Eleventh Hour

facts Belinda knew about Marla James.
    “Then there was the guy who aced Jon out of an AD spot—that’s assistant director—on this new show he really wanted. That was Tough Guy, lasted four years. Anyway, the guy ended up with two broken legs, couldn’t do the job. Jon got it. Was he responsible? You betcha, but there wasn’t any proof.”
    Savich said, “Are you upset that The Consultant has been stopped?”
    Belinda smiled, shrugged, pulled out another roller, and scratched her scalp. “Poor Frank, he’s the one who’s really upset. This was his baby. He has a lot of ego on the line here.”
    Sherlock said, “Can you think of anyone who would be pleased to see the show closed down?”
    Belinda pulled out the final roller, dropped it, and all three of them watched it roll across the floor.
    “Pleased enough to murder people according to a pre-written script? Now that’s something I haven’t thought about,” she said, frowned at the fallen roller, then ignored it. All the rollers were arranged like little smokestacks in front of her. She ran her fingers through her hair, over and over again. Her hair, Sherlock decided, didn’t need to be combed. It looked tousled and thick and utterly beautiful, more shades of blond than she could count.
    “You know,” Belinda said, her voice low, all confidential now, “Wolfinger’s bodyguard. He’s this big guy, never says a word. His name’s Arnold Loftus. I think he and Wolfinger sleep together.”
    “You’re saying that Wolfinger is gay?” Savich said.
    Belinda just shrugged.
    A boy with a bad complexion stuck his head in. “They need you on the set, Ms. Gates.”
    Belinda took one final swipe at her hair, nodded at herself in the mirror, rose, and smiled at them. “Sean’s his name? I’d like to have a little boy,” she said, nodded to both of them, and walked out of the green room.
    Savich said, “I got turned on watching her with those rollers, Sherlock. What do you say we buy some of our own?”
    “Some really big ones?”
    “Oh yes,” he said, “bigger than the ones we used before,” and Sherlock laughed.

    CHICAGO
    “My poor darling, how are you feeling?”
    Nicola looked up at John Rothman, heard three of his aides speaking in the hospital corridor because he’d left the door ajar. His face was ruddy from a stiff Chicago wind and thirty-degree weather, his blue eyes bluer than a summer sky. She thought she’d first fallen in love with his eyes, eyes that could see into people’s souls, at least see deep enough that he always knew the right things to say when he was campaigning.
    “I’m okay now, John, just a sore throat and my stomach feels hollowed out.”
    “I’m here to take you home. I was thinking, Nicola, maybe you should just move in with me now. The wedding is in February, so why not speed some things up a bit?”
    She hadn’t slept with him. The one night she’d decided she was ready, they were caught making out just outside one of John’s favorite clubs —The High Hat— his tongue in her mouth, his hands on her butt, and there’d been photos in the National Enquirer. Very embarrassing.
    He’d only given her light pecks on the cheek after that incident.
    She said, “If I move in with you, people will find out. Don’t forget what happened before.”
    He shrugged. “All right, then. Let’s move up the wedding. How about the end of the month?”
    She was silent.
    “I want us to begin our life together, Nicola, as soon as possible. I want to make love with you.”
    She was still silent.
    “I saw you naked, you know. You’re really quite beautiful.”
    She smiled up at him as he took her hand, squeezed it lightly. “When did you see me naked?”
    “I came over to get you, a couple of weeks ago. I rang the buzzer but you didn’t answer. I had a key, and so I let myself in. I heard the shower, and I watched you step out and dry yourself. You didn’t know I was there. I don’t know why I’m telling you this now, except to say I’d like to see you that way again. I’d like to lick you all over, Nicola.”
    Maybe it was because she still felt utterly empty inside, but she didn’t say what she probably would have said with a smile two weeks before —Licking goes both ways.
    “I’m very tired, John. Really, too tired to even think straight. I want to go home, lie in my own bed, get myself back together. Then we can talk about it. Did the doctor say anything more to you? About the food