Read Online Bad Blood: Latter-Day Olympians by Lucienne Diver - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lucienne Diver
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“His business.”
I smiled to show I wasn’t intimidated. “There can’t be any harm in a little speculation.”
“Fine, I’d speculate that things like the Exxon Valdez, garbage barges, PCPs and other dumping haven’t really endeared mankind. Go figure.” With a shrug, he turned back to his project, an eerily life-like robotic arm, now flexing and relaxing at the twist of a screw.
“Fair enough. What about Circe?”
“What about her?” he echoed. “You list the first hundred people who come to mind and I’ll give you the whys and wherefores.”
“How about the top ten?”
He snorted. “Yeah, like I’ve got a ranking system. You got a Bulfinches Guide? Start there.”
I struggled not to grind my teeth. “How about the filming of Making Waves ? Anything happen there that might have set someone off?”
He looked up and speared my gaze. I felt like a fish flailing at the end of a hook. “Lady, do I seem like the social type? I create my effects back at the workshop. I only get out as required to set things up and then it’s straight back home. Circe repped the talent, but she didn’t play handler, so I’d guess she never even appeared on-site. I can’t see the connection. If that’s all you’ve got, I think Apollo’s wasting his money.”
Such a charmer. He went back to tinkering.
“Well, hey, thanks so much for all your cooperation. Could you at least pinpoint for me the locations of the shoot? I’d like to see if any of the oceanids or nereids are still around to interview.”
His brows rose, though his eyes didn’t. Grudgingly, he hefted his bulk out of his chair, walked stiff-legged to his single filing cabinet and yanked on a drawer that whined in protest. I didn’t see any tabs, just a mess of papers—glossy, blueprint, velum—all with ragged edges and seemingly tucked in any which way. He flipped through them quickly, flying past two or three pages at a time, clearly uncaring whether he found what he was looking for or not. Finally, though, he stopped, pulled out a map of coastline and thrust it at me.
I had to rise to accept it.
“Do you need these back?”
“The masters are on file somewhere. No need for you to come back.”
In other words, Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.
But I’d never let a little thing like social graces get in the way of my curiosity.
“What kind of effects did you do for the film?”
I hadn’t noticed before, but his brow ridge was really pronounced when he scowled.
“Functional mermaid tails, kelp hair, that kind of thing,” he answered, beginning to crowd me toward the door.
“Did you notice any of the nereids or oceanids hanging around?”
“Sure, the sirens and I had a little tea party, dined on barnacle stew.” He reached around behind me for the door. “If there’s nothing else—” a push that was more of a shove and the door shut in my face.
Wow, the charm was simply staggering. Finally, a man I’d want to bring home to mother. For a cage match.
Early spring was probably my favorite time to visit Venice Beach. Fall and winter were too tarted up for my taste with all the overblown seasonal displays. Summer was gorgeous, of course, especially if you considered it a perk to be cheek by surgically altered jowl with the bronze and the beautiful. Thongs as far as the eye could see. Speedos on men who could almost pull off the look. In the whole history of the world, the part I’d been around for anyway, there’d been maybe three men who could make the bikini bathing suit work—Greg Louganis, Mark Spitz and…okay, two men. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a huge fan of the natural male physique. It was more the weight machine bulging-in-odd-places look that gave me trouble. I much preferred the taut, streamlined, natural approach. You didn’t see much of that in L.A. But I digress.
By early spring, all that was done. Venice Beach, L.A. and its environs were as close to normal as they ever got. Real? Well,
I smiled to show I wasn’t intimidated. “There can’t be any harm in a little speculation.”
“Fine, I’d speculate that things like the Exxon Valdez, garbage barges, PCPs and other dumping haven’t really endeared mankind. Go figure.” With a shrug, he turned back to his project, an eerily life-like robotic arm, now flexing and relaxing at the twist of a screw.
“Fair enough. What about Circe?”
“What about her?” he echoed. “You list the first hundred people who come to mind and I’ll give you the whys and wherefores.”
“How about the top ten?”
He snorted. “Yeah, like I’ve got a ranking system. You got a Bulfinches Guide? Start there.”
I struggled not to grind my teeth. “How about the filming of Making Waves ? Anything happen there that might have set someone off?”
He looked up and speared my gaze. I felt like a fish flailing at the end of a hook. “Lady, do I seem like the social type? I create my effects back at the workshop. I only get out as required to set things up and then it’s straight back home. Circe repped the talent, but she didn’t play handler, so I’d guess she never even appeared on-site. I can’t see the connection. If that’s all you’ve got, I think Apollo’s wasting his money.”
Such a charmer. He went back to tinkering.
“Well, hey, thanks so much for all your cooperation. Could you at least pinpoint for me the locations of the shoot? I’d like to see if any of the oceanids or nereids are still around to interview.”
His brows rose, though his eyes didn’t. Grudgingly, he hefted his bulk out of his chair, walked stiff-legged to his single filing cabinet and yanked on a drawer that whined in protest. I didn’t see any tabs, just a mess of papers—glossy, blueprint, velum—all with ragged edges and seemingly tucked in any which way. He flipped through them quickly, flying past two or three pages at a time, clearly uncaring whether he found what he was looking for or not. Finally, though, he stopped, pulled out a map of coastline and thrust it at me.
I had to rise to accept it.
“Do you need these back?”
“The masters are on file somewhere. No need for you to come back.”
In other words, Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.
But I’d never let a little thing like social graces get in the way of my curiosity.
“What kind of effects did you do for the film?”
I hadn’t noticed before, but his brow ridge was really pronounced when he scowled.
“Functional mermaid tails, kelp hair, that kind of thing,” he answered, beginning to crowd me toward the door.
“Did you notice any of the nereids or oceanids hanging around?”
“Sure, the sirens and I had a little tea party, dined on barnacle stew.” He reached around behind me for the door. “If there’s nothing else—” a push that was more of a shove and the door shut in my face.
Wow, the charm was simply staggering. Finally, a man I’d want to bring home to mother. For a cage match.
Early spring was probably my favorite time to visit Venice Beach. Fall and winter were too tarted up for my taste with all the overblown seasonal displays. Summer was gorgeous, of course, especially if you considered it a perk to be cheek by surgically altered jowl with the bronze and the beautiful. Thongs as far as the eye could see. Speedos on men who could almost pull off the look. In the whole history of the world, the part I’d been around for anyway, there’d been maybe three men who could make the bikini bathing suit work—Greg Louganis, Mark Spitz and…okay, two men. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a huge fan of the natural male physique. It was more the weight machine bulging-in-odd-places look that gave me trouble. I much preferred the taut, streamlined, natural approach. You didn’t see much of that in L.A. But I digress.
By early spring, all that was done. Venice Beach, L.A. and its environs were as close to normal as they ever got. Real? Well,
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