Snowblind

Chapter 8: Talk Talk

Riverside County, California

April 24, 1995

It was ten o’clock on a Monday morning and two cars were traveling westbound on Interstate 10 as it climbed out of the Coachella Valley toward the top of the San Gorgonio pass. The car in front was a 1994 Toyota Camry, gold in color, and driven by pilot Susan Granderson. Following behind it was a 1995 Mercedes Benz E-320, silver in color, driven by Celia Valdez with Laura Kingsley in the front passenger seat. The three ladies had just spent the weekend all alone at Greg and Celia’s Palm Springs home. All three had had a good time. Celia and Suzie played several rounds of golf at the exclusive country club upon which the house sat while Laura, who did not golf and did not want to learn how, took turns riding in the carts with them. They went out on shopping trips and to lunch and dinner. They drank a great deal of alcohol while doing all of these things. And, while there was a considerable amount of sexual tension between all three of them, no girl-time (as defined by Neesh soon-to-be Paladay) had occurred.

In the town of Beaumont, at the top of the pass, Interstate 10 intersected State Route 79, which ran south. Suzie took the offramp for 79, which was the fastest way for her to get back to her home in San Diego. Celia kept going west on I-10, which was the fastest way to get her and Laura back to Los Angeles. Suzie waved at the Mercedes enthusiastically as it overtook her. Celia nudged Laura, who had been dozing listlessly in her seat, and the two of them waved back at her with just as much enthusiasm.

Once Suzie’s car was gone from sight, Laura yawned and sat up a little straighter. She had a moderate hangover going on. Her head ached dully, though not as badly as it had before a couple of Tylenol tablets had been washed down just before leaving the house. Her stomach rumbled disconcertingly, and a distinct sensation of nausea ebbed and flowed throughout her like a tide. Her mouth was dry despite the half a liter of water she’d put down since awakening, and a persistent feeling of fatigue tugged at her.

“How are you doing?” asked Celia, who was in pretty much the same boat.

“I feel like I’m paying the price for the fun we had this weekend,” she said simply.

“That’s the truth,” Celia said with a crooked smile. “It was a weekend to remember though, wasn’t it?”

“It was a blast,” Laura agreed. “I really like Suzie. She knows how to party.”

“She does,” Celia said. “When you can get her to let her hair down anyway.”

Laura giggled. “It was down all right. I still can’t believe that story she told us about the aircraft mechanic, that female airman, and the chicken over there in Kuwait.”

“Madres de Dios!” Celia laughed. “Isn’t that loco? It’s amazing some of the things people do.”

“I wouldn’t have even thought it possible,” Laura said, still giggling at the story. “I mean, wouldn’t there be feathers everywhere?”

“You would think, wouldn’t you?” Celia said.

They drove on, Celia keeping the cruise control at seventy-five miles per hour. She slid over to the fast lane to pass a line of semis hauling trailers. Both women were wearing shorts and every one of the truckers looked down in appreciation at their bare legs as they went by. One of them even gave a blast of air horn and a thumbs up.

“Horny bastards,” Celia said with a shake of her head as she switched back to the right lane.

“Well, you can’t really blame them,” Laura said. “They appreciate a nice set of legs—especially yours.”

“Don’t sell yours short, Teach,” Celia told her. “You’ve got a premium set of wheels too.”

“You really think so?” Laura asked, looking down at her thighs. “I always thought they were kind of skinny ... and a little pale too.”

“They’re hot legs,” Celia assured her. “Suzie was certainly drooling over them—especially when you wore that night shirt of yours before bed.”

“That’s just what I sleep in,” Laura said. “I wasn’t trying to turn her on.”

“I know,” Celia said. “And that’s what made it so hot. If you would have let her put a single finger on one of your legs, I don’t think you would have been able to pry it back off.”

Laura smiled at the thought. “I’m not sure I would have wanted to pry it back off,” she said.

“Yeah,” Celia said wistfully. “I really get the feeling that Suzie knows what to do when she acquires her target. Thank you for being my chaperone on the trip. I escaped with my purity reasonably intact.”

“No need to thank me,” Laura said. “I had a lot of fun.” She looked at her friend meaningfully. “Do you really think you might have ... you know ... done something with her if I hadn’t been there?”

Celia gave a crooked smile. “I like to think I wouldn’t have,” she said. “I made a decision back when she was our tour pilot that I wasn’t going to travel down that road and I haven’t changed my mind about that, but...” She trailed off.

“But what?” Laura asked.

A sigh. “Sometimes need and temptation and ... well ... opportunity conspire to drag someone down that road despite her vows to the contrary.”

“Yeah?” Laura asked casually, as if she had no idea what Celia was talking about.

“Yeah,” Celia said, nodding. “Especially when there is alcohol involved. You see, I really have a strong curiosity about the whole girl-girl thing—thank you very much Laura Kingsley for putting the idea in my head one day.”

“Sorry,” Laura said.

“You should be,” Celia chuckled, then turned serious again. “Anyway, I’ve got the curiosity and I’ve got the attraction to Suzie and it’s quite clear that Suzie would be thrilled to lead me down that road for a little exploration of the territory. I was afraid that if you weren’t there with us, there might be a night when she and I had a few too many drinks, and then maybe she gets a little aggressive with me—not like assaulting me or anything, because I don’t think Suzie would do anything like that—but, you know ... just try really hard to tempt me. And ... maybe ... if I was tempted enough...”

“You might just go along with it,” Laura said. It was not a question.

“You understand,” Celia said.

“Yes,” Laura told her, feeling the familiar mix of guilt and sexual excitement surging through her as she thought of Neesh closing herself into the spare bedroom with her. “I get how things can get out of control like that.”

“Do you?”

“I do,” she said, elaborating no further on that.

Celia did not ask her to. She had some feelings of guilt and sexual excitement of her own to contend with. “Anyway ... since you were there, we all had a good time and the flirtation stayed in the realm of verbal, where it belongs.”

“But you still want to try it with another woman?” Laura asked.

Celia nodded. “It’s on my list of things to do before I die,” she said. “Right up there with running with the bulls and scuba diving at the Great Barrier Reef.”

