by Tony Bulmer
‘On the contrary Joe, the experience taught me much: strength, independence, the knowledge I could trust no one; It gave me the ability to live life like it should be lived, with out fear or guilt or regret.’
Joe gave the girl a skeptical look. ‘Sounds kind of flighty to me sweetheart, like you never saw anything that was real in life. Regular people have problems too. Difference is they deal with them.
‘Regular people, how charmingly simplistic of you. You think because my father is wealthy I have no understanding of people and the world? You think I know nothing of pain and hardship and the aching need to overcome adversity, do you think that Joe?’
‘I think you should get a grip sweetheart, pull your head out of that Ivory Tower world of yours, realize how good life is.’ Joe headed South of Santa Monica Boulevard, made a bearing for the Marina.
‘Where are you going Joe, we missed the turn to the hotel.’
‘We aren’t going to the hotel sweet-cakes.’
‘But there are things there that I need.’
‘I got no doubt about that, but the hotel is no longer a secure location, I take you back there, we could run in to all kinds of problems.
In Beverly Hills? I appreciate your concern Joe Russell, but I know people in Beverly Hills, nothing untoward could happen.’
‘You think, your tabloid chums won’t have blabbed where you are staying to the whole world by now?’
What if they have? It is my life Joe, it is the way things are, why should today, tomorrow, or the next day be any different than the days that have gone before?
‘Because some sick puppy killer just tried to blow a hole in your life with a fifty-caliber sniper rifle.’
‘I am sure he wasn’t aiming for me.’
‘I like that confidence honey, live for it. But on this occasion you get overruled.’
‘Surely your duty is to protect and serve Mr. Russell?’
‘Cute, I like that. But I ain’t no cop sweetheart.’
‘What are you then Mr. Russell?’
‘Your worst nightmare if you don’t do what the hell your told, now sit back and relax—we are going fishing.’
Dead Famous 33
I reviewed the Peninsula tapes at Cheyenne Wallis’ office—I call them tapes, but they weren’t of course. The high-end security system at the Peninsula hotel was state of the art; it burned thousands of hours of security footage every day from the hundred plus security cameras that monitored the building from every conceivable angle. The maze of information was hooked into a high-end database, that could satisfy a seemingly endless list of search criteria. Best of all, a biometric face recognition feature enabled fast track monitoring of any individual who entered the hotel, providing minute by minute footage from the time they entered, to the time they left.
In order to see the requested footage, Councilwoman Wallis booked me space in the IT suite at City Hall. I had expected her to courier the tapes over to my office, so I could analyze it on the CCP system. She told me this would be a no-no, like she didn’t trust me, or something. What do you do? Fein pouty? When you are dealing with the big wheels of local government, crybaby antics don’t go down well. I figured I would play amenable, make like I gave a damn about big-government protocol.
One thing was for sure, working the Barrington case was turning out to be an even bigger headache than I had figured, that beachfront morning at Casa del Mar.
I sat in the City Hall editing booth, reviewing footage, speeding through frame after frame of lobby crawling guests, lift travelling business people, and corridor scrubbing housekeepers. As the endless frames flipped forwards, a City Hall security guard, resembling a rumple-faced Basset hound drooped behind me, in a plastic stacko-chair. Cheyenne Wallis was smart. She figured I got half a chance I would cut corners and ship out with the entire contents of the Peninsula tapes strapped neatly inside the briefcase I had brought along for that very purpose. Foiled by the power of my own Machiavellian farsightedness. Luckily, as ever, I had a plan.
So there I sat, looping through hour after hour of useless footage, while rumple face slouched and scratched and ten-foured into his crackling walkie-talkie behind me. I slurped dispenser coffee that tasted molten and vaguely medicinal. It turned out the security guards name was Norman. Norm was a pretty good guy, an old school street cop from the Los Angeles Police Department who had pensioned out years ago. It looked like retirement suited him. Norm was a slow mover, whose squeaky-soled shoes were polished hard, to a high gloss patina. He told me his opinions on just about everything, from those bums at Chavez Ravine, to, that rat-faced bureaucrat running things downtown at the Department. Norm had strong opinions on just about everything, and wasn’t shy about letting them loose. I made sympathetic noises, bought him medicinal coffee and a Snickers bar from the candy machine. Norm told me he was a diabetic, but dipped the supersized candy bar into his coffee anyway.
