Death by Misfortune Page 2

  Like Prospero commanding the storm.

  And then Becket looked down upon Jeremy and pointed. It was like being noticed by Apollo. “You. What’s your name?”

  Jeremy scrabbled up the steps, feet slipping on the sand covered pavement to grasp the cool dry hand. “Jeremy Reilly. Paulie’s friend?”

  Close up, Becket looked less godlike and more ethereal. His skin so white it appeared almost blue in the moonlight. Black eyebrows, dark lashes over light blue eyes.. A strong hand that gripped Jeremy’s a hair too long while his pale gaze sank slowly to Jeremy’s sneakers and then rose again. His lips lifted in an appreciative smile. “Remind me to thank Paulie.”

  Happily, it was dark enough to hide the scarlet that Jeremy felt rise in his cheeks.

  “Okay, see that woman over there, Jeremy? I need to get a makeup crew down there and keep them down there.”

  Besides that one look-over, the man had been all business. The production had proceeded from the night shoot to the desert, where Becket and Jeremy and sundry odd PA’s had lived in a sweltering un-air-conditioned trailer for three days.

  And then one long night in that hot trailer Jeremy, who never did anything impulsive, or without due consideration, found himself on his knees with his mouth around Becket’s cock. He couldn’t say why he’d done it and Becket had never asked. What he had done is smile down at his apprentice and then pull Jeremy up off his knees. “Thanks, kid,” he’d whispered, hand reaching to finish what Jeremy’s hand had started. Jerking Jeremy off with a kind of efficiency, those eyes warm and watching him until the ceiling of the trailer had gone white. Afterwards, Becket had cleaned them both off, then forced Jeremy to lie down at the back of the trailer for eight hours. They hadn’t spoken of it for the rest of the production.

  It could have been the end of his career. In that few moments successfully transforming himself from aspiring film maker to cheap slut. But when Becket had called him and offered him this current position on Griffen’s latest movie, there had been no expectations, implied or otherwise, beyond the fact that Jeremy would be at Becket’s beck and call throughout shooting and into post.

  Jeremy knew he should be grateful that he hadn’t blown his entire future, along with Becket, out there in that desert. There were so many ways a young man from the Bronx could screw up his career. Sleeping with the boss was near the top of the list.

  He wished he could stop thinking about it.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said, trotting up.

  “Jeremy, finally.” Becket was elegant in a blue silk shirt that exactly matched his eyes. The headset strapped over his hair had ruffled it into shiny black spikes. “Now we can make a movie.” He shoved a stack of sides at Jeremy. “My God, you smell like a head shop.”

  “I haven’t been home since the party,” Jeremy admitted. “I probably reek of incense.”

  Becket’s ever attentive gaze took in Jeremy’s appearance. “You should always keep a fresh shirt in your car. Nancy and Sara G are dawdling in makeup again. We need them in less than ten if we’re going to come even close to schedule. Damn it, talk to the transfer crew also, would you? They’ll have to wait an hour tonight.” Becket was talking about four times faster than he usually did. Jeremy could feel the adrenaline pouring from him; his own pulse picking up in sympathy or by osmosis.

  Becket’s headset blipped and he blinked. “Christ, you’re kidding me,” he said, looking up into the scaffolding, as if at the coming of the antichrist. “I’ll be right there,” he said. Backpedaling, he pointed two fingers at Jeremy. “Nancy,” before turning and heading back between two rungs of scaffolding.

  Jeremy ran for the makeup trailer. Their star, Nancy Frazen, lounged back in her chair, laughing up at the makeup artists that hovered over her perfect face like sycophantic priests. She blinked thickly embellished eyelashes at Jeremy as he came crashing up the steps. “Yes?”

  “New pages,” said Jeremy, shoving them at her unapologetically. “Five minutes.”

  Nancy, bless her, was always professional, no matter the circumstances. “Thank you for telling me,” she said. She rose from the chair. “I’m afraid they’ve changed the set so many times I don’t know where I’m supposed to be.”

  Jeremy held the door open. “I’ll show you.” He led the actress behind lights and grips and under scaffolding. “I thought Sara was there with you.”

  “Sara? No.”

  Jeremy touched his headset. “Sara’s not in makeup,” he told Leslie.

  “The cunt,” said Leslie, who practically kissed her toes when she was present. “I’ll check with her assistant.” Sara went through personal assistants so quickly no one even tried to remember their names anymore.

  “Where is Griffen? We were supposed to begin an hour ago,” asked Nancy, barely concealing her anxiety. “Darling, this IS my spot isn’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Here.” Jeremy found a chair and plunked it down so Ms. Frazen could sit comfortably while the lighting crew adjusted their equipment. “He’s talking to DePaul.”

  DePaul was their costar. Gorgeous, famous, spoiled and capricious costar.

  “Ah,” said Nancy. “Of course.”

  Sara came strolling up. She looked immaculate, if slightly windblown, but when she gave Jeremy a little air kiss he could smell sex on her. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, fanning herself. “Had to powder my nose.”

  Whatever.

