The White Stag, Jove Brand’s signature ride.
There had been more than a dozen Stags, evolving to fit the era that fostered them. The first was a stock Triumph with minor cosmetic additions and only two gadgets: a shotgun mount and oil slick. Over the years the bikes, like the films, became more elaborate and fantastical to outdo their predecessors. There have been White Stags that rode under the water and White Stags that danced in the air. Their antler racks have held grappling hooks and missiles and lasers. Their hooves have trailed fire and kicked up smoke.
This particular Stag was my favorite: the classic from Most Dangerous, with swept organic lines and graceful flanks. It was like stumbling across a unicorn. Despite his age, he looked fresh from his maiden voyage. Eventually, I tore myself away and stepped into the elevator.
Only the third of four floor buttons was lit up, so I pushed it. When the doors closed, the Jove Brand theme started playing, the one from Flings and Arrows with the Spanish guitar. The doors opened into a huge room with a glass wall so clean it gave the illusion of open air. The oppressive heat only added to the effect.
Bryce was waiting for me in a vintage black leather lounge chair. Despite the temperature, he was wearing a smoking jacket and slippers. Freshly dyed, coiffed and shaved, he was more suave than a man in his late seventies had any right to be.
I sat in the matching chair opposite him, angled to be intimate but also oblique, to discourage improper eye contact. A pitcher of tea sweated through the lace mat and onto the glass-topped table between us, the edges of the ice cubes still sharp. It was accompanied by a plate of cucumber sandwiches neither of us intended to eat.
“I love what you’ve done with the place,” I said, filling both our glasses. It had been less than a minute and I already wanted to rub the pitcher all over my face.
Bryce gave a perfunctory smile. “You jest, but this was once fallow field. Where now stand trees lay not even a sapling. Of course, by the time the boughs were suitable, my climbing days were done. As one of the gentry, I always longed for a castle, so I raised one.”
“You were smarter than a lot of guys back then.” I took a long drink. Bryce liked his heat dry. “They thought the good times would last forever.”
“Connor Shaw included, may his soul rest in peace,” Bryce replied. “We were all typecast. My blacklist was not as dark as yours, but after Brand, I was never considered for a role that didn’t involve bullets or bedsheets. Gone were the dreams of King Richard, laid to rest with the aspirations of Macbeth.”
“You did more with Brand than anyone.” I drained my glass. I was dying to get the blazer off, but if Bryce saw what I had strapped on under it, he was going to think I’d lost my mind.
“Oh yes. I tamed the brute. Civilized him. My Brand treated his paramours to his fingertips rather than the back of his hand. “
“You and Shaw created the ends of the Brand scale. Sir Collin’s portrayal of Brand landed right in the middle.”
“Perhaps Niles will add a new measure.”
That Bryce had heard about Niles Endworth’s casting wasn’t a big surprise, nor was it that he was aware of Niles’s existence. Endsworth was a shoe-in to one day be voted sexiest man alive. Back then people didn’t know how good an actor Bryce was, convincing the world he loved the ladies as much as they loved him.
I refilled my glass from the pitcher. Bryce still hadn’t touched his. “Did Missy explain why I wanted to meet?”
“She suggested Layne Lackey’s fate was tied to Sir Collin Prestor’s.”
“They were killed the same way, by a person who knew what they were doing.” I could hear whoever Bryce had shaving him and brewing his iced tea these days puttering around in the kitchen. “Layne Lackey was working on what he felt was a big story, related to Brand.”
“As were all his tales, true or not,” Bryce replied.
“Whatever the story, Sir Collin could have filled in some blanks.”
“And perhaps myself.”
“A strong perhaps,” I said between gulps of iced tea. “What did Layne ask about?”
“He was more indulgent than insistent. He let an old man drift, as old men are wont to do.”
“Was there a topic he steered you toward more than once?”
I emptied the pitcher while Bryce thought. The ice cubes had become slivers. I sucked them to death as surreptitiously as possible. Around the time I began worrying he’d fallen asleep, Bryce spoke again.
