But if they did not go, and Paige were never heard from again…No, Deal shook his head, hearing the plane’s engines whining to life. He would not hesitate this time. They would all be looking over their shoulders for the duration.
“The pilot’s ready and the plane’s yours, John.” Terrell’s voice broke into his thoughts. Terrell stepped forward, shook Deal’s hand, then Driscoll’s. “You’re just lucky I was at home, that’s all.” Home being the twenty-room mansion that sat between Brickell Avenue and the bay, the place that Deal had rebuilt for Terrell after the onslaught of Hurricane Andrew.
Deal nodded his thanks. Typical of Terrell that he wouldn’t ask for any explanation. If Deal had made such an unusual request, there had to be good reason. He stood there now, as apparently unconcerned as if Deal had asked to take the family car for a spin around the block.
“We’re giving you the Lear Fifty-Five,” he said, pointing at the gleaming plane poised before the doors of the hangar. “It’ll get you out there with one stop, and quicker than the little one.”
Deal glanced back into the shadows where the “little one” sat. This close, both planes seemed as big as the commuter aircraft he’d flown around the state, and either of the sleek-looking craft seemed capable of an around-the-world expedition. He turned to Terrell, nodded his thanks. “I really appreciate this, Mr. Terrell.”
Terrell gave the two of them an appraising look. “You sure you two don’t need any help?”
“I appreciate the offer,” Deal said.
“I have some fellows around, they wouldn’t mind whatever came up, you know,” Terrell said.
And a part of Deal was grateful for that offer, wanted to grab Terrell’s sleeve and say, Yes, lend us the whole damned cavalry, but he knew it couldn’t work that way. He wasn’t sure if it was going to work any way, for that matter, but there didn’t seem to be much choice. It would have to be Deal and Driscoll, for better or for worse, and Deal gave Terrell a smile that said so.
“We’re okay,” Driscoll added.
“Good luck, then,” Terrell said, giving them his hand once more, and within moments they were strapped in their seats, sinking back as the powerful engines took them into the night, streaking toward California.
Chapter 39
Mahler awoke just before dawn, too groggy to know where he was at first; for a moment he felt only tired, only alive, even good. Then the memory of where he had taken himself swept back and he felt the anxious dread reclaim him.
The filming had gone on until nearly midnight, the old man interrupting the proceedings what seemed like every five minutes to give Mahler and anyone within earshot a lecture on Chinese sexuality. By the time Mahler had called a halt, the actors, already wired to the gills, were ready to kill the old bastard. Even Cross’s wife, Cherise, had taken him aside to vent her frustrations in a furious whisper.
“If I hear about the helpless female and the ‘sacred square inch’ one more time, I’m going to scream,” she said. “Let’s let the old fart tie me up and stick it in my ‘inch.’ Maybe that’ll quiet him down.”
Mahler had cast a glance back off the set, where the old man had ensconced himself in one of the high-backed chairs he’d had Gabriel bring down from the living room. He looked like a gnome back there, like some extra out of a temple scene in a kung fu movie, far too wizened to have a sexual thought. But that hadn’t stopped him.
First, when he’d realized what the script’s excuse for a story line was about, he’d groused that it had no relevance to the Chinese audience. So they’d given Cherise a geisha outfit and had Paco come up with a couple of lines about her taking over an offshore university for nefarious political reasons. None of it made any sense, but the old guy had been satisfied.
Then, last night, he’d complained that the women playing the roles of college girls came off as too “mature.” It had taken wardrobe nearly an hour to get them recoiffed, refitted, and re-made up. Finally, to Mahler’s eye, they had two hookers dressed in Barbie clothes, but the old man was content once again.
Hardly had they finished the next setup, however, than the old man had started raving about pigeon eggs. Mahler had to shut everything down again, listen to a discourse that he finally realized was about how virginity was traditionally proven in China.
They’d had to break for another hour while the entirety of He-Men Film Services scavenged about the darkness outside for enough oval river rocks of the appropriate size, then painted them up to the old man’s specifications for pigeon eggs.