  Sara and Nancy faced off. “The fortune-teller told me I had much to learn from an older woman, Nancy,” said Sara, smiling with little pointy teeth.

  “Darling, if I were you, I’d look for a teacher wherever I could find one,” said Nancy, also smiling, with pointier teeth.

  Jeremy’s Bluetooth blipped. “Griffen’s on his way,” said Becket.

  Jeremy passed this information on to the actresses.

  “Thank you, Jeremy.”

  In the silhouette of a stage doorway, Jeremy saw the agitated figure of Griffen coming toward them, DePaul trailing behind him like a recently chastised dog.

  “Leslie, what’s going on with DePaul?”

  “He and Griffen had words.”

  “Words? Where’s Becket?” asked Jeremy, just as he saw their AD coming through the back scaffolding in admirable mimicry of an Olympic hurdles racer.

  Jeremy’s Bluetooth blipped. “Jeremy,” said Becket, even as he approached him. “We roll in five.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  * * *

  “Oh, my God,” said Leslie. “My brain is going to explode.”

  One of Leslie’s duties included backing up the continuity and script supervisor. Between Griffen’s apparently capricious demands and DePaul’s apparent lack of preparation, they’d become mired on one scene. Leslie had been calling out continuity errors for the past hour and then Griffen had suddenly risen from his seat and stormed off the set.

  “I’m dead,” said Leslie. “And, quite frankly, at the moment, I welcome death.”

  “I don’t think it has anything to do with you,” said Jeremy, looking off toward the great two-story doorway through which his director and Becket had fled. “Griffen got a phone call between takes that freaked him out.”

  This was small comfort to Leslie, who lived in terror of any catastrophe. It seemed every production he worked on tanked before post. “I’m out of Tums,” he fretted.

  “Ricky’s assistant has a stash,” said Jeremy. Their best boy, Ricky, was a tyrant and his assistant chewed Tums like candy. “Do you think Becket needs me?”

  “In your dreams, Jeremy,” said Leslie dryly.

  Jeremy hadn’t yet decided whether he should chase down his AD when Becket and the director came back through the doorway. They looked serious, but stable.

  “We’re two hours behind,” snapped Becket as he walked up to Jeremy. His eyes cruised the set, and lounging crew members jumped to attention as his gaze crossed over them.

  In the scaffolding above them, Jeremy could hear the grips scrambling to get set up again
.

  DePaul stalked back out to his spot, Griffen following and speaking to him in an urgent manner, though he kept his voice low enough that the crew couldn’t hear him.

  “There’s a limit,” said Becket low, and only to Jeremy. “Griffen’s had it with DePaul’s tantrums. There was some drama last night at the house, I hear, and DePaul was sent packing to his mother’s.”

  The barely-adult actor’s troubles with his mother were legendary.

  “No wonder he’s having an off day,” Jeremy said.

  He and Becket both gazed across the space filled with cameras and lights and monitors where their director was talking their star into the right space, mentally, as the entire hundred-strong crew stood about watching. Jeremy could hear money being sucked from the air like oxygen by a fire.

  “At least DePaul showed up,” said Becket.

  “He always does.”

  “If he weren’t so fucking beautiful I’d kill him for scaring the Hell out of me every day,” said Becket. “He refuses to carry a beeper or a cell. Yesterday, he lost his ID again and Leslie had to fast-talk security. I’ll be puking blood by the end of this movie thanks to him.”

  Jeremy knew for a fact that Becket already regularly threw up vaguely pink sputum, so he only said, “He is beautiful.”

  With the perfect timing with which he seemed to have been born, DePaul lifted his sleek head, licked his lower lip and gave the camera crew a tentative smile.

  “God,” said Becket fervently. Jeremy could only agree. There was a reason that People magazine had dubbed the twenty-year-old actor the sexiest man alive last year. Seemingly poreless skin, intelligent hazel eyes that smiled at everything they perceived. Broad, strong shoulders. Well-turned tanned muscles on every square inch of his body. When he removed his shirt in a scene even the straight men on the crew were struck dumb. Jeremy could admit in his evil heart of hearts that when they filmed the pool scene next week he was going to be giddy.

  “Nancy hates him,” said Becket. “I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t want to stand next to that man with a camera scrutinizing my every wrinkle.”

  Jeremy considered that Becket would hold his own nicely in any shot standing near any actor. “In the dailies it looks like she adores him,” he said.

  “She’s a fabulous actress,” said Becket, a worshipper at her shrine since the first day of shooting. “That’s why Griffen expects so much more of her.” Griffen’s harsh treatment of Nancy was the subject of much coffee kiosk gossip.

  “She’s definitely helping Sara,” said Jeremy. Sara was pretty and had that glow on camera that lit up every scene she was in, but her acting abilities were well below Nancy’s Oscar-winning standards.

  Becket made one of those noncommittal noises and rubbed his chin. “Who’s our starlet bopping this week?” he asked quietly, hand hiding his mouth so no one could see what he said.

