Pat.
Dialogue from a private mailbox, between “Rick” and “Pat,” at 7:19 that Friday morning:
PATRIOT : Speaking of niggers and records…there’s a nigger singer who ain’t making records any more…no more rallies for queers either.
AMERICKAN : Watch what U say. Will there B enough humiliation 4 subject once L.S. is discovered?
PATRIOT : Yes…went smoothly…her assistant’s cooperating.
AMERICKAN : Good…you’ll B coming to L.A. within week…work begun on A.C…details 2 follow…SAAMO Lieut. signing off.
Avery Cooper shivered as he climbed out of the pool. He hiked up his dark blue trunks and threw a towel over his shoulders. As a little reward for finishing his morning laps, he gulped down a glass of orange juice.
Catching his breath on the pool deck, he glanced up at the back of his house, a beautiful two-story, Spanish white stucco. Avery reminded himself how lucky he was. The high-class hacienda had belonged to a big-name record producer, bankrupt after a misguided venture into filmmaking. Avery and Joanne had bought the place for a song. At least that was what his parents had said, and they were in the real estate business.
Married forty-two years, Rich and Loretta Cooper were still crazy about each other. Lo worked as a receptionist in Rich’s office. Business was booming in Fairfax, Virginia. But they managed to have lunch together every day—sometimes later or earlier than they wanted, because a house needed to be shown; but they hadn’t missed a lunch together in seventeen years.
It was a far cry from Avery’s married life—with Joanne gone for months at a time. Sure, when they were together, the honeymoon went on and on. But he was lonely and miserable most of the time. And he had to keep reminding himself how goddamn lucky he was. After all, who wouldn’t want his life? He was paid an obscene amount of money to work at something he loved. And he used his celebrity clout to advocate important causes. His gun-control commercials with Joanne made a difference.
Avery had a good friend in junior high school named Jimmy Fadden. Along with his sister and mother, Jimmy had stopped by for dinner one April night at an upscale burger joint called The Checkered Pantry, outside Fairfax. Avery had eaten there dozens of times—often with Jimmy. But he wasn’t there that warm spring evening when a crazy man with a gun stepped into the restaurant and started shooting. He killed seven people and wounded six more before turning the gun on himself. Mrs. Fadden and nine-year-old Gina were among the seven fatalities. Jimmy took a bullet in the spine and spent the rest of his life a paraplegic. He told Avery that he’d been yelling at his kid sister for swiping fries from his plate when he’d heard the first shot.
Mr. Fadden remarried, and the family moved away when Avery was in high school. But he’d been thinking of Jimmy when he made Intent to Kill , about the doctor paralyzed by a gunman’s bullet outside an abortion clinic. Amid all the hate mail, he also received a letter from Jim Fadden, complimenting him for his accurate portrayal of a paraplegic, and thanking him for his work advocating gun control.
The poison-pen letters had tapered off, and neither Joanne nor he had come across any more dead mice calling cards. They’d sent her bodyguard packing. Joanne had been home a week now. She wanted to stay awhile and work on having a baby. They’d been working on it all week.
Avery glanced up at the bedroom windows. The veranda doors opened, and Joanne stepped out on the balcony. She wore a long, teal silk robe. Her brown hair neatly fell down over her shoulders. Even from the distance, Avery could see she’d put on lipstick and mascara. She looked beautiful in the soft morning light. “Hey, sweetie, why are you up so early?” he called.
In reply, Joanne let the robe drop to the floor. She was naked.
Avery stared at her, mesmerized. She was a vision. After a moment, he threw off his
Dialogue from a private mailbox, between “Rick” and “Pat,” at 7:19 that Friday morning:
PATRIOT : Speaking of niggers and records…there’s a nigger singer who ain’t making records any more…no more rallies for queers either.
AMERICKAN : Watch what U say. Will there B enough humiliation 4 subject once L.S. is discovered?
PATRIOT : Yes…went smoothly…her assistant’s cooperating.
AMERICKAN : Good…you’ll B coming to L.A. within week…work begun on A.C…details 2 follow…SAAMO Lieut. signing off.
Avery Cooper shivered as he climbed out of the pool. He hiked up his dark blue trunks and threw a towel over his shoulders. As a little reward for finishing his morning laps, he gulped down a glass of orange juice.
Catching his breath on the pool deck, he glanced up at the back of his house, a beautiful two-story, Spanish white stucco. Avery reminded himself how lucky he was. The high-class hacienda had belonged to a big-name record producer, bankrupt after a misguided venture into filmmaking. Avery and Joanne had bought the place for a song. At least that was what his parents had said, and they were in the real estate business.
Married forty-two years, Rich and Loretta Cooper were still crazy about each other. Lo worked as a receptionist in Rich’s office. Business was booming in Fairfax, Virginia. But they managed to have lunch together every day—sometimes later or earlier than they wanted, because a house needed to be shown; but they hadn’t missed a lunch together in seventeen years.
It was a far cry from Avery’s married life—with Joanne gone for months at a time. Sure, when they were together, the honeymoon went on and on. But he was lonely and miserable most of the time. And he had to keep reminding himself how goddamn lucky he was. After all, who wouldn’t want his life? He was paid an obscene amount of money to work at something he loved. And he used his celebrity clout to advocate important causes. His gun-control commercials with Joanne made a difference.
Avery had a good friend in junior high school named Jimmy Fadden. Along with his sister and mother, Jimmy had stopped by for dinner one April night at an upscale burger joint called The Checkered Pantry, outside Fairfax. Avery had eaten there dozens of times—often with Jimmy. But he wasn’t there that warm spring evening when a crazy man with a gun stepped into the restaurant and started shooting. He killed seven people and wounded six more before turning the gun on himself. Mrs. Fadden and nine-year-old Gina were among the seven fatalities. Jimmy took a bullet in the spine and spent the rest of his life a paraplegic. He told Avery that he’d been yelling at his kid sister for swiping fries from his plate when he’d heard the first shot.
Mr. Fadden remarried, and the family moved away when Avery was in high school. But he’d been thinking of Jimmy when he made Intent to Kill , about the doctor paralyzed by a gunman’s bullet outside an abortion clinic. Amid all the hate mail, he also received a letter from Jim Fadden, complimenting him for his accurate portrayal of a paraplegic, and thanking him for his work advocating gun control.
The poison-pen letters had tapered off, and neither Joanne nor he had come across any more dead mice calling cards. They’d sent her bodyguard packing. Joanne had been home a week now. She wanted to stay awhile and work on having a baby. They’d been working on it all week.
Avery glanced up at the bedroom windows. The veranda doors opened, and Joanne stepped out on the balcony. She wore a long, teal silk robe. Her brown hair neatly fell down over her shoulders. Even from the distance, Avery could see she’d put on lipstick and mascara. She looked beautiful in the soft morning light. “Hey, sweetie, why are you up so early?” he called.
In reply, Joanne let the robe drop to the floor. She was naked.
Avery stared at her, mesmerized. She was a vision. After a moment, he threw off his
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