Free Killer Cocktail by Tracy Kiely Page A

“You’re starting to get stress lines. I think you need to find something that will help you relax. What’s that thing called with the needles?” he asked, turning to Christina.
    â€œAcupuncture?” she offered.
    â€œNo, that’s not it,” Sebastian said with a thoughtful shake of his head. Suddenly, he snapped his fingers in remembrance. “Heroine!” he cried. “That’s it. You should try heroine, Jules.”
    Jules flushed. “You’re a bastard!” she hissed.
    Sebastian shook his head as if disappointed. “Now that is tacky, Jules. Have a little decency, will you? After all, my mother is sitting right here.”
    What little was left of Jules’s control snapped. “I’ve had about enough of this,” she hissed at Christina. Placing her hands on the linen tablecloth, she leaned forward, shaking off John’s attempts to remove her. With her mouth pinched in anger, her lips brought to mind a mutilated cherry tomato. “No,” she said, her teeth clenched, “this ends now. I swear to God, Christina, if you ever pull another stunt like that pathetic speech you gave tonight, I will personally rip that rotten, black heart of yours right out of your pathetic excuse for a chest.”
    Several of us tried—without much success—to suppress smiles. Jules’s voice had once been described as having “the breathy quality of a helium-inhaling porn star.” It was perfectly suited to deliver lines of sultry seduction. Angry threats, however, came off as absurdly comical.
    â€œYou’ve painted me to be some home-wreaking whore, and I’m not!” she continued. “It’s not my fault Johnny got sick of you and preferred someone younger, someone prettier, someone …”
    â€œâ€¦ whose IQ rises to 75 on a warm summer’s day?” offered Christina.
    Jules’s face went white under her spray tan. Angry red dots appeared on her cheeks, and her blue eyes narrowed to slits. She took a deep breath and then mouthed a vulgar, two-word suggestion to Christina.
    Christina smiled sweetly up at Jules. “Sweetheart,” she said, her voice sounding genuinely regretful, “how many times must we have this conversation? I’ve already told you—I simply can’t do that until you get that rash looked at.”
    Jules moved to toss her drink in Christina’s face, but missed and hit Janice instead. Her ensuing rant of profanity would have made even Quentin Tarantino blush. As John dragged Jules away from the table, Nigel turned to me and playfully shoved my arm. “And you worried that life after the force would be dull,” he said.
    I raised my glass and toasted his. “Never with you, Mr. Martini. Never with you.”

Footage from the set of A Winter’s Night 5/4/96
    Barry is sitting in his director’s chair making notes on a script. A tall, good-looking man approaches. It is Frank Samuels. He is about fifty years old, has an athletic build, and is wearing a very expensive-looking tailored suit. He holds a cup of coffee in his hand.
    FRANK (in a condescending voice)
    Hello, Barry. So, you want to tell me why Melanie called me at four this morning practically hysterical?
    BARRY (at the sound of Frank’s voice,
Barry looks up. His expression is annoyed.)
    She called you? Why the hell would she call you?
    FRANK
    I imagine because she thinks of me as someone she can trust.
    BARRY
    Is that right? Well, how lovely for her.
    FRANK
    So, back to my original question. Care to tell me what the hell is going on?
    BARRY
    Gladly. Your leading lady, the ever predictable, Ms. Melanie Summers, threw a magnificent tantrum and then stormed off the set because she didn’t like it when I told her that her acting had the emotional depth of a sock puppet. Her charming display of emotion—which would have been better channeled for the scene and not at me—not only set us back