Part 17 (2/2)
Buckling himself in, Ryan said ”They didn't take the money shot.”
”What?” I started the engine and pulled out of the driveway past the two fame suckers.
Ryan looked back at them. ”They should've taken pictures of me, famous screenwriter, mooning them, and you, s.e.xy actress, discoverer of dead bodies. They didn't.”
”You're right.” I rounded the corner onto the main drag, heading back to the freeway.
Ryan asked, ”Do you think that condom was mine?”
”Did you use one?” I looked in the rearview mirror. No paparazzi.
”I can't remember.”
”G.o.d, Ryan.”
”DNA. My DNA is probably all over that sofa. The police are going to find it.”
”They have no reason to check the sofa for your DNA. And even I know they have to match it to something to be sure it's yours.”
”Binder has to be lying,” Ryan decided. ”He's got a young girlfriend and a red Beamer. That's called overhead. He's got to be selling keys and codes.”
”I don't think he's lying.”
”Why?”
”I just don't think he'd take money for a key, especially that key.”
”Why not?”
”My mother.” I could feel my emotions coming undone.
”You mean because she may have gone to bed with him?”
”Because she may not have, Ryan.” I snapped. ”She may have done just what he said-helped him.”
I realized I wanted to think of her as caring for the ”mislaid man.” I wanted to find a way to love her. I looked into the rearview mirror again. The guy wearing the white helmet was leaning low over his handlebars speeding close behind us.
”What's the word for a single paparazzi?” I asked.
”Paparazzo. The term comes from a character's name in the movie La Dolce Vita. Paparazzo was a photographer who took pictures of stars by hiding in bushes and stalking them. He was based on a real person Fellini knew. Why?”
”Look behind us.”
He craned around to peer out the back window. ”There is only one.”
”You're right, Ryan. They should have taken the money shot.” I gripped the steering wheel more tightly. I checked the rearview mirror again. The guy on the bike was right on my tail.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.
Pressing down on the accelerator, the old Jag surged forward. I swerved into the other lane.
Ryan clung to his seat belt. ”So if they're not fame suckers, then they're ... ?”
”Parson's men?”
”Oh, s.h.i.+t, Diana. I am a dead man.”
I made a sharp turn onto a narrow neighborhood street. The biker did the same. Small bungalows fronted by patches of brown gra.s.s lined the uneven sidewalks. Plastic tricycles stood in a few of the yards like lawn ornaments. I slowed down; so did he.
”Where is the other guy?” Beads of sweat dotted Ryan's forehead.
”Maybe he wanted to find out from P. J. Binder what we talked about. He might still be back there.”
The street emptied out onto a busy four-lane avenue. I sped up again, racing past old one-story stucco buildings housing barbershops, bleak bars, and bail bondsmen fighting for s.p.a.ce with McDonald's, Taco Bell and Burger King. I ran a yellow light and glanced in the rearview mirror. The biker was so close that he looked like he was connected to my b.u.mper. Moving in and out of the traffic, I cut in front of a bus and swung a right, tires screeching, then quickly made a sharp left.
”Not into an alley!” Ryan stiffened his hands pressing against the dashboard. ”They always dead-end into brick walls.”
The biker was still there in my mirror.
”Look out for the garbage cans,” Ryan gasped as we careered by iron-gated back doors.
”Oh G.o.d,” I blurted, slamming on the brakes.
”f.u.c.k, a brick wall! I told you. I told you.” Ryan braced himself against his seat.
It rose up in front of us like a big YOU'RE DEAD sign. I pressed the brake pedal to the floor. Rubber burned. The wall loomed closer. The Jag made a grinding noise as it veered and skidded to a jolting halt, its hood inches from the bricks. We pitched forward and then backward.
Adrenalin pumping, my eyes darted to the rearview mirror again. I watched the bike tilt sideways, sliding down on the pavement as it flew toward us.
”He's going to smash into us,” I warned. There was a loud thump as the bike hit us and the Jag lurched again, b.u.mping the wall.
”Perfect. We've killed one of Parson's men.” Ryan craned around, looking out the back window. ”Unless he was paparazzi and then we could be sued.”
”I don't care anymore.” I flung open the car door and got out.
His white helmet on and visor down, the man had been thrown against a pile of garbage bags. Grabbing at his leg, he writhed in pain. His bike lay half under the car.
”Who are you?” I stared down at him. Ryan came up behind me, peering over my shoulder.
”You f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.h. You broke my leg.” He struggled into a sitting position, leaning against the rust and p.i.s.s-stained wall.
Extending below the knitted cuff of his blue windbreaker, I could see two words tattooed vertically down to his wrist: With You. The thug at the yacht had had a tattoo that read: One Night With You.
<script>