Grant slowed his pace but didn’t stop. The vehicle was now just beyond him on his side of the road. The big guy was on the sidewalk. Grant would have to detour around him or go between him and the open door. He went for the gap. Relaxed. Ready to move fast as he drew closer to the threat.
Twelve feet.
Steady walking pace was maybe five miles an hour. Grant approached the rear of the car. It was a big shiny American thing with a sliding door along the side behind the front passenger door. A minivan kind of thing. The open passenger door obstructed half the sidewalk. The big guy stood three feet back and to one side, blocking the other half next to a tall conifer hedge. A narrow gap in between.
Eight feet.
Five miles an hour was pretty fast over a short distance. Grant glanced at the big guy, then squinted through the back window. Sun glared off the tinted glass. He couldn’t see inside. Not good. He’d identified the threat outside the car but didn’t know how many were hidden behind the reflective windows—a cop’s worst nightmare. Caution dictated that Grant should keep his distance or go around the obstacle. Grant didn’t hold with caution. He was more of a tackle trouble head-on kind of guy.
Five feet.
Since he couldn’t see inside the car, he concentrated on what he could see. The big guy with the frosty smile. He was standing with his legs apart and arms folded across his chest. Bad positioning for close-quarter combat. Grant plotted the first moves in his head. Fast knee jerk between the legs, then a short-armed elbow strike up into the throat as the guy doubled over before he could unfold his arms.
Three feet.
Grant cleared his mind. His limbs were relaxed. Time to move.
Pffft hiss.
The sliding door pushed outwards a few inches, then slid open with a pffft of compressed air and the hum of an electric motor. A soft female voice came from the interior with a pleasant Midwestern accent. “Excuse me. Could you spare a minute?”
Grant stopped and looked into the roomy interior. John Travolta had been right in Get Shorty. This was indeed the Cadillac of minivans. He stared into the eyes of the second beautiful woman he’d met in less than an hour. This must be his lucky day. He bowed his head to see inside. “Not if you’re trying to sell me something.”
“Not sell—propose.”
“You want to marry me?”
The woman laughed. It was infectious and completely uninhibited. The laugh lit up her eyes and exposed brilliant white teeth. A mop of unruly black hair framed her pleasant, rounded face. The dark complexion suggested South American or Italian descent. The accent discounted Mexican.
“Why don’t you jump in? I’ll talk while you ride.”
“That’s not an offer you get every day.”
She laughed again. The big guy stepped away from the door, his smile less threatening now. Grant ducked into the back, and the door slid shut. The big guy got in the front. The driver pulled away from the curb. Grant settled into his seat.
“Home, James. And don’t spare the horses.”
Her laughter filled the interior as the minivan continued down the winding hillside road. Palm trees and Beverly Hills mansions showed through the windows. Somewhere overhead a helicopter throbbed in the pale blue morning sky.
“Steven Seagal?” Grant couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice.
“Yes. The show’s called Lawman.”
Robin Citrin’s voice was almost as infectious as her laugh. The minivan was taking it easy, ignoring the nearest bus route and taking Grant all the way to his hotel. There were more palm trees outside now.
“That the one forced Elmore Leonard to rename his show Justified ?”
“Right. That was originally called Lawman. I forgot about that.”
“Saw it. First episode showed promise. Went downhill from there.”
“Justified was fiction. Lawman is real. Cameras follow Seagal on patrol.”
Grant snorted a laugh. It was nowhere near as infectious as Citrin’s. “Real? You kiddin’ me? A Hollywood actor playing at being a cop, and you think that shit isn’t scripted? Fuck me. Pardon my French. But even if it wasn’t, don’t tell me that everyone he meets on camera doesn’t act different than getting arrested by anyone else.”
“It’s advertised as real.”
“Cher’s advertised as real. She’s more plastic than an Airfix model.”
“Airfix?”
“Made plastic model kits when I was a kid. Spitfires. Tanks. Stuff like that.”
“Steven Seagal’s not an Airfix kit.”
“He’s not a cop either. Part-time special constable? Hobby bobby? Might as well stick Clint Eastwood on the street in a cowboy hat and a poncho and expect people to act like it’s real.”
“You’re not Clint Eastwood or Steven Seagal.”
Grant feigned hurt pride. “That’s somewhere between an insult and a compliment.”
“What I’m saying is, follow you around with a camera and we’ll get more authentic responses.”
“Reality TV?”
“Yes.”
“Stick a camera in somebody’s face, last thing you’ll get is reality.”
“The camera never lies.”
“The camera always lies. Depends how you edit the footage.”
Citrin backed off from trying to force Grant to accept. She tried flattery. “Bottom line is, we’d like to do a show using the Resurrection Man. The news got good coverage of you in Boston. Your name is known across America. And you look good on camera.”
The snorted laugh this time was derisive. He diverted his embarrassment by looking out the window. They’d dropped down through Hollywood and were heading toward downtown along West Seventh. Not far from the hotel now.
Grant sighed and shook his head. “I’m a cop, not a movie star.”
“Reality TV star.”
“Not one of them either. I put bad guys in jail. Don’t need cameras watching me do that.”
