“License, please,” the uniformed man asked, sticking his head out of the kiosk. “Where to?”
Sam handed the man his fake driver’s license. “Garcia Building. First Floor.”
The man read the license. “‘Harris Capp.’” He checked the license against a name on his computer screen. “Thanks, Mr. Capp. I’ll need your ID as well, Ms. Whitman.”
“Call me Shawnee,” Rachel said, smiling brightly.
Two Months Earlier
The Porsche 911 swerved around giant saguaro cacti and two massive boulders, kicking up clouds of sand. The driver, a lizard-faced man with shag-carpet sized hair plugs, pressed speed dial on his cell as he deftly steered.
“Don’t worry, sweet cheeks,” Lizard Face said into his phone. “The doctor is about to make a house call.”
“Sweet cheeks?” Rachel said. She and Sam lay side by side on a motel queen-sized, totally nude and eating Jiffy Pop. “This is the all-time worst movie ever made.”
Sam grabbed the remote and turned the volume up. “Sssh. It’s a short, not a movie. And remember, this is serious research,” Sam said, not serious at all.
The movie cut to a frantic bikini-clad woman, clutching her cell phone. Someone outside was beating on the cabana door. “Please hurry!” she yelled into the phone. “Save me and I’ll give you whatever you could possibly imagine.”
“Hmmm,” Rachel said, scoping out Sam’s body. “I see this is your favorite part of the movie.”
“I do appreciate good bikini acting.”
Rachel grabbed the remote and hit mute. “Before all your blood leaves your brain, we need to decide if we’re in or we’re out. Stanley is going to call in ten minutes.”
“Okay. Switching gears. When you laid it out for me last night, I wasn’t impressed. But after watching Leonides in action today, I might be coming around. Pitch me again.”
“Let’s start with the pros. Stanley is offering us Dr. Mark Leonides, aka Lizard Face. One of the juiciest overripe ready-to-pluck marks I’ve seen. The mark’s name is even Mark.”
“He’s remarkable,” Sam said.
Rachel rolled her eyes. “The doc sinks almost a million dollars into a short film that he wrote and stars in. All in the hopes of getting discovered.”
“And he’s totally blind to how bad it is. I mean, he’s like a lizard-faced version of that guy from The Room.”
“A lizard with hair plugs.”
“You said his millions come from owning medical clinics and those places that sell catheters and fun stuff like that.”
“It’s called DME. Durable medical equipment. Ouch!”
“What’s wrong, babe?”
She pulled a popcorn kernel from underneath her butt. “That’s no way to treat a lady, Jiffy Pop.”
“That’s one lucky piece of popcorn.”
She threw it at him. “Anyway, Leonides has been investigated by the Medicare Fraud Strike Force. Twice. Suspected of prescribing unnecessary medical treatment to the homeless. Nothing went to trial.”
On TV, Leonides’ stunt double was climbing up a rope ladder dangling from a flying helicopter. The movie cut to a close-up of Leonides holding onto the ladder with one hand, while he lit his pipe with the other.
“Stanley’s sources say Leonides’ homeless witnesses always vanished back into the street,” Rachel said. “We should see all this as a major plus.”
“Agreed. He wants to give up the fraud racket and buy himself a star on Hollywood Boulevard. Sweetness, this sounds so good I’d be nervous if there weren’t some snags. Bring me down to earth and tell me the cons again.”
“First, there’s Marvin Stang.”
“Right. The TV cutter who edited this turkey. We can’t really trust him.”
“Present company excluded, trust is not our usual policy anyway, stud muffin. Stanley is leaning on him hard. Marvin has a lot to lose if he doesn’t go with the plan.
“Sam looked at the TV to see Leonides karate chopping a Hell’s Angel. “So Marvin the editor is going to help string Leonides along, which includes setting you up at Dynamic Studio’s with an office. And he’ll support you playing producer?”
“That’s the pitch.”
Sam considered. “A lot will ride on this guy. But if Leonides sees you on a studio lot, buys that you’re legit, he’ll be eating out of those sexy hands of yours.”
“Stanley said he had to inflict some pain to get the editor’s attention.”
“What’s Stanley’s cut?”
“Fifty percent.”
