“He’s five years old, Margot,” Bix said. “Ali’s not gonna be making travel plans with a kid that young. It’s just talk, trying to get Nicky in touch with his father’s culture. That’s all it is.”
“The last time Ali came for him, my son was a different child when he came back.”
“Different how?”
Margot sipped her iced tea and said, “I took Nicky to bed with me that night and I hugged and kissed him and asked him what he and his daddy talked about. And he said, ‘Are you going to come and live with us, Mommy?’ And I asked him where, and he said, ‘When I meet my gramma and grampa.’ And I said, ‘You’ve met your gramma and grampa lots of times. Remember when they came here, and when we drove to Barstow?’ And he said, ‘My other gramma and grampa. Who live far away across the ocean.’”
“That doesn’t imply he’s gonna run off with Nicky,” Bix said.
“I’ve got information from a good source that he’s put the Leopard Lounge up for sale with a broker. It’s all on the Q.T. And he’s dissolving every asset he owns that’s not part of the divorce action. He’s very sneaky. Ali’s got secret assets we haven’t been able to find.”
“That still doesn’t mean he’s ready to leave the country. Does Nicky have a passport?”
“Do you know how easy it is to leave this country for the Middle East with a child if you have plenty of money? You just hop in your car and drive your child three hours south and cross the border into Tijuana. After that, it’s a piece of cake to arrange for passports and flights to anywhere you want.”
“Your imagination is getting the better of you,” Bix said.
“There’s more,” Margot said. Then she stopped and said, “Would you mind if I had a drink? It’ll make it easier to talk about.”
He didn’t look pleased but said, “Go ahead.”
She returned with a triple shot of premium vodka, on the rocks in a tumbler, just the way he liked it. With a slice of lime hanging on the lip of the glass instead of a lemon twist inside it, also the way he liked it.
She squeezed the lime into it, took a sip, and said, “Oh, that’s better. That’s much better.”
Bix looked at his watch and said, “Get on with it, Margot. I wanna get home before dark.”
“Why? Your family isn’t home.”
“I’ve gotta feed Annie,” he said.
“She can’t eat after dark?”
“I can’t be here after dark,” he said.
“Why?”
“You’re a vampire, remember?” he said, smiling just a bit.
Margot chuckled then, a sound he loved to hear, and she said, “Oh, darling, I’ve missed you so much.”
“You were going to tell me more,” Bix said, avoiding her amber eyes. “Something you needed my advice about, remember?”
“He said he’s going to kill me,” Margot said suddenly and took another sip of vodka.
“Who’d he say this to?”
“I’m not sure,” Margot said, “but I think it was one of his dancers. I got an anonymous call. My new number’s unlisted, but of course he has it. She could have found it in his desk directory.”
“Why would he be crazy enough to tell a dancer he was going to kill you?”
“He uses cocaine heavily in his office. He shares it with his dancers for sexual favors. When he’s high on coke, he talks way too much. He reveals things he shouldn’t. He mixes his drugs and doesn’t even remember what happened later. That’s what I think happened.”
“What did the anonymous caller say?”
“She said, ‘Be careful. He’s going to kill you and take your son.’ Then she hung up.”
“You didn’t recognize the voice?”
“No, but I’m sure it was one of the dancers.”
“You’re speculating.”
“Based on experience.”
“Did you tell your lawyer.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He’d say what you’re saying. It’s speculation. Someone’s trying to scare me. I’m being an alarmist. Et cetera.” Then she stopped and her chin quivered, and she put her hand to her eyes, saying, “Excuse me, Bix, I’ll be right back.”
Margot Aziz left him there alone with the sweating tumbler full of his favorite ice-cold vodka. His face felt fiery hot and he wanted to pick up the glass tumbler and hold it against his cheek to quell the heat. He wanted to hold the glass against his lips.
She was gone for a few minutes, and when she returned, her eyes were a bit moist, as though she’d been crying, and she held a tissue in her hand to prove it. She noticed that the vodka level in the tumbler had dropped. Only a little. But it had dropped.
She said, “Excuse me again, I want to freshen this.”
Bix Ramstead felt his heart pounding. This woman. The sight of her. The touch of her skin. Her scent. He had the taste of vodka on his tongue, as he always had when he was with her. This was all so familiar and so frightening.
When she returned, she set the tumbler on the outdoor table with the fresh vodka in it and a fresh slice of lime hanging on the lip of the glass. She looked at him in earnest and said, “Bix, you always carry your gun off duty, don’t you?”
“When I come to Hollywood, yeah,” he said. “When I’m at home in Studio City, I’m not packing. Not when I go to the market or to the movies with my kids.”
She said, “Are you packing now?”
“It’s in the car,” he said. “Why?”
“I’m gonna buy a gun as soon as possible. I can’t stand this fear I’m living under. I want you to tell me what to buy.”
“If it makes you feel any better,” he said, “then buy one. Just get a wheel gun. A thirty-eight revolver. They’re simple. They don’t misfire. They’re easy to use. Anyway, you’re never gonna fire it.”
“Any particular make?” she said.
He looked at his watch then and said, “I better be going. I might run into traffic, driving over Laurel Canyon. I don’t think I should get on the freeway tonight.”
“One drink,” she said. “For the road. For old times’ sake. In a little while the traffic will be light and you can whiz home and feed Annie.”
He hesitated just long enough for her to know she could pull it off. She slid the tumbler full of vodka in front of him and said, “I’ll fix myself another.”
Then she got up and went to the kitchen. She took her time, and when she returned, she saw that the vodka level had dropped again, but this time more than a little. And she had poured a triple shot into that one.
“Darling,” she said, sitting with her fresh drink. “Thank you for coming. There was no one I could turn to. Nobody I could trust but you.”
His hand trembled when he picked up the tumbler and drank again. “I’ve gotta get away from here before sundown,” he said.
Margot chuckled again and, yes, he absolutely loved the sound of it. Just as a massive swarm of insects rose like ashes in the sky, tainting his lovely view of multicolored shards of smog over Hollywood.
The crack pipe was red-hot when Leonard Stilwell put it down on the sink counter that evening. He’d finally been able to score some rock at Pablo’s Tacos, and he’d driven straight back to his apartment with the rock and with four chicken tacos loaded with guacamole. He’d stayed well away from Hollywood and Highland for fear of running into that pair of cops who looked to him like surf rats.
The crackhead dealer who’d sold him the rock said that he had six grams for sale, and Leonard said, “Wrap it up. I’ll take it all.”
“Cool!” the dealer said. “Plastic or paper?”
Leonard had been smoking ever since, trying to watch TV but unable to concentrate. When he was feeling both mellow and elated, that combination he loved to feel, he decided to take the advice given to him by Ali Aziz and turn in early for a good night’s sleep. The envelope with the capsules was on the cheap little nightstand beside his bed and he shook out three capsules. But then he thought he’d better not push it and dropped one back inside the envelope. He popped two in his mouth and washed them down with a beer.