by David Chill
"Yeah, there's something I want to tell you," Ferris said, and I turned back to him. "This investigation on Eric Starr? It's mine. I started it and I want to finish it. You need to report to me. Whatever you learn, I want to know about it."
"That's nice. Makes sense, too. But, no, sorry."
"No?" he asked, eyebrows arching.
"No. I was hired by Nick Roche. I'm being paid out of Nick Roche's budget. He approves my invoices. I report to him, not you."
"You don't make friends easily, do you?"
"Neither do you, if I recall. Look, Hector," I sighed, "I want to work with you. Not against you. But my rules are pretty straightforward. They're not negotiable. When I find out something, you'll be the second call I make."
Ferris gazed at me some more. Then, as if some magical wand of acceptance had been waved over him, a sense perhaps, that arguing with me would be fruitless, he reached into his desk and came out with a manila file. He put on a pair of gold-framed reading glasses and perused some papers. "Eric Starr. Quite a success story. He built a great fortune over at Laputa."
"As they say, behind every great fortune is a great crime."
Ferris looked up at me again, still maintaining his placid expression. I wasn't even sure he had heard me. "Eric does have some history," he finally said, "but nothing that would prevent him from taking the reins here."
"Tell me about his history."
"You know about his partner and the accident?"
"Partner?"
"Business partner," he said, frowning. "It was all over the news. Jack Beale. Couple of years ago. Took his boat out one day with some friends, did a booze cruise. Everyone having a good time, just sailing along on the ocean blue. Then someone noticed Jack wasn't there. Not on the boat, nowhere."
"Only one exit," I said.
"Yeah, and the ocean's an awfully big place to search. His body never washed ashore. Probably wound up somewhere in the middle of the Pacific."
"Think he was pushed?"
"Always a possibility. Best anyone could figure is he got drunk and somehow fell in. But there were about 10 people on the boat and their stories all matched. It was finally ruled an accident. Can't have a homicide without a body. Or a murder weapon. Or a witness."
"Was Eric on the boat?"
"Nope, he was actually in New York at the time. Can't beat that for an alibi. I guess the epilogue is what happened to the company. The terms of their partner agreement. If one partner wasn't around, the other would assume control. Eric became king of the hill. Jack's wife got nothing. When someone disappears, they have to wait seven years before the missing person's declared dead."
"You've done your homework. Anything else?"
"Nothing out of the ordinary. I mean, if we were hiring a traditional CEO, Eric would be taken out of the consideration pool right away. But not around here. There's been some behavioral issues. Drugs, a few fights. You sometimes see this in guys who launch Internet startups. Not a lot of boundaries."
"As opposed to the entertainment industry," I observed.
"There are similarities, sure."
"Think there's more?"
"I know there's more," he said, somewhat earnestly. "I just can't pry the details out of anybody. Everyone knows I'm with BMB and they won't speak with me. That's why you're here."
"Any suggestions where I should start?"
"How about at the beginning?"
I rolled my eyes. Everyone is just so witty these days. "All right," I said. "I'll poke around. Who've you talked to so far?"
"Mostly colleagues at Laputa. They all say he's brilliant. A little crazy. But they won't go into details."
"A little crazy isn't bad sometimes," I mused. "Can lead you to new things. Ideas you never thought of."
"Right. Maybe you should head up our search committee. I'll go ask the chairman of the board to step aside."
"Maybe you should. Say, let me ask you about that Patty."
Ferris raised his eyebrows. "What about her?"
"Roche made a comment about someone hitting on her. Anything to that?"
"What do you care?"
I shrugged. "Just curious. That's why I like P.I. work. Might mean nothing, might mean something."
Ferris looked at me curiously. "Sorry. There are some things I don't talk about."
"Well now you've got my attention."
"Look, there's nothing to most of this sexual harassment stuff," Ferris said dismissively. "Half of it is meaningless banter. For some guys, a sleazy remark is just their way of flirting. Once in a while, there really is harassment, but proving it is another story. He said, she said. I talk to the people involved, tell them about company policy, give them lessons in manners. It usually doesn't amount to much. Once in a while it does."
