The Dark Horse - lanyon Josh (книга регистрации txt) 📗

«There's more,» I said. I lowered my voice as though afraid somebody – Dan? – might hear this part. «I think I saw Hammond yesterday.» Steve had a weird expression. «You are shitting me. Where?»

«On the hillside behind the house. I couldn't be sure, but from a distance it looked a hell of a lot like him: same build, same shaggy blond hair, same baggy Hawaiian print shirt, black shades.» «But that was from a distance,» Steve pointed out. «I know. But I did see someone. Dan thinks –« I bit the rest of it off. «Dan thinks what?»

Reluctantly, I said, «I feel like maybe he wonders whether I'm imagining things. Or that I'm making too much of a coincidence.» Steve said slowly, «He knows about your breakdown, right?» I nodded. Steve thought it over. «But you didn't imagine the postcards.» «True.»

Two tanned twenty-somethings stopped by our table. A chubby blonde handed me a damp cocktail napkin to autograph.

«You were so great in Winchester 2010,» she said. «I was so, like, totally pissed when they killed you off.» «Thanks.» I ignored Steve's snickers. «Told you so,» he remarked to no one in particular.

«Are you really gay?» the red-haired one said. She offered a Sharpie and her bare shoulder for me to sign. «Nah,» I replied. «It's just something I say to meet girls.» They giggled then moved off whispering and looking back. Steve drained his beer, and leaned forward on his elbows.

«Look, why don't you come down to Santa Anita with me? Spend the weekend kicking back. I think it would do you good to get away.»

I studied him, liking the broad freckled planes of his face and his wide wry mouth. I remembered kissing that mouth. And how weird to think of that now.

I shook my head. «I don't like crowds. And I'm tired of relaxing. I want to get back to work.»

His gaze dropped down to my chest, as though making note of the ring on the chain. «Okay. Well … what do you want me to do?»

«I don't know. Obviously we can't go to the cops again, since the cop I live with doesn't believe there's a problem.» «Dude.»

The waitress brought our lunches. I waited for her to depart before I offered a lopsided smile. «I don't know that there's anything to do at this point. I needed to talk to someone, that's all.»

«Hey,» Steve said, «I'm still here for you, you know that. Besides, I remember how long it took to convince you to go to the cops over Hammond. You don't panic that easily. If you say something's going down, I believe you.» «Thanks, Steve.»

«One thing I can do,» he said, «is talk to LAPD myself. Find out where they are in recovering Hammond's body.» I said, «That would help.» «Not if Hammond's still alive,» he said with an odd laugh.

What I like about cooking is that, so long as you follow the recipe exactly, everything always turns out perfect. It's too bad there's no recipe for happiness. Happiness is more like pastry – which is to say that you can take pains to keep cool and not overwork the dough, but if you don't have that certain light touch, your best efforts still fall flat.

The work-around is to buy what you need. I'm talking about pastry, not happiness, although money does make things easier all around.

There are a number of cafe bakeries in Malibu, but I mostly satisfy my sweet tooth at Cooke's Family Market, which is where I headed after saying goodbye to Steve. I felt better having shared my fears with someone who didn't instantly suspect I was cracking up, and I spent a pleasant half an hour selecting pastries for Saturday morning breakfast, lingering over the varieties of cheese and the amazing selection of olives.

I wasn't allowing myself to think about Paul Hammond. I focused my thoughts on The Charioteer screenplay, and while I shopped I thought about what it would be like to lose a knee cap. Now they could probably reconstruct the joint – maybe do something bionic –

but back in the '40s? You'd be crippled, no doubt about it. And any injury to a kneecap was going to be excruciatingly painful. Laurie Odell was younger than me; what would it be like to face years of pain? To face the rest of my life as a disabled man? I tried to think of all the things I took for granted: swimming, running – having sex. The film-Laurie was going to wear a leg brace. I felt that was gimmicky and heavy-handed, but it would make it easier to play. No having to remember which leg or faking a limp.

Pushing the cart, I turned into the arctic produce department and froze – literally. Paul Hammond stood a few feet away. He held a cantaloupe, weighing it in his hand.

I couldn't seem to move. He was so close I could have rammed my cart into him. It was him: blue Hawaiian shirt, bushy blond hair that looked like a fright wig, deeply tanned pockmarked skin, black sunglasses …

He had to feel me staring at him, had to have followed me into the market, but he just stood there, ignoring me, fondling melons.

His cheap aftershave filled my nostrils. I felt cold to the bone, shaking on the inside and out. I opened my mouth, but I couldn't think of what to say. If he had spoken to me –even looked at me – but he did nothing. We were alone here. Why didn't he acknowledge me? I couldn't think of what to do. It was surely something obvious.

Hammond replaced one melon on the pyramid and chose another. He stepped a foot closer as he reached for a plastic tear-off bag. I abandoned my cart and fled. «Hi!» I said brightly as Dan walked into the kitchen.

Dan pulled off his sunglasses and studied the countertops crowded with plates of food: baked ham, scalloped potatoes, cheese macaroni, cauliflower-broccoli salad, applesauce, and pineapple cottage cheese. «Are we having a dinner party?» he asked.

I dumped a pan of corn muffins into a basket, wrapping a tea towel around them to keep them warm. «I just thought I would do something special for supper.»

Dan's brows rose. He tilted my chin up to kiss me hello; a nice leisurely kiss that told me he had missed me and was glad to be home. I resisted the impulse to plaster myself to him and pour out my latest trauma. «Catch any bad guys today?»

I thought my tone was just right but he was frowning a little, still watching me. «Not today.» «Slow day for crime? Everything is ready. Why don't you get changed?»

He ran an absent hand up and down my back. «Okay. You want me to open a bottle of wine?» I nodded. «Let's see. What goes with everything in the pantry?» I considered. «Martinis?» * * * * *

Despite some really fabulous culinary exertions on my part, dinner was not a success. I wasn't hungry and Dan seemed preoccupied, although he listened without interrupting as I chattered on about this and that and the other. Mostly the other.

It wasn't until the third time I reached for the pitcher containing the blueberry vodka martinis, that he stirred. «That's your fifth, chief.» «Third, but who's counting?» He didn't bother to argue. I was irritated, but I tried to keep my tone easy. «Does it matter?»

«It doesn't so long as you're not planning on going for a swim or getting behind the wheel. But you're going to have a hell of a morning.» «Promise?» I batted my eyelashes at him. His lips twitched. «Now that is definitely the liquor talking.»

What did that mean? I thought I knew and opened my mouth to object, but Dan had apparently more to get off his chest.

«A couple of things I've noticed,» he said. «When you're stressed-out you cook for a cast of thousands. And you stop eating.» «I'm eating,» I protested. «You've had one bite of ham and three bites of salad.» «And five drinks. Jesus, am I under surveillance?» «Hey.» His smile was crooked. «Naturally I notice what you do.»

«You notice what everyone does. It's how you make your living. I don't like it when you turn it on me.»

As usual he did not allow himself to be distracted from his point. «So far I've heard about the seasoning in the crab enchiladas at Coral Beach Cantina, I've heard that you're not sure you approve of the sex scene in this new script, I've heard that damn dog crapped on our deck, and I've heard that the weather was perfect this afternoon. When do I hear what's really on your mind?»