Chapter 18
The private screening theater at Paramount held a hundred people, and the crowd gathered in the outer reception room, swigging cocktails and telling each other lies about their careers and projects. It was a mixed bag - some critics, a few sympathetic reporters, studio execs, the actors and their dates, friends, business associates, agents, and managers...and Black, who blended in like a sumo wrestler at a fashion show. Everyone had the glow of money and fame and power, even the press, who seemed to bask in it and reflect the aura like multi-level marketers at a big sales convention.
Black's gaze roved over the throng, grouped in threes and fours, sipping champagne and martinis as they tittered at each other's witticisms, until it landed on the small bar that had been set up in the far corner. He made a beeline for it, feeling like he'd caught a touchdown pass and was fighting his way downfield. Meagan Hunter appeared out of nowhere in a glittery black dress that looked like it had been glued on, and slipped her arm into his.
"Why, Mr. Black. What a delightful surprise. I'm so glad you could make it. Can I talk you into a cocktail before the festivities begin?" she purred, the aroma of expensive perfume mixing with alcohol fumes as she murmured in his ear like a lover.
"Mrs. Hunger. Nice to see you again," he said, then flushed as he realized his slip. "Hunter. Mrs. Hunter. Sorry."
"No offense taken - you're a very perceptive man, aren't you?"
"Or a really stupid one."
"I never took you for dumb. Although I've got nothing against all looks and no brains, if that's supposed to warn me off. And I told you the last time - call me Meagan. We're practically family at this point."
"Jack and coke," Black told the bartender, anxious to end the flirtation there. The last thing he needed was Hunter's inebriated wife coming on to him in a roomful of movers and shakers. He was still squirming inwardly at the idea when Hunter appeared in an Italian suit that probably cost more than Black's car and clasped one hand on his shoulder as he moved alongside him and set his wine glass down on the bar.
"So you're here. Anything new come up?" he asked, his voice low, strictly business as he pointed at his goblet, signaling a refill to the bartender.
"Not yet. I talked to LAPD about the killing. I wish you had a stronger alibi, but even so, I don't think there's going to be any more trouble from that end. There's no 'there' there."
"I think I'll have another greyhound. Extra tequila, Maestro!" Meagan said, her voice a little too loud.
"Don't you think you've had enough? Maybe you should hit the brakes for a while," Hunter said, his eyes flashing anger.
"Oh. I'm sorry. Heaven forbid that I actually enjoy myself a little. I'll just walk ten steps behind you and bow to whoever greets you. Will that work?" she asked, her voice sweet as honey.
"Don't bust my balls, Meagan. Just this once. Do me this favor, would you?" Hunter replied, offering his dazzling professional smile as he waved at two newcomers by the entry.
"Fine. I have to go to the powder room anyway. Try not to fuck any of your co-stars while I'm there, would you?" she whispered before teetering off on impossibly high heels that showcased her dancer's legs.
Hunter shook his head, a look of fatigue crinkling the corners of his eyes.
"Women, huh? What are you going to do with 'em? I thought the newer models would be easier to operate, but not at all. Can't live with 'em, can't keep 'em in a cage in the cellar...I never said that, by the way. The feminists would have a field day with it."
Hunter's prior two marriages had ended in sensational divorces, with an ugly and extremely public battle on the second one. His daughter from that marriage, Nicole, had been used as a pawn by the newly ex-Mrs. Hunter, and Black vaguely recalled the acrimonious bickering the press had reported in excruciating detail.
Black chose to remain silent, praying his drink would arrive before the surrealistic situation got any more uncomfortable. Hunter took that as camaraderie or agreement, because he drew closer, and Black realized the actor was pretty close to being drunk himself.
"Don't read too much into her, Black. We've been going through a rough patch, that's all. It happens."
Black nodded as the bartender set his drink down in front of him and then reached for a bottle of cabernet for Hunter. "None of my business."
"Speaking of which, I really could use some good news. Tell me you're making progress. Please."
