The Big Fix (2 page)

“Shouldn’t you be gone?” I said, making sure I sounded concerned, not rude. According to a last-minute update from Jackson, Frannie had been called away on a family emergency.

“Come on, Ja—I mean, Mr. Gunn. You don’t think I’d leave without making sure you’re taken care of, do you? I got you a temp.” She glanced with distaste at the starstruck girl with the black-and-white ponytail and double-hooped nose piercings. “What’s your name again?”

The goth girl mumbled something I didn’t bother to commit to memory (totally in character for Gunn) and took my empty cup, holding it with such reverence I was afraid she might be planning to make a shrine to it. Or possibly just sell it on eBay.

Frannie glared at her, obviously annoyed at the hero worship. “Mr. Gunn takes his coffee black, and only when he asks for it. Make sure you don’t bother him in his trailer. He’ll need to rest—
undisturbed
—between takes.”

Goth Girl nodded, looking contrite. I split a megawatt smile between the two of them, lingering a little longer on Frannie, so she wouldn’t get bent out of shape.

“I’m sure you’ll do fine, sweetie,” I said to the girl. I knew from his file that Gunn tended to call all women “sweetie.” I supposed that spared him from having to remember names. Whatever the reason, I was glad. It made my job easier.

Frannie looked torn—she was obviously a devoted assistant—but eventually left. On her way out, she lobbed one last warning look at little Miss Black-and-White, who faded obligingly into the background, still clutching her prize coffee cup.

“Jack!” The director again. What now? Had the snakes gone on strike?

“Look, Jack … I don’t know how to say this … I … We just heard … I mean … we have some bad news.”

I quirked my mouth, shrugging it off the way I figured a superstar would. “What? Are we losing investors? Hell, let me talk to them. I’ll—”

“No, that’s not it, the movie is fine, though if you want … I mean, if you need to take some time…”

“Spit it out, Wally.” That was his name, right? Walter Gentzner. Wally to his cast and crew, I was sure of it. So why was he looking so sick?

“It’s your wife.” He swallowed, his face looking as gray as his beard. “She’s dead.”

Well, shit. Part of my satisfaction guarantee was to never return a client’s life in worse condition than it was when I got it. I could fix a lot of things, but you can’t fix dead.

Chapter 2

“Tell me again, cuz … how is this my fault?” Billy said, pouring a hefty amount of Tanqueray Ten into a shaker full of ice. He added a much smaller portion of dry vermouth, not bothering to measure.

“You’re the one who got me the job. And don’t call me that,” I said, not caring how unreasonable I sounded. I’d spent the last hour dodging microphones and morbidly curious sympathizers. I was grumpy.

Billy has a habit of showing up during my jobs, just to annoy me. Our moms were sorority sisters once upon a time, so they claim honorary aunt status to each other’s offspring. Not only that, but Billy is Auntie Mo’s stepson, so technically we wouldn’t be related even if our moms were real sisters. I point this out only because a few months earlier our hormones (Billy’s and mine, that is; I don’t even want to think about our mothers’) had taken it upon themselves to explore certain
un
cousinly possibilities. Now I occasionally like to reassure myself we aren’t perverts.

Which is a good thing, because I have to admit the fruits of those hormonal explorations have been pretty darned impressive so far. But that doesn’t mean we’ve given up on teasing and tormenting each other (I suspect that’s hardwired into our personalities), only that we’ve added a new dimension to it.

We were holed up in Jack’s luxury Fifth Wheel trailer, and Billy wasn’t about to let the well-appointed bar go to waste. He filled two sturdy martini glasses. Three olives each, speared by sterling silver picks topped by tiny pistols.

“All right, then—Cielie-poo,” Billy said, accommodating me with a shrug and a teasing curve of lips as he handed me one of the glasses.

I crossed my eyes and stuck out my tongue at him, as much because his glass was twice as full as mine as for the gag-inducing endearment. Normally I’d complain aloud about the lack of cocktail parity, but since I was trying to keep a clear head I let it slide.

“I only passed the job on to you because you refused to let me pay off your creditors. I don’t know why you have such a big chip on your shoulder about earning your own money, anyway. Lord knows I’m happy to take it from anyone willing to give it to me.”

