The Athena Factor (30 page)

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Authors: W. Michael Gear

BOOK: The Athena Factor
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“
B
oss, we've got a problem,” Christal announced as she burst into Lymon's LBA office and closed the door meaningfully behind her.
He had been at wit's end, double-checking the figures his accountant had forwarded. The federal government wanted a bigger chunk than he had expected for the quarterly taxes. Bigger to the tune of fifteen thousand dollars. He'd been wondering how he was going to broach the question of a bigger bill to Rex.
Thus it was that the last thing he needed was Anaya stomping in with “a problem.” He gave her what he hoped was an appropriate glare of reprimand as he tapped the fingers of one hand on the adding machine and shuffled the piles of paper stacked here and there with the other.
“Have you ever considered knocking politely and asking permission before barging in like one of Hannibal's elephants?”
Anaya didn't register it as she plopped herself into the chair next to his desk. “It's about Sheela.” She looked around. “Is this place safe? Can we talk?”
“Yeah, provided your vocal cords work, which they seem to. You mind telling me what's so important that you can interrupt my private self-flagellation at the IRS's behest?”
“Sheela's on the verge of a breakdown.” She raised a hand. “Hear me out, huh? You remember when she asked me
over this afternoon? The woman's at wit's end. She needed someone to talk to. I was it.”
“Why you?” He sat back, slightly irritated.
“Because I'm … I'm safe. A neutral party, if you will. She doesn't have to worry about offending me, about biasing a preconception. I'm peripheral enough that if it doesn't work, if I betray her confidence, the blow won't kill her soul. You get it, boss? I'm an expendable nobody.”
“Rex has been at her again?”
“Yeah, he's pushing really hard over some movie deal that Sheela has to make her mind up about yesterday.”
“That son of a bitch.”
“We're on the same wavelength there, boss. No doubt about it.”
Lymon closed his eyes and sighed before reaching for the phone. “Thanks, I'll deal with it.”
“No.” Christal surprised him by placing her hand on his atop the phone. “It's taken care of.”
“Would you mind explaining that?” Damn it, not only was Sheela his client, but he was in charge of LBA, not some two-week-old employee.
“Here's the deal, Sheela's going to spend the weekend at my place.”
“What?”
“Yeah, that's the problem.” Christal raised her hands. “Don't get on your high horse. I'm here to find a solution that's going to keep Sheela safe and still give her the privacy she needs right now.” Her dark gaze bored into his. “Lymon, you weren't there. You didn't see the expression on her face. One wrong knock and she's going to shatter. Just the same as if you dropped a Swarovski crystal onto a slab of cement.”
“I wish you'd talked to me before—”
“Rex has her on uppers,” Christal continued. “He's trying to squeeze everything he can out of her.”
Lymon ground his teeth.
“So, we have to make this happen. Sheela's got a plan. I want to put a couple of wrinkles into it.”
Lymon gave her a dead stare. “Christal, this isn't just an
exercise; you're playing with dynamite. This is a very important woman's life you're talking about.”
“I know,” she answered honestly. “She's everyone's golden goose, but they're so busy gnawing on her drumsticks that she's going to be bones on the plate before anyone notices. So, boss, this weekend she's coming to my place to just be a regular person.”
Lymon leaned back in his chair. “I don't know whether to strangle you, or give you a raise.”
Christal rose, bracing her hands on his desk as if she were about to leap over it. “Answer me something, boss. You care for the lady, don't you?”
“Look, Christal, this is the real world, not some movie, or novel, or something. I have professional responsibilities.”
“What about your responsibilities as a man?”
Lymon stared at her, fighting the desire to stand up and bust her across the mouth. “You're treading on dangerous ground here.”
“Yep.”
He had butterflies in his stomach as he said, “All right, smart-ass, what have you got in mind?”
 