I hoped I would be able to run off a bootleg copy of the Peninsula tapes, just as soon as Norm made a bathroom visit. I had a long wait. It turned out that Norm had a bladder of steel, but eventually the radioactive dispenser coffee worked its inevitable magic and Norm rose out of his plastic stacko-chair. I watched him go. Did I have everything I needed; would I be alright? He asked as he left.
Yes, and yes.
The door had barely closed, before I whipped out the high capacity super-drive from my top pocket, a miniature marvel that could store literally billions of images. I plugged it into the City Hall computer system and began downloading the Peninsula files. A progress bar flashed onto the screen, inching forward at a painful rate, like the slow rising mercury on a dessert morning.
In the dead room I listened to the pulse of my heartbeat.
No other sound for the longest time. The progress bar moving slow.
Silence in the hallowed corridors of City Hall.
Then, outside in the distance, the slow squeak of Norm’s super polished shoes heading back from the bathroom.
The progress bar inching forwards more slowly now, moving by retrograde increments.
Norm stuck his head around the door. ‘Can I get you another coffee Mr. Costello?’
I turned in my chair, ‘Sure, but please, call me Danny, or Dan if you prefer.’
Norm smiled, ‘Sure thing Dan. You want sugar?’
‘Hell, no—I am sweet enough.’
Norm’s crumpled Basset hound face broke a smile and he disappeared, the heavy door of the media suite gliding shut with a soft click of finality.
As his shoes disappeared back down the corridor, the progress bar reached the end zone with a ping of completion.
I smiled, drew a slow Zen breath and slid the super drive back into my top pocket; it nestled snugly, out of sight of prying eyes. I eased back into my trip through the video archive, figuring one last coffee with Norm and I would hit the road.
A familiar face came on screen, footage of Shaquil Johnson swaggering down the corridor outside Saquina’s suite. The digital timeline read two hours before show time at the Oscars. I slowed down the running footage, to a frame-by-frame speed, watching as every crisp digital movement was picked out in immaculate detail. Watching, as Shaqi-J swaggered into view. Watching, as he snorked phlegm and ran his fingers through his grease-ball hair, like a street corner pimp. Watching, as he paused, took a glance up and down the corridor, pause again, then blammo. Shaqi-J looking up, looking straight into the camera, like he knew it was there.
Like he knew it was there.
I snapped a freeze frame, looked down at Shaqi-J. Like I was there the whole time back at the Peninsula Hotel the night of the murders.
But Shaqi-J had an alibi, a room full of alibis, according to City Attorney Wallis, so why was he looking up into the security camera? Looking up, like he knew it was there, like he had scoped out the cameras before.
I looked into the eyes of a man whose dead soul stared back at me, cold and contemptuous. Surely if anyone had anything to gain by the death of Sa
quina Johnson it was Shaqi-J; a man who had married for money, and the cold convenience of association with a mega-star whose career eclipsed his own. With his wife dead Shaqi-J stood to earn millions, he would be free, single and imbued with the lustful sympathy of a million adoring fans.
I thought back to the funeral. Remembered Shaqi-J scuttling for safety like a human cockroach, Kicking over his wife’s coffin so he could squirm down inside her grave and hide from an assassin’s bullets.
I stared down into the freeze-frame eyes of Shaqi-J, soaking up the broiling secrets that lay within. He had seen me looking grave-side. He knew that I had witnessed every shameful second of his disgusting behavior. If such evidence became public Shaqi-J’s reputation as a virile, fearless and world-wise champion of the masses would be comprehensively ruined. The media would hate him. Little wonder those eyes had shown such fear. Fear of discovery. Looking at the freeze frame image, I saw the same fear now, staring back at me, as clear as a summer morning. I pondered the fear, then a realization hit, the sniper had missed Sly Barrington. But what if the sniper hadn’t been aiming for him in the first place. What if he had been aiming at the man whose sham marriage to Saquina Johnson had caused her so much pain?
