Magic Hour by Susan Isaacs (i want to read a book TXT) 📗

Had Lindsay been worth a hundred thou per hump? Or maybe he just felt guilty. “Why not tell me about it?”

“All right,” he sighed. Total mush: here was this cosmopolitan guy who didn’t have the presence of mind to ask who the witnesses were and what they had witnessed. It was going to be a cinch, because Santana was dying to Tell All. He settled his perfectly tailored ass back in the chair but leaned the rest of himself forward. “We were having an affair,” he confided, real whispery, as if to say: Swear to God you won’t tell. “Please understand, this is no superficial run-of-the-play liaison. It is…well, it is a love affair. I wouldn’t want you to think…”

“No problem, Mr. Santana. Listen, normally, what you do is your own business. Two people working together can fall for each other. Happens all the time. It’s just that in this case, the lady’s boyfriend, fiancé, whatever, was shot through the head and heart. So I have to ask a few questions.”

“Maybe…Do you think I should speak to an attorney?”

“You can speak to whoever you want. Hire a whole law firm. You’re a sophisticated man. You know what your rights are. But why? You’re not guilty of anything, are you?”

“Of course not.”

“So just answer a couple of questions. Now, to make my life easier. Or later, if you want, with your 100 / SUSAN ISAACS

lawyer.” I really wasn’t trying to trip him up. I just didn’t feel like hanging around until the middle of the following week when some dork in a dark-blue three-piece pinstripe could manage to get here from Manhattan, hook his thumbs onto his vest pockets and give me a harangue on prosecutori-al discretion. “Did Sy know about you and Lindsay?”

“No. Of course not.”

“How do you know?”

“I asked. I was a bit nervous, but she said she was certain.”

“Everything seemed lovey-dovey between them?”

“I’m quite certain he thought so.”

“Which means what?”

“Which means he didn’t know how Lindsay felt about me—and I about her.” You know those hearts-and-flowers stories you read where the hero’s eyes shine? Well, Victor Santana’s eyes started to shine. He glowed with the glory of love. You wouldn’t think a grown-up guy with such an expensive sports jacket could be such a sap, but he was.

“Was Sy happy with her acting?” This clearly was not Santana’s favorite question. His glow dimmed. He sat up straight, tense. He tried to calm himself by stroking his tie; it had lots of little shield designs that I guess were supposed to be club insignias, or family crests. “Hey, Mr. Santana, I’ve been talking to a lot of people. I have an idea of what’s going on, so do us both a favor. Don’t get creative. Was Sy happy with what Lindsay was doing?”

“He was not thrilled.”

“Objectively, how was she?”

“She was won derful. I mean that sincerely.” He stopped whacking off his tie; he started rotating his wedding ring.

“So Sy Spencer was wrong?”

“Yes. Completely.”

MAGIC HOUR / 101

“Why would a smart producer like him think an actress—someone who he’s also supposed to be in love with—is crapping up his movie? Especially if she’s not?”

“Sy wanted total control over every aspect of Lindsay’s life. When she started showing the smallest signs of independ-ence, he began to undermine her—so she would be more dependent on him.” Santana’s script was a little different from Lindsay’s, but it was pretty clear from his mechanical delivery who had written his lines. “Sy was terrified of losing her. So he played on her vulnerability. Superficially, Lindsay seems strong. But she’s a very vulnerable woman.”

“What did Sy say to you about her acting?”

“He indicated that he felt Lindsay was cold.” Santana shook his head as if unable to comprehend such insensitivity—except the gesture was way overdone, like an actor in a silent film.

“What did he want you to do?”

“He told me to warm her up.”

“Did you try to warm her up in the acting area?”

“No. Truly, it wasn’t necessary. She was giving a smashing performance.” Come on, I wanted to say. Get real, Santana.

Your old man was probably a building superintendent, and here you are saying “troooly” and “smahshing.” “The warmth was there,” he was explaining. “Not in words. But in a million tiny gestures. The camera really doesn’t lie, you know.”

“You saw this warmth in the dailies they show?”

“Definitely.”

“Who else saw it? Besides you and Lindsay?” In his silence, I could feel Santana’s embarrassment. So I changed the subject before he could start resenting me. “What about your work? Was Sy happy with it?”

Santana let go of his wedding ring and glanced up. “Other than our disagreement over Lindsay, I think 102 / SUSAN ISAACS

he was pleased. This was only our third week of shooting.”

“Did he ever have it out with you over how you were directing Lindsay?” More silence. “Come on. Why should I hear a lot of fancy stories from third parties when I should hear the plain truth from you?”

“He said…” He shook his head as if refusing to give words to the unspeakable.

“What?”

“He said if Lindsay didn’t start showing some real warmth…”

“He’d do what?”

“He’d replace me with someone who would be able to…”

“Say it.”

“He was…crude. What do they say about men like Sy?

You can take the boy out of Brooklyn, but you can’t take the Brooklyn out of the boy. He said, and I quote: ‘Give her a kick in the clit and get her to act like a real woman.’”

“End quote,” I said.

“Oh, yes indeed,” he agreed. “End quote.”

I wasn’t really sure why Nicholas Monteleone was such a famous actor. It’s not that he was bad-looking. Dark-brown hair, matching eyes. Big lips that critics probably called sensuous. And for a slim guy, lots of muscles, even in unnecessary places, like his forearms, as though he moonlighted as a blacksmith. If he’d worked in Homicide, he’d be second or third best-looking. But that someone was paying him a million bucks a movie because he was such a hunk? I’d seen a