tongue as though it were a peppermint. “Yeah, we give lessons,” she says. “But they’re not cheap. That what you want to know?”
“Actually, I’m looking for someone. My niece, a redhead. I believe you had drinks with her earlier.”
“Her!” the One Who Speaks says. “You’re welcome to her! We both of us gave her a free lesson, no charge. She told us she writes for the movies, said her stepdad was an agent and her mom some big-time Hollywood producer. Billie and me have an idea for a film, about two female golfers on the pro circuit, based on me and Billie’s true-life experiences. We pitched the whole movie to her, right here in this bar. But she got so hammered on dreamy monkeys, she about passed out.”
Billie, who up to now has been silent, joins in. “After enough dreamy monkeys,” she says, “there was nothing dreamy about that young lady whatsoever. It was all ape.”
“Damned if we didn’t have to carry her to her room,” the One Who Speaks—Nevada—says.
“That would be room number—” I fish.
“That would be room number zero,” Nevada says tartly. “As in, if she’s really your niece, ask at the front desk. But no joke, that girl has attention deficit disorder. Definitely not good at keeping her eye on the little white ball.”
They both let out a hoot. Then they walk away from me for good.
I go back to my saddle, but don’t mount up. I stand there.
“Anything?” Tully asks of my encounter with the golf pros.
“Nothing,” I say.
At the far end of the lounge, there’s a wall of windows and a door that opens to the outside. Through the glass, you can see the swimming pool, the patio (crowded with women), and a large garden area.
Tully follows my gaze. “Let’s take a walk,” he says. “I’m pretty sure we’ve got time for that.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
SANCTUM SANCTORUM
T ully and I start down a garden path shady with tall shrubs and low palms. The air is clean and fresh and smells vaguely of citrus. I pull my cigarettes and lighter from my bag. “Do you mind?” I say automatically.
“Yeah,” Tully says. “I do.”
I stop mid-light. Now he wants to keep me from smoking? Outside? He really is annoying, no wonder Georgia left him.
“But only,” he says, “because I hate seeing anybody do that to themselves.”
Oh. I see. Yes, I want to tell him, yes, I agree. I hate it when people hurt themselves. But what Tully doesn’t know is that at the moment I need to smoke and drink and do unhealthy things. It’s all that’s keeping me going.
So I light up. I inhale the tobacco, letting the nicotine do its work on my brain cells.
“Something’s been bothering me,” I say. “Charlotte claims when Georgia ran away she took things that belong to her. Belong to Charlotte, I mean. Do you know what they are?”
Tully chews his lip. “Money, jewelry, cocaine . . . who knows?”
“Georgia does coke?”
He laughs. “Georgia does whatever she wants. But yeah, I wouldn’t be surprised if that butler, Juven, brings her blow on a tray, with coffee and biscotti.” He gazes down at the ground. “Hollywood’s a funny place. And the Illworths are a very Hollywood family.”
“I don’t know if this is about drugs,” I say. “I hope not. But I do think whatever items Georgia took must be valuable, or Charlotte wouldn’t be so eager to get them back.”
“Well,” Tully says, “you know the old saying: ‘One man’s treasure is another man’s trash.’”
Perhaps. But Charlotte’s house overflows with high-end furnishings and artwork. It’s doubtful anything she perceived as treasure would be considered trash by someone else. Besides, didn’t Tully get that backward? I thought the saying was “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”
We round a corner and come upon a lizard sunning itself on a rock. The animal’s wide mouth and thin legs remind me of Charlotte. I halfway expect it to pull out a phone and strike a deal with Warner Bros.
“Actually, I’m looking for someone. My niece, a redhead. I believe you had drinks with her earlier.”
“Her!” the One Who Speaks says. “You’re welcome to her! We both of us gave her a free lesson, no charge. She told us she writes for the movies, said her stepdad was an agent and her mom some big-time Hollywood producer. Billie and me have an idea for a film, about two female golfers on the pro circuit, based on me and Billie’s true-life experiences. We pitched the whole movie to her, right here in this bar. But she got so hammered on dreamy monkeys, she about passed out.”
Billie, who up to now has been silent, joins in. “After enough dreamy monkeys,” she says, “there was nothing dreamy about that young lady whatsoever. It was all ape.”
“Damned if we didn’t have to carry her to her room,” the One Who Speaks—Nevada—says.
“That would be room number—” I fish.
“That would be room number zero,” Nevada says tartly. “As in, if she’s really your niece, ask at the front desk. But no joke, that girl has attention deficit disorder. Definitely not good at keeping her eye on the little white ball.”
They both let out a hoot. Then they walk away from me for good.
I go back to my saddle, but don’t mount up. I stand there.
“Anything?” Tully asks of my encounter with the golf pros.
“Nothing,” I say.
At the far end of the lounge, there’s a wall of windows and a door that opens to the outside. Through the glass, you can see the swimming pool, the patio (crowded with women), and a large garden area.
Tully follows my gaze. “Let’s take a walk,” he says. “I’m pretty sure we’ve got time for that.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
SANCTUM SANCTORUM
T ully and I start down a garden path shady with tall shrubs and low palms. The air is clean and fresh and smells vaguely of citrus. I pull my cigarettes and lighter from my bag. “Do you mind?” I say automatically.
“Yeah,” Tully says. “I do.”
I stop mid-light. Now he wants to keep me from smoking? Outside? He really is annoying, no wonder Georgia left him.
“But only,” he says, “because I hate seeing anybody do that to themselves.”
Oh. I see. Yes, I want to tell him, yes, I agree. I hate it when people hurt themselves. But what Tully doesn’t know is that at the moment I need to smoke and drink and do unhealthy things. It’s all that’s keeping me going.
So I light up. I inhale the tobacco, letting the nicotine do its work on my brain cells.
“Something’s been bothering me,” I say. “Charlotte claims when Georgia ran away she took things that belong to her. Belong to Charlotte, I mean. Do you know what they are?”
Tully chews his lip. “Money, jewelry, cocaine . . . who knows?”
“Georgia does coke?”
He laughs. “Georgia does whatever she wants. But yeah, I wouldn’t be surprised if that butler, Juven, brings her blow on a tray, with coffee and biscotti.” He gazes down at the ground. “Hollywood’s a funny place. And the Illworths are a very Hollywood family.”
“I don’t know if this is about drugs,” I say. “I hope not. But I do think whatever items Georgia took must be valuable, or Charlotte wouldn’t be so eager to get them back.”
“Well,” Tully says, “you know the old saying: ‘One man’s treasure is another man’s trash.’”
Perhaps. But Charlotte’s house overflows with high-end furnishings and artwork. It’s doubtful anything she perceived as treasure would be considered trash by someone else. Besides, didn’t Tully get that backward? I thought the saying was “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”
We round a corner and come upon a lizard sunning itself on a rock. The animal’s wide mouth and thin legs remind me of Charlotte. I halfway expect it to pull out a phone and strike a deal with Warner Bros.
Similar Books