Sam took his Zippo from the nightstand and flicked the lid. He ground the flint wheel slow enough to burn, but too slow to catch fire. “Stanley’s cut sucks, but it’s fair. The editor is the key. And the big drawback?”
Rachel took a breath. Even she was curious to hear what she was about to say. “We’d have to raise Shawnee Whitman from the dead.”
Sam slowly nodded. This time, the Zippo caught fire.
Rachel wasn’t finished. “And remember that screenwriter Harris Capp? He’s coming along for the ride, too.”
Present
Hollywood PI Ford Carabucco glanced at the splintered hole in the wall of Reed Bennek’s study. Though it was out of place in the movie star’s lush Santa Monica compound, it didn’t rate in the twenty strangest things Ford had seen in the homes of Hollywood’s elite.
That top honor would have to go to what Ford found in the basement of a Hollywood Hills crash pad last Halloween. The junkie guitar player from that white-boy funk band paid Ford dearly to make that evil go away.
Reed gestured to the hole in the wall. “You were here for that, weren’t you?”
“Indeed I was, Mr. Bennek.”
Reed wasn’t as tall as you’d expect, Ford thought. The famous ones never were. Still, he was in such perfect physical condition he glowed. Kind of like Sly that way.
“Lost my cool,” Reed said. “Lucky I didn’t bust my hand up. Have a seat.”
Ford undid the bottom button on his Canali blazer. The couch sounded like a balloon stretching as he settled into the cool leather. He kept his Panama hat with a black band on his lap.
“I was gonna have the wall fixed, but why do that when I still haven’t fixed my problem?” Reed said, remaining on his feet. “Uh-uh. I want to remember. Cause it ain’t over.”
“So how can I help you Mr. Bennek?”
Reed picked up a dog-eared copy of a script and flipped through it. Ford recognized it immediately. He saw that Reed had scribbled notes on nearly every page. “You can help me with this. I want this to be my next project.”
“The Harris Capp script. A joint production with you and Palm Alley.” Ford shifted slightly. “Your management team did a great job keeping that mess with Shawnee Whitman and Palm Alley Productions out of the press.”
“The studio was afraid. If it leaked I’d been conned outta three hundred thousand dollars, my fans would see me as a chump, not a real-life action hero. So yeah, no police, no press.”
“Wise.”
Reed shook his head. “I pay top dollar for wise. Agent, managers, you name it. Even you, Ford.” Reed pointed to a framed sketch hanging over his Rosewood desk. “See that doodle?”
Ford thought it looked like something his four-year-old grandson could draw.
“I dropped seven figures on that because my wise money manager told me too. It lost half its value in the three years since I bought it. That’s more than my missing investment with Palm Alley. My career is dying on the vine, Ford, and wise can’t do shit. Last time someone told me something real, it was Clay Morrison, my old life coach. He’s long gone too. I have to make a move now.” Reed held up the script. “I need this.”
Ford considered his words before speaking. “Shawnee Whitman and Palm Alley vanished. The account was closed. You were scammed by a pro,” Ford said. Get over it, he wanted to add. “If your lawyers can’t suss out chain of title to the script, I sur
e can’t help you.”
Reed leaned against the desk, his triceps bulging dramatically. “You said Mol Rakosian visited Shawnee at the Palm Alley office just before she went AWOL.”
Ford regretted telling Reed about the Armenian Power thug. It cast doubt in Reed’s mind about Ford’s con-job theory. “Who knows what that mobbed-up nutcase was up to? Mol Rakosian isn’t exactly a rational human being.”
Reed snorted. “Fried his brains on ecstasy. Heard he’s screaming at ghosts in a Las Encinas mental ward. Which suits me fine, but you gotta admit his visit to Shawnee is a weird coincidence.”
“It doesn’t change the fact that your money is gone, Mr. Bennek. Like I told you when it happened, this was an organized con. You will never see Shawnee Whitman again. I stake my forty-year reputation on it.”
“I’m glad you stand by your work, Ford. Check this.”
Reed handed Ford his Goldnegie iPhone.
Ford looked at Shawnee Whitman’s IMDb page. She was listed as an executive producer on a TV show currently in production at Dynamic Studios.
Ford showed nothing, though his mind was spinning.
“Shawnee is back,” Reed said. “Find her. Do what you have to do. I want this script.”
Click here to learn more about The Down and Out by Lawrence Maddox.
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