Dead and Not So Buried

by James L. Conway

  Shadow Boxing

  Everyone knows the traffic in L.A. sucks so I won’t bore you with all the details about the jackknifed semi on the Hollywood Freeway, or the hour and ten minutes it took me to drive the seven lousy miles back to my office.

  Okay, I’ve got to say this much. The goddamn truck wasn’t even on my side of the freeway; still, traffic snarled as everyone stopped to look. I mean, come on. Is life really that boring?

  When I walked into the office at five after eight Hillary was still there, stacks of files piled on her desk.

  “I’ve got it,” she said.

  “Well, keep away from me until you’re not contagious anymore.”

  “No, Gideon. I’ve got the answer.”

  “Great. What was the question?”

  “Who hates you? Who do you owe big time?”

  “That’s two questions.”

  “But the same answer.” She held up one of the files. “Yasif Begorian.”

  Yasif Begorian, a former client and owner of New Horizon Loan Company—really just a fancy name for his pawnshop in Van Nuys. It was right across from the Criminal Courts Building, sandwiched between two bond bailsmen, and a favorite stop for relatives of the recently arrested as they sell whatever they can to finance a handcuff-free homecoming.

  New Horizon was a twenty-four-hour operation, since crime tends to flourish while the planet’s back is to the sun. Yasif was convinced that his brother-in-law, Reza, who worked the late shift, was stealing him blind. So I installed a hidden camera inside one of the guitars hanging on the wall. I should have known this job had bad juju when Reza sold the guitar the first night and my camera disappeared out the door.

  The next day I planted a new camera inside a moose head over the door. Who the hell would buy a moose head, right? Unfortunately, the camera had a short. The moose head must’ve been cured in some kind of combustible material because as soon as the spark hit it, the damn thing burst into flames. The fire spread to a fake Persian rug on sale for two hundred and sixty-eight dollars. The fully engulfed rug fell onto a rack of cheap pink and yellow chiffon dresses stolen off the docks in San Pedro and sold to Yasif for twenty-five cents on the dollar. Highly flammable chiffon dresses. The fireball spread to a display of cheap stuffed animals bought from a bankrupt Taiwanese businessman for twenty cents on the dollar. The panda bear display was next to the storeroom where Yasif kept five cases of fireworks bought for fifteen cents on the dollar from a Mexican importer who was being deported. The flames crawled across the floor and gleefully leaped into the storeroom.

  The explosion blew out windows for two blocks. As luck would have it, Yasif ’s fire insurance had run out only two days earlier. The envelope containing the payment was in a dead letter bin in the post office because Yasif had used counterfeit stamps bought for ten cents on the dollar.

  Yasif ’s shop was a total loss. And he was sued for $832,000 by the surrounding businesses.

  Yasif, of course, blamed me. He swore that one day he’d eat my heart while jackals ripped the skin from my bones and buzzards fought over my eyeballs.

  But before Yasif could even spell retaliation, his brother-inlaw Reza stabbed him in the back. Literally. Reza went ballistic when he found out Yasif had hired me to spy on him. The stabbing severed Yasif ’s spinal cord. Reza’s in Lompoc doing five to fifteen, and Yasif, now a quadriplegic, has found religion. I’m told he wheels himself back and forth in his house—the Koran in his lap—in an electric wheelchair bought at a medical supply house fire sale for fifteen cents on the dollar.

  “I thought of Yasif,” I told Hillary. “But he’s found God. Besides, Yasif ’s got a big time accent. Our kidnapper’s voice is strictly American born and bred.”

  She turned back to the pile of files. “I’ll keep looking.”

  “Yes, you will. But not tonight.” I picked up her car keys, dangled them in front of her. “Go home.”

  “Are you going home?”

  “No. I’ve got work to do.” I was planning to hit the computer, run a few checks on Barry Winslow.

  She sat back down. “Then so do I.”

  “Go home, Hillary. I’ll be fine.”

  “I’m sure you will, but I won’t.” She tried to sound angry, but mostly she came off as nervous. Standing up to your boss is tough. Saying something heartfelt, something that really matters to you, is even harder. “You may think of me as, like, just a secretary, Gideon. But I want more. You promised I could become a detective. Well, I’ve taken every criminology class UCLA Extension has to offer.

