L.A. Times

by Stuart Woods

  “I’m a member of the Academy now,” Michael said. “Your seats won’t be down front, though. That’s reserved for the nominees. You’ll be in the rear third of the orchestra.”

  “Listen, that’s just great. I don’t want to be anywhere near you, anyway. I don’t want you and me connected just yet, you know?”

  “Tell me how it’s going in New York,” Michael said.

  “It couldn’t be going better,” Tommy replied. He took his drink from the silver tray and waited until the butler had left. “English?”

  “Irish; they’re the best.”

  “I’m impressed, boy.”

  “So tell me about New York.”

  “Well, you must have read in the papers, even out here, that we had kind of a shakeout in the family.”

  “Yeah, I saw that Benny Nickels and Mario B. got it.”

  “Coming out of a restaurant on Park Avenue, no less.”

  “And you profited from this event?”

  “Did I ever! I pulled all of Benny’s people and about half of Mario’s into my operation. The Don is very, very happy with me these days.”

  “And how is the Don?”

  “Ailing. His liver, you know? He always drank too much.”

  “What happens when he goes?”

  Tommy smiled tightly. “I happen.”

  “That sounds great.”

  Tommy looked around. “You do what I tell you about this place?”

  “Yes, it was swept this morning. Nothing, believe me. Nobody has a handle on me out here.”

  “Except the FBI,” Tommy said.

  “Not even them. My source says that the agent that runs the wiretap unit in L.A. picked up on Callabrese. Like I told you on the phone, there’s only one place in this town where that name was ever used.”

  Tommy nodded. “The bank. I had somebody talk to Winfield. He’s taking precautions.”

  “Tommy, I don’t know whether to leave my money with that guy. What do you think?”

  “How much you got with him?”

  “About three million, four.”

  “Hey, that’s good. You left the interest in, huh?”

  “Nearly all of it. Once in a while I need a little untraceable cash, you know?”

  “Don’t I know?” Tommy laughed.

  “Anyway, you’re secure here. Malibu Colony is a very, very private place.”

  “Good, good.” Tommy leaned forward again. “Listen, I’m so proud of you, kid; you’re doing just great. I read about you all the time.”

  “You saw the Vanity Fair piece.”

  “Yeah; that was a little rough.”

  “Things are quieting down. I gave a quarter of a million to an industry AIDS charity—anonymous, you know? It was in the trades the next day.”

  Tommy’s jaw dropped. “You gave away a quarter of a million?”

  “A cheap investment. Now I’m known in the business as a philanthropist. Only trouble is, every charity in town has come out of the woodwork. I give ten grand here, twenty grand there.”

  “You can afford it, baby, with three and a half mil on the street.”

  “Tommy, that’s the smallest part of it. I’ve made nearly fifteen million on my points on three movies, and there’s more to come.”

  “How much of it you got left?”

  “Well, after taxes, expenses, you know; maybe four million in the market, besides what’s on the street.”

  “Taxes,” Tommy said, shaking his head. “Imagine you and me paying taxes.”

  “You, too?”

  “Listen, I’ve got a very nice line in legitimate stuff now. I run a dozen little businesses out of a holding company. We got offices in an office building—everything. And we pay taxes! It’s driving the feds nuts.”

  “That’s got to be the future,” Michael said. “Legitimate.”

  “I’m always looking for an investment,” Tommy said. “In fact, some friends of mine have brought up the subject of Centurion Studios.”

  Michael nearly dropped his drink. “Centurion?”

  “Yessir. I’ve made some contacts in Japan. They’ve got their own little Cosa Nostra over there, only they call it the yakuza.”

  “That’s very interesting,” Michael said.

  “In fact, they’ve got the jump on us in going legit. For years they’ve been working their way into big, big corporations over there. Just between you and me, they’ve got Yamamoto sewed up tight.”

  “Yeah?”

  “And they think there’s a lot of money to be made in the movie business.”

  “They’re right about that,” Michael said. “Universal and Columbia are already in the Japanese bag.”

  “My friends think they can make even more money than those studios by using, shall we say, tried and true methods?”

  “That’s very interesting,” Michael said.

  “And you’re on the Centurion board.”

  “Went to my first board meeting the other day.”

  “And?”

  “Leo Goldman let the board know that he would never sell, especially to the Japanese. He owns fifty-four percent of the voting stock, you know.”

  Tommy smiled slightly. “Not owns; controls. Big difference.” He got up. “Well, I’d better freshen up. We’ll talk some more about this later.” Tommy went back into the house, leaving Michael alone.

  Michael sat and watched the waves break on the beach, trying to figure out what this could mean for him.

  CHAPTER

  46

  Michael was picked up by a studio limousine in the afternoon and driven to the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion for the Academy Awards presentations. Leo had tried to get him to escort an actress starring in one of Centurion’s films, but Michael insisted on going alone.

  His car had a pass taped to the front window that allowed it to drop its occupants at the front door, where the television cameras were. Michael made his entrance right behind Meryl Streep and her husband, and the television interviewer in front of the stands didn’t recognize him. He liked that. Since the Vanity Fair piece, he had thought it good to cultivate the “mystery man” image, while doing anonymous good works that were always made public.

