Phillipa Bornikova: Box Office Poison

We followed him through a pair of sliding glass doors and stood by the slowly revolving luggage carousel. There were a lot of hard-sided golf bags, tennis rackets, and even some scuba gear salted in among the suitcases. David’s was already on the carousel. In a continuation of the-universe-makes-Linnet–the-big-holdup, it was thirty minutes before my suitcase came sliding down the ramp.

Kobe collected the bags and we followed him out of the terminal. The dampness beneath my cashmere sweater became full-blown sweat. It was one thirty in the afternoon. The temperature had to be in the low eighties and here I was dressed in a white wool skirt, beige cashmere sweater, and knee-high brown boots lugging a leather and fur-lined overcoat.

As we trailed Kobe across the street toward a parking structure I watched limos in various colors and designs with darkly tinted windows pull up and sweep away people wearing wide hats and large sunglasses. Interesting how celebrities and vampires were almost indistinguishable in this town. Since we were heading to a garage I figured we didn’t rate a limo. I was right. A Lincoln town car was our ride. With the luggage stowed and David and me in the backseat, we headed out into Los Angeles.

I live in New York City. I’m used to traffic, but there was something about Los Angeles traffic that was overwhelming. Maybe it was just the sheer size of the city. New York was crazy, but it was contained. When we hit the ramp onto the 405 Freeway, Kobe glanced back and asked us, “Do you want to go to your hotel first or to the office?”

Hotel, I wanted to shriek, but the question was directed at David, and he gave the expected answer.

“Office.”

I wanted to punch him, and as I sulked I reflected on how much it sucked to be the human paired with a vampire. They were always perfectly dressed and pressed. They didn’t need sleep, so why should you? Dirt seemed to slide off them as if they were made of Teflon. I could only think of one time when David had been anything but perfectly groomed. It was when he’d rescued me (literally) from the jaws of death when an out-of-control werewolf had tried to kill me and my clients. During that fight he’d torn his suit and had the skin on one cheek nearly ripped off.

He still bore the scars from that battle because vampires didn’t heal all that well. Scientists and medical researchers who studied vampirism still had no idea why dead men could function and survive anything but fire or decapitation. One thing they did know: The vampire infection led to a tendency to form keloids—overgrown, exuberant scar tissue. You could actually judge the age of a vampire by the number of scars. I had a feeling modern vampires weren’t going to bear the scars of existence the way ancient vamps did. We lived in a far less violent time, and people didn’t generally carry bladed weapons. But car wrecks were still going to leave their mark, I thought.

Muffled by the car windows, but still distinct, I heard the beat of propellers. Kobe indicated the cover on the sunroof. “May I?” he asked David. The vampire nodded and huddled in a corner of the backseat.

Once the cover was pulled back we saw a police helicopter and three press helicopters churning past overhead.

“Must be a really bad wreck up ahead,” Kobe remarked.

“Perhaps that explains our snail-like progress,” David said.

Kobe hit the turn signal, and slowly worked his way through the traffic to an exit marked SANTA MONICA BLVD/CENTURY CITY. I knew the address for the Los Angeles office was Avenue of the Stars, Century City. I saw a collection of skyscrapers ahead and to the right and assumed that’s where we were headed. They weren’t all that tall by New York standards, but in this city of low sprawl they stood out. They were also aggressively modern and very black.

We passed a gigantic Mormon temple on our left. On the right were shabby strip malls filled with nail salons and small ethnic restaurants. Then we turned down the broad avenue and shabby went away. There was a large shopping mall with digital billboards alternating between expensive electronics and chic women with pouty expressions. The street was clogged with luxury cars—in the space of a block I saw multiple BMWs, Mercedes, Lexuses, and even a Ferrari. Men in tailored suits and equally well dressed women hurried through crosswalks. Kobe turned into an underground parking lot beneath a black and glass tower and stopped at the valet parking area.

He unloaded David’s briefcase and my computer bag. “I’ll be waiting here to take you to your hotel,” he said.

We rode the elevator to the lobby, and then another elevator to the twenty-third floor. “Is this office managed by a vampire partner?” I asked as the floors flashed past.

“Naturally,” David said. “But Jackson is in Singapore negotiating a trade agreement. Our liaison will be Hank Pizer. He handles the small amount of entertainment law we do.”

“And he’s a vampire?”

“Yes.”

We stepped out and made our way to the end of the hall and the tall steel and glass double doors. ISHMAEL, MCGILLARY & GOLD was emblazoned in stainless steel script across the pediment. David held the door for me, and I stepped into a beehive of activity. Phones were ringing, young lawyers were hurrying past reading off iPads or sheaves of paper, and there was the click of computer keyboards like technological rain. The windows were UV-tinted and looked out at some hills that I guess passed for mountains in southern California. The floor underfoot was glossy bamboo, and the furniture was extremely modern. It didn’t look like a place a vampire would find comfortable.

A tall and lushly built woman with deep red hair piled high on her head left her desk and crossed to us. Her sky blue sundress displayed her every curve and deep décolletage.

“May I help you?” she asked, her voice low and husky.

Of course it was, I thought bitterly, as I stared up at her and felt the uncomfortable wetness beneath my arms. I should have had Kobe pull out my suitcase and changed into California clothes in the bathroom instead of continuing to swelter in my New York winter outfit.

“David Sullivan and Linnet Ellery in from New York,” David answered.

“I’ll tell Mr. Pizer you’re here. I’m Elaine Gowdry, Mr. Pizer’s personal assistant. Junie,” Elaine called over her shoulder, “please put Ms. Ellery and Mr. Sullivan in the corner conference room.”

Junie, who turned out to be a tall, gorgeous, willowy black woman, led us to the conference room. There was a giant stack of file folders already on the oval table. As I unlimbered my laptop and David snapped open his briefcase, Junie asked,

“Something to drink? Coffee?”

“Something cold,” I said, plucking my sweater away from my damp skin.

“Water? Soft drink?”

“Coke, please,” I said, deciding I needed a blast of sugar and caffeine if I was going to stay on my feet.

“And you, sir. We have a good choice of types.”

“Something rich,” David said.

So, I thought, he’s tired.

Junie returned with a cut crystal glass filled with ice and an ice-cold can of Coke. Another assistant, a young man with carefully styled “casual” hair, carried a goblet of blood. He made eye contact with David and smoldered. When that didn’t work he tried a twinkle. Neither one elicited a response. Looking disconsolate, the young man followed Junie out of the room.

“Do you ever get tired of it?” I asked

“What?”

“Having young straight men flirt with you?

David made a face and frowned down into his glass. “Puppy,” he growled. For a moment I thought that was his final word on the subject, but he surprised me and continued. “Why do these children think we’d find them useful additions to the community? They know nothing, have done nothing. They’re just pretty.”