“Tonight, you’re Hollywood star James Roe.” I smile a little to cut some of the tension. “Prove yourself as one of the guys and get as close to Zebulund as you can without seeming obvious. You weren’t keen on him last time, so he might get suspicious if suddenly you get too cozy.”
“Gotcha. Aloof but charming.”
“Good.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You know I do this for a living right?”
“Yes. I’m helping.” I stall my pacing and wait until he meets my gaze. “I don’t want you to forget what’s at stake here.”
“I’m not.” He loses his smooth demeanor and tenses. “Don’t forget I have things on the line too.”
Okay. This’ll be good. We can do this.
“I get the impression tonight is mostly cocktails and getting to know each other while we sail out. Tomorrow is when all the shenanigans begin.”
“I agree.”
We hold each other’s gaze.
“I better go up before anyone sees me down here.” He tips his hat and winks. “Good luck.”
I roll my eyes but only to keep from swooning like a total loser.
“Break a leg,” I correct.
8
Roe
They aren’t kiddingwhen they say Marty Zebulund throws one hell of a party. The night starts mellow enough. Many of the Who’s Who of Hollywood are here dressed in glamorous gowns and suits, sipping cocktails and making small talk. But it doesn’t take long before all the masks of polite society slip down to reveal the baser creatures underneath.
Only two hours out of port and this party yacht is fully in the realm of Sodom and Gomorrah. I can’t think about how much something like this costs without my blood pressure rising, so I focus on the task at hand. Finding and infiltrating Zebulund’s inner circle. It isn’t hard to see who his favorites are; they populate the decks like satellite solar systems, all circling him with their own crowds revolving around them. One of LA’s top agents sits on a low sectional couch surrounded by beautiful women a few feet away. There’s a publicist I think I recognize in a hot tub, breasts bobbing around him like apples on Halloween.
Two top decks make the exterior. On the lower deck a massive pool and hot tub overflow with people. Lights are draped across the poles and rails. The top deck is where the fully dressed remain, for now. There’s a massive bar with two bartenders. Booze flows. Laughter is raucous. Music is thumping.
Maggie makes her rounds but our eyes never meet. She avoids Zebulund, and since I’m primarily near him, we don’t get a chance to talk. I worry about her being spotted for the reporter she is, but she hides in plain sight and nobody notices her. Not when the strippers do such a good job drawing attention. I have to trust that she’s good at what she does.
It’s about midnight and I’m chatting with an actor I worked with a few movies back about his new baby. I straighten when a hearty slap stings my shoulders.
“James Roe.” Zebulund inserts himself between us, and my peer takes the hint and heads off. “I’m glad you could make it, after all, my man.” His grip engulfs my hand.
“This is your idea of a small get together?” I half-yell over the music.
Zebulund shrugs, as I avoid the smoke from the thick cigar between his fingers. The on-deck DJ bobs to the beat and more people get up to dance as the bass shakes through my body.
“What can I say? I like to keep my friends happy.” He thumbs behind him where the star of this summer’s blockbuster is doing a line off the stomach of a woman draped across the bar top. Everybody claps when he comes up for air.
“Thanks for the invite. This isn’t my normal scene but I have to admit it’s nice to get out.”
Zebulund shifts to lean against the bar. His stance is wide, taking up the space of three people. He gazes out like a factory boss watching closely for mistakes. A combination of pride and suspicion, like any minute he’d have to go crack a whip.
“Yeah, you don’t get out much, do you?”
Even though he’s not facing me, he’s watching. This is all part of the game we play now. He knows that I know who he is. What he has to offer. He knows that I need to get in his good graces and he’s going to give me the chance now.
