He’d only been mistaken about William up to a point. She had no feelings for her partner, but she’d known William had a crush on her, had even encouraged it on occasion, not seeing the harm. It had proved useful, just like she’d hoped Garrett Lindsay would prove useful.
She should have seen this coming. She’d picked up on the actor’s instability when they’d met for dinner. Of course she never thought he’d turn dangerous, but it made sense.
Poor William. He hadn’t believed in their screenplay, Seven Hours to Nowhere, not in the way she had. When he’d insisted on staying behind to see if he couldn’t “sweeten the deal” with the head of OriCAL Entertainment (his words, not hers) she’d tried to argue him out of it. But he’d been stubborn and now he was dead. It didn’t seem real. But she wasn’t the type of girl to miss an opportunity when it came knocking. She could rename their work, remarket it to another studio under her name alone. Seven Hours to Nowhere had been William’s title, an homage to the neo-Noirs of the Nineties that themselves had been sendups of a bygone era. She only vaguely understood the reference. It had next to nothing to do with their plot. She preferred her own title: A Cage to Catch Our Dreams.
She had tried to go back to the Century Tower later, after seeing the news about William’s death. Had tried to explain who she was to the officers stationed in the foyer. How she knew the victim. How she needed to talk to Michelle Lyon, that it was a matter of life or death. Looking back, it had been a poor choice of words, but the unimaginative officers had only stared at her and then instructed her to go down to “the Station” in the morning and give a statement and that no, they could not allow her to bother the occupants of any of the penthouses, why did she think they were put there in the first place?
So she’d returned home, too worked up to sleep.
She lived alone, and liked it that way. Not that she didn’t want one day to be married. But she’d only allow herself to have a relationship once she made it. Kids, a white picket fence, a red Kitchen Aid, all after she’d become a successful screenwriter. And the screenplay, her screenplay now that William was no longer in the picture (so to speak) was the key to it all.
If Michelle Lyon wasn’t willing to bite after everything that had happened, Julia would withdraw the screenplay and shop it around.
She reminded herself once more that she wasn’t sad about William being gone. She didn’t get sad. Sadness, just like happiness, belonged to the person she was going to be once she made it. In the meantime, it was something she wouldn’t allow herself. Just like coffee.
Or love. She fingered the locket that Ben Patterson had given her Senior year. The locket that she had worn every day since the summer she’d broken up with him for no reason she could articulate, only that it was just for the time being, not forever, and why did he have to look at her like that? She couldn’t understand how words had failed her that day, and she’d sworn they never would again.
Tomorrow, words would be her salvation. Tomorrow, Garrett Lindsay would regret ever bumbling his way into her life. She would expose him, and, with the sensation surrounding William’s murder, she would be able to name her price for the screenplay that had been at the center of it all.
Her screenplay.
She tore open another bag of tea from the box she kept around in case her sister visited, sighed, and dropped it into the cup to steep.
XXX: THE NEXT BIG THING
Tiny Johnson lived in a real loft. Not a loft like what Marin and her friends referred to their posh apartments as, but a converted, outwardly-decrepit warehouse on a hill across the street from the Embarcadero; a bachelor pad that made every masculine fiber in Garrett’s body hum.
Marin’s disappearance was less than ideal, but there was little they could do about it. Garrett didn’t know her cell number off the top of his head—he had programmed it in at the start of their relationship and never bothered committing it to memory. Short of calling Nick to ask for it, or going back to the Century Tower on the off chance that she’d gotten a ride home and stayed there, he had no way of contacting her.
She knew a killer was after them, Garrett reminded himself. And she was in her element; navigating the nightlife of the city had never posed a challenge for her.
Their options limited, Johnson grudgingly invited Garrett and Reagan to stay the remainder of the night in a spare room at his home.
The drive from the diner to his loft had taken no time at all, and now Garrett and Reagan were in Johnson’s living room, trying awkwardly to come up with something to say about the place other than the obvious. The look on Johnson’s face said inviting them was something he was already starting to regret.
Rain was coming down steadily against the bank of windows that faced out across the bay. Richly polished wooden beams held up a second floor with walls made from opaque glass blocks. White furniture contrasted with the dark steel of the various fixtures and the heavy industrial staircase. Tan hardwood floors made their every movement echo in the cavernous space. It reminded Garrett of wandering out onto a deserted soundstage.
Reagan was the first to say what they were both thinking.
“You live here?” she asked. “Cafferty Wade himself couldn’t afford to live here. How does a private eye afford this?”
“Go ahead, make yourself at home,” said Johnson sourly.
“I’m not wrong, am I?”
“You’re not wrong,” Johnson sighed. “I told you, my folks owned a vineyard.”
“So you’re rich.”
“Nope.”
“Then how is it you live here?”
“This place and my teeth came from my folks. Other than that, I don’t inherit a dime until I put in my Thirty.”
“Your teeth?”
Johnson smiled. Garrett noticed for the first time that the big man’s pearly whites were ever so slightly too perfect.
“Implants. Stopped the butt of an M16 with my mouth in Iraq. No bullets involved, so it didn’t count as friendly fire.”
“Jesus.”
