I won’t say we were Emmy material, but we whipped through the recent developments of what was now considered the Des O’Day murder in just under eight minutes and finished up with Jim, whose news-anchor persona is smooth, efficient, and buttoned-down, displaying his off-camera charm and wit reminiscing about a murder case he’d covered early in his career.
After our segment, Whisper conveyed a late supper invitation to Jim from Carmen. He turned to me. “You joining us?”
“Not that I was invited,” I said, “but I’ve got a previous engagement.”
“Yeah? Starlet?”
“Better than that,” I said.
On my way to Vida’s, I stopped at a twenty-four-hour liquor store and was pleased to find, hidden among its otherwise uninspired wine selection, several bottles of Adelaida HMR Estate Paso Robles pinot noir. I purchased one—well, two, actually. It was, after all, the beginning of the weekend.
Whistling a merry tune, I carried my purchases back to the Lexus and discovered that someone had stuck a folded ad flyer under its driver’s-side wiper. Still whistling, I removed the paper and surveyed the parking lot for the nearest trash bin. Too far away.
The Lexus’s automatic wireless unlock did its thing. I opened the door and eased behind the wheel. I placed the wine bottles gently on the passenger seat, then transferred them to the rubber floor mat. Finally, I unfolded the sheet, preparing to give it a cursory glance before balling it and tossing it beside the wine bottles, to be disposed of later.
It consisted primarily of a very familiar design. “I (Heart) NY,” bold, black letters surrounding a red heart. Beneath it, a copy line read: “Live It Up in the Big Apple!”
Someone had added, in hand-printed block letters, “Or die in L.A.”
I refolded the sheet and stuck it in my shirt pocket. Then I twisted on the car seat and took a hard look at my surroundings. There appeared to be nothing terribly sinister about the liquor store’s narrow, brightly lighted parking lot. Still, I didn’t feel quite panicked enough to do anything more than get the hell out of there.
My finger was an inch from the Lexus’s starter button when the concept of a car bomb came to mind.
No, I told myself. A bomber, even a demented one, would not have bothered to put a warning on my windshield if he intended to send me to New York in little pieces. I pressed the button, and the car started as safely as always.
I rolled the Lexus out into the street.
Half a block behind me, a car left its curbside parking spot. The black BMW.
I speeded up. So did the BMW.
Up ahead was Melrose Avenue, which I knew would be bustling with customers of the late-hour boutiques and restaurants and clubs. I eased into the traffic. The BMW fell back a little but remained on my tail.
What to do? I could think of only one thing. I got out the cellular and was about to phone Brueghel when the black car made a right turn and apparently left the chase.
I drove another few blocks to make sure. No black BMW.
I’d seen enough movie thrillers to consider the possibility of a two-car shadow. With that in mind, I made an abrupt right turn onto a less-traveled side street. I drove it all the way to Santa Monica Boulevard. Nobody followed.
I remembered how paranoid Fitz had sounded with his story of a milk-eyed man in a gray Mercedes. I’d made that flip comment about the number of gray Mercedeses in the city. Weren’t there just as many black BMWs?
The threatening note made my concern a little more credible. But as a scare tactic, it was a pretty lame effort. And shaking Brueghel’s tree with it would only set him off on an I-should-never-have-set-Charbonnet-free rant and tie up the rest of my night.
On the other hand, I had a beautiful woman waiting to feed me dinner. I had two bottles of very good wine. And tomorrow was a work-free Saturday.
No contest.
Vida’s house was filled with the perfume of beef braised in red wine. She’d transformed her small dining room into a romantic candlelit cloister. If that weren’t intoxicating enough, she was wearing what looked like two sarongs, a black one with shiny golden suns that covered her from waist to ankle, and the other, a bright red, draped around her upper body, leaving her bare midriff to fend for itself. It seemed to be doing just fine.
She gave me a quick kiss and slid dreamily away, leaving me with the taste of grapes on my lips.
“A confession,” she said. “The Swedish Chef didn’t say what to do with the leftover wine, so I’ve been drinking it. And I feel wonderful.”
God bless the Muppets.
I was feeling pretty wonderful myself.
We drank. We ate. We talked and laughed, and eventually arrived at the moment when I was to discover the parameters of a second date with Vida.
She stood, swaying slightly, and began walking around the room, extinguishing the candles. “Safety first,” she said.
“Excellent motto,” I think I said, rising to help.
Somehow we snuffed all the little flames without setting ourselves on fire. At least not literally. Vida moved closer, pressed against me, and we were about to kiss when she pulled away.
“Something’s coming between us,” she said. She reached out, playfully plucked the New York flyer from my shirt pocket, and danced away with it into the living room.
Damn. Please don’t read it. Please don’t read it.
She stood by a lamp, reading it.