"Patty's cute. And flirtatious. I'm sure she draws a lot of attention. And some stray comments, too."
"I'm sure it's happened," he said, his voice sounding both annoyed and strained. "But did you stop and think about the possibility that maybe Patty wasn't the one being harassed here?"
I sat back in my gray cloth chair. No, I hadn't thought about that.
Chapter 2
It was a pleasant day in late March. Most days in Los Angeles were pleasant. I had called Johnny Cleary last week, and he was still shoveling snow off his driveway in suburban Chicago. In places like the Upper Midwest, spring is a cruel joke that lasts a few weeks, sandwiched between a bitter-cold winter and a sweltering summer. In L.A. however, spring extends for most of the year. Los Angeles is one of the warmest places in the winter and one of the coolest in the summer. Hardly fair, but the temperate climate comes with an ugly pairing of smog, rage-inducing traffic jams, and the constant threat of an earthquake that could level the entire region. It is a balance which many of us endure for the enjoyment of nice weather.
I walked into the Apple Pan, and its horseshoe shaped counter was almost full. The Apple Pan has been around since World War II and is now a classic L.A. icon. They serve burgers, a few sandwiches, pie, and not much more. The drinks are delivered in old-fashioned paper cones inserted into red plastic cup-holders. The waiters move at a frenetic pace and dress in the same starched white shirts and white garrison caps as when I had first visited, many years ago.
Near a corner sat a very large man working a very small phone. A copy of Sports Illustrated was strategically placed on the chair next to him, signaling the seat was reserved. He wore tan khakis and a bright blue golf shirt with the letters U-C-L-A written in script across his chest. This declaration of newfound loyalty came off as somewhat unnatural, and it frankly didn't look good on him.
"Jay Strong," I said, handing him the Sports Illustrated. "Nice to see you again. I almost didn't recognize you in your new disguise."
"Coach B!" he barked in his deep, gravelly voice, standing up and giving me a bear hug. I hugged him back, albeit more in self-defense. "You're looking well for an unemployed man."
"Self-employed," I corrected him, as we sat down. "Big difference."
"Call it what you will. I can't even imagine not being part of a football team. It's in my blood."
"You bleed powder blue now. Bruin colors. I can't imagine what that's like."
Jay Strong laughed a hearty laugh. The waiter came by quickly and we ordered: a tuna sandwich for me; two hickory burgers, fries and a can of Diet Coke for him.
"Gotta keep my strength up," he said. "Spring practice and all."
"How's it going over there in Westwood?"
Jay shrugged. To him, this was just another gig. Assistant coaches gravitated from school to school, often staying only a couple of years at any one place. It was part of the life. For some, it was a means to an end, a path to climb up a rung in the coaching ladder or advance into a more prestigious program. For Coach Jay, this job had the appearance of a lateral move. If that.
"Not what I planned on," he said.
"I just can't imagine someone switching from USC to UCLA. It's like switching blue or gray unif
orms in the Civil War. You're either a Trojan or a Bruin. On one side or the other."
Jay shook his head. "Coaches. We're all just hired guns. Soldiers of fortune. I liken it to working in the business world. People can move from working at Coke to working at Pepsi. Or from Ford to Nissan. You go where you're appreciated. Ken Norton Jr. played for UCLA and then couldn't get hired there after his NFL career ended. So he came over and coached at USC. Kennedy Pola went the other route."
"So tell me. What's it like? Can't be the same as working for Johnny."
"It's not the same," he admitted. "Different coaching styles. Johnny gave us a lot more autonomy with the players. Plus, Johnny was better at the other stuff, dealing with kids' parents and the like. You get these helicopter dads who demand to know why their kid isn't getting playing time. At SC, you'd just send them straight to the head coach. Johnny would lay out exactly why, and then he'd tell them what their kid needs to do to get on the field. Over here, they're leaving it more to the assistants to deal with. It's tricky."
