The chirping of the guesthouse phone woke me the next morning at eight a.m.
It was the cosmetically restructured Amelia St. Laurent of Crockaby Realty. In a voice considerably more arch than I recalled from our first meeting, she informed me that she would be showing the villa to prospective buyers in one hour—at precisely nine—and would greatly appreciate it if everything were “in apple-pie order.”
Since a cleaning crew had removed all evidence of Des’s and Fitz’s brief occupancy, including any vestiges of the rat, and I’d done the dishes after the previous night’s dinner, I assured her that the place would be spick-and-span. Unless I decided to bake an apple pie. In which case, would that not enhance its apple-pie order?
Our conversation ended on that note of high frivolity. I hopped from the sack, took a quick shower and shave, mopped up the bathroom, and deposited the towel in a hamper. I dressed. Made the bed. Hid my pajamas and dirty clothes in a drawer.
Finally, I removed the cleaner’s wrapping from the tux I would be wearing on the show that night, to let the fabric breathe. I then stood back, surveyed my temporary abode, and judged it to be, like the villa, in, yes, apple-pie order.
Not wanting to be on the scene when Amelia made her pitch, I drove the Lexus down the coast highway to Patrick’s Roadhouse, the legendary green eatery facing the Pacific on the Santa Monica–Pacific Palisades border that was better known for its patrons than its menu.
True to form, while dining on an acceptable breakfast of corned-beef hash and two eggs over easy, I counted, among my fellow customers, three bikers, two males and a female, who were nodding into their omelets, a pair of surfer dudes in rubber suits who seemed to feel that every noun had to be modified by the word “bitchin’,” two guys in business gray suits who might have been accountants but more likely were junior agents, and Sean Penn, sitting alone with a book.
Hunger satisfied—did I mention the slice of Dutch apple pie?—I returned to the Lexus, which I’d street-parked on Entrada Drive, and was about to start it up when my phone serenaded me. Cassandra, calling from the Bistro.
“You’ve got a problem,” she said.
I checked my watch. Nine-twenty. The lunch hour in Manhattan. There was considerable noise in the background. Conversations. Cutlery clicking against plates. “Sounds like you’ve got a good house,” I said.
“We’re at near capacity,” she said. “The Bistro is not the problem. You should call your assistant.”
“Kiki? Why?”
“She’s totally pissed off at you. As I would be, if I were in her place.”
I was having a little trouble sorting out this information. I try to keep my restaurant and television worlds spinning on different axes, and it always surprises me to discover they’ve collided. “I didn’t know you and Kiki were friends.”
“Billy, we get together once a month. Late lunches or early dinners. Usually here. You’ve seen us.”
“I guess I have,” I said. Though, obviously, it hadn’t registered. “It just never occurred to me that you’d have much in common.”
“Only one big pain in the ass, really. You. Our boss. You’re pretty much what we talk about.”
This wasn’t the sort of thing I needed to hear long-distance. “I’m guessing these aren’t complimentary conversations.”
“They’re the usual. We try to top one another with examples of how you take us for granted. Or ignore us. Or say you’ll do something and forget. In general, how you behave like an asswipe.”
This is what being a bigamist must be like at the moment of truth, I thought, and congratulated myself for not being even a half-bigamist.
“But what Kiki told me at lunch today extends way beyond asswipe behavior,” Cassandra went on.
“Tell me what she said.”
“She thinks that when you told her you didn’t need her out there, you had an ulterior motive.”
“And what would that be?”
“To keep her from becoming Stewart Gentry’s new flame and, consequently, quitting her going-nowhere job as your assistant.”
“So lemme get this straight,” I said, feeling a sudden heat that had nothing to do with the Southern California sun. “First, before getting that going-nowhere job, Kiki was the secretary to a crude, bust-out Broadway producer who wasn’t even paying her half the salary she’s getting now.”
“How much is she getting?”
“That’s beside the point,” I said. “Moving on to her fantasy about becoming Stew Gentry’s flame, that’s crazy talk. She had one date with the guy a year ago.”
“She called him.”
“Yeah?”
“He said he’d had some serious disagreement with you. He wouldn’t tell her any details, but she’s convinced it was about her. She said he seemed very cool toward her and did not invite her to come out there for a visit, even after she’d dropped some pretty obvious hints. She’s sure you’re to blame.”
I took a couple of deep breaths of ocean air, ionized with just a hint of brine. “What happened to the ad salesman she was seeing?”
“She says he’s too nice.”
“Too smart,” I mumbled to myself, I thought.
“What?”
“My disagreement with Stew had nothing to do with Kiki,” I said. “I have not uttered a word to him about her. If, by some magical quirk of fate, she were to become the next Mrs. Stewart Gentry, I would be overjoyed to dance at her wedding.”
“Don’t tell me. Tell her.”
“The show debuts tonight,” I said. “I’ll be with it through the week, then I’ll be flying back to reality on Saturday. I’ll deal with Kiki then.”
“If that’s how you want to play it,” Cassandra said, in her nettling passive-aggressive way.
“Why the hell should I have to defend myself for something I didn’t do?” I asked.
“Do what you think best.”
“Do you understand what a big deal tonight’s going to be?” I asked. “Millions of eyeballs on the show. And a live audience. I’m never comfortable in front of an audience, even when I know what I’m doing. I’ll be announcing the show. A voice deal. Not really my thing. And there’s this crazy lighting guy who’s got us performing in semi-darkness. I have enough to worry about. I don’t need to be worrying about my assistant’s imaginary love life.”
I was expecting her to make some reply, but there was silence from her end.
“No comment?”
“Break a leg,” she said tersely, and clicked off.