Black

Chapter 18

Chapter 18

The private screening theater at Paramount held a hundred people, and the crowd gathered in the outer reception room, swigging cocktails and telling each other lies about their careers and projects. It was a mixed bag - some critics, a few sympathetic reporters, studio execs, the actors and their dates, friends, business associates, agents, and managers...and Black, who blended in like a sumo wrestler at a fashion show. Everyone had the glow of money and fame and power, even the press, who seemed to bask in it and reflect the aura like multi-level marketers at a big sales convention.

Black's gaze roved over the throng, grouped in threes and fours, sipping champagne and martinis as they tittered at each other's witticisms, until it landed on the small bar that had been set up in the far corner. He made a beeline for it, feeling like he'd caught a touchdown pass and was fighting his way downfield. Meagan Hunter appeared out of nowhere in a glittery black dress that looked like it had been glued on, and slipped her arm into his.

"Why, Mr. Black. What a delightful surprise. I'm so glad you could make it. Can I talk you into a cocktail before the festivities begin?" she purred, the aroma of expensive perfume mixing with alcohol fumes as she murmured in his ear like a lover.

"Mrs. Hunger. Nice to see you again," he said, then flushed as he realized his slip. "Hunter. Mrs. Hunter. Sorry."

"No offense taken - you're a very perceptive man, aren't you?"

"Or a really stupid one."

"I never took you for dumb. Although I've got nothing against all looks and no brains, if that's supposed to warn me off. And I told you the last time - call me Meagan. We're practically family at this point."

"Jack and coke," Black told the bartender, anxious to end the flirtation there. The last thing he needed was Hunter's inebriated wife coming on to him in a roomful of movers and shakers. He was still squirming inwardly at the idea when Hunter appeared in an Italian suit that probably cost more than Black's car and clasped one hand on his shoulder as he moved alongside him and set his wine glass down on the bar.

"So you're here. Anything new come up?" he asked, his voice low, strictly business as he pointed at his goblet, signaling a refill to the bartender.

"Not yet. I talked to LAPD about the killing. I wish you had a stronger alibi, but even so, I don't think there's going to be any more trouble from that end. There's no 'there' there."

"I think I'll have another greyhound. Extra tequila, Maestro!" Meagan said, her voice a little too loud.

"Don't you think you've had enough? Maybe you should hit the brakes for a while," Hunter said, his eyes flashing anger.

"Oh. I'm sorry. Heaven forbid that I actually enjoy myself a little. I'll just walk ten steps behind you and bow to whoever greets you. Will that work?" she asked, her voice sweet as honey.

"Don't bust my balls, Meagan. Just this once. Do me this favor, would you?" Hunter replied, offering his dazzling professional smile as he waved at two newcomers by the entry.

"Fine. I have to go to the powder room anyway. Try not to fuck any of your co-stars while I'm there, would you?" she whispered before teetering off on impossibly high heels that showcased her dancer's legs.

Hunter shook his head, a look of fatigue crinkling the corners of his eyes.

"Women, huh? What are you going to do with 'em? I thought the newer models would be easier to operate, but not at all. Can't live with 'em, can't keep 'em in a cage in the cellar...I never said that, by the way. The feminists would have a field day with it."