Dead Famous 34
It fitted right in with the other murders of course. I was only surprised that someone hadn’t tried to kill Shaqi-J sooner. He cultivated a persona that reveled in such things. His songs were filled with lyrics that glorified guns, drugs and misogyny. He used the medium of rap-music to taunt rivals, playing hard on macho bravado and the myth that he was a moneyed player in a world where such things mattered. The media-mill loved the high-wired sensationalism, giving front-page status to Johnson’s loud-mouthed antics. If they could chop in mention of his tragic wife, they threw that in the mix too. Some days it was hard to escape from the diamond encrusted rapper and his baggy trousered antics.
According to Cheyenne Wallis, Shaqi-J had an alibi that vindicated him in the death of Saquina Johnson’s lover—he had been at the Academy awards sitting front and centre for all to see—and before that, well that had to be established—just because the cops were light on proof, that didn’t mean the creep was in the clear, not by a long shot.
I had no doubt Shaqi-J would conjure a dozen witnesses to place him wherever the hell he wanted to be placed, but I wasn’t buying it, no matter how insistent City Attorney Wallis was about the airtight nature of the creeps alibi.
There was something wrong about Shaquil Johnson, I could smell it; something that went way beyond the slimy gangster-rap persona that he held so dear. If I was right and someone was gunning for him, that some one wanted to shut him up. Gangster rappers shoot each other all the time, as regular as buying groceries. High-profile histrionics are not their style however—newsworthy slayings draw attention, and attention draws heat; heat is bad for business, and in the free market world of street-corner gangsterism business is king.
As the connections drew together, I figured the graveyard shooting was about something much more than murder. Someone wanted to send a message, despoil the memory of Saquina Johnson, take out Shaqui-J and make Sly Barrington, the man who loved them both, suffer a deluge of bad publicity that would blight the forthcoming flotation of Slycorp. Sly Barrington was old school. He would see this slight as an intolerable act of disrespect. He would engage his troops, and vengeance would be swift.
It seemed to me that the key to this whole ugly business was cutting out the root cause of this secret animosity.
As I pondered the genesis of the Saquina Johnson murder, Norm the security guard returned with the coffees, I told him I had to go. He gave me a sad look, told me that I should come on over any time I wanted, like City Hall was his own private fiefdom.
As I headed out, Norm flipped me a wink and said, ‘See you later kiddo.’
I gave him my snappiest salute, thanked him for the coffee. Told him he wanted to seem me again anytime soon, he would have to talk to corporate about a new coffee vending franchise.
Norm gave a wry chuckle, raised the super heated coffee to his lips and chugged it down like it was a light beer. I headed off down the long City Hall corridor, heading for the heat of the downtown afternoon. As the sun streamed in through the high Deco windows, I noticed the sound of my Converse sneakers squeaking against the polished floor.
Norm stood in the corridor his bloodhound face implacable, as the static chatter of his walkie-talkie cracked the silence in jagged bursts. He gargled down the last of his coffee and scrunched the cup into a nearby trashcan. Costello was right, City Hall coffee sucked big time—maybe he would have a word with his union rep.’ wasn’t like the bum was snowed under with work after all. Norm rocked back and forwards, his thumbs hooked into his Sam Brown belt, the reassuring squeak of his fresh polished shoes sounding out in the empty Corridor. He took a deep, easy breath and reached for his walkie-talkie, said,
He’s gone.
Pause. A distant static-voice, coming over the air.
Norm said, He took his sweet damn time, but he got there in the end…
Pause.
Sure, he made a copy—just like you said.
Norm listened to the static voice, smiled, said, No, he didn’t suspect a thing.
Dead Famous 35
Joe Russell eased Roxy Barrington’s Mercedes into the parking lot on Bora-Bora way. The halide security lights glowed along the quayside in the soft falling night. Across the dappled undulating waters of Marina del Rey, floated the reassuring night sounds of the quayside restaurants, snatches of distant conversation, the clatter of plates and laughter. The sounds of real people, enjoying real lives, unencumbered by the weight of danger and sudden death decisions. Joe ran his tongue across his lips, imagining how a cool misted Mexican beer would taste about now. That’s when he saw the girl looking at him, her spider web lashes blinking in the half-light. Her eyes were full of dark temptation—Just the kind of girl who would taste Mexican beer and like it from the get-go—no question of squirming uncertainty, or on-the-wagon excuses. She would probably holler to the waitress for chasers too, as soon as the first sip was through. Joe figured under different circumstances Roxy Barrington would be a fun girl to know, the kind of woman who could play hard under the ocean sun and drink tequila slammers at some Mexican bar in Baja, until the moon sailed high in the southern night. Joe liked that kind of girl, at least he thought he did; he had spent long years looking—come close a few time too, but close was never good enough. Close was a consolation prize that got old and quick.
