The Most Dangerous Time

By David LaGraff

Rickie is a Beverly Hills trophy wife who has only recently escaped her abusive producer husband and finds a newfound freedom in the home of a friend. As the air begins to clear, a new man enters the picture just as her husband sets in motion a plan to take her life. After a failed suicide attempt clears her head, Rickie finally understands what must be done.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David LaGraff
• Release date: Apr 14, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452490007

David LaGraff

I've been telling stories since I was old enough to talk. My readers find themselves in a world which centers on romance but with a twist, as the love grows in the midst of extreme crisis. I write for those who have been knocked down a few times by life and may or may not have recovered yet. This stress opens them up to people they would not ordinarily include in their inner circles and changes forever the tapestry of love and the way they think and feel about life. My tales take place in a near-psychotic state, or perhaps profoundly neurotic, a condition which allows for a spiritual dimension to enter, wherein invisible forces which normally run smoothly in the background begin to bubble through the cracks in their psyches. My people perceive these forces as perhaps a divine intervention of sorts, something to be added to their arsenal to deal with the conflicts. Under the twin pressure of immediate external stress and the infusion of newfound spirituality from within my heroes and heroines must change and become someone newly capable of creating a new life going forward.

Book preview

Chapter 1

To the world at large, Hirschfeld was the much-celebrated producer of many important films, but to Rickie, he was a large, powerful troll. In the beginning, he'd been blown away by her long slender legs and red hair, and she'd been swept off her feet by the whirlwind of his power. Following their hasty marriage in Vegas, his whirlwind morphed into a nasty, unrelenting storm.

It was always worse on Friday night. In their kitchen inside The Dell, away from the prying eyes of Beverly Hills tourists and Hollywood gossips, Hirschfeld's storm was brewing.

God damn it, Rickie, he said. You got the wrong wine.

Rickie froze and regarded him fearfully. He'd come home from the studio drunk, and whenever that happened, he was going to find something. To make matters worse, she was guilty as charged. Instead of his favorite wine, the Joseph Phelps 2005 Insignia, priced at 200 bucks a bottle, she'd tried to substitute the Cobblestone 2002, the 40 dollar stuff he served at parties.

Don't blame me, she said. It's those idiots over at The Cheese Store. I ordered your wine, but when they made their delivery, they forgot to bring it.

Why is it when something goes wrong around here it's never your fault? He was closer now, his hooded eyes looking at her and through her.

I'm sorry, she said. I should have checked when they made their delivery.

He shattered the half-full glass of inferior wine in the sink, splashing the countertop and floor with what looked like blood. The big man approached her. Her breathing stopped as the heat and panic of fear flooded in. Friday night.

You don't do shit all day, he said. And you don't even do that right.

Honey, she said, if you want me to, I'll run down to The Cheese Store right now and get your wine.

He wasn't listening. His eyes closed and he cocked his head, as though listening to a faint message within himself. His eyes opened, narrowed with rage.

You lazy, stupid bitch!

She felt oddly grateful no damage was done to her face. As good fortune would have it, she'd reflexively stepped back, slipping on the freshly spilled wine as he threw the first punch, and his knuckles only grazed her cheek. He more than made up for it when he landed on top of her, driving his knee into her stomach. She lay motionless, gasping for air for what felt like an eternity.

When he finally left her alone, she remained where she was, curled in a ball and listening carefully to be sure he'd really left the house. It wasn't until she heard his Rolls leave the driveway that she dared get up.

She made her own escape down the hill, across Sunset Boulevard to R.J.'s Bar and Grill on Beverly Drive, the place she always retreated to whenever this happened, instinctively choosing the place most familiar and yet somewhat impersonal.

Standing with one foot on the brass rail at the far end of the oak bar, the darkest spot she could find, she tossed down a short scotch and signaled for another. Perhaps it would help dull the aching pain in her stomach. She'd finish her drink before the industry people poured in, and be long gone by the time Hirschfeld figured out where she was and came looking for her.

There were a couple of options. She could make the long trip out to Encino to seek shelter with her son, Jesse Edwin, or drop in on her best friend Judy, who lived close by at Venice Beach.

She stepped outside to find the late winter sky prematurely blackened from an incoming winter storm. A heavy rain would make the trip out to her son's place somewhat treacherous.

Judy was her best bet. While waiting for the valet to bring the Mercedes around, she whipped out her Blackberry and punched the speed dial.

It's me, she said. I need a shoulder to cry on and a place to stay. It's either you or Jesse Edwin.

He did it again, didn't he? Judy said.

I can't talk about it now.

Understood, Judy said. Can you drive? Or do I need to come and get you.

