Magic Hour by Susan Isaacs (cheapest way to read ebooks .txt) 📕

he would actually destroy them. But I wouldn’t have put it past him to lose them for a few days.

MAGIC HOUR / 329

I figured any guy who could eat bologna, American cheese and mayo was my kind of guy, a human septic tank, so after I left, I stopped at the deli, got a six-pack of Yoo-Hoo and some Ring-Dings and Devil Dogs, and brought them back to Thighs, That sealed the deal. Jeez, he said, Steve, thanks a hell of a lot. Let me pay you for all this. You sure? Oh, hey.

He was mine.

Moose began to bark as I pulled into my driveway, and I had such a surge of gladness that I forgot I was stupid with fatigue. I pictured walking in to the dog’s delirious tail-wagging, hand-licking greeting, then rushing into the pineapple room, sitting on the edge of the bed and having Bonnie put her arms around me, draw me close, press her cheek against mine and whisper, Please, just hold me. The homeyness of it made it such a enticing vision.

I squared my shoulders, stood up straight and braced myself. I knew from AA how fatigue can make you vulnerable; you cannot stand firm when all you want is comfort.

The mood I was in, it wouldn’t be the consolation of booze that would seduce me. It wouldn’t be wild sex. It would be sweetness, and soft conversation.

I strolled inside, gave Moose an indifferent, platonic pat and checked my answering machine. Just Lynne: “I guess you must be very busy. Good night, Steve. I love you and I’m thinking about you. Speak to you tomorrow.”

I was wiped; maybe that was why Lynne’s understanding irritated the hell out of me. Why, for once, couldn’t she say, You self-centered fuck, why can’t you take two minutes and pick up the phone? But then I thought: No. You had to appreciate how serene she was, how adult, how truly superior.

Only then, fortified, did I go in to see Bonnie.

330 / SUSAN ISAACS

She put the Stephen King book she’d been reading on the nightstand. She’d taken a shower, washed her hair; it was shiny and wet, pulled back tight, braided. She’d changed into the clean pink T-shirt I’d brought from her house. The plaid blanket was pulled up high, prim, almost to her neck, as if she’d decided to become the definitive old maid. Except she gave me her wonderful, welcoming beacon of a smile.

“Hi!”

“How’s it going?” Hey, forewarned is forearmed. I was on alert. I could afford to be slightly friendly.

“It’s going okay,” Bonnie said. “I had a couple of minutes of panic. I mean, I’ve been making jail jokes, but when I actually think about it—”

“Then take it easy on yourself. It’s been a rough time.

Don’t think about it.”

Hearing Lynne’s message had really cleared my head.

Bonnie was the next couple of days; Lynne was the rest of my life. The only thing that made me edgy was sleeping in the same house with her. I’d be okay. I was so knocked out I’d probably be asleep as soon as I took off my shoes. But I was troubled by a picture of Bonnie tiptoeing through the dark house and slipping into my bed and murmuring, Please, just hold me. Any touch—her fingers grazing my chest, her legs brushing against mine—might make me lose all sense.

I couldn’t afford to be faced with that. My palms started to sweat. I pretended to be kneading sore muscles and wiped them on my pants. I decided I would just lock the door of my bedroom.

Then I sat, but I maneuvered the chair so it was farther from her bed. Okay, this was better. The situation was under control. “Let me give you the Lindsay Keefe story,” I said. I told her, in detail, everything I’d learned in the course of the investigation.

She sat with her arms hugging her knees, like a kid MAGIC HOUR / 331

at a campfire listening to a riveting ghost story. I waited for her to say, Wow! Good work!

Except she just shook her head and said: “Get a good night’s sleep. You need it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’ll think better in the morning.”

“Stop that patronizing crap. It irritates the hell out of me.”

“You call this a case against Lindsay?” Bonnie demanded.

“She had motive. He was going to fire her.”

“So she’d hire a lawyer and fight it. Or hire a publicist and leak word about what a disaster Starry Night is and how she couldn’t compromise her standards of excellence by working on such a consummate piece of schlock.”

“Come on. Word was around the movie business about what a disaster she was. If Sy fired her, it could ruin her.”

Bonnie gave me a fast roll of the eyes, a supercilious you’re-not-an-insider look. “I want you to stop being so fucking condescending, Bonnie.”

“Who do you think Sy was? A 1939 mogul with a big cigar, a Louis B. Mayer who could say, ‘You’ll never work in this town again’? No. Sy was a first-class producer, which is a good thing to be. But Lindsay’s a star. One crummy performance wouldn’t do her in.”

“You’re the one who said her agent was probably begging Sy not to fire her.”

“That’s his job. But what if Sy had told him to stuff it and did fire her? Lindsay would survive. Listen, she’s as cold and calculating as they come. I’m sure she knew getting the ax wasn’t going to help her career, but she also knew it wouldn’t hurt it, not that much. Certainly not enough to kill for.”

“You’re assuming she’s rational,” I said.

“Do you have any evidence that she’s not?”

332 / SUSAN ISAACS

I edged forward in the chair. I wanted to convince her, get her over to my side. “I have to trust my gut in this business, and I’m telling you, she’s flawed. Beautiful, yeah, but something major is missing. A realization that she’s human.

And when Sy withdrew from her, first as her number