  Once inside the Pavilion he met Leo and Amanda and worked the crowd, with Leo introducing Michael to half the stars in town. Shortly an announcement was made.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” an amplified voice said. “Will you please take your seats; we go on the air in twelve minutes.”

  Michael sat with Leo and Amanda ten rows back from the orchestra. As the music came up for the beginning of the telecast, he put on his heavy black-rimmed glasses. Even with Rick Rivera neutralized, he was terrified of being recognized by a witness to Moriarty’s murder.

  Michael looked to his right and saw Vanessa Parks and Chuck Parish sitting directly across the aisle. He nodded, but both of them ignored him.

  After ten minutes of monologue by the master of ceremonies and another ten of dancing and singing, the awards began. There were only four that Michael had the slightest interest in: the nominations that Pacific Afternoons had earned—Best Actress, Best Actor, Best Picture, and Best Screenplay (Adapted). In fact, he cared deeply only about Best Picture, because the Oscar would come to him.

  Leo leaned across Amanda and whispered, “I don’t know if you noticed this last year, but it always seems to take longer here than it does watching it on television.”

  Michael could but agree. He was intensely bored with the pageant unfolding in the huge auditorium. His mind ran from his banking relationship with the Kensington Trust to the coming screenings of his new film to Tommy Pro’s surprise announcement of his involvement with the Japanese who were bidding for Centurion. He wondered what Tommy meant by his statement that Leo controlled, but did not own, a majority of the studio’s shares.

  He was startled from his reverie by the reading of Vanessa’s name, and he watched as a scene from Pacific Afternoons was projected onto a huge screen. There was the usual business with the
envelope, and another actress’s name was read out. He glanced across the aisle at Vanessa and saw her pale and rigid, clapping noiselessly for the winner. As soon as the winning actress had made her speech, Vanessa and Chuck got up and left the auditorium. Graceless, Michael thought; that would be written about, and he hoped it would not reflect badly on the film.

  More dancing and singing, more hilarity from the emcee, then the award for Best Actor was announced. Michael looked around and found the back of Bob Hart’s head three rows in front of him. He knew well how controlled the expression on the actor’s face would be as the nominees’ names were read and the clips of their performances shown. Bob’s was shown last, and there was a burst of applause at the end of it. That must mean something, Michael thought. The people clapping were the ones who had voted.

  A willowy actress, winner of last year’s Oscar, read: “And the winner is Robert Hart for Pacific Afternoons.” The name of the film was drowned out in the roar of approval from the audience. Hart made his way down the aisle and up to the podium.

  “I will be as brief as my conscience will let me,” the actor said to the audience. “First of all, I must thank my wife, Susan, without whom I never make a move, as you all know.” There was applause for Susan, then Hart ran down a long list of names. “Finally,” he said, “I must thank the man without whose foresight and wise guidance Pacific Afternoons could not have been made.” He drew a breath.

  Michael suddenly felt all warm inside. He was smiling in spite of himself.

  “Leo Goldman,” Hart said, then, holding the Oscar aloft, he left the stage in triumph.

  Michael was stunned. Amanda’s hand gripped his arm, and Leo leaned across her. “That was a shitty thing to do,” Leo said.

  Michael took a deep breath and tried to keep a pleasant expression on his face. His impulse was to flee the theater, but he calmed himself and waited.

  Finally, finally, the award for Best Picture was up, and Michael watched through glazed eyes as the clips from the films were shown. He had just endured a personal insult witnessed by a billion people all over the world, and his mind was on how he could possibly get out of the auditorium without meeting the eyes of anyone present.

  “Pacific Afternoons, producer, Michael Vincent,” someone said. Michael continued to stare at the back of the seat in front of him. Suddenly Leo was banging him on the back and shouting, “Get up there, kiddo, you won!”

  Michael stood, dazed, and a shove from Amanda started him down the aisle. He climbed the steps to the stage slowly, as if exhausted, and accepted a peck on the cheek from an actress he had admired all his life.

  The applause died down as he stepped to the podium and cleared his throat. “I have already thanked repeatedly and profusely everyone associated with the marvelous experience that was Pacific Afternoons, including the perfectly wonderful Leo Goldman, so it only remains to thank all of you for conferring this award, and the Academy for presenting it. Good night.” Someone took his elbow and guided him offstage.

  Weak and perspiring from the double shock of Bob Hart’s insult and winning the Oscar, Michael suddenly found himself in a backstage room with what seemed like a thousand photographers. Bob Hart was just concluding his remarks before a bank of microphones, and, collecting his wits, Michael strode across the room and flung his arms around the astonished movie star. “Take that, you son of a bitch,” he whispered into Hart’s ear; then he stepped back and pumped the actor’s hand while a thousand flashguns recorded the event.

  The bemused Hart was led away from the microphones by someone, and Michael found himself facing more press than he could ever have imagined existed.

