WRONG CITY
Morgan Richter
Copyright 2012 Morgan Richter
All rights reserved
Cover by Morgan Dodge
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.
To Ingrid.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter One
The party was already on the decline when the girl in the bumblebee dress climbed onto the patio railing. Silhouetted by the Los Angeles skyline, which crawled along the horizon in an unbroken stretch of glittery lights, she stood on the slim beam and wobbled.
Vish watched her, his hands clutching his near-depleted bamboo tray of bite-sized chimichangas. She shouldn’t be doing that. One wrong step, one wobble too far, and this girl, whoever she was, would tumble into the darkness of the canyon below, gone forever. Vish couldn’t see anything beyond the reach of the lamps at the edge of the patio; where their light ended, blackness began and swept down the hillside, stopped only by the barricade of sparkly lights that marked Hollywood Boulevard.
There were murmurs from the guests: amusement, disapproval, no overt concern. The girl shifted sideways, one tiny foot in front of the other on the railing, arms raised at her sides, poised like a gymnast preparing to execute a flip.
Not that a gymnast would wear those shoes. They were shiny leather—the stark light from the lamps drained color from everything it touched, so Vish couldn’t be sure, but he thought they were bright blue—with pointy toes and skinny gold spikes for heels. She wasn’t really dressed as a bumblebee, not literally, but that’d been Vish’s immediate thought upon seeing her. Her dress was short and strapless, made from a narrow length of ruffled yellow taffeta wrapped around and around her tiny body until her waist looked wider than her slight shoulders. A black fringe dangled from the ruffle, giving the impression of horizontal stripes that shifted and rippled as she moved. It was belted with a wide black satin sash, the ends of which spilled down to her ankles. She could trip on them, lose her balance, fall to her death.
Someone should stop her. He should stop her. Vish hovered near the patio door.
“Better watch your step, Kels,” a woman called out from the crowd. She laughed, teeth glinting in the patio lights. Her face glistened with perspiration, and to Vish’s eyes she looked slithery and unearthly, a golem calling for the blood of this girl.
The girl—Kels?—shook her head. She had a mess of pale hair, cut short and jagged, which stuck up like a cloud of downy fluff around her head. She was very pretty, in a childlike way, and she seemed much too young to be at this party, amongst this collection of directors and producers and sundry members of the entertainment industry. The bulk of the guests were in their forties or beyond, Vish guessed, though it was hard to be certain with all the lean, toned bodies and tight, unlined skin on display.
“I’m fine,” the girl said. Her voice was light and babyish. “Look, I’m perfectly balanced.” She pivoted on the railing, pointed toes shifting smartly, until she faced the guests. “I could do a cartwheel on here.”
She seemed sober, at least. Clear eyes, no flushed skin, no slurred speech. Still, Vish felt his stomach clench in anticipation of something terrible. Should he step in and haul her down from there? Should he find the hostess and alert her to the possible tragedy and/or lawsuit waiting to happen on her patio?
The girl glanced over her pale shoulder. “I can’t even see the bottom,” she said. “If I fell, they’d have to wait until morning to look for me.”
A man angled through the assembled guests and approached the railing. Laughing, he held a hand up to her. “Time to come down, darling,” he said.
The girl smiled. She had a dimple in each cheek. She crouched and took his hand in her own dainty one, then hopped down to the patio floor. She wobbled on the gold spikes when she landed, but she stayed upright.
Vish’s stomach relaxed. His face felt hot. Silly to get so worked up; she was fine. She’d been fine all along, she was having a good time, and he was an overprotective ninny. It was just the combination of the crowd, and the looming blackness beyond the patio, and maybe something in the night air that made him feel anxious.
The girl tilted her face up and pecked the man on his jaw. “You always take such good care of me,” she said.
Huh. The man was probably in his early thirties, a few years older than Vish, and thus was too old to be her date. He was pretty, slim and foxlike, with glossy black hair worn long in front, short in back. Dark eyes, a mad fringe of black eyelashes, dark golden skin.
The man murmured something to the girl that Vish couldn’t hear. She giggled in reply, then released him and drifted off into the crowd.
So they weren’t a couple, or probably weren’t. Vish looked at the man, aware of the combination of gratitude and envy he felt for the easy way he took charge of the situation. He wore what was almost certainly a terribly expensive suit, with sleek lines and a burnished shimmer to the fabric. He didn’t look familiar exactly, but he looked like someone Vish should know, like his life would be richer and more interesting for including him in his circle of acquaintances.
He was here to work, not to ogle the guests. His sad little tray of chimichangas was cold. He entered through the open French doors into the heart of the party.
He skidded on the floor, which was made of raised, rounded tiles, polished until they gleamed. In his best shoes, Vish could barely walk without wobbling or sliding. From behind him, a hand clamped around his upper arm, holding him in place.