“Have you thought about talking to Greg about this?” Laura asked. “Maybe he might be up for ... you know ... letting it happen. I hear that guys are really into that sort of thing.”

“Yeah,” Celia said with a chuckle. “I’ve heard that as well. But I wouldn’t even know how to begin a conversation like that with Greg. And even if I did, I doubt he would tell me to go forth and get it on. If he agreed to it, he would want to be involved. He would want to watch at the very least, be a participant ideally. And he would want to pick the girl and it sure as hell wouldn’t be Suzie.”

“Would that be so bad?” Laura asked her.

“What?”

“You’d get to try it,” Laura said. “I’m sure he’d pick a cute girl for you.”

She was shaking her head. “No way in hell am I going to have Greg watching me get it on with a woman,” she told her. “And as for him getting to slip his chorizo into her too... joder esa mierda. That is not going to happen.”

“I guess that leaves you with a roadblock, doesn’t it?”

Another sigh. “I guess it does.” She looked over at the redhead. “What about you? Would you let Jake watch you and another girl go at it?”

“I don’t know,” Laura said honestly. “It would be weird ... very awkward, but ... well ... I suppose if it was the right girl...”

“What exactly is the right girl?” Celia wanted to know.

“It would have to be someone that neither one of us really knows that well ... someone we have no attachment to.”

“A one-night stand?”

“I suppose,” she said. “Someone like the groupies that I used to hook up with out on tour. Someone we wouldn’t see again once it was over and done. If we found someone like that and the circumstances were right ... well ... maybe something could happen.”

“Would you let Jake do her too?”

“I don’t know about that,” Laura said. “I think I probably wouldn’t want him to do anything with the other woman. But having him watch...” She smiled sexily. “I think that would kind of turn me on.”

“Wow,” Celia whispered. “You’re a naughty little girl, Laura Kingsley.”

“I guess my mother was right,” she said. “Jake has corrupted me.” Besides, she thought, that way I get to have some girl-time without sneaking around—and Jake gets to have a little fun too.

“Yes, I’m pretty sure the Mormon church would disapprove of this conversation—the Catholic church as well.”

“Undoubtedly,” Laura agreed. “One thing I do know though, this weekend has made me incredibly ... you know...”

“Horny?” Celia suggested.

“Yes, horny,” Laura said, saying it as if it were a naughty word. “I hope that Jake is home when I get there. I am going to absolutely ravish him.”

“Hmmph,” Celia grunted. “At least you have Jake to ravish. Greg is in Chicago for the foreseeable future. All I have to relieve my stress is my BOB.”

“Bob?” Laura asked. “Who is that?”

“What is that,” Celia corrected. “BOB is my battery-operated boyfriend. And he’s going to get a workout today.”

“You mean a vibrator?” Laura asked, her eyes wide.

“Of course,” Celia said. “Don’t you have one?”

Laura shook her head. “I’ve never even seen one before,” she said. “I thought they were just ... you know ... novelty things. You actually use one?”

“Regularly,” Celia said. “Especially when Greg is away. I can’t believe you’ve never tried one.”

“I just use my fingers when I have to ... uh ... take care of myself.”

“That’s good in a pinch,” Celia said, “but the vibrator brings it up to the next level. You really need to get yourself one, Teach.”

Laura felt herself blushing now. “I could never go into one of those shops and buy something like that,” she said. “I would die of embarrassment.”

“I didn’t go into a shop to buy any of mine,” Celia said. “You just have—”

“Any of yours?” Laura interrupted, scandalized. “You have more than one?”

“I have three of them,” she said. “Two are dildoes and one is a butterfly.”

“A butterfly?”

“Yeah,” Celia said with a smile. “You put it on your clit and it stimulates it. That’s the one I use the most.”

“Wow,” Laura whispered, feeling her blush increasing exponentially as she thought about this.

“Anyway,” Celia said. “You can order them by mail from this company in Ohio. They deliver it by UPS in a plain brown package. Very discrete. No pictures of you going into a sex shop in the American Watcher. I can give you their catalog if you want. I’m sure I have one in the bedroom.”

“I don’t know,” Laura said. “What would Jake think if he found out I bought one of those?”

Celia shook her head and laughed. “You’re okay with Jake watching a woman eat your pussy out but you think he’d be upset if he knew you had a vibrator?”

“Uh ... well ... I don’t know,” she said.

“Trust me on this, he won’t be upset if you buy some toys. He’ll probably want to play with them too.”

“Jake play with them?” she asked, shocked. “You mean he’d put them in his ... in his...”

“No, no!” Celia laughed. “That’s not what I meant. I meant he’d like to watch you play with them, and maybe help you play with them. Greg and I have done that. It’s really kind of sexy.”

“Hmmm,” Laura said. “I’ll have to think about this.”

And she did. Though their talk on the rest of the drive turned to other things—their rehearsal sessions, the Oklahoma City bombing, the ongoing OJ Simpson trial—once they arrived at Jake and Laura’s house to drop her off, she did ask Celia to bring her that catalog the next time they rehearsed.

The next time they rehearsed was the very next day. Jake woke up a little stiff and sore. Laura had been very enthusiastic about sex after returning home from her trip to Palm Springs. She had dragged him immediately up to the bedroom as soon as she walked in the door and then, just before bedtime, they had another, lengthier and more physically demanding session before going to sleep.

Jake had long since noticed that Laura’s sexual appetite increased considerably whenever she went out with Neesh. He did not disapprove of the situation although, in truth, it never occurred to him that anything had actually taken place between his wife and G’s fiancé. He just figured that Laura had a little bisexuality in her, that her experimentation with the bartender and the groupies while out on tour had awakened something inside of her, and that Neesh’s exotic beauty stirred those feelings up. Neesh was certainly not a bisexual, he figured. In truth, the fact that Laura was turned on by women was kind of hot. And now the same had happened to her after spending a couple days on a girl’s weekend with Celia and Celia’s pilot friend, who was, according to Greg, a card-carrying butch lesbian. Interesting. He would have liked to have been a fly on the wall in that Palm Springs domicile this weekend. Again, he was sure nothing could have possibly happened. Celia certainly had no bisexual leanings and Laura would never do anything with the pilot without Jake’s preapproval (would she?). Still, he bet there had been some interesting conversations.

