Free Hot Shot by Kevin Allman Page B

was sure the police would cover it up for fear of scaring off the wealthy Americans in the neighborhood. A crazed killer would have the same effect on Via del Paraiso that the shark did in Jaws.
    The phone rang. One of the perks in the suite was an unlisted phone that didn’t go through the hotel switchboard. Management changed the number after each guest checked out.
    â€œI’m returning a call left on my beeper. Who’s calling, please?” She was aiming for a professional woman’s voice, but a certain lazy nasality sneaked through on “beeper” and “please.” A Valley doll—fer sure, fer sure.
    â€œMy name’s Kieran O’Connor. I wanted to know if we could get together—”
    â€œI don’t know how you got this number, but you’ll have to go through my agency,” she interrupted.
    â€œNo, Sloan,” I told her dryly, “that’s not the kind of hour I want to spend.”
    *   *   *
    Smooth Moo was a juice bar and New Age soda fountain adjoining Le Sweat, a particularly overpriced fitness palace on La Cienega. I pulled into the parking lot of Le Sweat and gave my keys to the valet. People in L.A. are nuts. They’ll spend an hour on a StairMaster, but they won’t walk fifty feet from their car to the gym.
    One whole wall of Smooth Moo was glass, giving patrons a good view of the beautiful people as they crunched and burned and flexed and abbed their way to Aryan perfection. Taken individually, all the women were gorgeous, but in aggregate they blended into a boring, homogenous whole. I couldn’t imagine myself having a conversation with any of them, much less a relationship. That’s what I liked about Claudia. She worked out at the YWCA.
    At Smooth Moo, the milkshakes were called smoothies and started at eight bucks apiece. There was also a bewildering list of optional mix-ins: bee pollen, acidophilus, protein powder, brewer’s yeast. I chose the P-Nutty Pow—a concoction of peanut butter, bananas, and honey—just because it looked like the least healthy thing on the menu.
    While I waited for Sloan, I sipped my P-Nutty Pow and watched the gym Barbies. Each of the high-tech stationary bikes was occupied by a blonde reading a script. They couldn’t all be actresses. Maybe Le Sweat handed out old scripts at the reception desk, like getting a copy of Newsweek at the dentist’s.
    A woman walked in through the street entrance, and I almost choked on my P-Nutty Pow.
    It was Felina.
    No. On second glance, this woman was younger, maybe thirty. Still, the resemblance was striking. From a distance, they could have been, if not sisters, then maybe a star and her stunt double.
    *   *   *
    I tried to make some small talk—lay a little verbal grease before the grilling began—but Sloan wasn’t much interested. She ordered a drink called And Tofu, Too and brushed the hair out of her eyes. Up close, the resemblance started to fall apart. The retroussé nose was too obviously a rhinoplasty, and the streaks in her hair were Clairol instead of chlorine. Small differences, but they added up to the difference between a beauty queen and first runner-up.
    â€œOkay. I’m here,” Sloan said, as if the sentence itself was an effort. “Now what do you want from me?”
    I got out my tape recorder. “You mind if I—”
    â€œPut that away. I’m not giving you any interview.”
    â€œIt’s not an interview. I’d just like you to answer a few questions.”
    â€œForget it. I’m not going to rat anyone out.”
    â€œWithout getting paid for it, you mean?”
    She folded her arms and glared. “What does that—”
    â€œGet off it, Sloan. You sold your Dick Mann story to Celeb and to Headline Journal. ”
    â€œI don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    â€œCome on, Desiree. ”
    â€œYou come on. Who do