  Studied karate and Tai Kwon Do. I’ve taken Handgun Safety classes, Advanced Targeting Techniques and Street Combat Training. I’ve contacted the Bureau of Security and Investigative Services. All I need now is three years investigative experience, six thousand verifiable hours with a licensed firm. Investigative experience doesn’t mean answering phones and making coffee. It doesn’t mean picking you up when your car’s stolen. It means actually working cases. Surveillance. Background checks. Interviews.”

  Hillary’s words sounded rehearsed but sincere. She took a ragged breath then delivered her ultimatum. “I’m sorry, Gideon, but if you don’t give me the opportunity I’ll find someone who will.”

  God, I was proud of her. We don’t often put ourselves on the line. Expose what we really want. Set ourselves up for a rejection that can have life-changing consequences. Maybe if we did, we’d have a better world. Maybe if people actually stood for something in their everyday lives, we’d see happier, prouder people walking down the street. Maybe they’d have enough pride that they wouldn’t have to stop and stare at every goddamn truck that flips over.

  Anyway, I looked into Hillary’s hopeful eyes. So blue. So beautiful. I said, “There’s a lot about this job that really sucks. The hours are lousy and so’s the money.”

  “I know. I keep your books, remember?”

  “We’re garbage collectors, digging through the trash looking for emotional maggots and cockroaches. We photograph infidelity. Chronicle felony. Find the liars. Expose the frauds. And when we do our job right, hearts are broken and lives are ruined.”

  “You’re not scaring me.”

  “I’m not trying to, it’s just that ... I want more for you. A better life than this. You should be married. Living in a big house with kids, a husband who drives a Lexus and a collie that looks like Lassie.”

  “I always wanted an Irish setter.”

  “Whatever. Don’t you see? You’re too ... sweet for this kind of work.”

  “Sweet? Yuk. That’s as bad as saying I’m, like, cute.”

  “You are cute.”

  “Okay, that’s it. I’m out of here.” She started for the door.

  “Hillary, wait!” She stopped. “All right. Call a couple personnel services in the morning. As soon as we find a secretary to replace you, I’ll put you to work as an investigator.”

  Hillary’s smile was incandescent as she rushed across the room and threw her arms around me. “Oh, Gideon, thank you.” It was a platonic hug, no fig leaf-required parts were touching. But she felt great in my arms.

  This was one of those times when my thoughts about Hillary lurched from pure to passionate. Luckily, the phone rang. I grabbed it. “Gideon Kincaid.”

  “It’s Barry Winslow. I need to see you. Right away.”

  He sounded scared. Terrified, in fact. “Sure, Barry. Where do you want to meet?”

  “My condo: 2222 Century Towers. And hurry.”

  View From The Top

  Roy Cooper watched as Barry Winslow hung up the phone.

  “Very good,” Roy said. “Maybe you should’ve been an actor instead of a writer.”

  Winslow’s eyes drifted from Roy’s face to the Sig Sauer .9mm in Roy’s left hand. “I’m too self-conscious to be an actor,” Winslow said. “I can’t stand people looking at me.”

  “Really? Then why do you drive a Porsche? Why do you wear kaleidoscopic luau shirts, thousand dollar cowboy boots and those idiotic gr
een contact lens? Of course you want people to look at you. You’re desperate for attention. We all are. But it takes a brave man to admit it. It takes a courageous man to take the ultimate step, to shed his skin and slip into a suit of imagination. To be an actor, a meat puppet ready to sacrifice one’s own identity to become a mirror for the heart and soul.”

  He’s crazy, Barry Winslow thought. I’m going to be killed by a crazy fucking actor and I’ve got no one to blame but myself.

  Barry Winslow had been in his bedroom packing when the doorbell rang fifteen minutes earlier. Annoyed that security hadn’t called to announce a visitor, Winslow hurried to the door, looked through the peephole.

  He didn’t recognize Roy at first. And why should he? He hadn’t seen the actor in five or six years. But once the features fell into place—the dusty-blond hair, thick eyebrows above sleepy hazel eyes, strong cheekbones and chin—the name wasn’t far behind.

  Roy Cooper. And the project, Ramrod. And the result—disaster.

