Free Hot Shot by Kevin Allman Page A

yellow sulphur lights in the parking lot gave the room a radioactive look. I took off my glasses and rubbed my aching eyes. Carpal tunnel was beginning to twinge through my fingers.
    The last Felina tape had just clicked to a stop. It wasn’t enough. Face it, I wasn’t Barbara Walters. I wasn’t even Gina Guglielmelli. The only thing to do was get some sleep, dump the facts into Jocelyn’s lap, and let her sort them out and break the news to Jack Danziger. Right now I was too tired to think about it.
    The phone rang: once, then twice. I checked the clock again: 2:18 A.M .
    A third ring.
    Jocelyn still didn’t know where I was staying. Could the press jackals have tracked me down to the Wind & Sea? We’d paid for the room with Claudia’s credit card, and the desk clerk hadn’t seen me check in. It was probably Claudia.
    The phone rang a fourth time. I took a chance and picked it up.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œYou going ahead with the book?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI said, you going ahead with the book?”
    It was a man’s voice. Not threatening, just deep and very, very self-assured.
    â€œWho is this?”
    No answer.
    â€œHow did you find me?”
    â€œThink twice, buddy. Think twice.”
    The line went dead.
    I sat on the edge of the bed with the receiver in my hand. The room glowed yellow.
    *   *   *
    After stepping out of the Jacuzzi, I stood on a bath mat that oozed up around my toes and reached for the woolly robe by the tub. The towel rack turned out to be heated. It was like putting on a feverish sheep.
    I had been at the Beverly Hillshire for eight hours and I was enjoying every pig minute. The difference between writing a low-key cheesy tell-all and a high-profile cheesy tell-all was as big as the difference between—well, the Wind & Sea and the Beverly Hillshire Hotel.
    I’d been in this suite once before, to interview a romance novel cover stud whose chest implants and steroid injections had given him a truly alarming pair of he-boobs. This time it was all mine: the berber carpets, the Porthault linens, the projection TV, the data and fax ports that bristled from every outlet, and the charming verdigris balcony overlooking the intersection of Wilshire and Rodeo. The room managed to be both luxe and high-tech, like a decorating collaboration between Jackie Collins and Bill Gates.
    And—most important—it was all paid for by Jack Danziger.
    By the time I talked to Jocelyn, I had calmed down to the point where the sound of a car pulling into the Wind & Sea parking lot didn’t have me ready to lock myself in the bathroom. Jocelyn, on the other hand, was horrified. By eight-thirty, Kitty Keyes had shown up in her Mercedes to ferry me over to the Beverly Hillshire in cheerful style. Either she was as ditzy as she looked or death threats just came with the territory in her line of work.
    I’d spent the morning napping and trying to set up interviews, with little success either way. The top of the list—and the longest shot—was Dick Mann’s widow, Betty Bradford Mann. Her press agent, Susan D’Andrea, guarded her clients in the same relaxed way that Nancy guarded Ronnie in the White House. Apparently D’Andrea had been deluged with requests for interviews; I spoke to some D-level assistant who told me to fax over a formal interview request. Translation: Buzz off.
    Kitty Keyes had spirited up a beeper number for Sloan Baker, and I’d got a number for Vernon Ash through another reporter at the paper. I’d left messages for both, but neither had called back. The only response I’d had was from the Ensenada police, who faxed me back a press release on Felina’s murder and a polite refusal to discuss the matter further. The fax told me that a search of the house revealed that valuables were taken. The cops’ official take on it was a tragedy, a robbery gone wrong. Even if it wasn’t, I