Richfield & Rivers Mystery Series 3 - Venus Besieged

Standing
on the flat red rock that juts over the sheer cliff, the only firm ground
between her and thousands of feet of air below, the frightened Navajo woman,
her body whipped by the wind, a mere updraft away from soaring to her death,
begs the shaman to save her from the man who would throw her over its edge.

“Leave
her to me,” the shaman says, her dark eyes like an eagle’s piercing those of
the older, diminutive man as she loosens the deerskin cape around her
shoulders.

“If
you don’t do it, he’ll come after you.” Threatening words from the man who
would one day whisper them.

The
shaman, angry, suddenly swings her doeskin cape from her shoulders like the
wings of a great bird. The deer’s last vestige of life fans out and takes the
Navajo woman with it, her body sails over the canyon’s edge, her cries echo in
the night air—silence—the silence of death. Even her adversary is paralyzed by
the suddenness of a life ended.

“It
is done,” the shaman says, clearly demonstrating strength beyond mere threats.

A
pause. Turning his back to her, the older man walks on shaking legs to his
long, black limo. A tall man with slick black hair steps out and grasps the
door handle, holding the passenger door open for him when, from behind, a flash
of fur and bared teeth soars through the air, ripping into the tall man’s arm.

He
curses the animal, slams the door shut, and blood drips from the door seal as
the vehicle fishtails on the loose rocks. Tires squealing, it disappears into
the night.

The
attacking wolf, adrenaline pumping, charges the shaman as if to shred the skin
from her body, but at the last possible moment it drops at her feet, resting
against her side as she gently strokes its head and whispers to the heavens,
“Shimasani, protect us.”

I drove
down Hollywood Boulevard alongside the dragonesque Grauman’s Chinese theater,
past a man on roller skates naked except for a red butt thong and full-body
tattoos, and spotted the ever-present soul with the tinfoil-covered cardboard
box over his head, coat-hanger antennae sticking out of the top, his face
peering out of a hole cut in the front, as he shouted, “I would like to thank
the Academy.”

Worn
smooth from trying to sell screenplays to arrogant producers and dense studio
development executives, I appreciated the simplicity of putting a box over your
head and announcing success.

I
punched the button on my cell phone, dialed my house, let it ring, and waited
to hear my own voice on the answering machine so I could talk to Elmo. The
irony of phoning my basset hound struck me, but only for a second. After all,
this was Hollywood, where talking to a dog would get me straighter answers than
talking to people.

At
the beep, I spoke. “Elmo, it’s me. Remember what I told you? Right after my
dinner meeting tonight, we’re headed for Sedona, so hang in there and don’t
lick your paws—you hear me? No paw licking. We don’t want to end up at the vet
again. Besides, if you meet a nice girl basset, she’s not going to find a
bloody paw attractive. Girls like manicured hands and a nice ass. You’ve got
the latter, preserve the former. I’ll be home in a couple of hours.” I could
almost hear him sigh as I told him I loved him and hung up.

Lately
Hollywood had taken its toll on Elmo. Pitching shows all day, I was talked out
by the time I got home, so he didn’t get much attention. Frankly, I didn’t know
how to listen to a dog the way Callie Rivers did, so Elmo had been in a
basset-hound funk and lay around trying to lick the fur off his paws.

Living
with Callie would make us both happy
,
complete our lives, make us a family, fix everything,
I thought, then
chided myself for putting the burden of fixing my entire life on my lover.
No
fair using love and chocolate as substitutes for therapy.
Nonetheless, when
Callie wasn’t around, Elmo and I were lost balls in a high wind, blowing around
town lightheaded and directionless.

She’ll
be in Sedona,
I thought happily and
felt a twinge of excitement below my waist in a spot that seemed wired to the
mere mention of her name. I’d seen her only a few weeks earlier in Las Vegas,
but that trip was hardly relaxing since murders seemed to follow her like
morbid sheep, a fact I attributed to her otherworldly connections and her
astrological leanings.

All
I cared about now was that Callie and I were going to meet in Sedona and spend
a month writing my screenplay, planning our future together, and arranging to
live in the same state, city, house so I could wake up to her ethereal blue
eyes, wrap my arms around her soft, voluptuous breasts, and start my mornings
and end my evenings with the touch and taste of her.

Erotic
thoughts of Callie nude, sliding along my own naked form, were clouding my
sense of direction, and I missed my turn as I dropped south onto Sunset heading
for a large but chic Japanese restaurant to meet Barrett Silvers, the
androgynous studio executive who, despite her many faults, was still touted in
lesbian-land as one of Hollywood’s most fuckable finds, women seeming to line
up for the opportunity.

I
was reminded of my own short tryst, having gone to Marathon Studios to pitch
her my screenplay and ending up in a bungalow at the Bev—where the perks
included a massage, wine, and sex with Barrett. Not good sex, just sex, because
Barrett liked to make all her writers, right along with their movies. Despite
that lapse in judgment, I had remained friends with her because she insisted on
it and often sold my scripts, and I hoped it was for more than the talent in my
fingers.

Directly
in front of me a six-story photograph rose at the head of a curve, making it
appear that a young woman with long, tangled hair blowing in the wind, wearing
G-string underwear and rose petals for nipple covers, was blocking the road.
Beneath her bare feet giant letters instructed, KNOCK ONE BACK, and I realized
it was a Vodka billboard. Distilleries seemed unable to sell liquor without
involving a sexy woman—obviously they believed getting laid was somehow made
better by not remembering most of it.