They showered separately, Laura going first, and then made their way downstairs to the informal dining room, where Elsa laid out some breakfast burritos made out of chorizo, eggs, fried potatoes and cheese. They each ate two of the burritos and washed them down with fresh-squeezed orange juice. They then climbed into Jake’s new car—it was a 1995 BMW 730iL with the sports package—and drove to Santa Clarita.

The Nerdlys were already there when Jake and Laura walked in. They were both sitting at the soundboard, discussing audio levels and secondary output sources. Sharon was breastfeeding Kelvin as they did this. The four-and-a-half-month-old sucked contentedly away at her swollen left boob, making happy grunting noises.

While Laura went over to fuss over Kelvin, Jake went to the storage rack and pulled down his Fender Grand Concert. He sat down at the electric piano and turned it on. When it was ready, he played the E key to the left of Middle C, listened to the tone as it resonated, and then struck his low E string a few times. He adjusted the tuning knob a bit and then struck the string again. While it was still resonating, he played the E key on the piano again. The tones matched exactly. He nodded and then began to tune the rest of his strings one by one by fretting the previous string and matching the tunings. This was a morning ritual, although sometimes he used a tuning fork instead.

Celia came in a few minutes later, dressed in white shorts and a maroon top, her hair down around her shoulders. She carried a manila envelope in her hands. After greeting everyone and goggling over Kelvin for a few minutes, she nodded her head at Laura and the two of them disappeared over into the corner for a whispered conversation. There were a few giggles, Laura blushed at something Celia said, and then the envelope changed hands. Laura carried it over to her purse and folded it inside.

“What was that all about?” Jake asked her as she headed back across the room.

Her blush increased. “I’ll show you later,” she replied.

Since they were still in the early stages of composition, they had not yet arranged for a rhythm section or a violinist or a piano player to accompany them. Soon that would have to change. Coop and Charlie had already both agreed to reprise their respective roles as drummer and bassist for the workups and the recordings. The mothers, on the other hand, had both let it be known that—while they were honored to have contributed to the first two albums—they were not up for another round and that Jake and Celia would have to find someone else for the third albums. Celia had spoken to both Natalie and Liz—the violinist and pianist she had toured with—about possibly taking on those roles. Liz was up for it and enthusiastic to get to work. She had been doing nothing but occasional sessions at Aristocrat’s studio since coming off tour. Natalie, on the other hand, had yet to commit. She had nothing going as far as work went at the moment, but she was living in Dallas with Mark, the former copilot who had recently filed for divorce from his wife of ten years, been promoted to pilot-in-command, and was on assignment there currently. She was reluctant to change her relationship with him from live-in to long distance.

“Is she going to make up her mind soon?” Jake asked Celia now as she worked on tuning her own guitar.

“She told me she would let me know by this weekend,” Celia replied.

“She’d better,” Jake said. “If she turns us down, we’re going to have to bust ass to audition and sign a new violinist.”

“That shouldn’t be too hard, should it?” asked Sharon, who was now trying to burp Kelvin but was causing a bit of a distraction because her boob was still out. “Now that you both are on the top of the charts?”

“No, it shouldn’t be hard to find a violinist,” Jake said, forcing his eyes away from the sight, “but I’d really prefer to work with someone that we’re familiar with.”

“Love makes people do odd things,” Celia said with a sigh. “Hopefully, she’ll see that her career would benefit greatly by playing for us.”

“Hopefully,” Jake said. He took one more quick peek at Sharon’s exposed breast and then settled his guitar in his lap. “Shall we do the sound check?”

Even though they were doing nothing but introducing tunes and working on the basic melodies, the Nerdlys still insisted on a complete sound check of all instruments. This took the better part of twenty minutes to accomplish. Once complete, they settled in to get to work. It was Celia’s day, so they worked on her tune Look at Me Now, which was slated to be one of the hard rockers on the next release. Jake liked the tune a lot. Though they were only playing it acoustically at this point, the melody was solid and would translate well to a distorted power riff. And the lyrics were a hard-hitting condemnation and mocking of those record executives, agents, and others who had declared Celia a has-been whose career was over back before the release of The Struggle.

They had the verses and the choruses down pat by this point but were still trying to work on an acceptable transition to and from the bridge section. Celia was in favor of putting a distorted guitar solo just in front of the bridge while Jake thought it would be better to put the bridge first and then lead it into the solo. Ultimately, since it was Celia’s song, she would have the final say, but the team had been playing together long enough now that she listened carefully to and considered all input from Jake, the Nerdlys, and even Laura, who was starting to offer more such contributions by the day.

They played around with Look (as they called it) for the better part of an hour before mutually deciding they had done all they could do for this session. Maybe, suggested Jake, they could start working up the melody into a distorted riff on the next session.

“Before we’ve settled where and how to play the bridge?” Laura asked.

“Sure,” Jake said. “Sometimes working up the riff inspires the way the bridge should go. And it always inspires the solo.”

“Maybe you and Teach could do a dueling solos exchange for this one,” Celia suggested.

“You mean like Mary and I did on Done With You?” Laura asked.

“Exactly!” Celia said. “Only a little tougher, a little more ... hard rockish.”

“It could work,” Jake said, pondering this. He smiled at his wife. “Think you can keep up with me?”

Laura seemed doubtful about this. “I’ve never done any ... you know ... heavy metal sax before. Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“It wouldn’t be heavy metal,” Nerdly told her. “Just the hard rock backbeat tempo. And I’m sure you can do it, Laura. You’re a master of your instrument.”

“The tone of the song is one of anger,” Celia said. “You just have to project that emotion into your phrasing. Tell me you’ll at least try it.”

“Okay,” Laura said, chewing her lip a little. “I’ll try it.”

“I knew I could count on you, Teach,” Celia told her, smiling. She then turned her attention back to everyone else. “All right then. Now that that’s settled, how about I play you all a new tune I’ve been working on?”

“Let’s hear it,” Jake said.

“Yeah,” said Sharon, who was rocking Kelvin at the soundboard now.

“Bring it on,” said Laura, who was sitting on the drum platform.