“What is this, Billy?” she asked, her sexy-happy mood doing a 180.
“Just a brochure,” I said. “I Love New York.”
“You understand this is somebody telling you to get out of town, right?” She sounded like she was now Ms. Hotline. “Who gave it to you?”
“I found it under my windshield. It’s nothing to worry—”
“You didn’t happen to see who put it there?”
“No.”
“Notice anything else? Somebody sitting in a car, maybe?”
“No. What are you getting at?”
“Maybe a black BMW parked nearby?”
I guess my expression must have given her the answer, because before I could open my mouth, she was running toward the front door. She fumbled it open and rushed out. Almost immediately she returned, grabbed what looked like a walking stick from a stand beside the door, and ran out again.
By the time I got going, she was racing down the sidewalk toward a black BMW parked just behind my Lexus near a streetlight. “Damn you, Brute,” she was screaming as she brandished the walking stick.
The driver’s door opened, and a black man stepped out. He had a stubbly mustache that matched the hair on his head. He was six-foot-two or -three, no wider across the shoulders and chest than a fully padded football player. But he wasn’t wearing padding, just muscles under a tight black T. And, oh, yes, a gun in a polished shoulder holster.
He was watching Vida’s advance with alarm. He kneed the door shut and went to meet her.
“Hold on, now, baby. Don’t go flyin’ off the handle like you do,” he advised.
She took a swing at him with the stick. He easily avoided it, then wrapped her in his arms so that she couldn’t make another try. “Somebody’s been slurpin’ the vino,” he said.
“You bastard,” she shrilled, struggling. She was not a small woman or a weak one. But her efforts were useless against his bulging arms.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” he said with surprising calm.
“You … betrayed me.”
The words surprised him. “I betrayed you?”
“I trusted you,” she said, crying now. “You betrayed that trust.”
“I never would,” he said.
“You’re hurting me,” she said.
He relaxed his hold, and she suddenly broke free and took another swing with the stick.
He dodged, then grabbed her again and forced the stick from her hand.
She pulled away from him and raced past me and into the house. I don’t even think she saw me.
The big man walked toward me. “I guess we oughta take this off the street, huh?” he said.
It wasn’t a threat, exactly.
As I fell in step beside him, heading for Vida’s, he said, “My name’s Brutus Mackey.” He offered his hand.
I shook it and replied, “Billy Blessing.”
“I know. I’m a big fan of your cooking show. I’m kind of an amateur chef myself.”
I indicated the weapon he was carrying. “LAPD?”
“Private,” he said.
“Vida asked you to watch out for me?”
“Do a guardian angel. Bodyguard you from a distance.”
We found Vida sitting on the sofa in her living room, crying.
“I should never have called you, Brute,” she said. “That was my miscalculation.”
“I don’t understand, baby,” he said, sitting beside her. I noticed she did not pull away.
She thrust the “I Love NY” flyer at him. “You’re gonna tell me you don’t know about this?”
He took the flyer and read it. “This was under your windshield wiper, right, Billy?” he asked.
“You oughta know,” Vida said. “You put it there.”
“You think I’d play that way?” he asked her. “Well as you know me?”
“I think you’re bullheaded enough to still believe we can work things out.”
“You got that right. But why would I bother trying to chase this man away when I know he’s not gonna be around long enough to give me any serious competition?”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Billy’s a New Yorker. He lives and works there. He’s got a restaurant there. Friends. And you’re L.A. all the way, baby. Just like me.”
She turned toward me. I couldn’t quite read her look. Maybe she was asking me to contradict Brutus.
More likely, she was saying goodbye.
I bent down and picked up the flyer, put it back in my pocket.
“A white dude left that,” Brutus said, “wimpy, khaki pants, T-shirt type. Five-nine or -ten. Brown, maybe dirty blond, hair. Didn’t get a good look at his face. Somebody was chauffeuring him in a gray C-three-fifty sport sedan. Too dark to make out the plate number.”
“That C-three-fifty thing. It’s a Mercedes, right?”
“Yeah,” Brutus said with a smile, as if any fool should know. “A Mercedes.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me it wasn’t you left that note for Billy?” Vida asked him.
“Like you gave me a chance to, baby,” he said.
They made a cute couple. I headed for the door.
“Billy, I …” Vida began.
I held up a hand. “One thing about us New Yorkers,” I said. “We learn to roll with the punches.”
Brutus asked if I wanted him to continue guardian angeling me. I told him it wouldn’t be necessary. I’d be taking the threatening note to the police in the morning.
“Let them handle it,” I said.
He said he’d be available to provide them with a description of the wimp.
I left the house, shutting the door behind me.
I hoped Brutus wouldn’t be too upset when he discovered I’d broken in his new silk pajamas.