351 - Hollywood: Backlot Emperor (Patreon)

351 - Payback

Content note: This is alternate-universe fiction featuring fictionalized portrayals of public figures; it does not describe real events. This Patreon edition adapts parts of chapters 351 and 353. This sequence depicts cannabis use, a paid-sex transaction interrupted before sexual contact, and non-graphic physical assault.

While Adrian was at the ABC premiere party and later spending the evening with Eva Longoria, the people carrying out his plan went to work in New York.

"Another one, Parker. Fill it this time. Last round, you barely gave me a taste," Robert Field called from his stool at the bar.

"Last round was on me, Robert." The bartender grinned and poured him a generous measure. The glass was so full that Field had to lean over it for his first sip.

Field looked pleased. "Now that is a drink. Do that every time, and I might come in every night."

Parker answered with an eye roll and went back to polishing glasses.

The New York Post had no shortage of bars nearby, but Field, its entertainment editor, preferred a modest place on the Lower East Side. He had driven there and told himself he would be careful on the way home. Even a cheap bar was relative in Manhattan; this neighborhood simply cost less than the Upper East Side.

What he liked was the quiet and the sense of freedom. He had no great quarrel with his wife. They lived comfortably enough together and had a daughter he adored. Their domestic life was also predictable, and Field kept looking elsewhere for excitement. Perhaps that was why a tabloid devoted to scandal, sex, and violence suited him so well.

From his desk, a story could make famous people miserable. At home, that power meant little. He came here to drink among strangers and indulge the feeling that he stood above them.

A friend had called the feeling an illusion. Field disagreed. He had watched his paper bring stars to their knees. What could any of them do to him? Take that young actor, Adrian Vale: Oscar nominee, Grammy winner, producer of hit films. Impressive on paper, perhaps, but Field could still decide how to write about him.

Adrian had been good for his career. Field was the one who had seized on the actor's dinner with Gwyneth and turned it into a story when his own position was precarious. After that, he made sure someone kept watching. Over the years, the tips and headlines helped him secure his chair.

"To you, Mr. Vale. I should thank you." Field raised his glass to the absent actor and drained it.

The editor in chief had killed several of his harsher pieces. No matter. If Adrian kept furnishing stories, especially the kind that came with a Nicole Kidman breakup, Field could still rise further.

"A martini, please," said a woman beside him. Field turned to see a blonde in a tailored business suit take the next stool.

Her long hair fell in loose waves. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, composed and attractive. She noticed him looking and gave him an easy smile.

"You should try the Blue Charm," Field said. "It's their house cocktail. Stronger than it looks."

"Is it?" She smiled. "This is my first time here. I wouldn't know."

She waited until the bartender brought her martini, took a sip, then looked back at him. "Buy me one?"

Field paused. The invitation had come too quickly for ordinary flirting. They had not even exchanged names. He suspected she was offering more than conversation for a price.

A flash of contempt passed through him, followed by interest. She was beautiful, and he doubted she would have approached him otherwise.

He had been handsome once, or so he liked to think. Now he was middle-aged and balding. Whatever attention he got from women no longer came easily.

His job put him in the same rooms as wealthy and celebrated people, but the title itself did not make him desirable.

He had learned to be discreet. An affair had nearly wrecked his career, and his wife had forgiven him only after he begged for another chance. He had not risked another lasting attachment.

A paid encounter, he told himself, was different. He could leave no relationship behind and keep the life he had at home. It was a convenient distinction.

He liked to pretend that a private thrill made him easier to live with. He knew it was an excuse.

So when he thought he understood the woman's offer, excitement won.

"I don't even know your name," he said cautiously.

She gave a dry laugh. "Relax. You think I'm a cop? The officers looking for an easy arrest don't usually sit in a bar dressed like this."

Field felt himself redden. She had read him at once, which made him curious as well as embarrassed.

He knew solicitation could get him arrested in New York. That was enough to make him cautious.

A charge could bring fines and a public record, not merely an awkward night at the station.

He had heard enough stories about undercover stings: an agreed price, a room, and officers arriving before anything else happened.

That was what she had teased him about. Field was still wary, but her willingness to say it aloud made him feel safer.

"How much?" he asked.

"Two hundred dollars."

He had expected more. Her clothes and manner suggested someone who could charge considerably higher rates.

He had once paid five hundred and resented the expense afterward. Two hundred sounded almost suspiciously low.

"I had a good day," she said, catching his expression. "Usually I charge twice that. If you're not interested, forget it."

She rose as though to leave. "Wait," Field said. "We have a deal."

He paid his tab and followed her outside, pleased with himself for taking the chance.

Only after he had driven a few blocks did he realize he had not chosen a destination. A motel? A hotel?

She had declined to give him a real name, so he called her Lucy. "Want to make this interesting, sweetheart?" she asked from the passenger seat.

She touched the leather upholstery as she spoke. Field looked around, saw few pedestrians, and pulled into a dark stretch beside an alley where he expected some privacy.

"So," he said, gripping the wheel, "what did you have in mind?"

"We're not in a hurry." Lucy smiled. "Do you have anything?"

"Anything?"

"You know what I mean. A little first might help us relax."

"All right." Field reached deep into the glove compartment and brought out a small bag.

"Good stuff," he said, already opening it.

He smoked cannabis now and then to unwind, though he kept it away from home. His wife would object, and he did not want his daughter near it.

After two joints, Field paid Lucy. Before either of them could go further, a tap sounded at the window. He barely registered it until it became a pounding.

"What the hell do you—" He lowered the window, saw the police uniform, and stopped. Color drained from his face.

Smoke hung in the car. The smell of cannabis, the open bag, and the cash on the dashboard gave the officers plenty of questions to ask.