CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I shouldn’t have said that to Peter. We were having a good time looking at the Christmas decorations, and I think I dampened the mood of the evening with my diatribe about humanity. I had the were attack in the back of my mind, and the fact that I didn’t know who he was or why he’d come after me was pissing me off. Not to mention that I hadn’t done away with him when I had the chance. So I started railing about the Deluge and the War of the Triple Alliance, the Herero genocide, and, of course, the Armenian genocide. “You know what Hitler said when he ordered his death-head units out?” I asked Peter. “ ‘Gas the Jews; who remembers the Armenians?’ ” That left Peter sort of speechless; I don’t think he’d ever heard it. Actually, Hitler’s exact words were “Who, after all, speaks today of the annihilation of the Armenians?” I memorized them at the time. Right after I drained an SS officer. But I shouldn’t have brought it up in the first place; it wasn’t very festive. And certainly not on a second date. I shouldn’t have gotten started. But, you know, it’s one thing to read about the horrors mankind has perpetuated over the last five hundred years and quite another to have seen a lot of them with my own (sometimes raging red) eyes.

Anyway, I finally changed the subject. Peter asked about the films we had in production, and I told him one of my favorite agent stories—about the time we offered Matthew MacFadyen a role in Drown with Love and heard back from his agent that he hated the script and wasn’t interested, but that they had Denis Leary as a client and he’d love to do it. So we started negotiations with Denis, whom I love as well, and that weekend I ran into Matthew at a fund-raiser for blood disease. I told him I was sorry he hadn’t liked the project, we thought he’d be great in the role. He didn’t have any idea what I was talking about. His agents had never shown him the script or told him about the offer. They figured they could get more money for Denis, so screw their own client Matthew. Needless to say, Matthew’s not with them any longer.

That was the same agent who made an appointment with me to discuss a series idea he wanted Anticipation to produce. He handled the writer and Jeff Bridges, who was interested in starring. The writer and I made a date to meet at the agent’s office, but when we got there, his secretary said he was tied up on a conference call and it might be a bit of a wait. We waited. A half hour later, she tried to persuade us to reschedule the appointment because she said he was going to be on the phone a while longer. I rarely go to an agent’s office to begin with, they come to me, so I was already beginning to steam. I said we were there and we weren’t going anywhere, we’d wait. A half hour later, I got a call on my cell phone. It was the agent. He said he was in Aspen, Colorado, at the Comedy Festival and he’d gotten hung up and was really sorry, but he was going to have to reschedule. I told him he’d better look for another studio to “reschedule” with because I wasn’t interested in wasting any more of my time. The writer went home, hopefully to change agents, and Maral drove me over to Universal, where I was meeting Ron Myer at the commissary. And guess who walked in? Aspen—my ass.

I regaled Peter with a couple more industry stories, and then the Doobie Brothers came up on his iPod and we took turns trying to hit Michael McDonald’s high notes. Peter won.

We sang all the way to our next stop, which was a funky little outdoor restaurant in Glendale, with a four-piece band playing Armenian music and Peter’s friend SuzieQ doing a belly dance. I loved it.

I noticed Peter was careful not to get too close to me when he opened the car door, which was good; the smell of him only weakened my control all the more. He was worried about getting burned, and I was worried about doing the burning. If I didn’t concentrate, I’d be changing in the middle of the parking lot.

He smelled like fresh rain. Like green apples and comfort. Like “come lay your head on my breast and let me crush you to me”—whatever that smells like. I write horror films, I’m not so good with romantic descriptions.

He looked great, too. In black pants and a black David Bowie concert tour T-shirt with a beautiful dragon graphic and Japanese writing on it. It must have had Lycra in it, because it hugged every muscle on his chest, just the way I would have liked to.

SuzieQ was in the middle of her set, dancing to a guitar, a clarinet, a dumbek, and an oud. The host led us to a round table away from the dance floor. I suspected Peter had requested it because it was one of the more private spots on the patio. Peter ordered meza—a large plate of appetizers SuzieQ could share with us (and no one would notice if I didn’t eat)—yalanchi, souboereg, tourshou, keufteh, little squares of lahmajoon, and taramasalata, hummus, and tabouli for scooping onto pita. I felt like I was back in the old country again.

“Did you remember I was from Armenia when you decided to come here?” I asked. Very few people know my real nationality. As far as the public is concerned, Ovsanna Moore is third-generation Hollywood royalty. My “grandmother” came over from Europe in the early 1900s, and until “I” arrived, my “mother” had me going to boarding schools in London and Paris. Certainly no one except Maral and my clan knew my real name—Ovsanna Hovannes Garabedian.

“I wish I could say I did. That would make me pretty thoughtful, wouldn’t it?” He used three fingers to pop a stuffed grape leaf in his mouth. “But the truth is, SuzieQ suggested it. She’s here every other Tuesday. And she likes having friends in the audience.”

She was great fun to watch in her two-piece outfit: a push-up bra that barely covered her nipples and gave her generous breasts plenty of room to bobble; and an ankle-length, low-cut skirt made of a gauzy fabric sheer enough to see through, cut in panels so it opened when she danced. Her legs were long and muscled. I remembered the exotic dancers from my parents’ village; they didn’t look anything like SuzieQ. They were short, dark-skinned women with plenty of belly fat to roll around. And mustaches. Plenty of mustaches. Armenians thought they were sexy.

SuzieQ didn’t have a lot of belly fat, but she could really roll what she had. The women at the tables laughed and poked their husbands in their sides. The husbands laughed and tucked one-dollar bills into the waistband of SuzieQ’s skirt. The single men smirked and tucked five-dollar bills on top of the ones. By the time she finished her number, I couldn’t see her navel for all the cash. She took a bow and came to sit with us.

The host turned out to be the owner of the restaurant. He arrived at the table with a bottle in his hand. SuzieQ introduced him as Kerop Shamshoian.

“Ahman asdvatz. You’re the movie star, aren’t you? In my restaurant! Parev! Welcome, welcome. Have some raki. It’s good! We make it ourselves.” He pulled three shot glasses out of his pocket and set them on the table.

Raki is Armenian moonshine. If Kerop made it himself, it was probably two-hundred-proof alcohol. I shot Peter a look that said, “Help me out here,” and hoped he remembered that drinking anything but blood wasn’t high on my list of favorite things to do. Kerop uncorked the bottle and filled the glasses. Peter distracted him with a question about the menu, and while he was raving about his shish kebab, I emptied my shot glass under the table. Then we all said, “Kenats’t,” and Peter and SuzieQ downed the raki while I pretended to do the same. Even SuzieQ didn’t notice my sleight of hand. It helps, being an actress.