Naughty Read Free

weather was hot and smoggy, and Hammett was wearing a red unitard, having tossed the black one in the hotel’s lobby garbage. Over it she had a white mesh swimsuit cover-up which would have looked out of place anywhere but Hollywoodland. A floppy white hat, oversized Prada sunglasses, and her ballet shoes rounded out her ensemble.
    After spending ten more minutes looking for a spot on Rodeo Drive, she parked five blocks away from Lupowitz’s house and fed the meter to the maximum limit. Then Hammett began to walk, tuning into her surroundings. Traffic sounds, a dozen people on the sidewalks, most shopping, one roller blader, a jogger across the street. Fresh coffee smells from a bistro. The stench of smog and exhaust mixed with the dry heat. She passed one designer store after another—stores that normally drew her in like a kid to candy. But Hammett hardly paid them any mind.
    She was in stalking mode.
    Taking a circuitous route, backtracking twice to check for tails, she made her way out of the shopping district and into the residential areas. Hammett knew to be careful here. Celebrities and the uber rich got extra police protection, and sure enough she spotted a patrol car in her peripheral coming up when she crossed Santa Monica Boulevard. She ducked behind a pine tree, letting the cop pass, and then continued on to Carmalita Avenue. Every house was a mansion, every mansion a burglar-proof fortress. Lupowitz was some sort of hotshot producer when he was not jerking off to kiddie porn, and no doubt breaking into his domicile would be a lot harder than getting into Rod’s.
    Which is why, when she found the house, Hammett simply walked up and rang the doorbell. The obligatory Mexican maid answered, and Hammett asked, in Spanish, if Señor Lupowitz was in. He was at work, naturally, so Hammett gave her the SD memory card she’d prepared—pictures and emails he had sent Rod, along with a hundred dollars for her trouble. After an exchanged
muchas gracias
, Hammett wandered back to Rodeo and spent a few hours trying on ridiculous outfits and shoes and handbags that cost more than her first car. Dior, Gucci, Prada, Fendi, Vuitton. Fashion gluttony. Turning fifty cents of cow leather into five thousand dollars on stilettos.
    Hammett adored it.
    But she was traveling light and not making any purchases. So she disappointed shop girl after shop girl, because although she had the airs and bearing of a rich bitch, she didn’t help anyone land a single commission, even though she was feted with champagne and caviar and a lovely brie that was the best Hammett had eaten outside of, well, Brie.
    When she grew tired of playing Beverly Hills Barbie, she found a pastry café where the cupcakes cost as much as a steak dinner in New York and killed another hour sipping cappuccino and watching the rich, overfed, clueless gentry pass by in an endless decadent parade.  Hammett mused, briefly, about being one of them. Staunch patriotic killing machine becomes kept woman for some ultra hunky movie star. But she knew that after the fourth or fifth banal Hollywood party, she’d no doubt take up killing again out of boredom. Or perhaps she’d specifically target studio heads who insisted that sequels, remakes, and movies based on old TV shows and comic books were the only way to sell tickets.
    Six o’clock rolled around, and Hammett made her way to the Starbucks on Wilshire. Upon walking in, she instantly spotted an obviously agitated Stuart Lupowitz. Ten years older than his IMDb.com picture, gray and soft and scuzzy looking even in a five thousand dollar suit, he stood next to the men’s toilet, fidgeting and looking a lot like a pedophile who’d just been caught.
    Which is exactly what he was.
    “Mr. Lupowitz,” Hammett met him with a big smile and a surprise embrace, brushing the gun he’d placed in his jacket pocket, ruining the lines of his tailored Ralph Lauren. “So pleased to meet you. Did you bring a car?”
    He nodded, then