Minutes
later I pulled up in front of the Kotei restaurant and surrendered my Jeep to
the valet parker, who took it in exchange for a numbered ticket. How ironic to
turn over my vehicle to a total stranger just because he was in close proximity
to my destination and wore a logo on his shirt that said Parking. I’d followed
men into the woods because their shirt said Guide, let them into my house
because their shirt said Delivery, and taken off my clothes because their shirt
said Doctor. I was suddenly fretful that a foreign power might buy Van Heusen.

Pushing
open the huge teak restaurant door, I was greeted with a riotous whoop from
four total strangers wearing dish towels knotted around their heads like Asian
Aunt Jemimas, flashing cinematic smiles apparently designed to make me feel
welcome, and brandishing knives that could have been onboard a schooner with
Johnny Depp.

“Kangeiiiiiii!”
they chorused, and diners’ heads turned. A group greeting was bad enough at a
surprise party, but ridiculous at a restaurant. A woman, petite even by
Japanese standards, bowed slightly and without a trace of an accent said,
“Konnichi waaa, Miss Teague Richfield. Please follow me.” Barrett had obviously
described me to the woman who waited to lead me through this dark labyrinth of
soy sauce and sushi.

I
followed her past polished teak tables filled with dining duos, then a
virtually empty room with banquet-style dining, finally down a hallway with
small signs jutting above each door, and stepped back as she gestured toward a
room marked JUICHI, smiled, and backed away, exiting down the hallway.

The
door opened with only the touch of my palm, and Barrett Silvers came into view
through a dim haze of candlelight. She lay back on big, colorful silk pillows,
one leg outstretched, the other bent, the knee used as a resting place for her
long, languid, French-cuffed arm. She held a saki glass and her gaze revealed
that she’d already been partaking heavily. She was a stunning study in raw sex
appeal: her dark Adonis hair framing her chiseled features and her long body
completely relaxed and at rest, like a large cheetah lounging between meals but
poised for the chase.

“You
look good,” she said, editing out any perfunctory “Hello, how have you been?”

She
knows she looks good. In fact, I think she’s talking about herself more than
me.

“Did
they run out of adult tables?” I asked slyly, checking out the Japanese-style
dining table only eighteen inches off the floor. “Elmo would love this place.
He likes his doggie bowl at about this height.”

Barrett
made me nervous, her intent always unknown and her actions unpredictable. It
wasn’t a good sign that we were dining in a small private room consisting
mostly of pillows.

“I
brought a copy of the treatment and the notes from our conversations with
Jacowitz,” I said, referencing the famed director who, thanks to Barrett, had
bought the story I’d pitched him and agreed that I would write the screenplay.
I also hoped invoking his name would slot Barrett’s mind back into a business
groove.

Barrett
smiled, reading me. “Why don’t you sit down, relax, and have a drink. We’ll
talk about the project in general and then cover the notes.” Her tone was
light, as if to say my nerves were unwarranted, nothing untoward was going to
happen. Dropping to my knees, a position not uncommon for a writer facing a
studio executive, I leaned onto the large red pillow to my left—not an easy
move for my five foot seven frame. But Barrett had managed it, and she was a
few inches taller than I.

A
knock at the door had me nearly executing a backflip to see who was behind me.
A Japanese girl entered and set another opaque earthenware bottle adorned with
painted flowers on the table, along with two fresh glasses and a tray delivered
by the Japanese boy padding behind her. What a difference an ocean makes—in
their country she would be walking behind him; however, once they crossed the
Pacific he was not only trailing her, but carrying the dishes.

Scanning
the tray of uncooked seafood, I spotted amaebi, hamachi, masago, ebi, and,
thankfully, a couple of California rolls— because despite having tasted nearly
everything in life, I drew the line at raw fish.

“You
will knock if you want?” The Japanese woman spoke uncertain English while she
indicated a place on the wall about two feet off the floor behind Barrett,
bearing a symbol I presumed to be the international sign for knocking knuckles.
Barrett thanked her, and the two servers bowed and backed out of the room,
heads bent as they uttered “Tanoshimu,” which I’d been told meant something
like “Enjoy yourself”—a phrase that always confused me, as it seemed to invite
masturbation.

“So
you’re headed for Sedona,” Barrett said. “I offered you my cabin—”

“Yes,
thank you, but Callie made arrangements.”

The
mention of Callie’s name sharpened Barrett’s voice and sent it slicing through
the air like a knife through cream cheese, cutting the small talk. “I’ve had
another conversation with Jacowitz since he’ll be out of pocket soon in Paris.
His only concern in the first draft…” she paused to sip from her glass “…is
making it sensual enough for foreign audiences.”

“I
think it’s a very sensual story—”

“A
young novice counseling a psychologically abused wife— interesting character
studies but no heat—doesn’t automatically generate steam. Mull over a way to
make them more sexually exciting.”

“I
don’t want to whore out the story.”

“Never
said that.” She sipped her drink again and I gulped mine, which burned my
throat and stomach immediately upon arrival.

“What
is this?”

“Shochu.
It shouldn’t burn. Take another drink or two and see if it goes away. Shochu is
usually mixed with something, but this is straight.”

Another
sip and I realized the burning was starting to recede, along with the room, and
my heart rate had doubled. I blinked and reached for the bottle again, this
time to examine the alcohol content on the label—50 proof. “I think I saw this
when I was a cop. The guys drinking it were under an overpass.”