I can drive.

Then forget about driving to your son's place in the Valley. KFI just broadcast a traffic alert. The storm's already hit out there. I'll open a fresh bottle of wine.

Rickie felt slightly better. There was some serious soul-searching to be done. Judy could always be counted on in this regard. An additional bonus--heavy rains would clear the beach of tourists. The strand would be deserted, isolation she always appreciated after such episodes of violence, which always left her feeling shaken and claustrophobic in crowds.

She put the powerful car in gear and slid out into the rush hour traffic, driving carefully, cautious of the alcohol in her veins. There were a lot of decisions to make and a lot of things she wasn't certain about, but of one thing she was sure.

This time, she wasn't going back to the troll.

Chapter 2

They were in the cozy kitchen of Judy's place, a cute bungalow with a large front garden, walking distance to the Pacific Ocean, and steps away from the monolith of Shutters hotel, the only hotel in Los Angeles which sat directly on the beach.

Judy, a quick, slim woman, her elfin face crowned with arty, spiked wisps of henna-tinged black hair, conducted an experiment on a Foster Farms all natural chicken. The bird appeared to have fared poorly in life, only to have died badly.

Hirschfeld always pulls this little number on Friday, Judy said.

Not every Friday, Rickie said.

Don't argue, Judy said. When you defend him, it makes me feel like you're blind. Admit it, Rickie!

You're right. Friday is usually the day.

Rickie's mood was tamped further into its dark emotional hole by the steady splatter of the big, flat, wet drops against the kitchen window, the storm gaining in power by the minute.

I don't know how it all came to this, she said. Can you believe the man was a charmer when I met him? And a genius.

Judy began basting heavy dollops of what may or may not have been plum sauce over the skinless breast of the dead chicken prior to the final insult--its incineration on her downdraft grill.

Do you remember it was I who advised you not to marry him? He always scared me, but you never saw past his charm.

I guess I'll be here awhile, Rickie said.

You can stay here as long as you like. Same rules as before. Hirschfeld doesn't come inside for any reason. I'll put the police baton under the couch the way we did last time.

Thank you, Judy.

You better put your car in my garage. We don't want the bastard to see it. Not to mention nobody leaves a hundred and fifty thousand dollar vehicle parked on the street in this neighborhood. I'll park my old heap out front. It'll be like last time you stayed here. We should probably close all the curtains. I suppose he'll be cruising by here at all hours of the day or night.

Leave the curtains open. I want him to know I'm not alone. He won't try anything if he knows you're with me.

We don't know that. Last year he was bragging about how he hired two hit men to kill somebody.

He was drunk, Rickie said. I'm sure that never happened.

Are you? Rickie, do you really know this man?

Rickie sighed. I almost made it to the weekend. I had the perfect evening planned. Juana and I cleaned the house top to bottom. I personally spent most of the day waxing the kitchen floor. I had his favorite old Bronson movie cued up.

Why'd he hit you? What was his excuse?

I think it was his usual end of the week blues, Rickie said. He has his greatest emotional difficulties during the latter part of the week. He's been under a lot of strain lately.

The man is a psycho, Judy said.

He's under a lot of pressure. The production company's behind schedule and they won't take his phone calls, even though he controls a fifteen point share. They've got a big pyrotechnics scene to shoot Sunday night down near the bus terminal. He's pretty worked up. He's tired of being the only one on the project holding up his end.

Everybody's under pressure, Judy said. What was his specific reason for flying into a rage and punching your lights out?

I screwed up. I forgot to order the wine he likes.

Right, Rickie. You screwed up again. Or maybe that wasn't the real reason. Maybe the big fat slob hit you because you are too thin, or because you could double for Audrey Hepburn, or because you're a whole lot smarter than he is, or because you didn't have your makeup on quite right. The handwriting's on the wall, Rickie. The man is going to kill you.

Rickie's voice squeaked. I'm not going back.

You don't have to say that to me, Judy said. It's only the two of us here. Besides I'm tired of you saying that and always changing your mind.

I know I've threatened to leave him before. I know I've always gone back. This time I mean it.

Rickie, don't tell me. Convince yourself.

I know. I always go back to him because I can't stand the pain and loneliness of the separation. You don't know him like I do, Judy. After we have a blowout, he becomes his old self again.

Correction, Judy said. It's not after we have a blowout. It's after he has a blowup.

I'm a little worried that he might have hurt me. I've got a sharp pain in my stomach where he slammed me with his knee.

Judy refilled their squat tumblers with the excellent, buttery, dark red cabernet, which Rickie sipped carefully.

