Spitz darted inside. Ziff looked smaller than before, and that wasn’t easy for a short, fat midget. Grant switched from the I’m-cool eyes to the angry, don’t-mess-with-me look.
“Now, let’s go inside and talk about the submarine movie.”
The Hunt for Pink October didn’t have a submarine in it. Grant had been right about that. Ziff gave him a brief rundown of the plot, which included lots of sex with men in naval uniforms and women in nothing at all. There were plenty of up-periscope references and a few torpedo and depth-charge jokes. There was nobody with a Scottish accent and nobody who could act.
Grant asked about the cast.
Ziff snorted a laugh and shrugged his narrow shoulders. “What can I tell you? Oscar material, every one of ’em.”
“I don’t mean how good they are. Who are they?”
“Regulars. Spitz was in it. Swallows had a sore throat, had to stay in bed—missed that one. Geneva played the Secretary of Muff Diving Affairs. She was the nearest thing to a submarine in the movie. Always going down with sailors.”
Spitz laughed at his boss’s joke. Swallows was still drinking water to calm his latest sore throat. All three were sitting on the leather settee in the living room set. The studio lights weren’t on, just the standard lighting. Grant stood in front of them, a leg length away in case one of them decided to launch a kick. Ziff made a gun shape out of two fingers and a thumb.
“Aren’t you supposed to threaten us at gunpoint?”
“You want me to?”
“Not really. Just doesn’t seem right giving you information without being threatened.”
“You think I’m not threatening you?”
Ziff looked up at the big man from across the pond, then glanced at the muscle on either side of him, Swallows massaging his throat and Spitz giggling like a girl.
“Point taken.”
“You know all the girls on that film?”
“Most of ’em, yeah. We always throw a couple of new faces in there if we have an orgy scene or something away from the main plot.”
“What about the girl with the short, spiky hair? With the gray- haired fella on the cream settee?”
Ziff opened his eyes wide as if a light had just gone on inside. “This settee. I remember that scene. Geneva walks in on ’em and joins in.”
“That was filmed here?”
“Most of it. Some establishing shots on location. Scene’s supposed to look like it was captured on CCTV from a static camera.” Ziff patted the settee. “Close-ups.”
Grant twirled a finger, indicating the studio. “The girl was here?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s her name?”
“How the fuck should I know? They’re not with the Screen Actors Guild.”
“You asked for my card.”
“Didn’t get it, though, did I?”
Grant looked down at the unholy trio. Ziff’s laptop played to itself in the front room. There was nobody else in the building—first thing Grant had checked when they came in the back door. The front door was locked so they wouldn’t be interrupted. It was time to increase the pressure.
“I was at the girl’s house this morning.”
“Why are you asking me for her name, then?”
Grant took the gun out of his belt.
“She was gone. Broken window and blood on the carpet.”
Ziff’s eyes opened wider, and not because a light bulb had just gone on in his head. Panic flickered across his face. He held his hands up.
“Whoa. You can’t lay that one on me. That’s kidnapping. That’s Federal. Me? I’m just a filmmaker.”
Grant brought the gun round front. “And a bank robber, thief, and extortionist.”
Ziff was staring at the gun and trying to push himself back into the settee. “History. We all make mistakes. I’ve got a good life now.”
“A lowlife good life. Where’s the girl?”
Grant spun the pistol’s cylinder as if preparing for Russian roulette. Ziff threw his hands up like a cartoon bandit, straight up above his head. Spitz stopped giggling. Swallows gulped. Ziff was sweating even though the studio lights weren’t on.
“I swear on my mother’s grave. I don’t know nothing about no kidnapping.”
Grant cradled the gun across the front of him, one hand beneath the other for support. He stared into Ziff’s eyes and reckoned he was telling the truth. He didn’t know the girl’s name and it wasn’t him who had kidnapped her. Ziff was just a dirty moviemaker with a background in crime. Judging by the way he was cowering on the settee, Grant guessed it was not a very active background either. He couldn’t imagine Ziff robbing a bank at gunpoint.
“You ever see the girl again—you even dream about her—she’s off-limits. You understand?”
“I do. I do.”
“She’s not in anymore of your stroke flicks.”
“Definitely not.”
Grant raised the gun and popped the cylinder out of the side. He tipped the bullets out and quickly dismantled the mechanism. Bits of Smith & Wesson dropped to the studio floor. Ziff’s eyes transmitted his relief. He let out a sigh that trembled close to tears.
“Thank you.”
Grant nodded, then went to the back door. He couldn’t think of a suitable witty response so he simply opened the door and stepped out into the sunshine. One thing was certain: Ziff might not have taken Senator Richards’ daughter, but he was lying about something. Grant could see it in the way his eyes went blank in the middle of the interview, trying to hide what was going on in his head.
He pulled the dumpster across the door as a precaution but didn’t think anybody would be coming after him. It wasn’t until he was out of the wire enclosure that he saw the big black car parked across the end of Alamo Court.
