Box Office Poison (Linnet Ellery) (8 page)

Merlin’s ruddy eyebrows climbed up into his bangs. “You can’t just email him your report?”

“Are you kidding? He’s a vampire. He wants the feel of paper.”

“Wow, Mr. Pizer isn’t that way.”

“Then he must be a very young vampire,” I said and left.

As I walked to the network center I thought about the calcification that eventually overtook all vampires. They claimed it was a good thing, but I wondered if it hid an underlying concern. The world was moving so fast today, and it was important to keep up. They would never admit that, however; they presented their hidebound habits as a way to revere and honor the past, which was why you found them most often in the law or curating at museums—in fact, the newest head of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York was a vampire. Once they’d gone public they tried to broaden their involvement in the world. There had been a few efforts to have them teach history, but these hadn’t worked out so well. The bustle of a campus and the manic desperation of undergraduates—
But I just have to pass this class, Professor!—
did not suit a vampire’s personality.

But did that bode ill for the future of the country, and maybe even the planet, when you had people with such hidebound and conservative outlooks assuming open positions of power? Not that the Powers hadn’t pulled the strings of politicians, kings, and potentates long before they went public, but their interest had been in staying protected and hidden. Now that they were giving interviews on Fox and CNN, would that increased visibility have an impact on society’s attitudes? Make humans more cautious and conservative? Some problems required nimbleness and risk taking to solve, and neither of those were a vampire’s strong suit.

I pulled my summation out of the printer and headed into David’s office. It was very sleek and modern, with a wallpaper that looked like beige silk and abstract art on the walls. David was making notes on a yellow legal pad. I took note of the pen he was using. It was a ballpoint. Both Shade and Meredith used fountain pens. Guess it was too hard to get quills these days. The errant little thought gave me a quick chuckle.

David looked up. “What?”

“Nothing.” I laid the report on his desk. “And the human actors are definitely getting the short end of this particular stick.”

“But should they be offered redress?” David asked.

“Affirmative action has a long and…”

“Checkered career?” David asked. “It was necessary to ease the injustice of Jim Crow, but can it, should it, be applied in this situation?”

“And if we rule that way, are we suggesting that all humans are a protected class,” I said.

He indicated a chair, a modern affair that looked more like art than furniture, with about the same comfort level. I sat and we contemplated each other in silence for a few minutes.

“It’s early days. We haven’t heard enough to make any kind of judgment, much less suggest a remedy,” I said.

“Agreed.”

“Look, David, can we talk to the New York office and see about my renting an apartment? I gotta be honest, I hate living in hotels, even one as nice as the Beverly Hills Hotel.”

“I don’t want to leave the hotel,” he said, his expression mulish.

“And I’m not suggesting you should.
I
want to leave the hotel. Look, I get why you would want to stay. Room service and all that. Then you’re not having to drive all over town looking for restaurants that have hosts and cater to vampires.” I paused, Merlin’s comment about takeout had raised an interesting question. “Is there takeout for vampires?”

“There was one in New York, but the attorney general’s office figured out it was actually a cover for a high-priced prostitution ring. They got busted.” I chuckled. “It’s not funny,” he said. “It’s actually an interesting business idea, but now it will be years before anyone tries it again.” He looked out the heavily tinted windows where the rays of the setting sun looked like physical spikes. “Los Angeles is a big city, but inside it’s a small town. Even after forty years we’re not well accepted here. Maybe not anywhere.”

“A million years of evolution tells us humans that you’re predators and we’re prey,” I said quietly. “We can intellectualize all we want, but the fear is still there, living down deep. And there’s fault on both sides. You guys have this distant, disengaged attitude when you deal with humans. Which adds to the feeling that you don’t actually see us as anything but prey.”

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked, and there was something behind the words that I couldn’t quite interpret.

“No, of course not. I—” I broke off. I owed him honesty rather than platitudes. “Yes, sometimes I’m afraid. When one of you walks up on me and I don’t hear you coming. It helps if I have time to prepare.”

“Even with me?”

“Yes.”

“Even after being fostered.”

I held out one hand. “A million years of evolution.” I held out the other. “Ten years living in a vampire household.” I made a balancing gesture. “Which do you think wins?”

