Joseph Wambaugh - Hollywood Crows

“Hello, darling,” she said.

“I can only stay long enough to hear the story and offer some advice,” he said.

“Of course,” Margot said. “Come in.”

When they were inside the marble foyer, Margot said, “Let’s sit on the terrace and admire the smog, shall we? The toxins are so lovely this time of day.”

He followed her through the living room to the sliding doors and walked outside. There was a pitcher of iced tea already there and some smoked wahoo tuna, cream cheese, chopped onions, capers, and a crunchy French baguette, already sliced.

“We’ll smell awful after eating this stuff, but what the hell,” Margot said.

Bix sat, feeling dry-mouthed, and sipped some tea. Then he said, “Tell me about it, Margot. What’s going on?”

“His threats are more overt now,” she said.

“Overt how?”

“He talks blatantly to Nicky in my presence when he’s picking up our son for his overnighter. He makes sure I hear him telling Nicky how beautiful Saudi Arabia is. Or he tells Nicky that he’ll love seeing the Giza pyramids in Egypt. Stuff like that.”

“He’s just trying to goad you,” Bix said. “That guy’s locked into America. In fact, he’s locked into his businesses here in Hollywood. He’s going nowhere.”

Margot loaded up a slice of baguette with wahoo and cream cheese and onion, topped it with a few capers, and handed it to Bix. He thought she had the most beautiful hands he’d ever seen, and, as always, her nails matched the lip gloss she was wearing.

“I always talk to Nicky when he comes back from outings with his father,” Margot continued, “but lately he’s clamming up. I know that Ali has ordered him not to tell me what his father’s planning.”

“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.”