  “I don’t know,” said Jeremy, head tipped down to screen his words as well. “Someone on the crew though. They were doing it just before call.”

  “Christ.” Becket threw his arm companionably over Jeremy’s shoulder. “It’s like herding chickens, isn’t it, Jeremy?”

  Jeremy laughed. “I’m from the Bronx. I don’t know from chickens.”

  Becket gave him a discerning look “Did you enjoy the party last night?”

  Becket Russell in party mode. Elegant, suave, lifting his gaze from that of an actress and surveying the crowded room in that lazy, predatory way a jaguar might regard a herd of juicy gazelles.

  “Hey, boss.” Jeremy strolled over. He knew he was imagining that Becket had eyes only for him, but it was a nice fantasy so he went with it.

  “Jeremy, I’m so glad you were able to make it.” Becket’s voice raised to be heard over the steady buzz of party conversation.

  “We had a break in the telecine. I thought you might need me.”

  “I might.” Becket’s gaze traveling over him made Jeremy’s skin tingle. “Have a seat. You must be as tired as I am.”

  “Beyond tired. I’m afraid if I relax I’ll pass out.”

  “I won’t let you pass out.”

  Jeremy maneuvered around a group of people and sat down. There were three other people on the couch involved in their own conversations, and out of necessity the tête-à-têtes between people were close and intimate. Becket laid his arm across the sofa back to make room for Jeremy next to him. They were so close, Jeremy could feel the warmth of Becket’s body. Then Becket leaned over and spoke almost against Jeremy’s cheek, “You’re going to do well in the industry, Jeremy. You have a real affinity for people.”

  “I’m just bossy.”

  Becket chuckled and seemed to accidentally lay his hand on the back of Jeremy’s neck. “Nothing wrong with that.”

  The tingles ran from Jeremy’s neck to his groin and now the entire day, the whole last three months, actually, surged there. His skin popped sweat and his heart started to beat harder. He could see the flush rising on his arms and could only imagine what he must look like to Becket. Turned on by a touch. Guess who hasn’t been getting any?

  Becket noticed, of course. “You’re too young to be a monk, Jeremy. Too good-looking.” Becket’s thumb lightly traced Jeremy’s neck.

  “My boss tells me I shouldn’t be too easy,” said Jeremy, watching Becket’s mouth.

  “Your boss is a sorry old cynic.”

  “I respect his opinion.” Jeremy had to shift where he sat. His cock was throbbing now, with want and the feel of Becket’s hand on his neck.

  “Well, in my opinion, you’re doing a great job,” said Becket, almost in Jeremy’s ear.

  At that moment, whichever god it was that watched over young, foolish men who thought too much with their dicks chose to make Jeremy’s Bluetooth beep.

  “We’ve got a sync problem in the third reel,” said Peter, their editor.

  Jeremy withdrew his ear from its proximity to Becket’s mouth. “I’ve got to go,” he said.

  Becket shrugged. A graceful lifting of one shoulder. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he said. And he turned to an actor sitting on his other side. “John, how have you been...”

  “Too much glitz and glamour for me,” said Jeremy. His whole body was responding to Becket’s proximity — a flush rising on his arms and neck.

  Becket seemed not to notice. “The fortune-teller at the party said I’d travel to Mexico soon. All I could think was Christ, does that mean we have to reshoot the road scene?”

  “She was a big hit. Everybody’s talking about her.”

  Becket’s focus was back on the set. Griffen had just stepped away from DePaul and was climbing into the camera dolly. Becket leapt back into the milieu, checking his notes and his watch simultaneously. “Mr. DePaul, if you’ll find your mark…”

  And the great behemoth moaned and moved forward.

  Chapter Three

  The address given him by dispatch took Bill Turner to a location directly beneath the Hollywood sign.

  Here the street narrowed to two lanes and curved sharply around the front leg of the hills. Boutiques, salons, and shops stacked up the side of the hill in a series of terraced decks and wooden stairs. At the top of the stairs, a hand-painted sign displayed the shop number he was seeking. Bill remained at the bottom, though. The path to the crime scene was utterly blocked by a mob very much like what one might see at a feature film opening.

  The slim strip of concrete at the base housed an outdoor bistro where two casually elegant young women coughed loudly and waved their hands in front of their faces when Bill lit a cigarette.

  He appeared not to notice. “Who called the media?” he asked the tall black woman who stood beside him.

  “Who knows? They’re like cockroaches in this neighborhood.” Kate Crandall kept her voice carefully low. “Come out at just the smell of scandal.”

  The call had come around eleven a.m. Bill had made it to the location in less than fifteen minutes. The press in Los Angeles did seem to be e
verywhere, but this was uncanny.

  The smoke from Bill’s cigarette drifted over the table of the two citizens who hacked and waved even more fiercely. He flicked ash onto the pavement. “Is there a scandal?”

  “Our victim was a celeb. Or, rather, a friend of celebs. Sylvie Black, psychic to the stars,” said Kate. And at Bill’s blank look, “Christ, Turner, don’t you watch television? She’s got ads on every station after ten p.m.”