  Michael ignored their shouted questions and raised his hands, one of them clutching the remarkably heavy statuette, for quiet. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I am too stunned to answer questions, so I will just say that this award was made possible by superb performances by Vanessa Parks and Robert Hart and a wonderful job by a new director, Eliot Rosen. Without their work, I would not be clutching this Oscar, never to let it go.”

  He left the microphones and pushed his way through the mob, saying “thank you” repeatedly. There was no point in returning to his seat, since the Best Picture award ended the ceremonies, and he could hear the final music rising. Instead, he looked for the stage door that led to where the limousines were parked. He spotted an exit sign and headed for it, but someone took his arm and pulled him into what must have been the stage manager’s office. Michael was prepared to fend off another reporter, but instead a man held up a wallet with an identification card.

  “Mr. Vincent, I am Special Agent Thomas Carson of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” He nodded at the other man. “This is Special Agent Warren. We’d like to talk to you.”

  “What the hell is this?” Michael asked angrily.

  “Perhaps I should say Vincente Callabrese?”

  Michael was terrified, but he maintained his composure. “What are you talking about?”

  “That is your real name, isn’t it?” the agent asked.

  “My name is Michael Vincent,” he replied, “and I resent this intrusion.”

  “Are you refusing to talk to us?” the agent said, and there was something threatening in his voice.

  “I most certainly am,” Michael replied, uncowed. “If you wish to speak to me you may call my office during business hours. Is that perfectly clear?”

  “Perhaps you’d rather come down to our offices to talk?”

  “Am I under arrest for something?” Michael demanded.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then get the hell out of my way,” Michael said, brushing past the two men and out into the hallway. He spotted the exit sign again and headed for it.

  Outside there was a sea of limousines; Michael searched frantically for his, but they seemed to be identical.

  “Mr. Vincent?” a voice called out, and Michael spotted his chauffeur.

  “Yes, yes,” Michael said, heading for his car.

  “Congratulations, sir,” the chauffeur beamed.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Michael said, diving into the back seat of the car. “Take me home.”

  The chauffeur turned and looked over the seat. “Don’t you want to go to the Lazar party at Spago?”

  Michael hesitated. If he didn’t show for the party, the papers would be full of it the next morning. He had to brazen it out. “All right, take me to Spago, but drive around a little; I don’t want to be the first one there.”

  He sank back into the seat and tried to get ahold of himself.

  CHAPTER

  47

  Michael was home before midnight. He said good night to the chauffeur, tipped him a hundred dollars, and let himself into the house. The servants were asleep in their quarters, and the lights were off in the guesthouse.

  He had barely managed to be civil to his hosts and the other guests at the Lazars’ party; his mind had been racing the whole time, working on the FBI angle. They knew his real name, and they knew that Rick Rivera knew his name; they must also know why Rick knew it. He did not have much time.

  He walked out to the pool and past it to the guesthouse, knocked on the door, and entered. Tommy and Sheila were still out. It did not take him long to find what he was looking for; he grabbed the brown envelope and stuffed it into a pocket. He went to the kitchen, rummaged around until he found some plastic freezer bags, then took two of them out to the beach, put one inside the other, and filled it with sand. Back in the house, he rolled the bag into a sausage shape and taped it closed. Under the sink, he found a pair of rubber kitchen gloves and put them into his pocket.

  The security guard went off at midnight, and the gate opened automatically as the Porsche approached. He drove slowly into L.A., taking the freeway and exiting at Sunset. Soon he was in West Hollywood, searching for the address. He found it at a little past one o’clock.

  The block was dark and quiet as he drove past the address and parked at the end of the str
eet. He walked back to the house and stopped on the front porch; no lights were on. He rang the bell.

  Shortly a light went on somewhere at the back of the house, and a moment later a bleary-eyed Rick Rivera opened the door.

  “Michael? What the hell?”

  “I need to talk to you, Rick.”

  “Sure, sure, come on in. Congratulations on the Oscar; that’s really great. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “No girls in the house?”

  “Not a one.” Rick turned toward the bar.

  “Nothing for me,” Michael said. “You have something.”

  “Well,” Rick said, pouring himself a stiff bourbon, “with what I’ve already had tonight, another one can’t hurt.”

  “I won’t take much of your time, Rick; there’s something I have to know.”

  “Right.”

  “I heard from the FBI tonight, backstage at the Academy Awards.”

  “No kidding?”

  “What have they got on me, Rick?”

  “I told you, I think they picked you up on a wiretap.”

  “What, exactly, did they pick up?”

  “I don’t know. I just know that the agent who called me, Carson, is head of the wiretap unit.”

  “What did they ask you, exactly?”

  “They asked me why I had run a check on Callabrese.”

  “And what did you tell them? Exactly.”

  “I told them that I had found the Callabrese prints on the car that ran down the lawyer.”

  “What else?”

  “That was it.”

  “Rick, you said that you took the fingerprint evidence with you when you left the force, is that right?”

  “That’s right.” Rivera spread his hands. “Look, Michael, I’m not going to give you up; it’s insurance, that’s all.”

  “What, exactly, does the evidence consist of?”

  “The fingerprint card showing the prints lifted from the car, and the card with the file prints faxed in by the FBI.”

  “Is the card showing the prints lifted from the car the original?”