“Interestingly enough, he wanted to talk about you. Well, your film, at least. The genesis of it. Was I present for discussions after A Beautiful Disaster? Did Kit Calabria court me as an investor or consult me on contract matters? I was once a barrister, back when I still believed gaining my father’s approval was a possibility.”
Now we were getting somewhere. Besides the Calabrias and the Fletcher estate, no one had ever read the infamous Brand rights contract in its entirety, only gleaned pieces of it from behind-the-scenes footage and interviews. “Did Kit show you the contract?”
“Portions only. He was rather circumspect in his inquiries.”
“Was Kit concerned he had broken it?”
Bryce stopped to ponder, tilting his chin to search his memory with careful consideration. He still had the moves. It was a good performance. He already knew the answer, from when Layne Lackey had asked him.
“In recollection, it seemed to me more he was preparing to. His inquiries surrounded the boundaries of transferal of rights.”
“Which were?”
“My conclusion was that the film rights to Jove Brand could only be transferred to a member of the Calabria family. Though, as I recall, there was no stipulation about that member being born into bloodline.”
It was a line written by an actor. Too many words, but perfectly delivered. It had the desired effect, hitting me full force. “So if you married into the family, that would work?”
Bryce gave a measured nod. “At the time, if Kit broke the contract, the rights would revert back to Bowman Fletcher, who was still alive.”
“Don’t remind me,” I said. Fletcher died shortly after Near Death was screened in Hong Kong. Extremely shortly after. Layne Lackey once suggested seeing the movie was the cause. “If the contract was broken now, where would it go? To his estate?”
Bryce inclined his head. “None of Fletcher’s many supposed heirs have passed the required DNA test. Yet.”
“Fletcher did get around.” I drained the last drops from my glass. Bryce wasn’t even sweating. What was it with English thespians?
Bryce dropped his next bomb casually. “He also inquired about exactly what elements were necessary to constitute a last will and testament.”
My mouth somehow managed to get drier. “Did you help Kit write a will?”
Bryce shook his head. “I did not want to impose, and he never broached the subject again.”
Another five minutes in here and I was going to empty Bryce’s glass for him. To hell with decorum. Sweat was starting to run into my eyes. “I’d like to freshen up if I could.”
Bryce made a vague gesture toward a square mile of house. “There’s a water closet past the kitchen.”
I got up, conscious of the wet spot I left on the leather, and charted a course toward the kitchen. It was a little better in there, with the sun on the other side of the hill. Every surface was spotless. His and his places were set on the farmhouse table.
Bryce, you sly old fox.
I was turning the corner toward the half bath when it occurred to me to refill the pitcher while I was up. I ducked back into the viewing room to find the Black Knight sneaking up behind Bryce.
My battle cry was as ineloquent as it was involuntary.
“Nope!”
The Black Knight spun to face me. The helmet concealed his expression, but everything in his carriage signaled hatred. The Quarreler was already in my hand—I didn’t remember drawing it. It was a long shot. If I hit Bryce instead of the Black Knight, I was going to ki
ll my predecessor, another Brand first. I closed the gap with my weapon at port. The Black Knight paused to consider, then broke and ran.
He was flat-out faster than me, ignoring the elevator to vault over the railing. The drop was twenty feet, ending on water-kissed stone, and he landed it like a gymnast. By the time I was aiming the Quarreler over the rail, the Black Knight was out of sight. I didn’t know where the stairs were, or if there even were stairs, so I ran back to the elevator.
“Comeoncomeoncomeon,” I shouted at the doors. When they opened I smashed the garage button and leaned on the door-close button, except I got the triangles wrong and kept the doors open instead. I caught my mistake and got the elevator moving, kneeling to take up a firing stance. The Jove Brand theme kicked on again, this time the synth mix from Cupid’s Bow. It was my least favorite Brand film, after Near Death. Jove Brand did not belong on the moon.
How had the Black Knight found me? He must have tailed me from Ray’s compound. He’d probably jumped for joy when he found Bryce’s gate open.
