“Do they actually call them for references?”
“Sure as shit do. They pretend to be someone else, but they do a background check. A better one than we do, it sounds like.”
“What exactly are they checking for?”
“To make sure the guy is who he says he is and not a cop. If he checks out, he gets a temporary ID and password, which he uses until the first time he bangs one of them, the idea being a cop wouldn’t go that far. Once they do that, they get a permanent ID.”
“Impressive. This is some operation she’s running. How do they hook up?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did he talk about scheduling and meeting and-”
“Web site. It’s all done online.”
“I knew it. Payment, too?”
“Shanahan, for Christ’s sake. He was in fucking Dubai, and I was sweating through all my clothes. It wasn’t a lengthy and detailed conversation.”
“Okay, okay. Sorry.” I waited a beat for him to calm down. Otherwise, he would talk so fast I couldn’t understand him. “Just tell me what you did get.”
“I asked him for the name of the Web site. He said it wouldn’t do me any good without a password. He also said there’s nothing to see there. It’s just a sign-in screen. So I asked him, how do you see the girls, how do you know who to ask for, and he says they have these introduction parties where you can meet them. There’s one scheduled for tomorrow night. Supposedly, lots of hookers will be there. He’s not going, obviously, but he told me where it was in case I wanted to.”
“Great. Let me get something to write with.” I slid the magazines and unopened mail around on the counter until the pen I was searching for rolled off the edge. It probably made sense for an investigator to have writing tools at the ready. I made a mental note as I plucked the pen from the hardwood and found a napkin to write on. “Where is it?”
“LA.”
“LA? LosAngeles?”
“Little town on the West Coast? Palm trees…movie stars…big international airport?”
Turning around and going right back out on the road again was the last thing I wanted to do. I wasn’t even sure I had any clean underwear. But Tristan did say that Angel was expanding her wings to LA. Maybe this was the kickoff, in which case, clean underwear or not, I should be there.
Dan was waiting. “Do you want it or not?”
“Give it to me.”
He read me the address, and I wrote it down. I knew virtually nothing about LA, but he said it was at some producer’s house in the Hollywood Hills. Nothing intimidating about that. “Okay, here’s the most important part. You have to have this password to get in. Are you ready?”
Chapter 8
“ALEXANDRA!”
Tristan screeched down the jetbridge and onto the quiet aircraft. I jumped and clanged the coffee pot against the coffeemaker. Fortunately, onboard coffee urns are nearly indestructible.
“You startled me.”
“Is that you? Oh, my God, dear, you are ablonde! But when did you do this?”
I stuck the pot on the burner, reached up, and plowed my fingers through my new do. It was a familiar habit through unfamiliar territory. I wasn’t used to wearing products on my hair.
“Last night, and I’m not a blonde, I’m merely highlighted.”
“Look at you, all poofed and moussed. You look fabulous.”
“Do you really think so?” If I had been unsure before, now I was totally convinced-I had made a terrible mistake. It was too much. “Is it too much?” I knew I shouldn’t have done it myself. What was I thinking taking fashion advice from Dan? “Do you like it? Is it a good color? Is it okay?”
“Better than okay. Is that new makeup, too?Look at those nails. Girl, what got into you?”
He turned me around, and I had to admit, it was nice to be noticed. “It’s your influence,” I said. “I knew I couldn’t show up with you at a Hollywood party without looking anything less than fully buffed.”
I’d had no luck arranging my own swap to LA-apparently, it was the place to be for flight attendants this evening-so I’d had to enlist Tristan, with his seniority and his pull and his vast number of sources around the base. He got the job done, but the price was that he insisted on coming with me. In my heart of hearts, I was relieved. I hated parties. The sound of ice tinkling in glasses or the smell of a Sterno can burning under a fondue pot was enough to trigger the party vapors, the inability to function in large gatherings of schmoozing people, all of whom knew each other, none of whom knew me. This particular confab, put on by a Hollywood producer, had the potential of being the most intimidating party I’d ever attended.
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.” He stowed his bag in the first-class coat closet. “My days of jetting out to LA for a party are long over. But this might be fun. Did you turn on the ovens?” He reached past me to check. “Still gun-shy, I see.” After opening the doors to make sure no ice buckets were hidden inside, he turned them on. “Tell me again why going to this party is so important to you.”
“I told you last night.”
“I know you did, but I want to hear it again. I am so excited for you.”
“There’s someone there I want to see.” Not exactly a lie…
“A passenger, right?”
“He is, yes.” Still not really a lie. There would be passengers there.
“Oooh, a handsome prince. Did he invite you? Tell me everything about him. Did you meet him on a flight? You must have. Does he live in LA? You have to be careful of handsome princes from LA. Mostly, they’re starving gay actors. I can help you scope that out. Introduce me, and I’ll tell you within thirty seconds if he’s gay. Unfortunately, it’s the toads that have all the money, and if you kiss them, they will still be toads, albeit wealthy ones. You don’t have to worry about them, anyway. Most of them are only interested in jailbait. Boys and girls. Oh-” He checked quickly to see if he had offended me. “I didnot mean you were old. Thirty-four is not old except by the standards of Tinsel Town.” He put his arm around me. “Don’t worry, Cinderella. I’ll take care of you.”
That was one of the nice things about Tristan. I often didn’t have to fill in the details for him, because he did it himself.
Work began with the sound of the first-class passengers stampeding down the jetbridge, racing each other for overhead bin space. Boarding went smoothly, and after a slow but steady procession, Tristan worked with the gate agent to close out the flight while I checked in with the cockpit for beverage orders. Behind me, I heard the telltale signs of runners, passengers huffing and puffing as they leaped aboard after an all-out sprint down the concourse. Eventually, the door closed, the jet-bridge retracted, and we were set, sealed in for the long flight west.
As we pushed back and started our taxi, I did a pass through the cabin to prepare for takeoff. My focus was on empty cups and seat belts, so mostly what I saw were elbows and laptop keyboards and wristwatches and cuff-links, and then I got to the guy in 4B, who must have been one of the runners, because 4B had been empty last I’d seen, and for some reason I looked at his face and not his elbow, and I saw who it was, and everything stopped, and I started to say something from the shock alone but caught myself because he didn’t see me, and my next thought in a flood of them was that I didn’t want to be seen.
Not like this. Not by him.
I spun around and lurched back to the galley, where Tristan was organizing the catering cart. “We don’t have enough beer,” he said. “They never give us enough beer. We’ll be lucky if we make it to the Mississippi on what they gave us.”
When I didn’t respond, he looked up at my face. “What? What’s the matter?”
I could barely get the words out. My feet felt heavy, because all my blood had drained down and collected there. “I can’t work up front on this leg. I have to go to the back.”