“I neither blame Him nor attribute my dental surgery to His supposed benevolence. My brother and I each got one advance on our inheritance after high school. Car or house. Guess which one of us chose the Ferrari. My teeth were a bonus because our parents felt bad.”
“So they gave you this place?”
“Nope. I just live here. They own it.”
“But you will, someday.”
Johnson shrugged.
“Are we safe here? What about the man with the glasses?”
“We’re safe,” said Johnson.
“Why is that all we care about?” said Garrett suddenly.
The words were out of his mouth before he knew it. It was too late to take them back, so he plowed on. “Sure, we want to be safe at the end of this whole thing, but where does that leave us? I’m homeless, you’re agency is floundering. You’re short a fiancé with a baby on the way. And you,” he looked at Johnson, “live in your parent’s warehouse.”
“It’s a nice warehouse.”
“It is a nice warehouse, but why aren’t we thinking about the big picture? Michelle Lyon is the head of OriCAL Entertainment. That’s huge. Cafferty Wade I’ve never heard of, but you say he’s huge, so he’s huge. There’s real money and power here, major players, a crazy killer, forbidden love, murder. Big stuff. And don’t forget the blackmail photographs—”
Reagan backed away a step. “Damn you, Garrett, we agreed blackmail was what got us in trouble in the first place!”
“It was. I’m not talking about the photographs, I’m talking about the story. Look, I may not have a clue about dealing with hired killers, or crazy blackmailers, or anything else we’ve run up against, but I do know one thing, and that’s Hollywood. I don’t mean auditions. I suck at those. I can’t promote myself, I haven’t worked in ages, but I know what makes Tinseltown tick.”
Reagan blinked. “What on Earth are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the pulse, the Ne
xt Big Thing.”
“I don’t speak Network Asshole,” said Johnson. “By the ‘Next Big Thing’ you mean…?”
“A screenplay,” said Garrett.
Silence.
He pressed on. “And we know somebody who could write it. Based on the Sensational True Story, blah, blah, blah. Don’t you see? There isn’t a newsworthy event nowadays that doesn’t have an inspired-by blockbuster pop up nine months later. The turnaround time is getting so fast, you wonder if they don’t know about the stories before they break.” He let the implication settle in. “We do, and we’ve got the whole package. I’m an actor, you’re an agent,” he gestured at Johnson, “he can keep us alive long enough to close the deal.”
Reagan’s voice rang out in the vast space. “Garrett, a man is trying to kill us!”
“Okay, yes,” he admitted. “But you’re not looking on the bright side.”
Reagan threw up her hands. “I’m going to bed. Mr. Johnson, I was wrong about you and I want you to know that I appreciate everything you’ve done to help us, you’ve been very kind. Garrett, it’s...it’s okay. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
Her tired smile was worse than any look of disapproval she could have given him. She retreated up the stairs to the second floor and disappeared into the bedroom Johnson had pointed out upon their arrival.
Garrett watched her go. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Just when things were starting up between them, he had to run his big mouth.
Johnson stood with his arms crossed, looking thoughtful. Garrett wondered what was going on inside the big private eye’s head. The man with the glasses—Wade’s psycho pal—wanted Johnson dead now too, but he didn’t seem particularly concerned. He was ostensibly giving them sanctuary, but yet he didn’t seem particularly concerned about their well-being either. He was either the manliest man Garrett had ever met, or he was truly ambivalent about the prospect of his own death. Both possibilities made Garrett uneasy.
“So,” said Garrett. “You live alone? No dog? Let me guess, not enough space.”
In the middle of the room, opposite the large fireplace whose chimney pipe disappeared up into the darkness overhead, resided a sectional, and beside the sectional stood a small end table. Walking to the table, Johnson picked up a rectangular decanter and two glasses.
“Scotch?”
Garrett shook his head.
“Good,” said Johnson, “because I only drink bourbon.”
He held one glass out to Garrett, then took the other and sat tiredly down on the couch.
“Sober, what you were saying about the screenplay almost makes sense. So I do not wish to be sober any longer.”
Johnson threw back the drink and poured himself another.
“How does an address and a phone number count as leverage?” asked Garrett.
“It’s all very complicated, and I hardly think complicated is your style. I’m no bodyguard, I never said I was. You’d be foolish to trust me with your lives.”
“What choice do we have?”
Johnson grunted.
“We’d trust you more if you were willing to explain things once in awhile.”
“I don’t expect you to trust me. I don’t care if you trust me. And as to leverage, more is better than less when it comes to information.”
“So tell me what else would be useful to know.”
Johnson snorted. “You happen to have Michelle Lyon’s cell number lying around? No? I didn’t think so.”
Garrett sipped the bourbon. The taste made him recall why he was a Grey Goose man, when he drank at all.
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
Johnson untucked his shirt and stretched. “Why should I care what happens to you and your lady-friend? I’ve got a reason to save my own ass, seeing as I happen to be very fond of it. But risking my neck for anything beyond that? Uh-uh.”
“You said the screenplay was a good idea.”
“No, I said it almost made sense.” The big man had downed his second glass, but the alcohol was having no obvious effect on him. “A lot of ideas can start sounding like good ideas at this time of night.”