He glanced back at his assailant, a fierce, compact woman in a sleeveless batik-patterned dress that displayed her ropy biceps to full effect. It was the hostess, Maryanne something-or-other, and she looked furious. Her grip on Vish’s arm tightened; her thin lips twisted into a snarl.
She didn’t look at him. Her attention was fixed on the far end of the living room where Jamie, her own empty tray held by her side, was cornered by a middle-aged man with a tidy beard.
Ah. Maryanne’s husband. Jamie had pointed him out to Vish and Toby while they were loading their trays in the kitchen earlier.
“She’s supposed to be serving guests, not schmoozing,” Maryanne said. Her forehead creased, her sculpted eyebrows almost touching. “It’s unprofessional.”
If Jamie was schmoozing, she was doing a poor job of it. The man carried on what appeared to be a lively monologue while Jamie nodded at frequent intervals, her blonde ponytail bobbing up and down. Her expression showed nothing but polite interest, but she seemed to be recoiling fr
om him, pressing herself against the sofa in the hopes it would swallow her up.
“Every time I’ve looked at her, she’s been gabbing with my husband. This isn’t a networking event for the caterers. She’s not going to get cast in one of his films just because she served him a taco.”
Vish cleared his throat. “You know, I really don’t think she’s trying—”
“I don’t want to get her in trouble, but I’m a step away from going into the kitchen and telling her boss.”
Vish paused. The only one in the kitchen was Toby, and the idea of Toby as anyone’s boss seemed ludicrous. “Ah… she’s in charge. She owns the company.”
Maryanne looked at him for the first time. The forehead crease deepened. Vish hastened to continue. “I’ll pass your concerns along to her.”
“Do that.” Maryanne shifted her attention back to Jamie. “She’s an actress, isn’t she?”
“She does this full-time now.”
“But she used to act, didn’t she? She’s got that actressy look.” The snarl relaxed into a contemptuous smirk. “It’s a cliché because it’s true: Everyone in the service industry in this town is a wannabe movie star.”
Vish smiled. “I’m not,” he said.
Maryanne glanced at him again. Her expression shifted again. She looked puzzled. “No, of course you’re not,” she said. Like she was explaining something obvious to someone who had difficulty with simple concepts.
Vish took a moment to sort that one out. Maryanne pointed her chin at Jamie. “Talk to her. I spend a lot of money on my parties, and my friends value my recommendations. Right now, I don’t think I have much good to say about you people.”
Vish nodded. “Sure. Of course. No problem.”
Maryanne looked unappeased. She maintained her death-grip on his arm. It hurt. At a loss for a graceful way to free himself, he proffered his tray. “Chimichanga?”
Success. She released him. One hand hovered above the tray, then she hesitated. “Those are eggrolls?” she asked.
“Chimichangas. Like little deep-fried burritos,” Vish said.
She grimaced and shook her head. “I don’t eat anything fried.” The hand withdrew. She stalked off, expertly navigating the rounded tiles in her spike-heeled sandals.
At a low chuckle behind him, Vish turned. Ah. The pretty man from the patio. “No, of course you’re not an actor,” the man said in a perfect imitation of Maryanne. “Whatever do you suppose she meant by that?”
Vish smiled. “I’m sure it wasn’t flattering,” he said. “I imagine she was saying I’m insufficiently cute to be a movie star.”
“Says her,” the man said. He winked. “Could be simple bias, you know. She could be saying you’re insufficiently white to be a movie star.”
His tone was casual, almost flippant. The man was nearly as dark as Vish, though it was tough to pinpoint his ethnic background. Latino? Filipino? Neither seemed quite right.
No way was Vish was going to be lured into chatting about the party’s hostess while standing in the middle of her living room, surrounded by her guests. He held up his tray. “Chimichanga?”
The man glanced at the offering on display. “God, no,” he said. He waggled his empty glass. “Can you get me a refill, or do I fetch it myself?”
Jamie didn’t have a liquor license. Maryanne had hired the bartender separately, and the libations didn’t fall into Vish’s territory. He took the glass from the man. “I can get it. What are you having?”
“Scotch. Dude at the bar will know what. Thanks.”
The bar was set up in the sunken dining room, through a narrow archway bordered with hand-painted ceramic tiles. “I need a Scotch,” Vish said to the bartender, a sullen kid with hair winched back into a low ponytail.
The kid looked skeptical. Vish shook his head. “Not for me. For that guy,” he said. He pointed through the arch in the direction of the pretty man. “He said you’d know what he was drinking.”
The bartender scowled. “Him. Yeah.” He fingered his way through a selection of bottles atop the rolling cart that served as a portable bar, picked one, and tossed a few cubes into a fresh glass. “Rocks, water, right?”
“I have no idea.”
The bartender shrugged, fixed the drink, and handed over the glass. “Here you go.”
“Thanks. Do you know who he is? That man?”
“Never seen him before, but everyone here is acting like he’s the shit. Probably a studio exec or whatever. He’s got a stupid name, Stubby or Stumpy or something.”
