“Good luck with your battle,” Nate said.
She took another tiny sip from the martini glass, her voice sultry now, and said, “What do you drink besides wine? Let’s take a pair of fresh cocktails out onto the balcony and talk about this further.”
And then it kicked in: the cop’s survival instinct, honed by all the years of playing Guess What I’m Really Thinking with countless miscreants on the streets. She had drunk far less wine than he had, and she’d hardly tasted her martini. And those eyes-the color of good whiskey, Jack, maybe, or Johnnie Black-were mesmerizing, but Nate’s response to more drinking was dictated by blue radar, not raging hormones.
He said, “Okay, I’d love to talk about it further. But I’m just not that much of a cocktail drinker. I’ll hang on to my wineglass. You go ahead and have another James Bond special.”
He saw the immediate disappointment on her face. And then he heard a cell phone chime from the butler’s pantry. Margot excused herself, went to the pantry, and picked up her go cell from the countertop.
“Yes,” she said and listened. Then she closed the pantry door and whispered, “No, honey, he won’t do.” She listened for a moment and said, “He’s not a drinking man.” She listened some more and said, “Please, baby, don’t say that. I’m going back to number one. I’m going after him very hard. Please. Give me a week.”
While Margot Aziz was in the butler’s pantry, Hollywood Nate Weiss made a very tough decision. He was going out on that balcony for more talk, but he was going to make a serious move on her to see where all this was going. And if she resisted and tried one more time to pour booze down his throat, he was outta there. This is Hollywood, he thought, and there are extremely unusual people around these parts-gorgeous, scary people who could turn smoking male wood into a steaming pile of sawdust.
Nate didn’t get a chance to execute his strategy. When Margot came out of the butler’s pantry and back into the dining room, she said, “Nate, I’m terribly sorry. That was my au pair. Nicky’s got a fever and she’s worried. I’ve gotta drive over there right now and pick him up.”
“Sure,” Nate said, not as disappointed as he might have predicted. “Anything I can do?”
“No, I’ll call you tomorrow. I have your number.”
When Hollywood Nate was walking out the door, it occurred to him that he should get her cell number too. He started to ask for it but thought he’d better leave. She had a sick kid to deal with. And anyway, he wanted to see if this stunning, rich, very strange woman would call him tomorrow. The amazing thing was, he’d been so bowled over that he hadn’t done what he always did when he met a likely babe. He hadn’t even told her about his SAG card and that he’d appeared in two TV movies.
As he was driving home that night, he remembered what his first field training officer had said to him when he was a boot, fresh out of the academy: “Son, that badge can get you pussy, but pussy can get your badge.”
Jasmine was scowling when she stormed out of the dancers’ bathroom into the dressing room, wearing only her yellow G-string and red stiletto heels. She put her throwaway go cell in her locker, where she kept her street clothes.
One of the stage-sharing dancers that evening, a broad-shouldered redhead called Tex, was sitting in a recliner, looking at photos in a fan magazine. Tex was top heavy from saline overload and was wearing a G-string, a cowboy hat, a short sequined cowgirl vest, and white cowboy boots.
Tex said, “What’s wrong, Jasmine? Boyfriend trouble?”
“Yeah, boyfriend trouble,” Jasmine said, her face darkened by rage and frustration.
“If we could invent a vibrator with a twenty-word set of responses, we’d never need them,” Tex said. “What is he, a gambler, an addict, or a boozer?”
“This guy’s definitely not a boozer,” Jasmine said. “Which is too fucking bad.”
Tex was about to ask what Jasmine meant by that, when Ali Aziz popped his head in the door without knocking, and said, “Jasmine, I got to see you.”
“My next set’s coming up, Ali,” Jasmine said.
Ali was dressed for the evening in a blue double-breasted, raw-silk blazer, a blue silk tie, and a white shirt with monogrammed cuffs. He said, “Tex can take your set. Come.”
Tex rolled her eyes and said, “This job sucks in more ways than one.”
When Jasmine entered the office, Ali closed and locked the door, sat in his desk chair, and poured himself a glass of Jack Daniel’s. Jasmine stood and waited. Lately, he’d call her in there just to rant, especially if he’d been drinking, so maybe if she was very lucky, it wasn’t for a hummer after all.
“Fucking bitch!” he said. “Cunt bitch!”
It could only be one person he was talking about. “Margot?” she said.
“Fucking bitch!” he said. “She don’t do nothing my lawyer says. Nothing I say. She always tries to keep my Nicky away from me. She only gives him to me when the judge makes her. She requires me to spend lawyer money for everything. Every week more lawyer money. Fucking bitch!”
Ali took a big gulp of Jack and said, “You have been knowing her for three years. You helped her to decorate this place. You are her friend. I need for you to be my friend. I need for you to help me more.”
“Help you even more?” Jasmine said.
“Watch out for my Nicky. The house will be in the close of escrow soon and she will move to a condo. That is what she says to my lawyer. But now I want you to watch.”
“Ali,” Jasmine said, “I already am sort of watching out for Nicky, just like you said for me to do. Sort of. But I only get to see Margot, what? Once a week? She lives on Mount Olympus. I live in Thai Town. Jesus, Ali, gimme a break.”
“She says to me that she is going to take Nicky away from California when the house is finish with the escrow and the divorce is over. She says to me that her lawyer is going to make this happen. She says to me that she has a boyfriend and this is none of my business. She says to me all of this on the phone yesterday. I am going insane, Jasmine! My Nicky! He is my life!”
“Okay, Ali, I’ll tell you something I didn’t wanna mention. The last time I phoned her, I was sure she was all weirded out on something. Probably coke. And Nicky was there, because she yelled at him real mean.”
Suddenly, Ali Aziz started sobbing boozily and pulled a red handkerchief from the pocket of his blazer.
Jasmine watched and waited, and before he stopped she said, “I guess I could pay her a personal visit twice a week. Maybe take her some of the Chinese cookies she loves. I might be able to find out if the boyfriend’s staying at the house. And maybe I could ask her straight out if she’s doing coke again.”
Ali stopped weeping then and said, “I ask her, I beg her, I say, ‘Please, Margot, whatever happens, do not go back into the life of cocaine. You must take care of our Nicky.’ When I first met her, she was spending all her money on cocaine. A beautiful, young dancer who was doing so much cocaine. Soon I was more than her boss. I was her friend and she quit the cocaine. Then pretty soon I was her husband.”
“Yeah, you told me,” Jasmine said, thinking how she hated taking the last set. But now she’d have to take it for Tex while she listened to this shit for the hundredth time.
“Jasmine, I want for you to see Margot and to tell me what is what. I shall pay for it. Do not worry, I shall pay you for the time you use. I must know what is in her head. Is she truly wishing to take my Nicky away to a different state? Maybe to do cocaine again with this new man? Without my Nicky I shall die, Jasmine!”
“I’ll do what I can, Ali,” Jasmine said. Then she added, “Tell me, Ali, what happens to your situation if Margot dies?”