Randall #02 - Ghost Writers in the Sky Read Free Page A

had a few necessities in my carry-on.
    I looked around the little Santa Barbara airport for anybody who looked like greeters for the conference, but saw no likely candidates. I didn’t really expect Gabriella’s people to wait so long. It was nearly seven. The opening reception would be going strong by now.
    I flagged a taxi and told the driver the address in Santa Ynez. The unsmiling little man seemed to speak no English, but he nodded seemed to understand when I said “Santa Ynez.” He repeated the name of the town with lilting Spanish inflection.
    He didn’t seem to be speeding, but we arrived at our destination in amazingly good time. I thanked him and gave him a couple of twenties, hoping that would be enough. He gave a sudden wide grin, jumped back in the taxi, and took off so fast I wondered if he might be dealing with some sort of bathroom emergency.  
    I peered through the evening gloom, but saw no sign of Gabriella’s ranch—or the writers who should have been gathered for the opening reception dinner.
    I didn’t see any golden hills, fat cattle or vineyards, either. Nothing but the strained quiet of over-manicured suburbia.
    I felt a sudden icky sensation run down my neck.
    I could feel someone watching me—lurking in a shadowy open garage across the street. I heard the snarl of a motorcycle engine and reached in my bag for the hairspray—a useful weapon in a pinch.
    I headed for the corner with purposeful stride—or as close an approximation of stride as I could achieve in my wobbly Manolos. Under the street lamp, I saw a sign that said, "Santa Ynez Ct."
    Oops. The driver thought I meant the Court, not the town. That’s why the trip from the airport had been so improbably short. I must still be in Santa Barbara.
    And I’d really overtipped that driver.
    I told myself to think positive: be grateful to the airline for losing my luggage. This would be a whole lot worse if I were carrying all those suitcases. I’ve never learned to pack light.
    A motorcycle roared down the driveway from the ominous garage. I clutched the hair spray and re-arranged my face into a stiff smile.
    The rider pulled up beside me and lifted his face guard.
    “ Doctor Manners? I thought I recognized you, darlin’.”
    He grinned, displaying a serious need for dental work.
    Apparently members of the Santa Barbara outlaw biker community read the New York Post .
     “ It’s me.” The man took off the helmet. His look was something between cave person and aging rock star entering rehab. His eyebrows might have done damage in their own right. “From the Saloon. You’re a long way from Santa Ynez, sweet thing.”
      He knew where I was going. This was getting creepier by the minute. I didn’t see a camera, but he had to be a paparazzo. Gabriella probably put out some publicity about me for the conference and this guy had followed me from the airport.
     “ I don’t frequent saloons.” I gave him a look that, while not exactly rude, was of a chilliness that could usually shrivel a Manhattan maître d’ .
    He responded with a suggestive chortle. “Oooh, I love that talk. Come on darlin’.”
    I realized I was going to have to let him take his pictures. This wasn’t a case of being able to close the drapes. After fifteen years of marriage to a TV celebrity, I’d learned the best way to get rid of some paparazzi is to give them what they want.
    “ Okay, you win.” I smoothed my hair and gave him a celebrity smile. “Get out your equipment.”
    “ In the goddam street? Doc, you are into the kink!” With an animal grunt, he lunged in my direction. I jumped back, but he caught my wrist and jerked me toward his leather-clad chest. “I am up for some fun, darlin’, but I like a little privacy. I just got paid for an ’88 Norton I rebuilt for that old fart across the street.”
    The man’s breath needed to be reported to the EPA.
    “ What say we hit the Saloon, then my place? I’ve been a bad, bad boy…