When the elevator doors parted, I saw plenty of cars but no Black Knight. I pointed the Quarreler around like I knew what I was doing. A Triumph’s engine roared. I ran after it to watch the Black Knight corner left, skidding around the back of the hill to take the rocky stair down to the vineyard.
Even if my beater somehow survived the stairs, it wouldn’t be able squeeze through the rows of grapes. I hoped Bryce would forgive me for what I was about to do.
I jumped onto the White Stag’s back and depressed the ignition switch on the antler-bars. Nothing happened. The gas gauge read full. I was thinking the battery was dead when I remembered Viviane Lake’s exposition from Most Dangerous. The handlebar ignition was actually a fake that triggered the self-destruct. Good thing Ray wasn’t 100 percent accurate with all his props. I slapped the hidden flank switch and the bike roared to life.
It had been eighteen years since I had been on the back of a bike. At the time, Hong Kong cinema was kicking out these insanely dangerous motorcycle stunts. Guys firing machine guns while standing on the seat, guys diving off the saddle to tackle each other in the air, guys barreling full tilt into unexplained pyramids of cardboard boxes, that kind of thing.
I was as much a product of the times as Jove Brand. The Chinese stars were doing all their own stunts. To stand aside and let a stuntman take the risks would have been an irrecoverable loss of face. Not only as the lead, but also as the fight coordinator. Being completely inexperienced had already set me back plenty. To command any respect, I had to be the best of them.
So I did all my own stunts in Near Death.
Including the bike scenes.
I cranked the throttle and spun the White Stag about-face. His torque almost bucked me off. Handsome as he was, the Stag sure had it where it counted. I narrowly avoided dumping him on the suicide turn around the hill. We got to know each other navigating the stairs down to the vines. I couldn’t see the Black Knight, but he was leaving a clear dust trail.
The Stag handled the transition from the concrete walk into the dirt rows without a bump. Detecting wasn’t my strong suit, but this I could do. The near-invisible windscreen attached to the antler rack sheltered me as I gunned it. I went from staring at a dust trail to passing through it. When we hit the orchard, there was no more dust to kick.
The Black Knight was a hundred feet away, weaving through the trees, avoiding ditches and roots as if he were psychic. I eased off and trailed after him. I had a full tank of gas and he had ridden his bike here. All I had to do was keep him in sight and run him dry.
The Black Knight took a sharp turn when he hit the property line, bouncing onto a double-row trail made by the tractors. The corner gate was open. Whoever he was, the bastard was using up a lifetime of luck. He pulled out onto the two-lane road that bordered the property and doubled back to pass me on the far side of the fence. I let go of the antler-bars long enough to shout into my watch.
“Call Ray.”
“Yello.”
“I’m on a White Stag chasing the Black Knight. I need to know what it can do.”
Ray didn’t skip a beat. “What movie?”
“Most Dangerous.” I wove into the opposing lane to pass a tractor. “It’s the one Bryce Crisp owns.”
“Ah. He bought that Stag at auction. I retrofitted it for him, jeez, gotta be more than twenty years ago.”
“Well Bryce took care of it.” The Black Knight rode the double-yellow line, squeezing between a Jeep and a pickup going opposite ways. I managed to thread through, but swinging out to get the angle cost me.
“Always good to hear,” Ray said.
“Any forward-facing artillery on this thing?”
“Nah,” Ray grumbled. “I took out the snout cannons and the grenade launcher. His mouth still opens to emit the tube though.”
“Not a big help at the moment.” Five miles passed in three minutes. When the freeway on-ramp came into view, I swore and swore into the wind.
“Whoa. Tender ears here, buddy,” Ray said.
As the Black Knight took the on-ramp, a green Range Rover came skidding off the exit side. A second Rover joined it, both coming right for me like they had been given directions.
Unbelievable.
I buried the throttle, leaning low, measuring the gap. If I could pass them, I could lose them in traffic. But they didn’t advance. Instead, they angled parallel to block both lanes. The passengers exited before the Rovers were done braking. Each of them held the fat, revolver-style shotgun police used in riot situations.
