CHAPTER TWELVE
“Samisms”
Monday night.
Stella’s Blackberry chirped. It was Gabe.
“How you doin’, sweetheart? I just got back to LA. We were on location all day.”
“Hi Winner. I’m in Fort Collins at the family manse.”
“Not too gruesome I hope.”
“Crystal’s got a new boy toy. Come tomorrow morning I’m outta here. Next week’s Lester’s competency hearing. They’re going to find him crazier than a shit house rat.”
“Wasn’t he a war hero?”
“Bronze star. Survived a shot to the head which may have led to his actions.”
“How much time do you have off? Want to come out here? I’ll send you a ticket, pick you up at John Wayne.”
“I’d love to, Winner, but I can’t. I’ve only got three days and tomorrow I have to find a crazy man in the mountains and convince him to go back to work for the government.”
“Otto?”
“Yes.”
“Well good luck with that. Maybe you ought to take someone with you.”
Stella trilled. “Oh Winner. Otto would never hurt me. He’s not psychotic.”
“Good to know. Maybe you could make some time for me next weekend.”
“Depends on who’s traveling,” Stella said.
“A-huh. Well let me see how the week goes. I’m on location through Thursday but you can always reach me.”
“Good night, Winner.”
“Good night, babe.”
They’d met at a fundraiser in Miami two months ago. Republican Congresswoman. Stella stood at the edge of the pool looking out on Biscayne Bay wondering what she was doing there. Favor for Sam. She hadn’t the slightest clue who Winner was when he approached her, standing silently for a minute gazing out at the evening lights on the yachts and across the bay.
“Nice to be out there,” he said after awhile.
“Boats are holes in the water into which you pour money,” Stella replied by rote, one of many Samisms.
Beat.
“It’s better to have a friend with a boat than a boat. Could I get you something to drink?”
“How about a Cuba Libre?”
He went for drinks and returned, expertly ferreting out Stella’s work and where she was from. Finally it was her turn. “And what do you do?”
“I act.”
“Really. Have I ever heard of you?”
“I doubt it,” he said eyeing her with a gleam in his eye and an irresistible dimple in his cheek. “Perhaps you saw my Dinosaur Meat dog food ad?”
Stella bemusedly shook her head.
Winner found the fact that she’d never heard of him was a turn-on. An hour later she still wasn’t sure he was telling the truth when a pack of teenage girls approached giggling with pens and cell phone cameras.
She ended up spending the weekend with him.
While other publicists flooded the media with breathless accounts of their clients’ virtue, interviews, proof of good deeds, Winner kept a low profile and was extremely generous. Stella found out from an acquaintance that Winner regularly visited children’s hospitals, signed photos, and went from room to room, bed to bed, joking, cheering and handing out comic books.
Maybe her luck was changing. But seriously. An actor?
She stretched in Sam’s high zoot teak chair, leather and springs squeaking. How she would love to see Winner that very minute! If only her job weren’t so demanding, but she had meetings with clients all day Tuesday and then she was in court for the rest of the week.
She rose, already snuggling between the sheets in her mind. As she was about to leave Sam’s office she paused next to the vertical walnut and glass gun cabinet. It contained Sam’s bird gun, a 12-guage Remington, his coyote gun, a .22 Ruger revolver, his elk gun, an RMEF X-Bolt Special Hunter, and his show gun, a commemorative edition Sharp’s recreation with 24-carat gold scrolling, all visible through the quarter inch smash-proof glass.
Beneath the rifle section two deep drawers held Sam’s handguns, ammo, cleaning kits, holsters and other accoutrements. A Schlage padlock kept it secure. Stella twirled it open. Sam had given her the numbers years ago.
Releasing the drawers via a catch, she pulled open the top drawer. The pistols were in their original boxes, some cardboard, some plastic. She reached for the Sig Sauer P-290, a nine small enough for a fanny pack or a pocket. Setting the box on Sam’s desk she picked the pistol up, released the magazine into her hand and chambered it, insuring it was empty.
Samism #16: Always assume the weapon is loaded.
She took a box of Wolf nines, closed the drawer and locked the gun cabinet. Putting pistol and ammo in her Gladstone, she hefted the heavy bag and went down the hall and up the stairs to her room.
She hadn’t been able to bring her .38 on the plane.
Before she went to bed she loaded and reinserted the magazine and placed the pistol beneath the pillow next to her.
It was the best sleep she’d had in weeks.
***