“At last we meet,” Stonehedge said, smiling good-naturedly.
“About time, huh?” Natalie said.
“I’d say so. I’ve only seen the picture of you Morris keeps in his office, but you’re even more beautiful in person.”
“Aren’t you too kind,” Natalie said, blushing in spite of herself. She was someone comfortable in her own skin, and compliments of any kind usually didn’t faze her, but this was a Hollywood star who had made People’s hundred sexiest list, and whose girlfriend topped that same list! Mostly to change the subject so she wouldn’t blush any further, she said, “Movies like The Carver aren’t necessarily my cup of tea—”
“Let me guess, they strike too close to home.”
“Exactly. But I thought you stole the movie as The Carver’s final victim.”
Stonehedge’s smile turned enigmatic. “I was supposed to star in it, but I was shot in the leg during a jewelry store robbery. Morris saved my life that day. That was why I played the part in a wheelchair. I still couldn’t walk when they filmed my scenes. It’s also how I got this.”
Stonehedge ran a thumb over the thick scar that was left behind when one of the robbers slashed his cheek open with a gun barrel.
“It gives you a rakish look, luv,” Brie Evans said. “Don’t you agree?” she asked Natalie.
“It certainly gives him character.”
Parker, who’d been standing impatiently, had had enough. With his tail wagging a slow beat, he let out a bark, which was unusual for him, and jumped on Stonehedge so that his front paws leaned against the actor’s thighs.
“I haven’t forgotten about you,” Stonehedge told the bull terrier as he rubbed Parker vigorously behind his ears. Then to Natalie: “This little brute was also responsible for saving my life that day.”
Natalie was well aware of the story, and simply nodded.
Stonehedge caught the eye of a waitress he was searching for and signaled for her to come over. “I ordered this specifically for Parker. Wood-grilled lobster wrapped in bacon.”
The mention of bacon elicited excited grunts from the dog.
“And of course, you used the world’s best bacon,” Morris said, using Stonehedge’s own words to describe the specialty bacon the actor bought from a small butcher shop in Venice.
“Of course.”
The waitress had made her way over and tried unsuccessfully to hide her nervousness about being near Stonehedge and Evans.
“Don’t give him too many,” Natalie said. “He’ll burst.”
“A couple will be okay,” Morris said, and he tossed Parker one of the appetizers, which he gobbled up and seemed to placate him.
“Can I borrow Morris for a few minutes?” Stonehedge asked. “I’d like to talk shop with him.”
Natalie pursed her lips, obviously curious about what that could be about, but she smiled and told Stonehedge that of course he could borrow her husband. “It will give me a chance to ask Brie where she bought her lovely outfit.”
Morris, with Parker in tow, followed Stonehedge toward the back of his property where they could talk in private. They stopped a few yards from the edge of the cliff overlooking the beach below.
“They’re making a movie about the Malibu Butcher,” Stonehedge said. “Well, really about that whack job who dealt himself into the game—”
“Allen Perlmutter.”
“Yeah. But even though Perlmutter is the focus of the movie, the Malibu Butcher is a major role, and the producers are offering it to me.”
“You’ll finally get to play a serial killer.”
“If I take the part.”
“Are you considering it?”
“I am. The script’s got a lot of craziness in it, but it’s also crazy good. As long as you’re okay with it.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You were knee-deep in that swamp, after all.”
Stonehedge was right. Morris wasn’t thrilled to hear that a movie was being made about that Malibu Butcher psycho, or really three psychos if you included Perlmutter and Sheila Proops, but he had known from the beginning it was inevitable that Hollywood would want to do something with it.
“Someone’s going to take the part,” Morris said, shaking his head. A harsh chuckle escaped from his lips. “Very meta of them wanting you to play the Butcher since you were one of his intended victims.”
“Yeah, but that’s one of the reasons they want me. Having me play him would be a wet dream for their publicist.”
“No doubt. You know that at least half the witnesses we talked to thought he looked like you?”
“I read about that,” Stonehedge admitted. “I don’t know. From pictures I saw of him, I don’t see the resemblance.”
“That’s only because the photos they ran in the papers were taken after Perlmutter mutilated him.” Morris’s lips tightened into a thin smile. “What’s my character’s name in the movie?”
“Mort Slate.”
“I guess that’s somewhat imaginative. How much is it like me?”
“Surprisingly close. Last I heard they’re talking to Woody Harrelson to play your character. As far as I’m concerned, that would be pitch-perfect casting.”
Morris Brick was under no illusions about his physical appearance, and how mismatched he and Natalie were—Nat being a slender, dark-haired beauty, while he was at best comical looking. He also knew that with his short, compact body, spindly legs, big ears, thick, long nose, and thinning hair he proved the old adage of a dog owner resembling his pet. Even if they dyed Woody Harrelson’s hair dark brown, the only way the actor would resemble Morris would be if someone squinted extra hard. And even then that person would need poor eyesight. But he chose not to argue the matter.
“You’ve got my blessing,” Morris said. “Mazel tov.”
“Thanks, Morris. I appreciate it. Do you want to consult on the film? Nobody knows the real story better than you, at least nobody alive—”
“Other than Sheila Proops.”
“Maybe, but they’d have to find her first. What do you say? I could make it a condition on my taking the role, but I’m sure they’d be on board regardless.”
Movie consulting jobs were good money, but Morris wanted to change MBI’s image from a firm that tracked down perverse serial killers to one that handled more staid corporate work.
“Let me think about it,” Morris said.
Parker, who’d been quiet up until then, let out a couple of impatient grunts.
“Somebody wants to get back to the food,” Stonehedge observed.
The three of them returned to the party.
Chapter 6
Morris reached blindly to turn off the clock radio, then collapsed back onto the bed. His mouth and throat tasted as if he had gargled with sawdust, and his head throbbed as if it were being squeezed in a vise. Too many of those blueberry mojitos, he thought. Too much rich food also. But damn, those charbroiled oysters were good!
He lay on his back, listening to Natalie’s rhythmic breathing as she continued to sleep, and then struggled to