He slapped his hands onto the desk and stood up. “I think it’s quitting time.” It was an abrupt end to an odd conversation that had clearly discomfited him. “And yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Go get an apartment. I’ll clear it with New York.”

“Thanks.” I also stood. “It will be cheaper.”

*   *   *

While I arranged for a rental car, and investigated the Barham Oakwood, I also snagged an appointment with the district attorney. Henry Jacobs was an older African American man who towered over me. I couldn’t help it. I gaped up at him.

He laughed and guided me to a chair. “Yes, I really am six-foot-ten. I played basketball for the Lakers, blew out my knee, and decided I didn’t really want to be a coach. So law school, and…,” he looked around the office, “and this.”

The space had the usual accoutrements of a DA’s office—diplomas and pictures of Jacobs shaking hands with various nationally known politicians—but the desk and several chairs were also piled high with files. This was a DA who was clearly hands-on, and not just a blow-dried politician pretending to be a lawyer.

“Sorry, I should have heard of you,” I said.

“Unless you’re a basketball fanatic and a lot older than you look I don’t know why you should.” Jacobs perched on the front of his desk and smiled at me. “So, what can I do for you?”

“I was wondering how you got Kerrinan out of Fey? I’m trying to do something similar. Well, not exactly, the man I’m trying to extricate isn’t a criminal, but he is trapped.” I gave him the rundown on John’s situation.

He heard me out, then gave a slow shake of his head. “Well, I wish I could claim some insight, or brilliant legal trick, but the truth is there’s some kind of powerful Álfar Council in charge over there, and they forced Kerrinan to return. It was a smart decision. If human folks got the idea the Álfar are above the law … well, it wouldn’t sit well, and there’s growing tension about the Álfar out here, and not just inside SAG.”

“Damn. That was what I got from the Justice Department and the DA in New York. There should be some kind of extradition agreement,” I said.

“Yeah, but then a human who harms an Álfar on this side could potentially get hauled to Fey to stand trial, and I’m not sure how many constitutional protections they would have. Also, do they get an Álfar attorney? Haven’t heard of any. The whole thing on that side seems fairly medieval to me,” Jacobs said.

“Yeah, John’s mother is referred to as a queen. I have no idea what that actually means.”

“And the Álfar aren’t real forthcoming about their customs and institutions.”

“Gee, how is that any different from the other Powers?” I asked, and we shared a laugh, though mine was rather hollow.

“I’m afraid this is a problem for politicians and diplomats,” Jacobs said. “Clearly something needs to be done as more and more Álfar get involved in our world. Some kind of conflict of law has to apply.”

“Yeah, well, politicians aren’t known for their burning desire to take on tough problems,” I said with a sigh. I stood and held out my hand. “Thank you for your time.”

“Not a problem. I just wish I had a solution to offer. Seems to me that high-powered law firm ought to be doing more.”

“I agree, but even vampires are wary of the Álfar.”

“Not a comforting thought,” Jacobs concluded.

*   *   *

Merlin hadn’t steered me wrong. The Barham Oakwood was built on a series of hills that separated the San Fernando Valley from the LA Basin and it was quite pretty. Feeling paranoid about earthquakes I had requested a one-bedroom apartment on the third floor. I had seen the pictures from the Northridge quake. Things fell down, and if you were in an underground parking garage or on the bottom floor in a building you got squashed. I also figured that, along with the on-site gym, walking up the stairs would be good exercise. The cool, rainy weather made the outdoor pools less attractive.

I stood on my balcony and looked out at the iconic water tower on the Warner Bros. lot. Even though I’d been in the apartment for three days it still gave me a shiver and a giggle. Hollywood really was the domain of American royalty. Even the most cynical were starstruck, and I was no cynic.

Behind the studio hills climbed toward a cloud-drenched sky bare of those unique LA structures—houses on stilts. That was because the hills were part of Griffith Park, donated to the city by Colonel Griffith J. Griffith back in the 1890s. There was a theater on the property, the famous Griffith Observatory, a merry-go-round, and a riding stable. I hadn’t checked it out yet because I didn’t love riding stable horses. They were usually old, tired, and sour. Or once people figured out I knew how to ride I got assigned the angry, young problem horse to “fix,” and because I was small I often got stuck with fixing cranky ponies.

