Lynne Heitman - First Class Killing

“I didn’t lose my job.”

“What?”

“I resigned my position at Majestic. It makes a difference.”

“What makes a difference?”

“The way you say it. I didn’t get fired, Jamie. It makes a difference to me.”

“It makes a difference to you what I think? Since when?”

That was a dig that could not go undefended. “Maybe we can get together for dinner next time you’re in Boston.”

He looked at me, and he was angry and hurt, and he seemed to feel betrayed with an intensity that went beyond this little encounter we were having. I was feeling all those things, too. He walked back up the aisle to his seat, buckled in, and spent the rest of the flight staring out the window. I spent the rest of the flight in the galley.

As he walked off in LA, he was polite and distant, and I knew it would be a cold day in hell before he ever called me from any city, and I wasn’t even sure how it had happened.

THE GRASS WAS BROWN AND BRITTLE IN THE Hollywood Hills, and the trees looked exhausted.

“Must be a drought out here,” I said, to no one in particular. No one in particular answered. Our cabbie, a man with only consonants in his name, spoke a weirdly paced version of English with the accents on the wrong syllables. He and Tristan were busy trying to locate the party. It seemed the number we had was not marked on the street where it was purported to be. Maybe it was one of those “if you have to ask, you don’t belong here” deals.

I could have been still back at my hotel for how connected I felt to what was going on. After checking in, I had gone straight to the workout room, where my only company had been the droning television mounted in the corner. By the time I was finished pumping and running and lifting and generally trying to make myself stronger and better, I’d gone through six gym towels, three bottles of water, two and a half episodes of theKnots Landing marathon on TV, and I hadn’t thought about Jamie once.

I’d left barely enough time to get back to my room and dressed for the party. I almost cried when I looked at myself in my party clothes. Like my hair, they were new. After buying hair color at the pharmacy, I had stopped in at the mall for some speed shopping. The store had been too hip and the saleswoman too young, which had resulted in a skirt that now felt too hip, too young, and way too tight. The stilettos exacerbated what seemed to me a serious proportion problem-my legs looked as if they took up a full two-thirds of my height. The top was a spaghetti-strap knit thing that had the coverage of a cobweb. A very short cobweb, which raised another objection. I rarely went out in public with my belly button showing. Thank goodness I had thrown in a long-sleeved sweater at the last minute. As I sat in the cab, I kept pulling at the sleeves until they fit over my hands like mittens.

“Pull all the way up the hill,” Tristan told the cabbie. They had found a hidden driveway that looked promising. “Let’s see if there’s a house up there.”

There was. As Tristan settled the fare, I dragged myself out of the cab and peered up into the purple dusk at the house. All I could see was a solid face of unvarnished concrete. Admittedly, my vantage point was not ideal, but it looked like a World War II bunker without the turrets, also without an entry mechanism, at least not one that I could see.

“This way, Alexandra.” Tristan had located a trail. We dove through a hole in the trees and started up a series of terraced steps and stone walkways that wound in an ever-rising attitude through a landscaped garden with rocks and waterfalls.

“Whose party is this, anyway?” he asked.

“A producer of TV commercials,” was what Dan had said.

“You look fantastic, by the way. I love that little skirt. Truthfully, I’m surprised you have something like that in your closet.”

“Is it too-”

“It’s perfect. Relax. You look great.”

“Thanks.” I tried to believe him. Tristan could walk out of the Goodwill store looking like a German fashion designer. He had style to burn. He also had longer legs than I did and a fluid grace that seemed to have him gliding up the hill. I had to work hard to keep up and was glad when the front door, which was really a side door, came into view.

The guy posted there seemed to function as a maître d’ but was shaped and dressed more in the style of a bouncer.

“Names?”

We gave them. The bouncer checked his laptop, which sat atop an official-looking podium. Temporary fixture or permanent installation of the house?

“You’re not on the list.”

“No,” I said. “We wouldn’t be, but I have the code word. Tuna casserole.”

“Tuna casserole?” Tristan hooted. I hadn’t previously shared that secret with him. “That’s a bit prosaic, isn’t it, for a Hollywood bash?”

Mr. Bouncer ignored the critique and tapped at the keys with heavy fingers. “Give me your names and e-mail addresses. Business address preferred.”

“Why?” I asked.

“It’s for the mailing list. For future events.” Mailing list of business addresses. That was a heck of an idea on Angel’s part. A way to stay in touch with her target market without the wives and other significants getting a clue. We both gave our OrangeAir addresses, and we were in.

We moved through the entryway, turned a corner into the main house, and both stopped at once to behold the breathtaking view. The façade of the house might have been dull and blank, but that just made for a more spectacular contrast. Beyond the concrete windowless wall was an airy and open cloudlike dwelling, an ethereal pod hovering above the dry hills. The entire back wall of the house was windows and doors, thrown open both in design and in fact to the deep blue amazement that was the Pacific Ocean at sunset.

“Wow.” That was the only word I could come up with.

Tristan was even less original. “Ditto.”

When I brought my focus inside the house, all I could determine was that the lights were low, the music was loud, and every woman who wasn’t me looked like someone you’d see on a TV commercial. With their Botox faces and silicone breasts and augmented hair, they were the human equivalent of artificial plants. It was creepy.

“What would you like, love?” Tristan had guided me by the elbow to the bar.

“Club soda.”

“Club soda and what?”

“Nothing.” He placed the order, addressing the bartender as one service provider to another-politely. Would I prefer Perrier? That would be fine.

“I suppose not drinking is the wise choice.” He offered the cold glass to me. “Whatever is going on between you and your brother, it’s obviously knocked you for a loop. Trying to drown your sorrows will just make matters worse. That’s something I would have done in my younger, wilder days.”

“This has nothing to do with my brother.”

“Of course it doesn’t. And maybe someday I’ll grow out of this gay thing.” Something or someone behind me caught his eye.

“Come,” he said, sipping his cocktail. “There are people you must meet.”

We strolled out to the pool, a bright bar of turquoise that was languid and desultory in the evening air. In what seemed to me an engineering impossibility, the pool and the wide redwood deck were cantilevered straight out from the side of the hill.

“Tristan, oh,my God! I can’t believe this.” As usual, Tristan was swarmed by a group of women-flight attendants, no doubt-and I wondered if there was anyone who flew in the OrangeAir system anywhere whom he didn’t know.

“I didn’t know you were coming out,” one of them burbled.

“Dear, I’ve been out for years.”

They all laughed, and the typical cheek-to-cheek embraces ensued. Care was taken not to splash alcohol or flick cigarette ashes on the attire, which ranged from cocktail chic to funky tequila casual. The only thing they all had in common was a lot of skin showing, even though the setting sun was taking much of the warmth with it. I was glad I had my long-sleeved cover-up with me.