Stuart Woods - L.A. Dead

"I would never do anything like that," Stone replied truthfully.

"I can see how you might not want to tell me everything you know, to save Arrington's very beautiful ass, how you might even lie to me. That's okay, as long as it doesn't interfere with how I handle my case, and as long as it doesn't get me disbarred or damage my credibility with the D.A. and the judges in this town. That credibility is the most valuable asset I have in defending a client, and I don't want to lose it. I hope I make myself perfectly clear."

"Perfectly clear, Marc," Stone said, finishing his coffee. He looked at his watch. "Well, I think I'd better be getting back to L.A. Thanks for your hospitality."

Marc stood up and shook his hand. "And don't forget, if you get horny, call Vanessa; don't go sneaking into Arrington's bedroom. If that got out, it could screw us all." He handed Stone his card, with Vanessa's number scrawled on the back.

Stone nodded and put the card into his pocket. "I take your point." He left the house, got into the car, which smelled of Felipe Cordova's Nikes, and headed back toward LA.

He was back at Centurion Studios by eleven-thirty, and Betty met him at the door of the bungalow, looking rattled.

"What's wrong?" he asked, tucking a finger under her chin and lifting her head.

"I've just had a very peculiar conversation with Dolce, if you can call it a conversation," she said. "Actually, it was more of a tirade."

"Oh, God; what did she say?"

"She went into some detail about what she would do to me if I ever, as she put it, 'touch him again.' She means you, I believe."

"I'm sorry about that, Betty; this has nothing to do with you, really."

"That's not the impression I got," Betty said. "Frankly, she sounded nuts to me. I'm scared."

"Tell you what," Stone said. "Why don't you take a trip to Hawaii, do some scouting for just the right place when you bail out of L.A."

Betty brightened. "You think you could get along without me for a while? Careful how you answer that."

Stone laughed. "It'll be tough, but I'll manage."

"Maybe that's not such a bad idea," Betty said. "I'll get you some help from the studio secretarial pool, then call the travel agent." She headed for her office.

"Any other calls?" he asked.

"Brandy Garcia called; said his friend has already got your message."

"I've no idea what that means," he replied, covering his ass.

"Oh, and I almost forgot: Dolce says you're to meet her at the Bel-Air for lunch at one o'clock."

"She's in LA.?"

"Yep. And she said, 'tell him to be there without fail, or I'll get mad.'"

Stone gave a low moan.

Betty picked up her phone and dialed a number. "Try and keep her busy long enough for me to get out of town, okay?" she called to him.

"I wish I could reverse our roles," Stone replied.

Stone arrived at the Bel-Air on time and with trepidations. What will I do if she starts shooting? he asked himself. What if she only makes a scene? What then? He liked to think he had had less than his share of arguments with women, and that he managed that by being easy to get along with. He had a dread of public disagreements, especially in the middle of places like the Bel-Air Hotel.

He wasn't sure where to meet her, so he wandered slowly through the lobby and outside again, toward the restaurant. Then he saw her, seated at a table in the middle of the garden cafe, wearing a silk print dress, her hair pinned to the top of her head, revealing her long, beautiful neck. Her chin rested on her interlocked fingers, and her mien was serene.

"Oh hello, Mr. Barrington," the headwaiter said as he approached. "Mrs. Barrington is waiting, and may I congratulate you?"

Stone leaned over and spoke quiedy, but with conviction. "There is no Mrs. Barrington," he said. "The lady's name is Miss Bianchi."

"Yes, sir," the man said, a little flustered. "Whatever you say." He led Stone to the table and pulled out a chair for him.

Stone sat down and allowed her to lean over and brush his cheek with her lips.

"Hello, my darling," she purred.

"Good afternoon, Dolce."

"I hope you're enjoying your stay in Los Angeles."

"I can't say that I am," he replied, looking at the menu.

"Poor baby," she said, patting his cheek. "Maybe it's time to go back home to New York-yet again."

"Not for a while."

"But what's to keep us here?" she asked, all innocence.

"Business is keeping me here," he replied.

The waiter appeared. Dolce ordered a lobster salad and a glass of chardonnay, and Stone, the taco soup and iced tea.

"Why are you in L.A.?" he asked, hoping for a rational answer. She began rummaging in a large handbag for something, and Stone leaned away from her, fearing she might come up with a weapon.

She came up with a lipstick and began applying it. "I want to be with my husband," she said, consulting a compact mirror.

"Your husband is dead," Stone said through clenched teeth.

"You look perfectly well to me," she replied gazing levelly at him.

"Dolce…"

"And how is the murderess, Mrs. Calder?"

"Dolce…"

"I think I will be quite happy when they put her away."

"Dolce…"

"Vance was such a lovely man, and we were such good friends. I think it would be terribly unfair, if she got away with it."

"Dolce, stop it!"

"My goodness, Stone, keep your voice down. We don't want a public scene, do we?"

Stone decided to treat this as a negotiation. "Just tell me what you want," he said.

Her eyebrows shot up. "What I want? Why, I want whatever my darling husband wants. What do you want, dear?"

"I want to end this little charade of yours; I want us to go our separate ways in an amicable manner." He paused and decided to fire the last arrow in his quiver. "I want to be with Arrington."

Her eyebrows dropped, and her eyes narrowed. "Believe me when I tell you, my darling, that I will never, ever allow that to happen, and you had better get used to the idea now."

Stone felt his gorge rising, but the waiter appeared with their lunch, allowing him to cool down for a moment before continuing. "I don't understand," he said.

"You asked me to marry you, did you not?"

"Yes, but…"

"And I married you, in Venice, did I not?"

"That wasn't a legal marriage."

"Oh, Stone, now you're beginning to sound like a lawyer."

"I am a lawyer, and I know when I'm married and when I'm not."

"I'm afraid not, Sweetie," she said, attacking her lobster salad. "You seem unable to face reality; you're in complete denial."

Stone nearly choked on his soup.

"I am in denial?"

"A serious case of denial, I fear."

"Let's talk about denial, Dolce. I've explained to you, in the clearest possible terms, that I no longer wish to continue my relationship with you. I've explained why."

"I seem to remember your saying something about that, but I hardly took you seriously," she said.

This was maddening. "Dolce, I do not love you; I thought I did for a while, but now I realize I don't."

She laughed. "And I suppose you think you love Arrington?"

"Yes, I do." Funny, he hadn't said that to Arrington.

"But Stone, how can you love a woman who has murdered her husband? How do you know you won't be next?"

"That's a very strange thing for you to say," Stone said under his breath, trying to control his temper. "I seem to remember that you once had a husband who is now dead of extremely unnatural causes."

"That was the business he chose, if I may paraphrase Don Corleone, and he had to live with it." She speared a chunk of lobster. "Or die with it. You might remember that."