Celia brought her guitar up and strummed it a few times with her fingers fretting a G major chord. “It’s called It Never Happened,” she told them. “It’s kind of a ... you know ... a tragic love song.”

Jake raised his eyebrows a tad as he heard the title. It Never Happened? Had she really written a song called It Never Happened? And if she had, surely it wouldn’t be about ... about what they had agreed had never happened, would it?

She strummed her guitar a few more times and then start playing a melody. It was a sweet melody, a three-chord progression, but kind of sad as well. It was the sort of melody that was immediately appealing to the listener.

She began to sing. As she worked her way through the first verse, Jake’s suspicion that she was singing about their night spent in Portland started to increase. She sang about a winter night, about circumstances that drove two people into each other’s arms, about a burning inside, and about things that were not supposed to be. And then she came to the chorus:

“We came together by fate one night

Cast our souls to the leanings of love

It was beyond our control

And we put up no fight

But it couldn’t stand up to the glare of the light

And so, we have to go on as if it never happened

As if it never happened.”

Jake felt himself flushing as she sang these words, felt guilt worming its way into his soul. He looked over at Laura, expecting to see her glaring at him in an accusatory manner. She was not, she was simply watching Celia play and sing, tapping her feet to the rhythm, nodding her head a little in appreciation of the music.

How can she not know what Celia is singing about? he wondered desperately. I can’t believe she is actually singing about ... about what we can’t talk about!

He looked over at the Nerdlys. Maybe Laura wasn’t picking up on what Celia was laying down—by some fucking miracle—but surely the Nerdlys would know what she was singing about. It was as plain as the nose on Jake’s face. But they did not seem to be doing anything but enjoying the show either. Nerdly was scratching something on a piece of paper—probably the notes of the primary melody. Sharon was still rocking Kelvin, now to the rhythm of the tune, while smiling at Celia.

Celia played out the second verse. It had to do with forbidden love, paths that intertwined but were not leading to the same place, powder kegs waiting for that one spark to set them exploding, that one spark that finally did land in the right place. And then she sang out the chorus again, her beautiful contralto voice relaying to everyone in the room that she and Jake had been overcome by passion one night in Portland and had fallen naked into bed. And everyone continued not to comprehend what she was telling them.

Her guitar jangled to a halt and her singing voice fell quiet.

“That’s about all I’ve worked up on it for now,” she told everyone. “There’s a bridge section that I’ve penned out, but I’m not quite sure how to fit it in just yet.”

Jake could only imagine what sort of sordid confession would be contained in the bridge. Maybe the naming of names? The description of sexual acts? Jesus fucking Christ!

“I like it,” Laura said brightly. “It seems like a sad song, a story of forbidden romance that’s doomed to failure.”

“That’s exactly the tone I was trying to set,” Celia said.

“There is definitely an emotional tug in the lyrics,” Sharon said. “I think it’s a keeper.”

“I enjoyed the composition as well,” said Nerdly. “How about you, Jake? What do you think of it?”

Jake swallowed slowly and looked from face to face. All were looking at him expectantly, even Celia. “Uh ... I like the melody,” he finally said. “It has good flow and rhythm to it.”

“What about the lyrics?” asked Laura. “Couldn’t you just feel the sadness and regret?”

“Uh ... yeah,” he said softly, casting his eyes to the floor. “Good lyrics too. A theme we can all relate to, right?”

“Yeah,” Laura said with a nod and an eye cast of her own. “I suppose we all can.”

They played around with the song a little longer, this time with Jake and then Laura playing out the melody on their instruments, trying to find what worked the best when they actually started playing it with a rhythm section and accompanying instruments. Celia sang out her lyrics over and over, verses and chorus. Jake kept expecting someone to suddenly realize what she was actually singing about, but no one did. He kept his face straight and did his job. Eventually, after what seemed forever, they moved on to another tune, this one an upbeat one called Nothing Matters but Love.

They broke for lunch just after 1:00 o’clock when the catering company delivered sandwiches and salads for them. Laura sat over by the Nerdlys so she could hold and cuddle little Kelvin and get her baby fix. Jake found himself sitting next to Celia on the edge of the drum platform.

“You seemed a little put off by my new tune,” Celia observed, her voice calm, cool, collected. “Did you really like it?”

“Yes, of course,” Jake said. “It’s a good tune.”

She took a sip of her Diet Pepsi. “It seemed like it made you uncomfortable though,” she said softly.

He looked at her, seeing her brown eyes looking directly at him, her face expressionless. “Maybe a little,” he offered.

“How come?”

He took a deep breath. “Sometimes there are lyrics that can strike a little close to home, you know?”

“Isn’t that what good lyrics are supposed to do?” she asked. “Bring emotions that are buried to the surface?”

“Maybe some emotions should stay buried,” he suggested. “Down below, where they can’t bite you, where other people can’t be hurt by them.”

She shook her head. “No,” she said. “I think certain emotions, certain events in our lives, need to have a relief valve to bring things to the surface. For me, my songs are that relief valve. For you as well, I think.”

“True,” he offered. “But what about those other people? The innocents? What if they get caught in the flash?”

She shrugged and gave him a smile. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, standing up. “It’s just a song. It doesn’t actually relate to any real events. Not that anyone would ever know about anyway.”

“Do you really think so?”

She nodded. “I really do,” she said. “Maybe you should try to write about that sort of thing as well. I think you’d be really good at it.”

And before he could reply, she strode off, heading over to the Nerdlys to get a baby fix of her own.

Three hours later, two time zones to the east in the Chicago suburb of Joliet, the sun had gone down, and Greg Oldfellow was standing in the living room of an average, everyday suburban tract house. It was a postwar two-story on a quiet residential street on Joliet’s west side that was owned and occupied by an actual Chicago Police Department patrol sergeant. The displaced Sergeant Mackle, his wife, and their three children were now being paid quite handsomely by the movie studio for the one-month rental of their domicile so it could be used for filming the domestic scenes of Us and Them in a realistic setting. In addition to the rent, the Mackles were being housed in first-class accommodations in the same five-star hotel where the studio staff and the actors were staying. Mrs. Mackle, who worked as a commercial real estate agent, and the Mackle children, all of whom were enrolled in public schools of the Joliet School District, were all being taken to and from their daily obligations by a studio-funded limousine service. And as if that were not enough, the good sergeant himself was being used as one of the project’s technical advisers and his time off from work for this duty was being compensated as well.