  Winslow’s first thoughts were paranoid. What’s he doing here? What’s he want from me? Then a more reasonable part of his brain went to work. Wait a minute, Roy Cooper doesn’t know where I live. And why would he come looking for me after all these years? This must be some kind of coincidence. He just happens to be in the building, got lost, and is just looking for directions. Or he just moved in and is introducing himself to the neighbors.

  Then a guilt-ridden part of the brain took over. Maybe this was fate giving him a chance to make it up to Roy. He could give him a guest shot on the show, or a small character arc. Something big enough to jumpstart his career.

  Roy rang the bell again and Winslow, with hope in his heart, opened the door. Barry feigned confusion at first, then recognition. “Roy? Roy Cooper?” Winslow asked, all smiles, sticking out his hand. “What’re you doing here?”

  Roy’s answer was to stick an automatic into Winslow’s chest and shove him back into the room. Winslow’s heartbeat became a deafening timpani of thuds. Adrenaline drenched his brain, transforming reality into slow motion. Anomalies caught his eye—the plastic gloves on Roy’s hands, the surgical booties over his shoes, the canvas duffle bag over his shoulder.

  “What do you want?” Winslow stammered, damning himself as fear squeezed his voice into a high-pitched whine.

  “Justice,” Roy said. And that’s when Winslow knew he was dead.

  Jesus, Roy thought. He looks fucking terrified. I’ve never seen that in real life. Cool. Then he made an acting note to himself: Remember the way his eyes bug out, incorporate that into mirror exercises.

  “Please don’t kill me,” Winslow begged.

  Pitiful, Roy thought. Guy writes for a living and that’s the best he can come up with when his life’s on the line. “Don’t worry, Barry. Do as I tell you and you’ll live to hack another day.”

  He’s confused, too, Roy realized. Can’t imagine how I got past the security desk. Simple really, Roy had avoided the front door altogether. He staked out the building and then followed a sweet-looking grandmother type as she drove her five-year old Cadillac out of the underground parking garage to the Century City shopping mall. As soon as grandma walked inside Roy broke into the car and stole her parking garage opener. Then he used it to drive into Winslow’s building undetected.

  Roy’s eyes took in the condo. Fabulous. A total fuck palace. Winslow had told him about it while they were shooting Ramrod but had never invited him up. Book-lined walls to impress, cushy leather couch for comfort, antique side chairs for class, fully stocked wet bar to bait the trap and a million dollar view to reel them in.

  An object on the coffee table caught Roy’s eye, a sculpture of a nude woman standing spread-eagled over a martini glass. Weird concept, but the girl was so lifelike, bare feet curled over the glass, leg muscles tensed, thighs spread to reveal a triangular patch of pubic hair, flat stomach and perfectly rounded breasts. “This must be a real conversation starter.”

  “It is,” Winslow said tentatively, starting to feel a little better, a little less doomed, but measuring his words carefully. “And the conversation’s always about sex.”

  “And talking about it usually leads to doing it. You dog, you. Wait a minute. You told me about this when we were shooting the pilot. I think you called it your bronze aphrodisiac.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Man, you’ve got it all. Is it everything you always wanted?”

  Winslow wondered if this was a trick question. “Yes,” he ventured.

  “I bet it is. Me, I’ve got to bring the broads back to my one bedroom dump in Westwood. Let me tell you, it takes a real cocksman to get laid in that place. Oh, talking about pussy reminds me: I’ve got something for you.” Roy reached into the duffle bag. “Thought you might like to see this.” Roy pulled out a skull and tossed it to Winslow.”

  Barry juggled it, then gripped it tight. His panic-addled brain was having a hard time processing. “What’s this?”

  “Don’t you mean, who is it? Don’t you recognize her? It’s your idol, Barry. Christine Cole.”

  Revelation registered on Winslow’s face. Of course, the kidnapping that PI had told him about. Winslow stared at the skull, unknowingly assuming a Hamlet-like pose. “Is this really her?”

  “Yes.”

  Winslow’s gaze turned reverential. “Amazing.” He stroked the skull, brushing the few wisps of blond hair that still clung there.

  Roy watched Winslow, a little creeped out. “You two want to be alone?”