Roxy Barrington smiled, a big, brash white-toothed smile that oozed temptation. Joe imagined what Costello would say. That guy was an automaton, a work crazy hound, with no time to kick back, let alone board the dating train. That was his problem, everything was business with Costello, no wonder that sweet little Kimberly had upped and left him, for that heir-head poontanger. Crazy Kim might be kookier than a basket full of possums, but she was a righteous looking woman and Costello had let her slip through his fingers, like he didn’t even notice. Joe smiled back at the Barrington girl. He wasn’t afraid to make mistakes, a whole mess of mistakes, he’d made them before, he’d make them again, one thing was for damn sure, he could never end up like Danny boy—a work-fried shmo, with no social life.
Still, Danny was a good man. He had the smarts. Soon as he figured his way around this dry patch he would be back on team poontang—no doubt bout it. Thinking about Costello reminded Joe that the Barrington girl was not just some throw away date, she was the daughter of a mega-bucks client; not only that, the crazy little temptress had an international reputation for ugly behavior—the kind of crazy, socket-frying antics that could turn a man to stone. There was no way a guy could come out on top with a woman like that. As Joe looked at her sitting next to him, batting her mantrap lashes, she looked sweeter than a fairground candy apple. Joe felt every neuron in his body straining against his instincts, and his instincts screamed danger.
But as she sat there,
beside him in the car, it was hard to put that into context. Joe watched as Roxy Barrington slid around in her seat, turning towards him now. His eyes wandered down to her million dollar legs, then quickly back, incase she noticed. She noticed alright, just smiled wider, slid those long, long, lubricious legs against each other, rubbed them slowly together, like you would just want to reach out and touch them.
‘So now you’ve got me, what are you going to do with me’ she asked archly.
‘Keep you out of trouble.’
Roxy Barrington ran a long shapely arm along the seat back, her manicured fingers sliding off, caressing the side of Joe’s face. ‘But I like trouble Joe, trouble is fun, you like fun don’t you?’
Joe reached up, caught Roxy Barrington’s hand in his, said, ‘You are a real cutsie-pie Roxy, trouble is I am working a gig right now, so throttle back on the innuendo, or I am liable to get all grouchy—you don’t like grouchy, right?’
Roxy Barrington pouted, ‘You’re not worried about my daddy are you? I’ve been fucking the help since I was a teenager, he really won’t mind, you know that don’t you?’
‘You calling me, “the help” now, princess? That’s a real smooth talking come on for a guy like me. Unfortunately, I am working the clock right now, so if you are looking to get your sweet little ass spanked, you are going to have to wait until this bullshit babysitting gig is over.’
Roxy Barrington slid her manicured fingers on to Joe’s thigh, splayed them out, let them glide upwards—where they lingered provocatively, said, ‘I can wait until it’s over, question is can you big guy?’
Dead Famous 36
Inez Santos peered through the slatted blinds, scanning the perimeter of the Barrington property in the Holmby Hills, with her military grade binoculars. There had been incursions in to the grounds already: A bearded French paparazzi found wedged into the Oleander bushes, and a second snapper hanging precariously from the very top of a Brazilian pepper tree, that grew just inside the perimeter. Both men had been self righteous and aggressive on discovery; the Frenchman speed-dialing his mouthpiece lawyer as soon as he was picked up, putting the brief on speaker, then acting like he was the subject of a life threatening injustice. I sue your ass, the paparazzi screamed, like those were the only words he knew. Inez had been here before, around the block and back—Cobra Close Protection dealt with so many wealthy and successful clients that such events seemed almost mundane. Many clients needed close protection due to immediate threats, others sanctioned the services of CCP because they figured they were rich and successful enough to warrant presidential style bodyguards, so why the hell not? A status thing, go figure.