"It's still first inning. I'm gathering information. Looking for connections. Patterns. Motive. Speaking of which, can you think of anyone else who would have it in for you?"
Hunter laughed, a dry humorless bark.
"Half of Hollywood would like to skin me alive and then dance on my grave, the other half would prefer to piss on it. It goes with the territory. This business is all white sharks. You never have any friends in this town, only allies, and then only until it would benefit them to move in for a kill shot."
"What about FSA? There's a common thread here. Whoever is killing the paparazzi is probably doing it for their own reasons. But why link it to you?"
Hunter lifted his brimming wine glass in a mock toast and then drained a third of it in one swallow. "Who the hell knows? There are psychos everywhere. Maybe somebody wants to become famous. Or thinks they're doing me a favor by eradicating the world of cockroaches. Maybe they're trying to send a message - that they agree with my dislike of the paparazzi, and they're going to somehow help with my crusade by killing them in my proximity? I could invent a hundred different scenarios, but the truth is that I have no idea why whoever is doing this has singled me out. Just lucky, I guess."
Black took a sip of his cocktail and noticed the security man he'd recommended to Hunter standing in a corner, watching the crowd. Black made eye contact and the man nodded, stone-faced, then returned to his nonstop scanning of the privileged few.
Meagan returned looking like a fashion model and beamed a megawatt smile at Black before throwing Hunter a patently fake one. "I'm back, darling. I hope you didn't miss me too much."
"Always, Meagan, always. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think we need to get this show on the road. It's movie time!" Hunter declared, clapping his hands together theatrically before moving off towards the screening room doors to have the announcement made.
Meagan edged close to Black again and pressed one haunch against his. "You know, we have some unfinished business, you and me. Maybe you can sneak out halfway through the movie and meet me in the ladies' room?"
"Don't take this the wrong way, Meagan, but I'm on the job tonight. And you're my client's wife."
"More like his bathmat. Trust me, big boy, you have no idea what you're missing."
His eyes roamed down her gym-toned body and he swallowed hard. "I'm sure I don't. But that's the way it has to be."
She pulled away from him. "Have you made any progress on the case?"
The sudden changing of gears threw him, and then he recovered. "No, not yet. There's not a lot to go on, frankly. It's a weird one."
"You should look at his bitch daughter at some point. I could see her doing something psychotic, and she hates the paparazzi more than Hunter does."
"I gather there's no love lost there."
"She hates me because her father dumped her mom to marry me. And since the accident, she's taken her condition as an excuse to be an abusive little fecal speck every chance she gets. So no, we don't have the very best relationship," Meagan said, a few of the words slurred but with a renewed energy, eyes sparkling with a flicker of excitement. Black realized that she'd probably done a line of coke in the bathroom to even out her buzz, and decided that spending any more time with her at that point was courting disaster. "And don't let her cripple act fool you. She could probably outrun you if there was a bottle of gin on the line."
"I've got to go talk to the security chief before the showing starts. If you'll forgive me..."
She pouted, then shrugged. "Suit yourself."
The announcement came over the public address system as he was crossing the room, and he lost his chance to talk with his friend, who sprang into action marshaling the other security men in preparation for the screening. Black hung back as the throng entered the mini-theater and made sure he was the last one in, his thoughts roiling over the interactions he'd just seen.
The film was terrible, almost a parody of a Bruckheimer action romp, and Black nearly bolted from the theater when the credits rolled two hours later. If this was the "game changer" that Hunter had bet the farm on, he was about to lose everything, Black could see that. The lackluster polite applause confirmed his take, and he hurried from the screening area before anyone would miss him, anxious to be rid of the whole scene, with its pretensions, ugliness, and the toxic environment Hunter and his wife managed to create within seconds of being in each other's company.
He stopped at Valentino's in Hollywood on the way home and asked around about Preacher and his partner, but got nowhere, and after an hour of overpriced watery drinks and too-loud music, he decided to call it a night and head back to his dump, secure in the knowledge that as rough as he had it, Hunter probably had it worse.