 
For the
Jagged
Cat
party, Bernard had rented Dan Tana's, a small two-room Italian steak house in the nine thousand block of Santa Monica Boulevard. The Friday night gathering was intimate, the cast's chance to share the final familial bonds they had forged during the short but intense shooting schedule.
Red-and-white checked tablecloths, red leather booths, and hanging Chianti bottles decorated the rooms. Celebrity artwork, movie posters, and photos hung on the crimson walls. The fare was New York steak marinated in a special Italian tomato sauce; rolls, many of which were used as projectiles; and all the wine the cast could drink.
Sheela had hooted and clapped as Bernard conducted the impromptu awards ceremony. For her gag gift, she had received
a bent carving knife to commemorate the scene where she chased her father around the kitchen. Then she had turned to the familiar faces, told them what a pleasure it had been to work with them, and blown them all kisses before retaking her seat and listening appreciatively to the others as they took the floor and received their gag gifts.
Manny de Clerk sat in a booth in the back, surrounded by his agent and manager, a somber look on his face. He had just smiled and waved when Bernard gave him a framed photo.
Poor Manny. Sheela had covered her sympathy with a smile. When the real world had broken through his fake self-image, he had cratered.
What
about yourself?
she asked.
If
someone penetrated the walls you've built, could you do any better?
She swallowed hard and rolled the cloth napkin between her fingers. Her heart was beating, anticipation sending tingles through her muscles. God, she felt like she was a girl again, stealing her father's motorcycle.
That's silly! You're a grown woman.
Yeah, one who was sneaking away for a weekend of sin. Or so she hoped.
She glanced across the room to the door, knowing that she was coming up on time to leave. She could still back out, call Christal and tell her that she'd changed her mind.
“Anyone else got anything to say?” Bernard demanded. “No? Then I guess that does it for me. Again, thank you all. You're the best, most professional cast I've ever had the pleasure of working with. God bless you all.”
They all applauded, whistled, and stomped.
“If anyone's interested,” Bernard answered, “I'll be serving drinks up at my place. You're all welcome.”
More whistles and cheers.
As they stood, Sheela made the rounds, kissing cheeks, hugging, making the pleasant chatter expected of her. She reached into her purse, thumbing the button on her cell. Plugging her other ear with a finger, she said, “Paul? I'm ready.”
“I'll be there soonest,”
he said.
“The door security will call for you when the limo is out front.”
Sheela mingled in the knot at the door, smiling, feeling alive for the first time since she and Lymon had gone tootling around on the Indian. Sapping fatigue lay there, deep in her brain and body, but the adrenaline rush held it at bay.
What's happened to you?
she wondered.
When did your courage dissolve into water?
Thank God for Christal.
“You can depend on me.”
The woman's words repeated as if engraved on Sheela's soul.
What was Lymon's reaction going to be? He'd be pissed at first. She smiled at that, both pleased and irritated that he was ever the professional. Just once, couldn't he let himself see beyond his duty? Dimming the noise and bodies around her, she imagined the two of them, alone, intimate, just holding each other.
“Manuel de Clerk?” the door security called.
Manny's agent acted like a battering ram, opening the way to the door. Sheela could see flashes as the paparazzi captured Manny, one hand raised, fleeing down the cordoned rope lines to the open door of his limo.
Shit, they were like locusts. She frowned, looking down at her black leather pants and tall black boots. Would they guess? No. It was too far-out.
“Sheela Marks!” came the call.
She excused herself, smiling, as she stepped to the door—and out into the strobes and clatter of the cameras. Two of the security guys made sure that no one crossed the velvet ropes leading to curbside.
“Sheela!” “Ms. Marks!” “Look this way!” “Sheela, over here!” She smiled, waving, trying to oblige them all, knowing full well that the wrong expression was captured forever.
The limo door was open, and she slipped inside with one last wave. The door shut, and she held her posture as Paul pulled away from the curb. Only then did she collapse.
“Thank you, Paul,” she called.
“No trouble, ma'am.” He kept his head forward. “The bag is on the floor as you requested.”
She experienced a flood of relief. She was only moments from freedom.
 
 
Marc Delangelo slipped from the crowd blocking the sidewalk in front of Dan Tana's. He raised his hand, waving; a bright red Porsche Boxster, the top down, swerved toward him.
He vaulted into the seat, pointing. “There, that limo. That's her.”
Jennifer, his girlfriend, glanced at him in the illumination cast by Santa Monica Boulevard. “You're sure it's her?”
“Yeah.” He grinned. “She's up to something. I've watched her a lot of times. She doesn't dress like this unless something's up. I mean, leather pants? That's not her style. And that denim long-sleeved shirt? This is Sheela Marks, not Gwyneth Paltrow.”
“So?”
“So,” Marc replied, “if we keep them in sight, I think we're going to catch America's sweetheart doing something really cool. And, like, that's a couple of months' rent if I can get it on film.”
She glanced at the infrared camera that he pulled from a bag. “You'd better. I'm still pissed at what you paid for that thing.”
“Hey, babe, it's the coming thing!” He gestured ahead. “You just stay a couple of lengths back from that limo.”
 
 
Genesis Athena.
Christal rolled the name around in her head as she pushed the plastic grocery cart. According to her watch it was just after ten, and the store was almost empty. A few other patrons cruised up and down the brightly lit aisles of the Albertson's. They were casually dressed, no doubt picking up the last few things before the weekend. That, or like Christal, they worked unusual hours.
She glanced at her watch, figuring that Sheela would duck out of the
Jagged Cat
party as early as she could. She had promised to be at Christal's by eleven. The woman who had
pleaded so passionately with such a look of desperation in her eyes wouldn't be partying on until all hours of the night.
Christal had checked to be sure that Sheela made her party at Dan Tana's, then had taken her Concorde to do some last-minute shopping. It had occurred to her in a stupendous flash that she was about to have a most auspicious houseguest—and her refrigerator was stocked with what she considered the barest necessities of survival: refried beans, tomatillos, cheese, poblano and jalapeño peppers, corn tortillas, eggs, and burger. Whatever Sheela liked, Christal could just about be assured that the famous actress' spice cabinet didn't just consist of cayenne pepper, cumin, cilantro, and garlic like Christal's did.
Genesis Athena.
The thought intruded, as if trying to lever itself into her mind. An image flashed: that bit of Manny de Clerk's foreskin. Christal was trying to force it away and concentrate on Canadian-friendly recipes when her eyes fell on the sausages in the meat cooler. Reddish and mottled—like a bloody tampon. Where in the hell had
that
come from?
She could hear her grandmother's voice, whispering encouragement from just beyond her perception.
“What is it, Grandmother? What are you trying to tell me?”
Christal stopped short, a coldness washing through her as her brain made the curious connection. Foreskin? The mottling on a tampon?
Tissue!
Menstrual blood contained bits of tissue from the sloughing uterine lining. And what was razor scuzz but bits of skin and beard hair?
Tissue!

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