The roof leaked in a few places, and Judy had placed several pots, the resulting atonal symphony of droplets providing a sort of droll music for the interior spirit of the home.

It won't be easy for you, Rickie. Adjusting to the single life, I mean. There'll be nobody to hug you, nobody to fill in those little blank spaces life seems to be so full of. Maybe you shouldn't be promising yourself anything right now. Just make it through tonight and we'll go from there.

I'm getting a little buzzed from this wine. I better go put my car away while I still can.

At that exact moment, there was a loud bang and scrunch of glass breaking in the living room, followed by tires squealing in the street.

Judy caught Rickie's arm and squeezed it tight. The two women remained united for a moment in their fearful frozenness, aware that the signposts guiding their lives no longer pointed at the heart of happy things, but rather to distant, fearful domains, places where anguish and disbelief, like the storm outside the cottage, caused one to lose sight of all the little pretenses people invented to make their lives bearable.

Judy broke free and went to peer out the living room window. It was him. Oh! I can't believe this! He threw a tequila bottle through my front window! Hirschfeld's been out there the whole time, watching us, and getting drunk. He's a fucking stalker.

I'm going to put my car away before he comes back.

All the tires were flat. Shaken, Rickie rushed back to the safety of the kitchen.

He must have turned off my car alarm before he flattened all my tires, Rickie whispered. I'm sorry, Judy. I'll pay for the damage to your front window. I won't stay here tonight.

Where will you go?

I'll have to brave the storm. I'll call a cab stay with my son.

You can't do that. He's only been out of rehab a few months. It's not easy on him being newly sober. You need to give him a little space. Besides, you can't get a cab when it's raining.

You're right. Jesse Edwin might fall apart when he finds out. It would be unfair of me to test my son's fledgling sobriety. I'll tell you what. Let me borrow your umbrella and I'll walk over and book a suite at Shutters and call you in the morning.

That's way too expensive.

It's Hershey's money. Think of it as payback.

Hirschfeld's a belligerent sonofabitch, Judy said. He's beneath contempt. She released her grip on Rickie's arm and began puncturing the burning chicken carcass with a long-handled fork, the action vigorous, gratuitous, even, as though the chicken represented certain specific parts of Hirschfeld's lower anatomy.

It'd be a whole lot easier if I hated his guts. Not that I still love him.

You've got Stockholm syndrome. Hirschfeld is a terrorist and you bonded with him. He's done nothing but humiliate and degrade you. Not only physically, but in everything he says to you and everything he does.

We're not as bad as some couples. We've never been featured on an episode of COPS.

That's because COPS doesn't film in Beverly Hills.

It's not like we're trailer park trash. For heaven's sakes, Judy. Even our house has a name. The Dell. How many people do you know have a name for their house?

It's not a house. It's a medieval mansion, with you trapped in the dungeon. Now do me a favor.

Anything.

Judy speared the chicken carcass and unceremoniously dumped it into the trash. Shut up for the next five minutes and get yourself together. I'm treating you to dinner at the hotel.

Chapter 3

They were down to coffees laced with Drambuie, accompanied by cheesecake pudding at a dim, small booth in the back of One Pico, the French joint located inside Shutters. The ground floor location of One Pico was not without peril as the storm outside drove the surf high up the beach on which the hotel sat.

When I married Hershey, Rickie said, it all happened so fast. You remember that wedding we had in Vegas?

How could I forget? Judy said. As your maid of honor, I can testify he was drunk the whole time.

I must have been out of my mind to marry him on the spur of the moment like that, Rickie continued. What was I thinking? I didn't even tell my son his mother was getting married.

That should have told you something, Judy said. But don't blame yourself. Five years ago, Jesse Edwin was too busy getting wasted to care what his mother did.

I had no idea how quickly things would turn to shit. The first week after we got back from Vegas, Hirschfeld and I started arguing over the pattern the vacuum made on the carpet. That was the first time he slugged me. He broke off my left front tooth. I went into total shock.

We all did.

Looking back, Judy, I think I married Hirschfeld because I was overwhelmed by his money and power. The night I met him was the first time I'd ever ridden in a Rolls. I was also very flattered. Starlets throw themselves at him four or five times a day.

Rickie, forget the starlets. He was lucky to find you. You're a natural beauty. That's something rare in Hollywood. And you're mature. There's no way he could keep up with a young trophy wife.

I guess. Sometimes I think the real reason I got married was because I was single and going nowhere at 45. I sacrificed my life for my son, and I was facing the empty nest years alone.

Okay, said Judy. It's all behind you tonight. The question is, where do you go from here?

I don't know. I do know I'm not going back. I meant what I said earlier.

They were practically alone. There were few diners, save for a