He was a grown man, thirty-six years old, and this was childish and silly, and yet he kept driving up into the Hollywood Hills. Up to Mt. Olympus for no reason that made any sense whatsoever. When he got there, he saw a blue Dodge minivan and he recognized it. Bix Ramstead often parked that minivan near Nate’s Mustang in the south lot, and once he’d told Bix the minivan looked like a vice squad hand-me-down and asked if Bix had to steam clean the cargo area and rake out the condoms after the hookers had been transported to jail.
Seeing that minivan made him face another possibility that he did not like to consider. Was he simply jealous that Margot Aziz could prefer Bix Ramstead to Hollywood Nate Weiss? Nate passed the address, turned around farther up the hill, and stared at the house of Margot Aziz as he drove slowly down past it again. He thought that Jetsam had been dead right. That house had an aura.
TWENTY
I’M DRUNK!” BIX Ramstead finally admitted.
“You’re just a bit tipsy,” Margot said, removing the throw pillow between them on the sofa while Rod Stewart sang “You Go to My Head.”
“Gotta go, Margot,” he said.
Still not touching him, she said, “How about a good-night kiss for the road?”
Quickly, she slid over next to him, and he felt her breath on his neck. She kissed him with lots of tongue, and then she kissed his face and neck and ran her hands all over him while he groaned softly.
“Let’s go lie down for a while, sweetheart,” she said. “Until you’re feeling more alert.”
“I can’t-,” he said, but she cut him off with more kisses.
“You’re sweet, Bix,” she whispered. “You’re the sweetest man I’ve ever known.”
“I can’t, Margot,” he said without conviction.
“You’ve never even seen my bedroom,” she said. “Let me show it to you.”
He would’ve been surprised by her strength if he’d been sober enough to appreciate it. She half lifted him to his feet, put his arm around her neck, and led him to the carpeted staircase.
“I gotta go feed Annie!” he said, but she had an arm around his waist, and, holding up much of his weight, she started up the stairs.
“Shhhh, baby!” she said. “Wait till you see my bedroom. You can feed her later.”
Margot was panting by the time she got him upstairs and into the bedroom. She walked him to the bed, and he stood swaying when she pulled back the spread and top sheet. Then she let him fall back onto the bed. This was not how she had imagined it would happen. She thought she’d have to get him pretty drunk, but not utterly blitzed like this. After sex, sleep would naturally follow. That was how it was supposed to happen, but she’d been too fearful that he’d have an attack of conscience. She’d poured too heavily. The only bonus was that she wouldn’t have to ball him after all.
He was up on one elbow, unable to focus, seeing two Margots, when she quickly peeled off her top and stepped out of her pants.
“See!” she said cheerily, just in case he had any noncompliance left in him. “No underwear!”
He was nearly unresponsive, eyes closed, breathing through his mouth.
Naked, she worked methodically, pulling off his shoes and socks, undoing his belt, unzipping his chinos, pulling them down and off. Then she peeled off his briefs and he seemed barely awake when she unbuttoned his Oxford shirt and got him out of it.
When he opened his eyes, looking past her at the open doorway, she nearly panicked. He couldn’t get up now! He couldn’t leave now! She climbed on him, sliding along his body, moaning, uttering endearments, running her hands over him, leaning down to kiss him when he tried to raise up.
“Baby, baby,” she murmured. “I want you!”
All he said to her was “Some angel I am.”
“Yes, yes,” she said. “You are my angel. You are!”
It was more of a sex simulation than the real thing, and it required much more effort for her. She was panting from exhaustion by the time he fell into a deep slumber. She gathered his clothes, folded them, and put them in her closet. When she came back to the bed, she strained and pushed and lifted until he was under the covers, his head on the pillow, snoring softly.
She put on a robe and ran downstairs. She retrieved his holstered gun from the coffee table but left the empty vodka bottle and the two glasses on the table, pouring some vodka into her tumbler of tonic to prove that they’d both been drinking heavily.
Then she crossed the foyer to the front door and unlocked the thumb-latch, making sure that the door opened easily. She ran back up to the bedroom and put Bix’s holstered gun on the nightstand at his side of the bed, along with his car keys and wallet. Then she turned out all of the lights except a lamp on the second floor at the top of the staircase. She wanted Ali backlit when he entered her bedroom.
Gil Ponce had gotten back to regular duty in record time after the shooting of the ice-cream hijacker was found to be in policy and the BSS shrink had peeked inside his head. Gil’s quick return was probably due to the TV media’s being so quick (and incorrect) in calling the incident a suicide-by-cop, thus giving the LAPD bureaucrats plenty of cover.
Six hours into their watch, Cat Song and Gil Ponce took code 7 in a restaurant that Cat frequented in Thai Town. That meant phoning ahead for their dinners so that the food could be served the moment they sat down, giving them the whole thirty minutes to get through the courses.
Cat told Gil that the main course was named for her, and he smiled when they brought out a whole baked catfish. Cat talked to Gil about the satay and the curry, and, using a fork, she flaked off the tender flesh from the fish and spooned it onto his plate. They drank Thai iced coffee, and when the bill came, Cat insisted on paying it, leaving a good tip for the owner.
When they got back out to their black-and-white, Gil driving and Cat riding shotgun, he said, “Why’re you being so nice to me? It’s not my birthday.”
“I’m always nice to everybody,” she said. “And you’re so close to finishing your probation, I thought we should celebrate. You won’t be a probie that we can kick around anymore.”
“You’ve been especially nice,” Gil said, driving west on Sunset Boulevard at 11 P.M.
“I hadn’t noticed,” Cat said, clearing from code 7 and, seeing their MDC blinking, hitting the message-received and display button.
She opened and acknowledged the message, then hit the en route key, and Gil looked at the message on the dashboard screen, saying, “Illegal parking. That’s near that nightclub, what’s it called? The Leopard Lounge?”
“It’s a titty bar masquerading as a fancy nightclub,” Cat said. “Somebody’s always complaining about the parking around there.”
When they were still a few minutes away, Gil said, “There wouldn’t be another reason why you’ve been treating me like you’re my-”
“If you say mommy, I’ll give you a shot of whup-ass spray,” Cat said, touching the canister on her Sam Browne.
“Big sister, I was gonna say.” Then Gil added, “Is it about the shooting?”
“You tell me, Gil,” Cat said. “I haven’t seen you crack a smile since that night in the Hollywood cemetery.”
“Well, it was scary with those FID investigators jacking me up. They aren’t gentle. The shrink was okay, but I just told him what I thought he wanted to hear.”
“Who cares about any of them?” Cat said. “I told you a minute after you shot that guy that you did good. That I woulda done the same.”
“I know, but, well…”
“Well what? You shoulda had ESP and known the tweaker was packing a starter pistol? Is that what?”