The Mackle’s living room, which opened up in a wide floor plan from the front door, had been set up with two 35mm cameras, a sound set with a boom microphone, two lighting units on the ceiling, a complete crew of camera operators, two sound technicians, the gaffer and his best boy, the script supervisor, and Georgie Fletcher, the director of the film. All of these people were gathered in the southwest corner of the room, out of the view of the cameras, which were focusing on the front door of the house and the couch area near the television. Sitting on the couch was actress Marlene Canon, who was playing Delores, the wife of Chicago police officer Frank Haverty, Greg’s character. The drama they were about to play out was one of the earlier scenes in the film, an establishing character moment when Haverty, after a hard tour on the day shift and three hours spent at a cop bar after, comes staggering home to a confrontation with his long suffering good Catholic spouse.

“All right, remember,” Fletcher told Greg, who was standing just inside the open doorway, wearing a pair of faded jeans, a button-up shirt that was wrinkled, disheveled, and had several stains on it. “You’re drunk, you’re stumbling, your temper is on edge. You’re tired of being nagged by this bitch every flippin’ day.”

“Hey now,” said Marlene with an amused smile. She was wearing an old housecoat and had her hair done up in curlers. A weathered crucifix hung around her neck and a small wedding ring was on her left hand. A veteran character actress who had never had a leading role, she was nevertheless a consummate professional with girl next door beauty that they had had to use some makeup and hairstyling to tone down a bit for this role, making her look more plain and homely than she actually was. “I don’t call you derogatory sexist names.”

Fletcher shot her a look of annoyance but said nothing. Instead, he turned back to Greg. “Are you feeling the scene, Greg?”

“I’m feeling the scene,” he assured him with a sigh. He was not particularly enjoying his association with Fletcher so far. The man was a micromanager to the tenth degree. They had just spent all of the daylight hours filming scenes in the patrol car out on the streets of the east side while the traffic was light. Fletcher had sat in the backseat for each take between Greg and actor Lewis Stone, the young up-and-coming African-American who was playing Haverty’s rookie patrol partner, Clay “Boot” Jackson. He had had the balls to suggest method acting tips to Greg there as well.

“All right then,” Fletcher said, scratching at his bald head. “Let’s give it go then. When I say action, you fumble through the door and enter.”

“Fumble through and enter,” Greg said, holding the fake key ring prop in his hand.

“Maybe we should muss his hair up a little more?” suggested Lane Casper, the grizzled old woman who served as the script supervisor. Lane was almost psychotically obsessive-compulsive, which made her an annoying human being but a superb script supervisor. It was said that no film she had ever worked on in her thirty-five years in the profession had ever been found to have a visual continuity error. “Remember, he’s coming in hammered drunk after a long tour on the streets and time spent in a bar. He should look messy.”

Fletcher thought this over for a moment and then nodded. “Good point,” he said. “Muss up your hair a little more, Greg. Make yourself look like shit.”

Greg dutifully ran his hands through his hair a few times, trying to rumple it. It was a hard thing to do, however, since makeup had sprayed enough hairspray in his locks to hold it down in a hurricane.

“All right,” Fletcher said after examining Greg’s efforts. “Let’s do this. Camera one on Marlene. Camera two, focus on the door and then follow Greg through the scene.”

“That’s what we were already doing,” sighed one of the camera operators, obviously not appreciating Fletcher’s micromanagement style either.

Fletcher ignored this remark and pointed at the door. Greg dutifully went outside and closed it behind him. He heard a bustle of excited conversation from the sidewalk as many of Mackle’s neighbors and other onlookers, who knew from the rumor mill that a movie starring Greg Oldfellow and Mindy Snow was being shot inside (and had discerned from the studio vans and the two armed security guards keeping everyone back that such action was taking place right this moment) and had gathered on the sidewalk to watch, suddenly realized who they were looking at.

“It’s him!”

“That’s Greg Oldfellow!”

“I wonder if Mindy Snow is in there too!”

“Hey, Greg! How’s it going?”

“I hope this flick is better than that one with the elephants.”

“Do you think Celia’s in there with him?”

He ignored all the remarks and chatter, not even glancing in their direction. Instead, he listened for his cue, which came when he heard Fletcher shout “Action!”

He began to fumble with the doorknob, as if having trouble getting his key in the lock. I’m a drunk street cop, he told himself, letting the character possess him. I’m coming in after a shitty day on the job. My wife is a bitch and I know she’s going to start nagging at me again as soon as I walk through the door. And I’m already pissed off about it.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside, staggering a little, dropping his keys to the ground and then fumbling to pick them back up. He did not look at the cameras, did not even think about them. He was no longer Greg Oldfellow. He was Frank Haverty, Chicago PD, south division patrol officer, and that bitch on the couch with her hair up in curlers was not Marlene Canon (who had an amazing set of legs and a wonderful ass when you saw her dressed like a real person), she was his wife.

It took five takes to film the first scene in the living room, but they got it done in less than an hour. The scene was six minutes long and consisted entirely of a marital argument. Delores nagged Frank for being drunk and missing dinnertime again. He told her that she had no idea of what he had been through out on the streets, because if she did, she’d be drunk too. She said that she was always there to listen to him, but he never talked, never opened up to her. He got pissed and told her about how a baby had been beaten to death today by his teenage mother’s boyfriend and the mother in question had tried to cover up for him—is that the kind of shit you want to hear me tell you every fucking day? Delores then crossed herself and started to cry. Frank declared this whole conversation was fucking useless and headed for the staircase to go up to the spare room, where he would be sleeping again.

“All right,” Fletcher said once the final exit scene was pulled off to his satisfaction. “I think we’ll keep that one.”