"Touchy-feely stuff was never your thing, huh?"
"No," Jay sighed. "I'm a results guy. I get players ready to play. Dealing with prima donnas or their demanding dads isn't one of my strengths. And I've got one now that's a thorn in my side. Some rapper's kid. The player was iffy on even getting a football scholarship, but he got one, probably because his dad's a celeb. This is L.A. after all. But the kid doesn't take weight training seriously, and he's not going to see the field. Explaining all this to a dad who's been in a few gunfights is a challenge. We've had a few tense moments."
"Didn't realize how tough Westwood is. And they say USC is the school in the bad neighborhood," I joked.
"Nothing is quite like it appears," he said, in a way that was almost wistful.
"Indeed," I said. I thought back to my decision to accept Johnny's offer to coach defensive backs at USC, which led me into the most challenging job I had ever undertaken. Johnny's teams had been enormously successful, so the school gave him latitude on hiring decisions. I had played college football for the Trojans many years ago but had no experience as a coach, so my learning curve was steep. As I discovered, though, I was good at it. I liked working with young athletes on the field, but I took the most pride in using football to prepare them for the real world.
All of my players were extraordinary athletes who knew the fundamentals of how to play cornerback and safety. I taught them the intangibles, the little pointers that would give them an edge in a high-profile game. But I also emphasized that winning can be applied to all aspects of life. And I made sure they were keenly aware that most college players don't go on to make millions in pro football. The NFL is hyper-competitive, and it can take just one injury to end an athletic career. The kids needed a road map for going forward if their dreams of a pro career never materialized. From my own painful experience, I could certainly attest to how the random wind of fate could alter anyone's plans.
"You know," Jay said, "I wanted to move out of L.A., but I've got some personal commitments that are keeping me in town."
"The spousal unit?" I asked.
"Uh-huh. My wife wanted us to stay in L.A. No, make that demanded we stay in L.A. I had some schools talking about bringing me on, maybe giving me a bump up. Washington State interviewed me for offensive coordinator. Next step after that would be head coach. But Kitty's job is here. So here I stay."
"Not a lot of filmmaking being done up in the Palouse," I observed. The Washington State campus was located on the Idaho border, a pretty section of the country, but also very isolated. Not good for someone wanting a career in the entertainment industry.
"This is where Kitty's opportunity is. When she first heard USC wanted me a few years ago, she couldn't get us on a plane to L.A. fast enough. She's what they call an executive in charge of production. Whatever that means."
"Sounds like it might be interesting work."
"Yeah, she likes it. These days we make tradeoffs when we're married. I'm sure you know about that. If you were single, you'd probably be coaching DBs for the Chicago Bears right now."
Maybe yes, maybe no. When Johnny took the head coaching job for the Bears, he asked a few of his assistants to come along with him. I was one. Jay was not. The Bears flew Gail and I out to Chicago for a few days. The money was great, so was the opportunity. That is, if I had wanted to move up in the coaching hierarchy. There was also a law firm there that showed interest in hiring Gail. But something wasn't quite right. Chicago seemed like a great city, very livable. Good schools, good restaurants, easy to get around. The people I met were all solid folk. The climate was cold, but that wasn't the issue. In the end, Chicago just didn't feel like home to us. And perhaps more importantly, staying in coaching would have meant continuing a lifestyle that would exhaust a workaholic. In the end, it was not an option for someone who truly wanted to spend more time with his family.
"Can't really say," I shrugged. "If I were single I might have tried the NFL. Just like I tried coaching in the first place. It was an opportunity Johnny gave me. I think I was good at it. But what I mostly liked was working with the kids and teaching them some life lessons. It felt satisfying."
Jay thought about this for a moment. "Probably for the best that you passed on the Bears job," he said wryly. "Your definition of success is different. For most of us, success comes down to winning or losing. Getting the team to perform on the field when they need to. The other stuff, the personal connections, that's just gravy."