The pretty man didn’t look like a Stubby, or a Stumpy. Vish glanced at him again. He was now at the center of a small throng, deep in conversation with a cluster of party guests, the girl in the bumblebee dress among them. She snaked her arm up his back and hooked her hand over his shoulder, her body curving into his. He seemed unaware of her presence, his attention fixed on the bearded host. Good to see Jamie had finally escaped his clutches.
“Open calls only sound like a good idea, but they’re more hassle than they’re worth,” the host was saying. “I found this great kid last month—good-looking guy, theater background, an absolute nobody but perfect for the part, so I took a gamble and cast him. A week into shooting, he disappears on me. Doesn’t show up at his call time, doesn’t answer his phone. I sent a PA over to his apartment to pound on his door, but no dice. We’re going to have to recast ASAP.”
“Rough break,” the pretty man said.
“You’re telling me. Now there’s a whole list of re-shoots I’ve got to get through, all because the kid turned out to be a goddamned flake.” He chuckled. “Of course, if it turns out he died or something, I’m going to sound like a real douche here, right?”
The pretty man nodded. “Been hearing a lot of that these days. I mean actors disappearing, not you sounding like a douche. Seems to be an epidemic.” He reached out and accepted his drink from Vish. “Thanks, man,” he said. A smile and another wink. Friendly. Flirtatious, maybe. Hard to tell.
Vish smiled back and withdrew.
The chimichangas looked sadder than ever. He headed into the kitchen, which was connected through another archway, one step down from the dining room, which itself was a step down from the living room. Between the slick tiles and the steps in unexpected places, someone was going to trip over his feet and break his neck before the end of the night. That someone would probably be Vish.
In the kitchen, Jamie reloaded her tray with hot hors d’oeuvres. She dumped a handful of crumbled Manchego over pumpkin empanadas, their flaky crusts brown from the oven. “There. That should prevent confusion, right?” she asked. “I’ve had two guests complain that they thought these would be sweet, like miniature pumpkin pies. The pork in the filling really threw them off.” She glanced up at Vish. “Everything going okay out there?”
“Fine,” he said. He paused. “Maryanne saw you talking to her husband.” He made it as light as possible.
Jamie looked at him. Her expression sharpened. She nodded once. “Ah,” she said. “How are the chimichangas going over?”
“Hard to say,” he said. “Eggrolls are fried, right?”
“Of course. Why?”
Vish shrugged. “Just asking.”
Toby hauled a hot cookie sheet out of the oven and plunked it down on the tile counter. Jamie hurried to maneuver a potholder beneath it. The sheet held an array of miniature chicken tacos, the corn tortillas translucent with hot grease. “Hey, did you see Kelsey?” Toby asked.
“Who?”
Both Toby and Jamie turned to stare at him. “Kelsey Kirkpatrick,” Jamie said, the incredulity plain in her voice. “From Interstellar Boys?”
Vish shook his head. “Haven’t seen it,” he said. From billboards and bus advertisements, he was aware of the existence of a series named Interstellar Boys, but he wasn’t familiar enough with it to recognize the cast members.
“She’s the hot little blonde thing. Come on. You’ve seen her,” Toby said.
“The girl i
n the bumblebee dress?”
Jamie giggled. “Bumblebee dress,” she said. “For gosh sakes, Vish, that’s a Frederic Lanchin. It’s couture.” Jamie’s Texas roots sometimes came out in unguarded moments, and she pronounced it “couchure.”
“She’s hot,” Toby said.
“She is?” Vish spread a clean black cloth napkin on his tray and began arranging the tacos in what he hoped was an aesthetically pleasing display. “She seemed so young.” He pictured the girl teetering on the railing, her round face and downy-chick hairstyle and baby-doll voice. The idea of her as an object of anyone’s fierce passion seemed absurd, like lusting after a stuffed animal.
“Eighteen in six weeks, man. Six weeks. Can’t wait.”
“For what? So you can drool over her?” Jamie opened the oven door a crack, peeked in on whatever was still in there, closed it. “Kinda seems like you’re doing plenty of that already, sugar.”
“So I can drool after her legally. Without feeling creepy about it.” Toby shrugged. “Biological imperative, babe.”
Vish wasn’t sure what that meant, and he wasn’t sure the sentiment bore careful parsing, either. Freshly-loaded tray in hand, he glanced through the archway into the dining room. The pretty man was in his line of sight, deep in conversation with Maryanne and her husband. “Hey, do either of you know that guy talking to the hosts?”
Jamie glanced over and shrugged. “No idea. Why?”
“Not sure. He looks familiar, sort of. Like he’s someone I’m supposed to know.”
“He’s foxy,” Jamie said. She nudged her elbow into his ribs and winked. “Are you interested?”
“That’s not why I was asking.”
“No offense meant. Just checking. You keep to yourself so much it’s hard to know where your interests lie.”
Toby squinted at the man. “I think he’s just some guy,” he said at last.
That seemed to be the final word on the matter, so Vish headed out into the party once more.