“You could have the final cut.”
“Final cut?”
“The final decision about what we show. Cut out what you don’t want seen.”
“Not very real, then, is it?”
“The camera never lies. Just don’t show it all.”
“Lying by omission.”
“Technical point.”
The driver called over his shoulder. “This it here?”
Grant leaned forward and looked through the windshield. The Mayfair Hotel was on the right up ahead. The lettering on the awning above the front doors read The Historic Mayfair Hotel but couldn’t hide the fact that historic meant old and old meant faded. The Mayfair Hotel was old and faded.
“That’s it. Thanks.”
He sat back and looked at Robin Citrin. She was beautiful and intelligent. Grant could do a lot worse than spend time with her, but this wasn’t for him. “Lying by omission is still lying. I prefer to be more open and up front.”
“So leave everything in.”
“Can’t do that. Sometimes being open and up front isn’t how the bosses want the job to work. I’m going to have to say no.”
The minivan pulled up outside the hotel.
“Thanks for the lift though.”
Pffft hiss. The side door slid open and, not for the first time, Grant thought he was getting out into traffic. Wrong side of the road. He swung one leg onto the sidewalk and turned to say goodbye. Citrin laid one hand on his forearm. The hand was warm even through the sleeve of his orange windcheater. It pained him to say no to her.
She held a business card in her other hand. “If you change your mind.”
Grant took the card and read the name: L. Q. Patton. There was an address near Hollywood Boulevard and a telephone number. He flipped the card over and saw that she’d written her name and cell number on the back.
The warm hand
was still on his arm. “You can call the office during the day”—she tapped the back of the card—“or if it’s after hours.”
He looked in her eyes to see if there was more to this than a business proposition but couldn’t tell from her expression. This was Los Angeles. You had to take that into consideration. People acted different here.
He took the card though. “Thanks. But I doubt it.”
He got out and stepped back from the open door. That’s when he saw the black car parked across the street with two guys staring at him through the windshield.
Grant flicked the edge of the card with his fingers several times as the door hissed shut and the minivan pulled into traffic toward downtown. It crossed the freeway bridge and disappeared from view. The car opposite sat in the sunshine like a squat black toad. The two guys inside were pretty ugly too.
He stopped flicking the card and put it in his pocket. He walked from the edge of the sidewalk to the front door of the hotel. Under the awning. Two pairs of eyes followed him. Big square heads turned on thick necks. Broad shoulders. Grant stopped in the doorway and turned to stare them down. Thirty seconds. A minute. Two minutes.
The driver reached down and started the engine. The turn signal blinked before the car pulled into traffic, going out of town. The passenger kept his eyes on Grant as the car passed the hotel on the opposite side of the road. He smiled and nodded once. Grant watched them go, wondering what it was with everybody smiling at him today. Then he went inside.
LA was a strange place.
THREE
The Historic Mayfair Hotel was a thirteen-story block of ugliness. Grant’s room was on the twelfth floor, one room from the corner facing downtown. He fished the keycard out of his pocket as he entered the lobby, then paused in front of the twin elevators on the left. He threw a quick glance at the front door. The two guys in the black car had been waiting for him. That meant they knew where he was staying. He’d only arrived yesterday. His first visit with Senator Richards had been this morning. Whoever was interested in what he was doing worked fast. That kind of commitment seemed excessive for a small-time porn outfit.
Grant ignored the elevators and crossed the lobby to the reception desk. The high ceiling was carved and painted like a Michelangelo chapel. The expansive reception area took up two floors, with a balcony running around the first level, leading to a dining area and restaurant that advertised banquet facilities. Back in the good old days Grant could imagine the Mayfair hosting a banquet, but right now it could barely muster breakfast.
He stood at the reception desk until one of the staff noticed him and came over. The attractive Asian asked in broken English how she could help while another Asian took a booking over the phone. Grant asked if anything had arrived for him, and the girl said she would check. Checking entailed asking the guy on the phone, who shook his head. Grant thanked her before she could relay the message and turned toward the elevators. Passing the concierge desk, a third Asian asked if he could help. Grant reckoned there were more Japanese at the Mayfair than had attacked Pearl Harbor. Friendlier though. He thanked the valet and indicated the elevators. With no suitcases to carry and no likelihood of a tip, the valet let Grant go. Five minutes later he was checking the twelfth-floor corridor for strangers before slipping his keycard into the slot.
The first thing he did was check the room for intruders. Having two heavies watching for him out front suggested there might be more inside. There weren’t. Next thing he did was examine the room in case it had been searched. Not like in that James Bond movie where Sean Connery stuck a hair across the wardrobe doors and poured talcum powder over the briefcase catch—Grant just looked in the wardrobe and drawers for any sign of disturbance. Being ex-army meant his drawers were immaculate. In the military, tidiness was next to godliness. If you didn’t keep your equipment and living space tidy, then your sergeant, who was God in the army, would make you pay. That made it easier to see if anyone had been rooting around in his drawers. Nobody had.