His dark blue eyes twinkled beneath the heavy black eye shadow he still wore. The contrast was stunning, but then Billy’s eyes were always gorgeous. His lashes were a source of perpetual envy on my part. Of course, now that he was officially my significant other, I didn’t mind them quite as much.

He’d been the ponytailed assistant—the temp filling in for Frannie. (Three guesses who had engineered the family emergency.) Billy’s two-toned goth girl was ostensibly running interference with the outside world so “poor Mr. Gunn” could rest in the aftermath of the shocking news.

Billy had dropped the aura, but he was stuck wearing the makeup until he went home for the day. Well, unless he wanted to expend the extra energy to cover it up with borrowed bits of some cosmetic-free aura. Since it was only us here, he didn’t bother.

“Sweetie’s” T-shirt was snug on him, and her stretch jeans too short, but the stark black clothing suited his own dark-haired coloring. Thank goodness he’d remembered to take off her facial jewelry before switching. I can never look at people with nose rings without wondering if they might sneeze and accidentally blow a snot bubble. It’s distracting.

I’d borrowed one of Jack’s silk robes (gunmetal gray, but the paisley print added an unexpected touch of whimsy), since the movie costume I’d been wearing swallowed my petite frame. The bronzy tone of his makeup actually went fairly well with my strawberry blond hair. It even covered my freckles to a certain degree, so silver lining there, at least.

“Of
course
you take money from anyone,” I said. “
You
are a lazy opportunist.”

“I beg to differ. I am a
good
opportunist. Good opportunists can’t afford to be lazy. You miss too many opportunities that way.” He clinked my glass with his. “Cheers.”

I responded in kind and took a grateful sip. Billy’s martinis were starting to grow on me. “Mmmm. You missed your calling. You should have been a bartender.”

“Oh, I have been, on occasions too numerous to count. Want to see me juggle the bottles?”

“You can do that?”

He put his glass on the coffee table and returned to the bar, where he grabbed three bottles and sent them spinning through the air in quick succession, catching them over and over again with ease. “Who do you think is standing in for the lead in the remake of
Cocktail
?”

“Oh, geez. Why are they recycling that tired old thing?” Apologies to Mr. Cruise, but I am not a fan of his early work. Too many teeth.

“Because…” He replaced the bottles one at a time, leaving them exactly where he’d found them. “… recycling is the green thing to do. And Hollywood is all about the green.”

I groaned. He sat beside me on the soft leather sofa and kissed my nose.

“You’re supposed to laugh at my jokes, cuz. Save the moaning for when we’re in bed.”

I gave him a look. “I told you not to call me that anymore.”

“Habit,” he said. “Relax. You’re not a pervert.”

“Well, I suppose it’s better than ‘Cielie-poo.’ Marginally. Still…”

“Never mind. Drink up. You have a call to make.”

I shuddered, and downed the rest of my martini in one huge swallow. I still needed to tell the real Jackson Gunn that his wife was dead. Worse, that she’d apparently been murdered.

Okay, so there was no “apparently” about it. According to what the police had told us, she’d been shot multiple times. In the back. It sure as hell wasn’t an accident or a suicide.

“Maybe I should break it to him in person,” I said. Yeah, stalling. It wouldn’t be any more pleasant telling him face-to-face, but at least it would allow me to put it off for a little while longer. Personally, I think procrastination is an underrated life skill.

Plus, I loved visiting the ranch. It was my favorite of the three client hideaways I kept. The lake house in upstate New York and the remote tropical island villa were nice enough, but the dude ranch had horses. I
love
horses.

The hideaways are essential to my business, because it would be awkward (to say the least) if a client were to be seen, at home or anywhere else, while I was playing stand-in. I keep three different places because the filthy rich people who can afford my services expect a certain amount of choice in their accommodations. Not that I only cater to the filthy rich. I’ve taken on some pro bono clients—like I said, I can be altruistic—but I’ve found it tends to be people with a whole bunch of money who demand my services. I guess maybe they’re more used to delegating away life’s petty annoyances than the rest of us are.

“You really want to risk his hearing about it on the news?” Billy asked.

“The police said they weren’t going to release the details.” I tried to sound positive, but from the look on Billy’s face I hadn’t succeeded.

“This is Hollywood. The only place leakier is D.C. TMZ is probably right outside the trailer door.”