"You're the one who should have gone to the NFL," I laughed. "You've got the businesslike approach. That's the league. It's a business."
Jay gave me a hard look. "I wasn't asked. I wasn't part of Johnny's inner circle, Mr. Bond."
"Mr. Bond?" I peered at him.
"Bond," he repeated. "James Bond. That's what some of the other coaches used to call you."
"They thought I was Johnny's spy?"
"What else could they think? You got your job through a friendship. A contact. You never came up through the ranks."
I took this in. Johnny said he could see potential in people. He thought he saw it in me. I wasn't so sure, but a salary offer that extended well into six figures was enough to get me to bite. And Gail liked the idea of more money streaming in. At least she did at first.
"It's true," I admitted. "I got the job simply because Johnny knew me. But the spy part? No. Believe it or not, I never told Johnny what the assistant coaches were saying. And he never asked me."
"All right."
I had the sense Jay didn't quite believe me, but I saw no need to argue the point. I was out of coaching now, and that was that. Our food arrived, and we dug in. My sandwich was just like I remembered it, a big hunk of lettuce stuffed between the tuna and the rye bread, and some black olives on the side. I mooched a few fries from Jay and they brought back memories of childhood. Some recollections were good, some were bittersweet. My mom used to take me to the Apple Pan for a treat when I was a kid; it was about all we could afford. Neither the food nor its ambience had changed much over the decades. I got the feeling some of the guys working the counter had been there for many decades, too.
"So I do need to thank you," I said between bites. "Your referral to Nick Roche landed me a paying gig. It actually pays quite well."
"Happy to help," he said, picking up a handful of fries and shoving them into his mouth. "You get to meet Slick Nick yet?"
"That's how you refer to your brother-in-law?" I asked.
"Only when I'm in a nice mood," he said. "Aw, it's all good, I guess. We're just from different worlds."
I imagined they were. Jay Strong was a good old boy from Mississippi, big and brawny, the kind you'd want on your side if the going got rough. He coached offensive linemen, a position he knew very well. Jay had been an offensive tackle, making all-SEC for three years at Ole Miss, a long time ago. His down-home personality wasn't really a fit here in L.A., but he was a natural at any college football program, and so that's where he s
pent the bulk of his days, happily secluded.
"It's hard to picture you and Nick being related. A buttoned-up Ivy Leaguer and a backwoods guy from the Deep South."
"Funny," he said, finishing his first burger and picking up the second. "But we're not blood. We just have the same taste in good-looking women. Our wives are sisters. Kitty's sister moved out here a few years ago to be an actress. She landed a few small parts, but then she landed Nick. Role of a lifetime, being married to a wealthy guy who likes to throw his money around."
"I see."
"Yeah. My wife studied film in college, but she didn't have much opportunity back home. Kitty worked as a news director for a station in Memphis. Moving to L.A. meant having a lot of opportunity. With Nick at BMB, she got her foot in the door there. She's got one feature film wrapping now, has a few irons in the fire for later this year. Pretty soon she'll get a shot at directing her own movie. Dream come true. For her."
The acrid tinge was evident in his voice. His wife's thriving career meant his would get stifled for a while. It was sometimes the price you paid for a marriage. Tradeoffs indeed. One partner's career gets put on hold for a while so the other's can flourish. But in the case of Jay and Kitty, I wasn't sure how this would play out over the long haul. The entertainment business had a huge presence in L.A. and New York, but not so much elsewhere. Options for this college football coach were going to be limited.
"Does your wife talk to you about BMB much?"
Jay shrugged. "Some. I used to think that watching over a bunch of college kids' high jinks was a challenge. According to Kitty, it's nothing compared to making a movie. I think one of the qualifications for being in that business is you have to be a flake. Or at least work hard at being one. And then there's the company politics. BMB is intense. You think coaches can be deceptive? These execs take that to a whole 'nother level."
"Different world from what she's used to?"
"Oh, yeah. She's navigating her way, but I don't think she anticipated all of this."