Out of habit he slid his hand beneath the neatly folded T-shirts. The velvet box was still there. He lifted it out and felt the comforting weight in his hands. He laid it on the dresser and opened the lid. The stethoscope lay curled like a sleeping snake. The battered blue velvet of the exterior gave way to the white silk lining of the inside. A faded American flag had been stitched into the inside of the lid. The stars and stripes added color to the plain white interior. The name scribbled beneath the flag had faded too but would never disappear—the female army medic who had served and loved with him. Killed in action. A stain on his heart. Grant touched it gently with one finger and smiled at a secret memory. Several memories. Then he snapped the case shut and put it back in the drawer.
Something caught his eye that he hadn’t noticed when he came in. A red light was blinking on the phone beside the bed. He walked around the double bed and sat next to the cabinet facing the window. The curtains were open. Downtown Los Angeles stood out against the horizon, perhaps a mile away along West Seventh Street. Sunshine glinted off mirrored windows and polished chrome. A perfect blue sky powdered the background, the reason the movie industry had settled on Los Angeles to create the Hollywood legend. Good light and minimal bad weather.
A helicopter crawled across the sky. A second disappeared behind a skyscraper. Being a pilot in LA must be a nightmare, trying not to collide with all the other pilots hovering above the city. A siren started up on the freeway—the other thing that was a constant in the City of Angels. Grant turned from the window toward the red blinking light. A message on the phone. He picked up the handset, pressed the second button from the left, and listened to the voice he’d first heard in a hospital room at Massachusetts General.
The message was brief and to the point. Judging by the conversations Grant had had with him in Boston last year, that was the way he operated. Clear instructions and a confident manner were the signs of a strong leader, a man so powerful he didn’t feel the need to belabor the point.
Grant listened to the message.
“Payment was delayed by internal considerations. It is now in your account. You can collect it from any bank or ATM. Any problems, you know how to contact me. Good luck.”
Grant didn’t need to listen to it again, so he hung up. Money was the first order of business. Figuring his next move was second. He decided to reverse the order and took the map he’d bought at LAX out of the bedside drawer. There was a narrow desk in one corner of the room, but he spread it open on the bed instead. It wasn’t a close- detail street map, but it covered all of Los Angeles. Main roads and area names were clearly marked. Side roads and back streets were merely sketches of their true size.
He took out the torn page that Richards had written his daughter’s address on. The street name was no use yet, but he found the area in the foothills west of Hollywood. A canyon road not too far from her parents’ Beverly Hills mansion. He doubted it would be a log cabin rebellion against the wealth of her upbringing. Nothing on that side of town was exactly poverty row.
He slid his finger across the map toward town, past Beverly Hills and a little north: West Hollywood. Still an exclusive area. Then along the two best-known streets in LA: Sunset Boulevard and Hollywood Boulevard. He fingered the card Robin Citrin had given him. There wasn’t enough detail on the map to locate the TV company’s address. He didn’t plan on visiting it anyway. Still, his finger lingered at the thought of seeing Citrin again.
The other address he needed wasn’t available yet. Finding out which company made The Hunt for Pink October was his next move. The best place to find a video store was probably the heart of the place that made the most movies: Hollywood. His finger tapped the map. Maybe some things were meant to be.
ATM followed by a trip to Hollywood was the plan.
That’s not how it worked out.
FOUR
The sun was hot as Grant cut right off West Seventh up Alvarado. Ma
cArthur Park was baked dry on his left, the grass practically scorched out of existence except for around the lake where residual moisture and spray from the fountains gave the grass at least a semblance of life. Most of the businesses he passed were Hispanic or Asian. The park was busy despite the time on a working day: half past eleven. Maybe the locals took lunch early. The smell of hotdogs and onions mingled with candyfloss and diesel fumes.
Grant crossed Wilshire and continued up the hill. The bank was at the intersection with Alvarado and West Sixth, the next junction up. Traffic was light on the roads. The sidewalks were busy. Grant reckoned the pedestrian population increased in direct proportion to the wealth of the area. He hadn’t seen a single walker on his way down through Beverly Hills.
The bright red decal of the Bank of America stood out on the single-story building across the intersection. Grant waited for the walking man sign to show, then crossed the road. The cash machines were to the left of the main doors, covered with a clear plastic shelter for privacy. There wasn’t a queue. If there had been, things might have turned out differently.
He inserted his card and typed the password. It felt strange getting paid this way. When he’d been in the army, for the first couple of years anyway, soldiers had to attend pay parade once a week. The officer of the day sat at his desk at one end of the room while the squaddies stood in line at the other. Parade rest. At ease. A grizzled sergeant called the roll. Once your name was called, you had to stand to attention, shout “yes, sir,” and march to the desk. Halt. Salute. Repeat your name and service number. The officer ticked you off the list and handed over your salary in a square brown envelope.
That soon changed when the Armed Forces moved to monthly payments, each soldier’s wage being deposited in a bank account with Lloyds, the army’s preferred bank. The West Yorkshire Police used the same system but with a bank of your own choice. You’d get a pay slip every month detailing the amount, your hourly rate, overtime worked, and total tax, national insurance, and pension deductions, etc.
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