I sucked in a deep breath and let it back out through flapping lips. “All right, all right. I’ll do it. Hand me the phone.”

“Good girl. And afterward we can…” He whispered something in my ear that would make Auntie Mo wash his mouth out with soap.

I felt my eyes get big. “Are you sure the tub is big enough for that?”

“I’ll go measure it while you make the call.” He kissed me, doing that thing he does with his tongue that drives me absolutely crazy. After he was done stealing my breath, he worked his way up to my ear.

“I’ll even be Jack for you if you want,” he whispered suggestively, matching the action to his words and leaving me clinging to the physical embodiment of my erstwhile persona. Somehow, it wasn’t as exciting as I’d imagined it would be during all those bargain matinees I’d spent fantasizing about him. Spending time as the man had effectively let the air out of that balloon.

Billy had made a similar offer before—to him, changing auras was like changing clothes. Assuming Jack’s appearance was no different, in his mind, than dressing up as a pirate for me would be, if I happened to be into pirates. Which I’m not. (Except maybe Johnny Depp’s Captain Jack Sparrow, but let’s not go there.)

“Um, that won’t be necessary,” I said. Understatement of the year. Any “thing” I’d had for Jackson Gunn was now well and truly kaput. Just another hazard of my job. “Besides, it would be disrespectful. For Pete’s sake, the man’s wife just died!”

“It’s not like it’s really him. You know it’s me, so where’s the harm?”

He was going to make me admit it. “Look, he doesn’t do it for me anymore, okay? I want
you
.”

“Whatever you say—I aim to please,” he said with a satisfied smile, and changed back to himself, leaving me to my unpleasant task.

Once again, I wondered if he really meant it, or if he was trying to be “fair.” He’d told me before that while he’d sowed more than his share of wild oats, he knew I hadn’t, and he never wanted me to feel like I was missing out. If I ever craved variety for variety’s sake, he was able and willing to supply it. Nice offer, I supposed—especially since he’d assured me he didn’t expect anything in the way of reciprocity—but Billy as himself revved my motor more than Jackson Gunn ever could, regardless of my hero worship.

I took my time dialing, both out of reluctance to impart the bad news and to give my heart rate a chance to slow down. Who needed aerobics when Billy was around?

“Circle C Guest Ranch, Dave speaking. How can I make your life more fun?”

I smiled. Dave Silverberg was the middle-aged manager of the Arizona resort where most of my West Coast clients stayed while I solved their problems for them. He was a good friend of my parents, a New York City native with delusions of cowboy grandeur (I blame his early fascination with Billy Crystal movies), and I loved him to death. Not an adaptor himself, but a trusted member of the community nonetheless.

“Hey, Dave. It’s me. Can you put Jackson on? I need to talk to him.”

There was a pause. “Well, darlin’”—there are those who might think it ridiculous for a man raised in Brooklyn by a cabdriver and a waitress to assume a Western drawl, but I happened to think it was adorable—“that might be a problem. It appears Mr. Gunn is missing.”

“What?”

“Yup. He plum disappeared on me. I was about to saddle up and go looking for him when you called.”

Crap. Just what I needed. A missing client on top of a dead wife.

“Listen, call me as soon as you find him. And, um, don’t let him watch any news before I talk to him, okay?”

Billy joined me as I was hanging up. “Good news—there’s a new loofah.” I used to roll my eyes when Billy would tell me how wonderful he was with a loofah, but having shared a few showers with him recently, I didn’t anymore. “The tub will be a tight squeeze,” he added with a wink, in case the innuendo in his voice wasn’t enough to carry his meaning, “but with my superior athletic ability and your impressive flexibility, I think we might just be able to manage it.”

“Sorry,” I said. And, boy, I really was, because Billy was an absolute virtuoso at following through on innuendo. “We have to leave for the ranch right away—Dave can’t find Jack.” A horrible thought struck me. “Oh, my God—you don’t think he’s been kidnapped, do you?”

It wasn’t as if
that
hadn’t happened on one of my jobs before, and Billy knew it. Seriousness wiped the fun right off his face, replacing it with speculation.

“Possibly, if whoever murdered his wife was out to get him, too. Or worse…”

“Or
what
?” What could possibly be worse than a kidnapped—Jesus, maybe even dead by now!—client added to the client’s definitely dead wife?