I broke the White Stag into a skid and reversed direction. A check in the side mirror showed the gunners jumping back into the Range Rovers.
“Ray?”
“Yeah.”
“What about rear-facing ordinance?”
“He’s hiding a few surprises, what are you up against?”
“Pair of Range Rovers. Probably security reinforced,” I said.
“Too heavy for the oil slick. Try the toggle on the left handle. Might stick a little. It’s not electric.”
I cranked the raised depression downward but it refused to budge. My stomach dropped as the Stag wavered from the unbalanced pressure. I stood in the saddle for leverage and worked it down in pulses. Batches of skeletal pyramids tumbled onto the road. The first Range Rover soaked the spikes and took a header into the drainage ditch. The second one used the shoulder to edge around the thicket.
“Got one,” I said.
Ray’s celebratory cheer rattled my eardrums.
“Any other surprises on this thing?”
“I’ll have you know that bike was pretty tricked out for 1972.” Ray snorted. “Anyway, didn’t I load you up for bear?”
The gate back into the vineyard was in sight, the path to escape open. No way a Ranger Rover could pursue through the orchard. There was no shame in running away when you were outgunned. Ken Allen would have lived to fight another day.
But Jove Brand wouldn’t have.
“I’ve had about enough of these guys.” I skidded to a halt and broke the Quarreler open. The remaining Range Rover slowed in response to my sudden reversal. I switched quivers from yellow to green. When the Range Rover came to a stop, I buried the throttle to get close enough before they got their doors open.
I aimed and squeezed.
The first shot hit high on the windshield. The second hit dead center. The windshield spiderwebbed as the fléchettes detonated. I dropped the Quarreler into the mount on the antler-bars as I passed the Range Rover. The mercs were out by the time I circled around. A cross between a baseball and a beanbag smashed into my windscreen. The Stag wobbled but stayed the course. I reached behind my back to search for a certain texture.
I tossed a green ball at a Latin guy in a tan windbreaker. He hit the ground to dodge it. The ball continued on, into the interior of the Range Rover. It bounced off the dash and stuck to the ruined windshield.
I watched in the sideview as the mercs fled the c
loud of oily-brown gas. They were too busy puking to bring their weapons up. I swung back into the gate and took it easy on the way back to Bryce’s garage. It was a victory lap. A draw was as good as a win for me. The Black Knight had escaped, but Bryce was alive. Which meant Bryce could clear my name. A call alert rang in my ear.
“Gotta let you go, Ray. Stag still runs like a dream.”
I switched over to be greeted by my favorite law-enforcement officer.
“What the hell are you doing, Allen?”
“Afternoon, Special Investigator Stern.”
“Are you at Bryce Crisp’s vineyard?” The anger in Stern’s voice told me she already knew the answer to her question.
“I’m going to have to decline to answer on the advice of counsel.”
I pulled around the suicide curve to find Stern staring bloody murder at me. At least her gun wasn’t out. I sensed a snake in the grass. The Range Rovers’ timely arrival was beyond suspicious. Stern happening to be in the neighborhood at the same time was preposterous.
Stern pointed me into the garage. “You put that back and do not dare leave.”
“Am I under arrest, Investigator?”
Stern almost lost it but recovered nicely, gritting her teeth as she aimed a finger at me.
“You’re lovely when you’re angry,” I said, pulling the Stag back into his den.
Stern took a breath to master herself. “I am going to go interview Crisp. It would be helpful to my investigation if you remained on scene.”
“You know I can’t say no to you.”
I dismounted the Stag reluctantly. Going back to my old beater was going to be tough. After Stern disappeared into the elevator, I stashed my harness and blazer in the trunk. The garage was more lived-in than the rest of the place, with bottles of unfinished sparkling water strewn about. Whoever was drinking it stopped when the bubbles did. I found the mini-fridge they came from and helped myself.
Stern came back when I was on my third bottle. I offered her one so we could toast my innocence. “How’d it go?”
Jove Brand is Near Death Page 10