Garrett got up. He was getting excited and needed to be able to pace. Christ, he thought, three in the morning and here they were, four hundred miles from Tinseltown, and he was pitching an idea like it was afternoon in Studio City.
“Having a script ready to go when the story breaks would be a sure thing,” he explained. “But even if it wasn’t cut and dry, Michelle Lyon already bought Jade and Silverman’s screenplay. She told me so herself. Silverman might be dead, but this is the honeymoon phase for Jade. Everybody already knows, or will know shortly, that she closed a major deal. She’s hot stuff right now no matter how the picture performs when it comes out, and if she’s smart she’ll have another contract signed long before then. It’s in her best interest for any follow-up screenplay to be a doozy, and this one would have it all.”
“You think this woman, Jade, will want to write it?”
“She’ll beg us to let her write it.”
Johnson kicked off his shoes, stretched out on the couch, and closed his eyes.
“I’ll think about it. Turn off the light on your way upstairs.”
XXXI: THE BAD THING
When Nick picked up Marin out front of the diner, the first thing they did—to her dismay—was drive around the block and park, at which point Nick refused to take her anywhere until she related all that had happened since he and Sonny had left the motel and he and his erstwhile partner had angrily parted ways.
Marin told him about Johnson gunning down the man with the glasses (but not killing him), about Cafferty Wade the Carpet Czar being in the background of the photographs wearing only his birthday suit, and about how Johnson seemed to think somebody at the diner could help them.
When she was finished, she said, “Happy? Now, take me out somewhere.” She grinned. “Let’s go dancing.”
Nick waved her off.
“Did you hear what I said? Let’s get out of here. The night doesn’t have to be a total disaster.”
“Shut up, will you? Let me think.”
“Hey, you owe me,” said Marin angrily.
“I don’t owe you a goddamn thing. I ought to kick your teeth in for spoiling everything the way you did.”
“That’s not how I see it,” said Marin. “I did you a favor—”
“The last favor I remember you doing me was wanting to call it off between us.”
“Listen, baby,” said Marin, resting her hand on his thigh. “Of course I said that, but I didn’t mean it. I called you just now, didn’t I? Don’t think about earlier. This is the way it was always supposed to be. You and me, together. You never would have left her if it hadn’t been for earlier.”
Nick licked his lips.
“Take me to Whispers and I’ll blow you in the men’s room.”
Nick licked his lips again, and Marin knew that she had him hooked.
He was tempted, he was always tempted when it came to Marin, but the situation was far worse than even that sideshow freak of a private eye had thought. Yes, Nick’s taxi service was in the shitter. Nobody wanted a cab anymore, not when they could smartphone up some hipster in a Prius, have them at their doorstep in under a minute. Somebody who they could fantasize was one of the Ninety-Nine Percent, just like them. Though of course it was a lie. Nobody in the city belonged to the Ninety-Nine Percent. They were all just varying degrees of upper-middle-class, unless they lived in some communal apartment and sucked off their parents’ teat, and even then they were upper-middle-class by extension.
Nobody wanted a cab anymore, but that wasn’t the Bad Thing, the weight that lurked behind his eyes like a tumor, staring at him every time he looked in the mirror. He had pumped his own money into the company, pressured Sonny into doing the same, but their resources had been exhausted earlier that year. The Bad Thing was why he was still keeping the doors open, why Paulie and the rest were still doing whatever he told them t
o. And it was, until that night, what had allowed him to keep up appearances with a fiancé and a mistress who liked to party well above her means.
The loan, that was the Bad Thing. He knew a guy who knew a guy, and even at the time it had seemed too good to be true, but he’d taken it anyway. What was he supposed to do, watch everything he had be taken away from him? Watch the company his father built go down the shitter? Lose the respect of everybody who worked for him and get his dick sucked by his own wife for the rest of his life?
He’d told Reagan the broken pinky finger on his left hand had come from a car door, but it hadn’t been a car door and it hadn’t been an accident. It had been a three-hundred-and-fifty pound Pacific Islander called Deezy, with angry-sounding music leaking out of his headphones, and he had clamped Nick’s wrist in a vice and used a pair of water pump pliers to bend the pinky sideways until it had snapped. The man who’d told Deezy to break his finger, Nadir, had given Nick a three day extension and told him not to worry, he still had nine more extensions left before he ran out of fingers. Before things went to the next level.
Nick had lied, too, about Marin being a coincidence. They’d first run into each other the Christmas before, at Reagan’s last-ditch networking mixer with Garrett and her few other remaining clients. Reagan obviously didn’t remember, but Nick hadn’t been able to forget. Marin was shorter than the women he usually went for, not as voluptuous as Reagan by far, but her overt sensuality got up inside him like fishhooks. They’d started screwing before the week was out.
Now everything was falling apart. The original plan for the photographs was as dead as Bill Silverman. Nick had no idea how to salvage the situation, but he did know that where there was desire, there was always opportunity. That had been the whole reason for getting Silverman to take the photographs in the first place. If he could just find a new angle, he might still manage to profit from this and save his livelihood.
Usuality Page 15