I tried to shake my angry, gloomy mood as I
headed back toward the bar. It was more crowded now, and there were several men
halfway blocking my view of Callie, who was seated on a bar stool in profile to
me talking to an attractive older man with silver hair and a very expensive
suit. He looked well groomed in a slick, expensive way, like a mafia type. I
strained to see who he was, and what they were doing, when suddenly, I was
jostled by a waiter carrying a tray of drinks. We both staggered slightly, and
I apologized. When I looked up, the silver-haired man was gone, his bar stool
empty, and Callie was talking to the bartender.

"Hi,"
I said, approaching her. "Who was that?"

"Who
was who?"

"The
man you were talking to."

"I
wasn't talking to anyone," Callie said, and looked at the bartender.

"She's
just been talking to me, that's all," the bartender said.

"So
you lie, and he swears to it?" I asked sarcastically. Callie looked
shocked, and the bartender lifted his eyebrows in reproach and moved on down
the bar to less obstreperous patrons. Callie was incensed that I'd called her a
liar, and she said, with great seriousness in her voice, that she wouldn't
tolerate it.

"Well,
Callie, you were talking to a man with gorgeous silver hair and a very
expensive suit and jewelry, and I, on the other hand, am out of the room, so
I'm just asking what I missed." Callie stared at me like I'd lost my mind.
I sat down and she pushed a drink in front of me.

"Apologize,"
she demanded.

"For
what?"

"For
the tone of voice you used on me."

"I
apologize," I said, somewhat confused.

"And
don't do it again! You're angry over your phone call, and you're taking it out
on me."

I
chose not to respond. She was right, but she was rubbing it in. Callie Rivers
would be a very difficult person to live with. Every word received analysis,
every joke a sermon, and every remark was infused with a positive or negative
implication. Henpecking, men used to call it.

"While
we're asking questions, who was on your phone?" she asked, pecking a bit
harder.

"My
attorney. It's already started. They don't want me to write the script."

"What?
It's your story!"

"Doesn't
matter. They always want to take it away and give it to a friend, or to someone
they owe a deal, or to someone who's won an Academy Award, or to someone who's
a big box office hit, or to anyone who's not the person with the idea they
like, want to buy, want to steal.. .whatever."

"I'm
so sorry, but listen to me, you're going to get to write it."

"Oh
sure, they'll let me do the first draft. Then they thank me, pay me Writer's
Guild minimum, and put the script in the trash. Now you've gotten to write, now
goodbye." My cell phone rang and I excused myself again to go out into
the lobby and seek quiet and better reception.

It
was George. "Okay, you scared 'em. My suggestion, however, is stick with
no. They're going to be a big fucking pain in the ass if we do this deal. Just
let me know."

He
hung up and I felt slightly vindicated, but only slightly. These kinds of deals
were always a battle, and they left me feeling less than. I took a deep breath,
let out some air, and prepared to have a better night. As I reentered the bar,
I could see Callie clearly across the room this time, in a corner with the same
silver-haired man. He was standing so close to Callie that their bodies were
nearly touching—could have been touching. He leaned in to kiss her.

My
heart sank into my shoes and my mind flooded with images of L.A. and Robert
Isaacs and the way Callie had omitted the fact that she'd been married. Now
here was another man, and he'd returned minutes after Callie had denied his
existence. He was sharing her airspace as if they were intimate. I was insanely
jealous, and on top of that, lying was my hot button. I didn't want to be lied
to and I certainly didn't want a relationship with someone who could summon
lies so readily. I stood and stared for what seemed like minutes, then I made
my way over to the two of them. By the time I got to her, the silver-haired man
had left. Callie looked shaken. My heart was broken.

"What
the hell was that about?" I asked coldly, flatly.
I
knew this
entire relationship was too good to be true. Callie is a fantasy. The idea that
she would be monogamous is insane, of course!

"It's
okay, Teague, come on." She took me by the hand, and I pulled away.
"Come with me. Let's go back to the room."

"I'm
not going anywhere with you, Callie. I'm going back to L. A." I turned and
walked to the bank of elevators.

I
could hear Callie's heels clacking on the floor behind me as she struggled to
catch up. "Teague, listen to me, please." She had me by the arm now
and I could feel the tears on my cheeks. I pulled away as the elevator doors
opened, but she got in with me.

"It's
not what you think," Callie said, and the man in the elevator standing
next to me looked at her quizzically.

"It's
not what I think?" I whirled to face the man, and in true Callie fashion,
I aired my pain in public. "If your wife were kissing another man, and
then told you that it's not what you think, what would you think?" I asked
the stranger riding on our elevator.

The
man blinked. "I'd think about divorce."

"Bingo!"
I said and the elevator doors opened. I dashed ahead of Callie and opened the
hotel room door. Elmo looked fretful, as if he knew the kind of angry energy
coming his way.

I
grabbed my clothes and began flinging them into suitcases.

"I
owe myself this much. I'm not dating straight women and I'm not dating
bisexuals. It's called pick a flavor and stick to it! No one should be turned
on by the entire planet. Fifty percent of the population should leave you cold.
Which fifty percent is entirely up to you, and while you figure that out, I'm
out of here!"

Callie
grabbed my arms, then my hands, then finally grabbed the suitcase with
Herculean might and flung it off the bed and against the wall. "Listen to
me! I am not running around on you!"

I
froze, staring at Callie. She looked intense, and serious, and in control, like
a hero in a movie who has to convince a disbelieving comrade that a bomb is
about to explode and they only have minutes to survive. Something about her
look and her energy dissipated mine.

"Look,
Callie, you don't have to go to this extreme to end our relationship. Really, a
simple 'it's not working' will do. I know I've been pushing you, and that's why
it's taken you ten weeks—"

"You
don't know anything! Listen to me, please. I think he's the man who told
Randall Ross that Rose was in danger."

"And
what does that have to do with him slathering over you?"

"I
knew you wouldn't get it..."

"Get
it? You were married, you fool around with older guys, hell, you look straight,
I don't know what I was thinking."

"No
one understands what I do..."

"Glad
you could make it global...cosmic...no one on the planet understands you!"

Callie
stared at me for a long moment. "Don't say things you'll regret."

"Is
that a threat of some kind?" I asked, and she didn't answer. I could feel
silent tears rolling down my cheeks. "I don't know what to say, and I
don't know what to think. I just need to get some sleep." I hooked Elmo up
and took him downstairs for his walk, hurrying out to intentionally leave
Callie behind. I needed some time alone. Elmo padded along in silence, letting
me mull things over. Out by the bushes where we always made our nightly stop, I
looked up at the stars and said a small prayer:
I don't get it, God.
Whatever help you can give me, I would really appreciate. I just need to
understand. I just need a little guidance here. Amen.

∗ ∗ ∗ ∗

Back
upstairs, Elmo jumped up on the adjoining double bed and smooshed his face into
the pillows. It was his reward for being pent up during the day. I crawled into
bed, leaving the TV off, and waited silently. Callie slid in beside me and
wrapped her arms around my waist, pressing her cheek against my back and
cupping my breasts with her hands. I felt a great sadness wash over me.
What
if this is it? What if I can't have this for the rest of my life? Or worse,
what if I can have Callie Rivers at some superficial level and then, below that
layer is something saved for someone else?
My chest hurt, as if a piece of
my heart was being slowly torn away from the whole. "What are you
thinking?" Her voice was soft and quiet in the darkness.