The two Hawaiians who weren’t really Hawaiians didn’t look any worse for wear after their tussle off Hollywood Boulevard the other night. Grant recognized them straightaway. They were hard to forget. They were both staring through the side window, the driver leaning forward to see past the passenger.
Grant smiled at them and began to walk toward the mouth of the alley. He’d stopped thinking of Alamo Court as a back street. The dusty shit tip didn’t deserve that title. Coming out from Zed Productions probably had something to do with the change of mindset.
The driver gunned the engine. It let out a throaty roar.
Grant continued toward the car.
The nearest Hawaiian raised one hand and formed a gun shape like Ziff had done inside. He pointed it at Grant and grinned through the open window. Then the car sped off along East Tenth and disappeared beyond the building line. Grant reached the mouth of the alley just in time to see it turn right up North Long Beach toward the city.
He stood on the sidewalk and took a deep breath.
A car door slammed in the Blockbuster’s parking lot opposite. Grant smiled and crossed the road toward Robin Citrin. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
“You get all that?”
“Close-up and in glorious Technicolor. The guy with the gun had me worried for a minute, though. Nifty moves.”
“Most times, a fella with a gun doesn’t really want to shoot you. I knew him from before. Left his lipstick at home.”
Citrin formed a gun shape with her hand and pointed it at Grant. The third time in an hour. Grant put his hands up like a cartoon bandit, straight up above his head, and smiled.
“Take me to your leader.”
It was time to go meet L. Q. Patton.
TWENTY-FOUR
From the outside, Sunset Television & Film Inc. didn’t look much different than Zed Productions. The square building was red brick up to eight feet off the ground, then rendered beige plaster from there to the flat roof, instead of Zed’s plain bleached concrete. Other than that, the TV studio was j
ust as ugly and functional, 1430 North Cahuenga Boulevard round the back of the Cinerama Dome and next door to Amoeba Music. No wonder Robin Citrin had been able to find Grant when he’d been checking the adult DVDs. At least it hadn’t been a 7-Eleven in a past life.
They all got out of the car and stretched their legs. The driver, who doubled as the cameraman, reached in and dragged his equipment bag off the passenger seat.
Robin Citrin held out her arms, palms up. “Welcome to the dream factory.”
“I thought we were talking about reality TV.”
“Reality TV is a dream.”
“I’m glad we’ve got that straightened out.”
“You still complaining about truth versus fiction?”
“I’m coming round to it.”
Grant followed Citrin through the double doors from the baking tarmac of the parking lot. If the outside of Sunset Television & Film Inc. looked as downbeat as the exterior of Zed Productions, once you stepped inside it was a very different story. The reception area was plush and expensive. Deep piled carpet, tan wood corner desk, and polished brass fittings. Even the blond receptionist looked like a million dollars. She was already alert to their arrival and smiled a welcome that could send strong men weak at the knees.
Citrin noticed Grant’s eyes exploring the curves, and not the ones on the desk. She threw him a look that said “down, tiger” and guided him to a door in the back wall. Even the door was expensive. The receptionist nodded to Citrin that the man inside was expecting them. Grant wondered if she always communicated using telepathy.
Citrin pushed the door open and led the way. Grant liked following her in her tight gray trousers. It took his mind off the receptionist. There was a corridor with three doors down one side and two on the other. Grant glanced at the three on the left.
Citrin explained. “Editing suites. We don’t have a studio here. All our work’s on location.”
Grant pointed at the other two doors. Citrin nodded at the far one first. “Sound mixing.”
Then at the last door.
“And L. Q. Ready to meet the boss?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She didn’t knock. She simply opened the door and walked straight in. Grant followed and walked into his first experience of TV money.
Lawrence Q. Patton was nothing like Stuart Ziff. He was tall and slim and permanently tanned and possessed a smile that extended from ear to ear. He had more teeth than Burt Lancaster—gleaming white Hollywood teeth. His salt and pepper hair was swept back in a tasteful quiff. His clothes were casual but very expensive. Open- necked shirt with exotic patterns. Beige chinos. Pointy-toed cowboy boots. A suede jacket with Davy Crockett tassels hung over the back of his chair. The image screamed phony bonhomie and yet the man came around the desk as if greeting an old friend. The handshake was firm and the welcome genuine. Grant liked him at once.
“I thought it was James Coburn. Back twenty years.”
Patton grinned. The comparison had obviously been made before. “Not as far back as that.”
“I wasn’t thinking of the cowboy with the knife in The Magnificent Seven as much as the boss in True Lies.”
“That was Charlton Heston.”
“Shit, you’re right. Maybe that other Western then—the Sam Peckinpah one with Kris Kristofferson.”
“Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid.”
“That’s it. James Coburn more distinguished but still with the smile.”
“I’m honored, but really more like Stephen J. Cannell. Only taller.”
“The TV producer? Never saw him. Just his name at the end of The Rockford Files. James Garner at his best.”
Patton grinned even wider and finally let go of Grant’s hand. “See how I got that around to TV producers?”
“You mean, letting me know you’re a TV producer? I noticed that, yeah. Nice piece of misdirection. You should be in the room interviewing burglars and robbers.”