They took a break and then everyone got ready for the next scene, which would take place up in the spare bedroom. It was shorter scene, its purpose mainly to introduce a little male flesh for the female viewers of the project. Action was called and Greg pulled off his outer shirt, throwing it on the floor, leaving his upper body in a plain white T-shirt. On his waist was a holstered Glock 19 semi-automatic pistol—Haverty’s off-duty weapon (which would feature significantly in a later scene). The gun was real (it had been loaned to the studio by Sergeant Mackle) but there was nothing in the magazine or the chamber currently and Greg had been given clear and explicit directions not to remove the gun from the holster under any circumstance. Haverty ripped the holster out of his belt and tossed it carelessly onto the nightstand. He then whipped off the t-shirt and stood facing the camera for a few moments, displaying his well-toned chest and abs, his impressive arm muscles. He cut a very good pose. And then the door opened and Delores entered the room, initiating part two of the argument. The scene ended with Haverty pushing her roughly out the door and slamming it in her face.

This scene, though simpler, took longer to film. Fletcher was never quite satisfied with the way the gun landed on the table, the way Greg’s expression looked as he whipped off the shirt, the way Marlene expressed her dismay. They went through it ten times before an acceptable version was declared. By this time, it was approaching nine o’clock. Everyone was hungry and out of sorts from the thirteen-hour day.

“All right,” Fletcher said with a sigh. “Back to the police station at eight o’clock sharp for more patrol scenes. And then we’ll head back here after lunch for a few of the daylight domestic shots.”

The studio staff all trooped out to the vans for the trip back to the hotel. Greg, Marlene, and Fletcher all climbed into a limousine that appeared right after Fletcher made a call on his cell phone. The two armed guards remained behind. One would be stationed outside the house and one inside. The two actors had left their wardrobe clothing in the house and had changed back into casual clothes—jeans and a blouse for Marlene, tan slacks and a dress shirt for Greg.

The trip back to the Four Seasons Hotel in downtown Chicago took just over twenty-five minutes. The limo dropped them off at the lobby entrance and the three of them headed for the bank of elevators. Greg signed three autographs before he was able to board the lift, Marlene two. They did it good naturedly, even though neither wanted to even see a member of the public right now, let alone interact with them.

Greg’s suite was on the forty-sixth floor of the skyscraper. Twenty-one hundred square feet in size, it featured a large sitting room, a bathroom with a jacuzzi tub, a full bar, and a large walk-in closet. It looked out over Lake Michigan and the other buildings of the Magnificent Mile. He thought it adequate for his needs, though perhaps a bit small.

He was tired, but he was also hungry and wanted a drink or two to help him get a good night’s sleep so he would be reasonably alive when the wakeup call came at 6:30. He stripped down, showered, and then dressed in yet another set of slacks and dress shirt. He then headed down to the Lakeview Dining Room on the thirty-third floor. This particular part of the hotel had been reserved by the studio for the exclusive use of studio personnel and actors so they could dine and drink and socialize with each other unbothered by fans and other looky-loos.

The Lakeview lived up to its name. The entire north wall was essentially a picture window that looked out over Lake Michigan, though at this time of the night there was nothing to be seen but a sea of blackness dotted by the occasional lights of a ship or a navigation beacon. There was a curved bar in one corner of the room and a scattering of white cloth covered dining tables of varying size. Since the day’s filming had just ended, the room was starting to get crowded. There were a half a dozen crew members at the bar, sipping beers or other alcoholic beverages. About half of the dining tables were filled with other production or management personnel. Greg was given a few nods as he entered the room and made his way to the maître d’s podium.

“Good evening, Mr. Oldfellow,” the suited maître d greeted. His name was Daniel, and he was a tall, balding guy with a neatly trimmed mustache.

“Good evening, Daniel,” Greg replied. “Looks like the place is filling up quick.”

“Indeed,” Daniel said. “Can I show you to a table?”

“Maybe in a few minutes,” Greg said, knowing that Daniel would hold a table for him even if the place filled completely. He was, after all, the star of the film. “First, I think I can use a drink or two. It’s been a long day.”

“Certainly, sir,” Daniel said. “Just let me know when you’re ready to be seated.”

“Thank you. I will,” Greg told him.

He walked over to the bar and sat down on the far end, as far away from other people as he could get. The bartender, a tuxedoed younger man named Keith, immediately dropped what he was doing and rushed over to serve him.

“Welcome, Mr. Oldfellow,” Keith said, a faint Irish accent tinging his diction. “What can I get for you?”

“Glenfiddich,” Greg told him. “A double. On the rocks.”

“Very good, sir,” Keith said, pulling a glass from beneath the bar. He then turned to the display of top-shelf alcohol behind him and selected a bottle of single malt scotch that had aged for sixteen years in an oak cask before being put into said bottle. He put ice in the glass and then poured two healthy shots of the amber liquid over it. He then set the glass on a napkin before Greg and asked if there would be anything else.

“Not at the moment,” Greg told him. “Thank you.”

Knowing that Greg was not into small talk with the servants, Keith retreated, leaving him to enjoy his thirty-dollar beverage which, like everything else ordered by anyone in this dining room, would go on the tab of the movie studio. Greg took as healthy of a sip as he could take without violating propriety, relishing the smooth and gentle burn as the liquid trickled down his throat.

When approximately two-thirds of his drink had been put down the hatch and the effects of the alcohol on his empty stomach were beginning to tingle his brain, he started to wonder whether or not it would be gauche of him to simply order a cheeseburger for his dinner instead of something classy like a filet mignon or the braised halibut. He had developed a taste for working class cuisine during his two weeks of ride-alongs with the patrol officers, who, he had found, favored greasy mom and pop restaurants to dine in during their dinner breaks since most of those places provided the meals free or at least half price for uniformed cops. It was a practice that was in violation of several department policies regarding gratuities, but one that was so prevalent and traditional that pretty much everyone from the sergeants to the watch commanders participated in it and everyone above that, the captains, deputy chiefs, division chiefs, all the way up to the big chief himself overlooked it with a smile and a wink. This was just one of many details about being a patrol cop that he had picked up to help get him into character.

His musings about dinner were interrupted when his peripheral vision caught a shapely female form entering the room and walking to the maître d’s podium. Instinctively, he turned to look and saw that it was Mindy Snow. She was wearing a sleeveless royal blue blouse that accented her delectable breasts quite nicely and a pair of beige knickers that clung to her alluring legs and outlined her curves. Her rich brunette hair was loose around her shoulders. Her eyes caught Greg’s and her face, which had been neutral in expression, suddenly broke into a smile. She waved at him. He returned the smile and waved back, feeling a little burst of sexual attraction flaring inside of him. She really was an attractive woman; a little older than when she and Jake had been together (both officially and unofficially), but, if anything, she’d only become sexier with maturity.