  Winslow ignored the dig. “What’re you going to do with her?”

  “Put her on display.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “Here. I was thinking of your bedroom.” Roy pointed the gun down the hallway. “Lead the way.”

  Winslow did. Roy noticed old movie posters lining the wall: Double Indemnity. The Maltese Falcon. The Thin Man. “These real?”

  “Originals, yeah. Bought them at auction at Christie’s.”

  “Expensive?”

  “Thousands.”

  “For old movie posters? Who would’ve thunk it? Wait …” Roy stopped, looking through a doorway into a room filled with more posters. “What’s this?”

  “My office.”

  Roy walked in, eyeballed the posters. Deadly Ransom. Femme Fatale. Never Again. Blue Moon. “Don’t you mean your shrine? These are all Christine Cole posters.”

  “What can I say? I’m a fan. I was fourteen when she made Deadly Ransom, and I fell in love.”

  A desk sat in the middle of the room, a twenty-seven-inch iMac sat on the middle of the desk. “This is where you do it? Create, I mean.”

  “Yeah.”

  So will I, thought Roy, but not until later. “Okay, back to business. Let’s see the bedroom.”

  It looked like it was designed at the House of Letch. A sixty-inch plasma screen TV faced a king-size bed. A cat slept on one of the pillows, and the bedspread looked like it was ... No, it couldn’t be. “Is that mink?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And let me guess. The next question the girls always ask is, ‘Can I touch it?’ ”

  “And that’s when I gently stroke the fur and say: ‘Of course, come, sit down.’ ”

  “And when they do it’s the beginning of the end.”

  “Or the beginning of the beginning.”

  Roy had to smile. This guy was good.

  The cat woke up, blinked sleepily at Winslow, and then noticed Roy. Instant panic. In a flash of fur, the cat catapulted off the bed, skittered across the floor and out the door.

  “I know just how she feels,” Winslow said.

  Roy noticed a half-packed suitcase on the bureau. “Going somewhere?”

  “Paris.”

  “Must be nice.” Roy’s eyes drifted to ceiling. There was a mirror above the bed. Unfuckingbelievable. The guy had everything.

  Next Roy checked out the walls. A bookcase lined one, filled with DVDs—everything from Citizen Kane to Guardians of the Gala
xy. Another wall was lined with framed 8x10 photos of Winslow with people who were supposed to impress you—movie stars, politicians.

  Roy’s eyes went back to the DVDs. “You have any of your own shows?”

  “All of them.” Winslow pointed to the third shelf. “I keep copies of all the Payback episodes and my three unsold pilots.”

  Roy noticed three DVDs at the end of the row. Dead Run, Ramrod, Shadow Chaser. “You know, I never got to see Ramrod.”

  “You were really great, Roy. Believe me. A shame it didn’t get on. I’ll get you a copy—if you let me live through this.”

  “I told you, Barry. I’m not here to kill you as long as you do as you’re told. And yes, I’d love a copy.”

  Roy peaked into the master bath. Marble everywhere … tub, shower, counter, toilet. Even one of those … “What do you call that?”

  “Bidet.”

  “Shoots water up your ass.”

  “Something like that.”

  “You ever use it?”

  “No.”

  A shadow crossed Roy’s face. “But we both know someone who would’ve loved it.”

  Winslow knew what Roy was talking about but didn’t dare go there. Better to change the subject. “So, where should we put Christine? The bed?”

  “No,” Roy said. “I have a better idea …”

  They arranged the bones, head to toe, as best they could. But there were a lot of bones and they couldn’t be sure where they all went. So they piled the extras in the ribcage. Then Roy led Winslow back to the living room and they made the call to Gideon Kincaid.

  “What happens when he gets here?” Barry asked.

  “All sorts of fun stuff.”

  The vagueness of Roy’s answer bothered Barry, but he didn’t have the guts to press it further.

  “You sure have a killer view,” Roy said, sliding open the balcony door. “Come on, let’s wait outside.”

  Barry loved this view, too. Sometimes he’d sit out there with his MacBook, working. Other times just sit staring off, letting his mind wander. But he’d never been out there with someone toting a .9mm Sig Sauer before.

  At that moment Roy swung the gun in Winslow’s direction. “I said: come out here.”