Patton nodded at the open door, made a drinking gesture with one hand, then twirled his fingers to include everyone in the room. Grant saw the receptionist accept the instruction, obviously receiving by telepathy as much as transmitting.
She finally spoke. “Hot or cold?”
Patton raised an eyebrow at Grant.
“Cold, please. Orange juice?”
Citrin asked for the same. Patton made that three juices, then looked at Grant. “You think I’d be able to get them to do what I want?”
Grant raised his eyebrows. “Prisoners? Without ’em really knowing it. I’d say you could.”
“And that would be, what? Interview technique?”
“No. More like people skills—get them wanting to please you.”
Patton didn’t look convinced. “Did prisoners usually want to please you?”
“They didn’t want to displease me.”
“I’m sure. So, using the same technique, have I got you wanting to please me yet?”
Grant smiled. “Not quite, but you’re getting there.”
“Good. Let’s talk business.”
Patton waved toward a group of comfy chairs in the corner of the office. There was a low-slung table and an expensive laptop linked into the local news broadcasts with the sound turned down. Three glasses of orange juice were already on the table. Grant took the far seat facing the door. Citrin sat opposite. Patton sat between them and indicated the laptop.
“I’ve been watching the footage Robin shot the other day up at the cabin, and catching up on the news archives all the way back to Boston. You’ve got a screen presence that could work very well for us.”
Grant didn’t say anything. He always found compliments harder to take than criticism. Criticism he could argue about. Praise was harder to swallow. Instead, he glanced around the room. Framed posters of TV shows he’d never heard of adorned the walls. Judging by the artwork, they stretched from deep-sea fishing to teenage angst and celebrity cooking. The connecting thread seemed to be they were all reality based.
Patton waved a hand to include all the posters. “These are all ours—documentaries, behind-the-scenes, fly-on-the-wall.”
“Celebrity chefs?”
“We’ve done celebrity chefs, yes.”
“I’d like to do a few celebrity chefs myself. Lock ’em all up and throw away the key.”
“Not your favorite TV?”
“I loved The Rockford Files.”
“You could be our Rockford Files—reality TV version.”
Grant leaned back in the chair and spread his arms across the back. “Mr. Patton.”
“L. Q. Everybody calls me L. Q.”
“L. Q. I’ve got to be honest with you. This whole having a camera follow me around thing doesn’t sit well with me. I’m a cop. Reality is what I deal with. Cameras change all that.”
“Because people don’t act normal with a camera on them, right?”
“You’ve noticed.”
“This is Hollywood. People don’t act normal around here at the best of times. Everyone wants to be in show business.”
“I don’t.”
“Almost everyone. The camera situation—I’m sure Robin explained we can be unobtrusive.”
“She proved that, yeah. Acting like a tree.”
“So part of your argument goes away right there.”
Grant leaned forward and picked up his glass of juice. “You using that interview technique on me now?”
“I’m using my people skills.”
Grant smiled and took a drink. Ice clinked in his glass. “Keep trying.”
Patton took a deep swig of his juice and let out an appreciative sigh. He licked his lips, then grinned across the table. The TV producer looked more like James Coburn with every change of expression.
“Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?”
Grant waited for the pr
oposition. Citrin watched with anticipation. This wasn’t her pitch. Patton put his glass on the table and crossed one leg lazily over the other, exposing a length of hand- tooled leather cowboy boot. All he was missing were the spurs and a battered Stetson.
“Robin mentioned the sum I offered?”
Grant nodded but kept quiet.
“Based on the footage I’ve seen, and having met you, I think this could blow that Steven Seagal shit right out the water—playing at being a cop. How’s that going to rival the Resurrection Man?”
It was a rhetorical question. Patton was on a roll.
“The sum Robin mentioned—I’m prepared to double it.”
That stopped Grant’s objections dead. What she’d offered him before was more than he could earn in a year with the BPD, even allowing for special assignments and expenses. He took another drink as a delaying tactic. Glanced at the posters again. Avoided looking at Robin Citrin, who he could sense getting agitated in the corner. He took one last drink, then set the glass on the table.
“You deal with all the permits and stuff?”
“For filming? Yes.”
“Everyone filming around Los Angeles—they need location permits?”
“They do. We do.”
“Like CSI the other day? And porn movies?”
“Everybody needs a permit.”
“Are they all registered? Permits and locations and stuff?”
Patton looked unsure where this was leading. He looked like a detective whose interview subject was getting away from the preferred path.
“From now until eternity.”
“And retrospective?”
Patton uncrossed his legs but remained calm. On the outside. “The money not enough? What do you want?”
“I want information.” Grant smiled at the TV producer. “Did you ever see The Hunt for Pink October?”
Half an hour later they’d reached an agreement, and the tension that had been building in the room evaporated. Grant would allow Sunset Television & Film Inc. to film a pilot episode of a show to be called The Resurrection Man. They would pay him an advance immediately, amounting to ten percent of the agreed salary. Non-refundable. Everyone signed a confidentiality agreement that gave Grant control of what could be used in the final cut, just in case any sensitive issues were recorded.
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