The phone rang. I went back inside to answer it. There was a long silence. This had been happening with increasing regularity over the past few days. In the beginning I did the hello, hello, hello? thing in ever-increasing tones of testiness. Now I just answered and stayed silent, waiting to see if anyone would speak. I was just about to hang up when a harsh voice whispered,

“Elf whore.” There was the click of a disconnected line and I stared in shock at the handset.

Elf whore?
What the hell did that mean? Because I was an arbitrator in this human-Álfar case? But I wasn’t representing the Álfar—I stood in the position of a judge. Had someone found out that John and I had been intimate? It wasn’t a secret, but who the hell would care? And that was just too creepy for words. A shiver ran through me. I hurried over to the white brick gas fireplace and turned it on. Blue and yellow flames played like coy children around the artificial logs. I sat down on the floor, rubbed my arms, and contemplated the fire.

John. Last summer I’d had what I thought was contact with him. I’d dreamed he was in my bedroom with me, and when I’d awakened there had been a flowering branch at the foot of the bed. Even now I could recall the perfume from those flowers. Since then—nothing. Had he been punished for that incursion into our reality? Or had he just moved on and forgotten about me? Come to accept his life in Fey? That I didn’t buy. He seemed to have an active dislike, if not downright hatred, for the Álfar and a deep love for his human family and human institutions. My mind returned to that hateful phone call. Why not vampire whore? I worked for a white-fang law firm. I couldn’t find any rational explanation.

Giving myself a shake I stood up and went into the tiny kitchen area. I opened the fridge, contemplated the contents, and decided to settle for a Trader Joe’s prepackaged seafood salad. After dressing it, and dumping it out onto a plate I wandered through the apartment, nibbling. The call had really disturbed me. It had left me shaky and very sad. Was this any less depressing than a hotel room? I missed my female colleagues back at the New York firm. Suddenly the city seemed very large and I seemed very small, lost in a vast, sprawling web of lights, roads, houses, and people.

The phone rang. I studied it with apprehension, forced my feet to move, and picked up the handset.

“Hello?” came Jeff Montolbano’s voice. “Linnet? Are you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. Hi, Jeff, what’s up?”

“I just got word that there’s only going to be a morning session tomorrow because of some of the participants’ shooting schedules. That made me think, hey, I bet Linnet has never been on a movie set.”

“You’d be right.”

“Want to change that? I’m an executive producer on a new spy thriller starring Jondin. I was going by the set tomorrow afternoon. I could take you along.”

Jondin was the female version of Kerrinan, who was now occupying a cell in county lockup. “This isn’t going to be a repeat of Ketchup, right? Not using me for a prop.”

“No. This is me trying to make up for that.”

“In that case, I would love to go with you. Where are they filming?”

“On a soundstage at Warner’s,” he said.

“Well, it just so happens I was looking at the water tower at Warner’s from my balcony this evening.”

“Perfect. How about we just go from the office tomorrow. We can grab lunch in Toluca Lake.”

“I rented a car and it will be at the office.”

He dismissed the problem. “I can take you back there after we’re done.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Good. See you tomorrow.”

*   *   *

This was going to be my first day driving myself to the IMG office, so I left absurdly early. And found myself in a long line of cars inching their way up Barham Boulevard. Apparently everybody had the same idea. I had rented a portable GPS system when I rented the car, and I had the address to the office entered into the Garmin. I selected a male voice as the guide because the default woman reminded me of a first-grade teacher I had really hated. The softly accented Brit voice, which I had dubbed Nigel, suggested I take a right in five hundred feet onto Highway 101.

Nigel guided me onto the I-405 freeway heading south. Now it was easy. Just ride this to the Santa Monica exit. I listened to the radio as I drove, flipping back and forth between a contemporary pop and a classical station. My average speed seemed to hover around five miles an hour. Getting to shoot up to fifteen miles an hour was exciting, but this was quickly dispelled when the traffic would inexplicably stop. After twenty minutes I gave up stressing about it, and cultivated a Zen attitude. It would take as long as it took.