The Most Dangerous Time
by
David LaGraff
For Cynthia, My Everlasting Love
Copyright © 2013 David LaGraff. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.
Chapter 1
To the world at large, Hirschfeld was the much-celebrated producer of many important films, but to Rickie, he was a large, powerful troll. In the beginning, he'd been blown away by her long slender legs and red hair, and she'd been swept off her feet by the whirlwind of his power. Following their hasty marriage in Vegas, his whirlwind morphed into a nasty, unrelenting storm.
It was always worse on Friday night. In their kitchen inside The Dell, away from the prying eyes of Beverly Hills tourists and Hollywood gossips, Hirschfeld's storm was brewing.
"God damn it, Rickie," he said. "You got the wrong wine."
Rickie froze and regarded him fearfully. He'd come home from the studio drunk, and whenever that happened, he was going to find something. To make matters worse, she was guilty as charged. Instead of his favorite wine, the Joseph Phelps 2005 Insignia, priced at 200 bucks a bottle, she'd tried to substitute the Cobblestone 2002, the 40 dollar stuff he served at parties.
"Don't blame me," she said. "It's those idiots over at The Cheese Store. I ordered your wine, but when they made their delivery, they forgot to bring it."
"Why is it when something goes wrong around here it's never your fault?" He was closer now, his hooded eyes looking at her and through her.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I should have checked when they made their delivery."
He shattered the half-full glass of inferior wine in the sink, splashing the countertop and floor with what looked like blood. The big man approached her. Her breathing stopped as the heat and panic of fear flooded in. Friday night.
"You don't do shit all day," he said. "And you don't even do that right."
"Honey," she said, "if you want me to, I'll run down to The Cheese Store right now and get your wine."
He wasn't listening. His eyes closed and he cocked his head, as though listening to a faint message within himself. His eyes opened, narrowed with rage.
"You lazy, stupid bitch!"
She felt oddly grateful no damage was done to her face. As good fortune would have it, she'd reflexively stepped back, slipping on the freshly spilled wine as he threw the first punch, and his knuckles only grazed her cheek. He more than made up for it when he landed on top of her, driving his knee into her stomach. She lay motionless, gasping for air for what felt like an eternity.
When he finally left her alone, she remained where she was, curled in a ball and listening carefully to be sure he'd really left the house. It wasn't until she heard his Rolls leave the driveway that she dared get up.
She made her own escape down the hill, across Sunset Boulevard to R.J.'s Bar and Grill on Beverly Drive, the place she always retreated to whenever this happened, instinctively choosing the place most familiar and yet somewhat impersonal.
Standing with one foot on the brass rail at the far end of the oak bar, the darkest spot she could find, she tossed down a short scotch and signaled for another. Perhaps it would help dull the aching pain in her stomach. She'd finish her drink before the industry people poured in, and be long gone by the time Hirschfeld figured out where she was and came looking for her.
There were a couple of options. She could make the long trip out to Encino to seek shelter with her son, Jesse Edwin, or drop in on her best friend Judy, who lived close by at Venice Beach.
She stepped outside to find the late winter sky prematurely blackened from an incoming winter storm. A heavy rain would make the trip out to her son's place somewhat treacherous.
Judy was her best bet. While waiting for the valet to bring the Mercedes around, she whipped out her Blackberry and punched the speed dial.
"It's me," she said. "I need a shoulder to cry on and a place to stay. It's either you or Jesse Edwin."
"He did it again, didn't he?” Judy said.
"I can't talk about it now."
"Understood," Judy said. "Can you drive? Or do I need to come and get you."
"I can drive."
"Then forget about driving to your son's place in the Valley. KFI just broadcast a traffic alert. The storm's already hit out there. I'll open a fresh bottle of wine."
Rickie felt slightly better. There was some serious soul-searching to be done. Judy could always be counted on in this regard. An additional bonus--heavy rains would clear the beach of tourists. The strand would be deserted, isolation she always appreciated after such episodes of violence, which always left her feeling shaken and claustrophobic in crowds.
She put the powerful car in gear and slid out into the rush hour traffic, driving carefully, cautious of the alcohol in her veins. There were a lot of decisions to make and a lot of things she wasn't certain about, but of one thing she was sure.
This time, she wasn't going back to the troll.