Though Mindy was his costar, so far, they had done no scenes together. At this stage of production, their characters had not even met yet. He had been told, in fact, that Mindy was not even in Chicago since she herself would not be filming anything until early the following week at best. Apparently, that information was wrong.

Mindy spoke with the maître d for a moment or two and then pointed over in Greg’s direction. The maître d nodded subserviently to her and Mindy headed into the room, walking directly toward the bar where Greg was sitting. The maître d kept his eyes glued to her backside as she made the trip, obviously enjoying the presentation.

Greg stood to greet her when she arrived, a polite smile on his face.

“Hey, Greg,” she greeted happily. “Good to see you.” She held out her arms to him for a hug.

Greg felt a bit awkward by her invitation. He was not a physically demonstrative person by nature unless it was someone he knew very well. In his opinion, he and Mindy were not on hugging terms. Still, he stepped forward and put his arms around her, patting her twice on the back, offering about as chaste a hug as he could provide. “It’s good to see you too,” he told her as they embraced.

“Buy me a drink?” she asked, smiling once the hug was complete.

“Of course,” he said with a polite chuckle. He held out the bar stool for her.

She sat down and Keith the bartender quickly appeared to take her order. She asked for a double martini made with Danzka, shaken not stirred, with a lime twist instead of an olive.

“Right away, Ms. Snow,” Keith said and went to work.

“What are you doing here?” Greg asked her. “I heard you weren’t coming in until next week.”

“Fletch did some rearranging of the scene schedule,” she said. “They’re going to start filming my indoor scenes on Friday instead of next week, so I flew in this afternoon. I just got up from my post-flight nap.”

“It’s only Tuesday,” Greg pointed out. “You could have stayed home an extra two days.”

She shrugged, somehow making the gesture look sexy. “I like to get acclimated to the location for a few days. Besides, I need to work on the readings for my scenes.”

Greg nodded. “That makes sense,” he said. And it did. The more prep time an actor had for a particular scene, the better that scene usually ended up being when it was actually filmed. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that whatever else Mindy was, she was a professional when it came to her craft. Greg approved of this.

“Fletch also told me that we’ll likely be filming our first scene together around the middle of next week, weather and lighting conditions permitting,” she told him.

“The pull-over scene?” Greg asked. That was the scene where Haverty and Lyndsay would first meet in person. Haverty and Boot, working a day shift, would pull the notorious cop-hating journalist over for speeding, not realizing at first who she was. In truth, the partners only stopped her because she was a classy looking white woman driving a nice car in a bad neighborhood and they thought she was probably up to something. Haverty, the primary on the traffic stop, would quickly let her off with just a warning once he realized who she was because he didn’t want her writing one of her anti-cop articles about the encounter. This would end up backfiring on him as she would pen an article anyway, accusing him of not doing his job because she had clearly been speeding and he had not cited her. Would this have happened if she had been a black mother with three kids on her way to the welfare office? the article would ask. The fallout from the article would be what would eventually lead to Lyndsay being invited to ride-along with Haverty and Boot for a few weeks to see what being a cop was really like.

“That’s the one,” Mindy confirmed. “I’m looking forward to it. I can’t wait to be all bitchy to you.”

“It should be a good scene,” he said. “The stage setter.”

Keith set her martini down on the bar before her and made his retreat. Mindy picked it up and took a demure little sip. “How has filming been going so far?” she asked. “Fletch is moaning and groaning about the schedule, of course, acting like we’re going to have to abandon the whole project for the delays, but that’s just the way he is.”

“Except for his micromanagement, things are going pretty well,” Greg said. “We’ve been working on both the early patrol scenes and the home scenes with me and Marlene.”

“Isn’t she great to work with?” Mindy asked. “She was one of my supports in Down and Out. Very professional. A great actress.”

“She’s really good,” Greg agreed, taking a sip from his own rapidly dwindling drink. He held up his glass and signaled Keith for another. “We got all of the first home scene shot tonight. She plays a great nagging housewife.”

“Well, she has to be a nag, doesn’t she?” asked Mindy with a smile. “You’re a terrible husband.”

“Because I’m psychologically damaged by my job,” he qualified. “That’s the point of the story, remember?”

“Of course,” she said. “I’m sure you would have been a great husband and father otherwise.”

“That would have made for a much less interesting tale though.”

“True enough,” she said, having another sip.

“Did you bring your boyfriend with you?” Greg asked her. It was public information that Mindy had been seeing her personal trainer, an exquisitely fit and attractive young man who was eight years younger than her, for the past three months.

“He stayed home,” Mindy said. “And, as you’ll read in the next episode of the Watcher or on the next installment of Entertainment Weekly, he’s not my boyfriend anymore. I broke up with him a few days ago.”

“Really?” Greg asked.

She nodded and then gave another shrug. “It was time,” she said. “He looked like something carved by Michelangelo, but he didn’t have a brain cell in his head.”

“Not much of a conversationalist, huh?”

“No,” she said. “And, in truth, he wasn’t really that good in bed either. He had no imagination.”

“That’s uh ... too bad,” he said, feeling she was starting to edge into the land of oversharing. After all, they did not really know each other that well.

“Life is too short for crappy sex,” she said, as if proclaiming a sacred commandment. “How about you? Is Celia here?”

“She’s still in LA,” he said. “She’s working on her next album.”

“Oh yeah?” Mindy said brightly. “That’s cool. I love her music so much. She has such a pretty voice. I wish I could sing half as good as she does.”

“I’ll give her your compliments,” Greg said.

“Thanks. I really am a fan. Will she be able to pop in for a visit at least?”

“We don’t know,” he said. “She and Jake are hoping to hit the recording studio by mid-June and get their next albums out before the end of the year. They’ll be working pretty steadily.”

Her expression turned a little melancholy at the mention of Jake. “She works pretty closely with Jake?” she asked.

