High Risk 15.5

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[Concluding chapter fifteen]

Desiree’s house was not at all as he’d imagined it.

Granted that his experience with Hollywood housing had been confined to the domiciles of an art director, two stars, and one studio head; still, Casey had thought that he’d detected some common themes in terms of interior décor. Large amounts of empty space, for one. A tendency to gigantism and stylistic pastiche, for another.

Desiree’s house, though, was a modest two-story affair on Seventh Street, near the intersection with a stretch of Alvarado that hadn’t been fashionable in nearly a decade. The closest thing to exoticism was the lake in Westlake Park, on the other side of the street from the house.

“That’s a nice view,” he told her as they walked up the steps to her front door.

“On those days when I’m able to see it in daylight, I quite enjoy it,” she said. Casey couldn’t tell if she was serious or not; given the work-habits required of actors here, she was probably nowhere near a joke. “Why don’t you come in?” she asked him. “It’s either ridiculously late or ridiculously early, and either way I think you’ve earned a cup of coffee.”



She was an unmarried woman—granted, an unmarried woman in Hollywood, but still. He probably shouldn’t accept the offer. Casey’s conscience, though, was as exhausted as the rest of him. Proprieties be damned, he thought. I’m sure the neighbors will hear my cries for help, if it comes to that. “Thanks,” he said. “I really could use a cup. Otherwise I’ll never get back to the Roosevelt in one piece.”

Something very like relief washed over her face. “Oh, is that where you’re staying?” Her voice was casual, but her expression made Casey’s heart stop for just a second.

The interior of her house seemed to have been decorated by a demented librarian. There were piles of loose papers or magazines on every horizontal surface in the living room, and most of those piles were surmounted by books. Casey notice titles by P.G. Wodehouse, Thorne Smith, and someone called D.H. Lawrence. What was it she’d said? Some of us read our books. And some of you, he thought, like to drown in them.

“Feel free to take a look around. Marvel,” she said, “at the sophistication of today’s modern woman and goddess of the silver screen, as represented in her lair.” She disappeared through a doorway. A second later Casey heard a clatter of crockery. “My help are off today,” she said from behind the door, “so you’re at the mercies of my underdeveloped skills in the home sciences.”

“I don’t want to put you out,” he began.

The door—to the kitchen, he guessed—opened wide enough to admit Desiree’s head and shoulders. “Don’t be stupid,” she said. “You’re about to be the beneficiary of a signal honor. Not too many have received what you’re about to receive.”

Casey flushed. There were too many ways that could be interpreted, and some parts of him had begun enumerating the more salacious ones. Perhaps he should look around, then. Perhaps you should run screaming.

His nerve failed him, though, and he headed away from the front door and toward the back of the house. An open door beckoned him.

The room beyond was … perfect. Morning sun came through a generous window and sparkled off floating constellations of dust particles. A couple of wide, overstuffed armchairs invited a reader—and the rows and rows of books shelved on the wall promised plenty of occupation. What demanded Casey’s attention, though, was the desk in a corner by the window. A typewriter squatted on the desk, like some brooding mechanical cat about to pounce. A pile of paper beside the typewriter, neatly stacked and tied with string, pricked at his curiosity. A pad of yellow paper sat on the chair, several sheets folded over; pens and pencils were scattered at random on the desk.

Casey couldn’t resist; he walked over to the bundle of pages. “Movie Time,” the first page read. “A Novel. By Daniel Novack.” Beside it, he saw now, was a smaller pile of pages. Oh, he thought. So that’s what a movie scenario looks like. This group of pages, too, was headed by a title page claiming Daniel Novack as its author. Danielle Novack, he remembered, was Desiree’s real name.

Suddenly he needed to be anywhere else. Inviting as this room had looked, he felt now as if he was violating something private. If Desiree wanted him to know about this, she was going to have to tell him herself. Since she had never said anything about writing—about having any sort of life outside of the movies, in fact—he didn’t think she was ready to share this with him just yet. He crept out of the room and was back in the living room, seated on a shawl-covered couch, when Desiree reappeared from the kitchen, a large china mug in each hand.

“Here you go,” she said, handing one of the mugs to him. “It’s strong, so be careful. Might take out your tonsils if you’re not careful.” She gestured him to follow her, then headed toward the back of the house.

Casey wondered if she was going to take him to the sun-filled library, but instead she walked to the back door. “I have an idea,” she said, opening the door and leading him outside. “Make yourself comfortable out here; I’ll be right back.”

As she stepped past him and back into the house, Casey’s eyes widened at the scene before him. The yard in back of Desiree’s house was huge, and festooned with greenery. There was no fruit on any of the trees, but he was sure he smelled oranges and lemons. And in the center of it all was a swimming pool—an honest-to-God Hollywood swimming pool. He sipped his coffee; it was heavily sweetened, and plenty of cream had made it the color of mahogany, but it was still strong enough to nearly take his breath away. He wondered how the rich, close-cropped grass would feel underfoot, then decided to find out. Slipping off his shoes, he walked from the cement patio onto the lawn. Wonderful, he thought, and some of the fatigue of the last forty-eight hours sloughed off him and sank into the soil beneath his feet. There were wicker chairs here; not as inviting, perhaps, as those armchairs in the library, but in the scented morning air it would be wonderful to sit in them nonetheless.

He was moving toward one of the chairs when he heard the door open and close behind him. “I know just the thing to revive us,” Desiree said.

Casey turned around. She stepped onto the grass, barefoot and clad now in a long, Japanese-style robe. What did they call those? Kimono, he thought.

She’d brushed out her hair, or something. It looked softer, less like a helmet. She’s taken off her armor, he thought.

“What we need,” Desiree said, taking a sip of coffee, “is a refreshing swim. The water might be a bit cool this early in the day, but that’ll be good for us. Shock us awake again, I hope. I don’t know about you, Casey, but I’m exhausted. I won’t be good for anything for the rest of the day unless we… take steps.”

“Um,” Casey said. Desiree walked up to him. He wondered if he saw a bit of uncertainty, of hesitation, in her eyes. The rest of her face, though, was smiling. Really smiling.

“Come on,” she said. “The water’s fine.”

“I—I can’t,” he said, finally getting control of his voice. “I haven’t got a swim-suit.”

Her smile broadened. “What a coincidence,” Desiree said, putting her coffee cup on a small table. The kimono slipped off.

“Neither have I.”

Next     Prologue    Chapter One    Chapter Two    Chapter Three    Chapter Four    Chapter Five
Chapter Six    Chapter Seven    Chapter Eight    Chapter Nine     Chapter Ten    Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve    Chapter Thirteen    Chapter Fourteen    Chapter Fifteen