“They’re partners,” Greg said simply. “They make a great musical team. They play instruments for each other, engineer the music together—along with Bill and Sharon, of course. They’ve built KVA Records into quite an entity.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Jake’s a good guy and a wonderful musician. You’re pretty close with him too, aren’t you?”

“Jake and I hang out a lot,” Greg agreed. “In fact, I would have to say he is probably my best friend.”

“No kidding?” she asked. “How is he doing these days? Is married life agreeing with him?”

“He’s very happy,” Greg said. “And Laura is a dear. They make a good couple.”

“That’s good to hear,” Mindy said quietly. “I’m pleased for him. I didn’t treat Jake all that well when he and I were together and ... well ... afterwards either.”

“No?” Greg asked, surprised to hear her admit this.

“No,” she said. “I don’t know if he’s told you the tales, but I used him terribly back when we first met. I had the utmost affection for him, and I really did enjoy being with him—especially, you know, in the bedroom—but I used him all the same and I feel bad about that.”

“Do you?”

She nodded. “Our relationship haunts me to this day,” she said softly. “I don’t really have any excuse for what I did except that I was young and ambitious, and I didn’t have much of a conscience when it came to getting what I wanted. I needed Jake to help me break out of the Slow Lane persona I’d been saddled with, and my plan worked just like I wanted it to, but Jake ended up with the short end of the stick. I regret that deeply.”

“Interesting,” Greg said, and then, because he had a healthy shot of alcohol on an empty stomach coursing around his brain, he asked: “And what about the other time you hooked up with him? When you were married to Scott Adams Winslow?”

Mindy’s expression looked startled for a moment and then recovered. “He told you about that, did he?”

Greg nodded. “He felt the need to warn me about you.”

She chuckled a little. “I guess that’s fair,” she said. “Yeah, I used him again when it was time to divorce Scotty. That was a particularly low point in my life, I will admit, and I was particularly cruel to everyone involved. I’m not proud of those days at all.”

“But you’ve changed?” Greg asked.

“I’m older and wiser now,” she said. “I like to think I’ve moved beyond such things.”

“You like to think?” Greg asked. “That’s a little open to interpretation, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” she said after thinking it over for a moment. “I don’t really have much cause to use people on that level these days anyway. I’m already rich. I’m already an established A-list actress. I even had an Oscar nomination for my last film, so I can now be billed as ‘the Oscar nominated actress’. I’ve got everything I need now. There’s no need to be ruthless anymore even if I didn’t regret the past.”

“An interesting way of looking at it,” Greg said.

“Jake wrote a song about how much of a bitch I was,” Mindy said softly. “I hear it played on the radio constantly.”

Greg nodded. “Nothing’s Different Now,” he said. It was from Jake’s first solo album, written during his exile in New Zealand, shortly after the second relationship with Mindy had come to an end.

“You know,” Mindy said, “when I first heard that song and realized he was singing about me, I was fucking infuriated with him. I actually called my lawyer to see if I could sue him for defamation or something like that. It turns out I can’t, since he never really says he’s talking about me and since a reasonable person would not know he’s talking about me and ... well...”

Greg smiled. He knew a thing or two about defamation lawsuits. “And, you’d have to prove that all those things he suggested about you were not true,” he said.

“Yeah ... right,” Mindy said sourly. “Anyway, as I heard the song more and more, I had a little bit of an epiphany. If someone feels the need to write and record a song about how big of a bitch you are ... well ... maybe you are, in fact, a bitch.”

“Maybe,” Greg allowed.

“And maybe if you are a big enough bitch that someone is inspired to commit it to musical prose ... well ... that’s nothing to be proud of and maybe you should stop and examine some of your life choices and attitudes.”

“And you did that?” he asked.

“I did that,” she said. “And I found I didn’t like who I was.”

“So ... you’re saying that things are different now?”

“Things are different now,” she assured him. “I’m the new and improved Mindy Snow model, ready to settle down and start enjoying the fruits of all my bitchy labor. And I’m really looking forward to working with you, Greg.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Why?”

He nodded. “I was told you turned down this project initially. But once they named me as the lead, you suddenly changed your mind and campaigned to be given the part of Lyndsay. I can’t help but conclude the two events are related. So, why me?”

She looked up his face, her chocolate brown eyes radiating warmth and sincerity. “Because I think you’re one of the best actors working today,” she said. “I’ve wanted to work with you for some time and, once I heard you were in the roll of Haverty, I knew my chance had come.”

“Well ... I’m flattered, of course,” he said, “but my career took quite a hit when I starred in The Northern Jungle.”

“That was a terrible film,” Mindy agreed. “But that has nothing to do with you. Your acting in it was still first-rate. You’re a respected professional among those of us on the inside and I’ve always wanted to work with you. After seeing you in So Others May Live, I knew you still had it after the Jungle fiasco. That just strengthened my resolve to do a project with you.”

“That sounds reasonable enough,” Greg said, and it did, but what had Jake told him? Mindy doesn’t so much as fart without having an ulterior motive. “Jake warned me, however, that sometimes things are not quite as they seem with you.”

She nodded slowly. “Again, I stung Jake pretty badly, not just once but twice, and I can understand how he would feel that way. But I’m not the same person Jake knew. I assure you, Greg, my interest in you is purely professional. You’re a great actor and I’m a great actress and Us and Them is a great script with a great producer and a great director, even if he is a pain in the ass micromanager. I think we have a strong potential for carrying away an Oscar or two from this film.”

“You really think so?” he asked. So far, he had never even been nominated for one.

“I really think so,” she said. “That’s why I jumped on this project when I heard that you were going to be the lead. Between you and I, we’re a cinch for nomination and if we walk away without at least one of us carrying home a statuette, I’d be surprised.”

Greg pondered her words for a few moments and then nodded. What she said made perfect sense and sounded very logical. And even if it hadn’t, what possible other motive could Mindy have? She couldn’t be trying to steal him away from Celia, could she? For what purpose? They hardly knew each other. And Mindy likely made more money than Greg these days anyway.

And so, his suspicions satisfied for the moment, he invited her to share his dinner table with him. She accepted. And, even though it was a bit uncouth, they both decided to go with the cheeseburger plate to help get them into character.