One of the He-Men had been at Mahler’s side watching the ensuing shot. The Mr. T lookalike knelt before one of the spread-eagled Barbies, trying to insert one of the supposed eggs in the crucial spot. His partner stood by, leering, ready to signify his approval through action once this coed’s innocence had been established without a doubt.
“Either one of those broads could make an ostrich egg disappear,” the He-Man said in Mahler’s ear. And though Mahler suspected it was true, he had become philosophical. A couple more days of this insanity, the old guy would get bored, go back to counting his money in Beverly Hills, leave them the hell alone. He’d hoped to average twelve minutes a day, have this piece of shit wrapped in a week, but unless things changed, they’d be rivaling the shooting schedule of Heaven’s Gate. Patience, he told himself. Have patience. Get this film made, win the old guy’s confidence, all the rest of them could be farmed out to the usual players.
He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing feeling back into his face. There had also been the interruption when he’d sent one of the old guy’s minions up to check on Paige and he’d discovered where his cellular phone had been. What a piece of carelessness that had been. While Paige was certainly incapable of making any calls, the very prospect had been enough to stun him.
He shoved himself off the bed, shuddering anew at the thought of what he faced with Paige, staggered into the bathroom. It was true what he’d said—she was just another above-average looker with a mediocre talent, somebody whom he’d had to bust his butt to keep working. But she was a good kid. She’d never begrudged her status, never whined for leads. Downright amazing in their business.
But what were the choices, after all? Keep her loaded up with the meds, move her into the Brentwood house, create a vegetable wing? He didn’t think it would wash. The old guy had already told him what to do about the problem, but Mahler had hesitated. The other “corrections,” as he’d begun thinking of them, had been abstract, matters taken care of by others, and at some distance. Even Mendanian’s death he could rationalize. Mendanian had gone off on his own, crossed the old man as much as Mahler. Mahler wasn’t responsible for what had happened. But now there was Paige, and there was no turning from his own responsibility in the matter.
He’d felt a fierce burning at his bladder, but when he tried to relieve himself, what should have been a stream to make a horse envious came out as a pitiful trickle. Probably prostate cancer coming on, he thought. Add it to the list.
He forced himself to the sink, lathered his face, tried to shave without looking himself in the eye. He knew it was a sad picture, all right, one he wasn’t anxious to confront. A guy his age doing what he was doing for the sake of money. What the hell, he could have ridden out the string just the way things had been.
But, for all the bullshit about him being Mr. Super Agent, when it came right down to it, he’d been a guy working for wages, it would have meant going to the grave still kissing ass, Rhonda’s and everyone else’s in the business, and besides, he reminded himself, the way he’d set it up to begin with, it was so simple, no one was going to be hurt, and he’d be able to walk away with a fortune, maybe even nurse Rhonda back to a miraculous recovery—maybe they could reclaim something of the old days, ride out the string together if he were his own man. She’d never be the wiser, after all. No one would, with Paige out of the way.
He closed his eyes on the thought, took a deep breath, forced himself to meet
his own gaze in the mirror. All this self-doubt, all the anxiety, it had to be banished. He was too far in now to change course. The old man was responsible for the things that had happened. Mahler had had no choice. And he had no choice now.
The sun would be up soon, he’d have coffee, a decent breakfast, a good piss, and things would be just fine. He’d have a word with the old man, let one of the goons clear out the guest wing. He would steel himself and life would go on. That’s the way it would be. And once the money was rolling in, all this weasely thinking would vanish.
That’s what he was telling himself, at least, when the old guy’s majordomo appeared in the foggy mirror beside his half-lathered face like some vision out of a horror film, scared the living shit out of him.
“How’d you get in here?” Mahler gasped. He held his chest, thinking maybe his heart was going to go, along with the prostate. “I had the door locked. I know I did.”
But the big guy shrugged his question away, seemed to glower at him through the mirror.
“Two men,” the guy was saying. “Two men from Florida downstairs to see you.”
Chapter 40
“We’re sorry to trouble you, Mr. Mahler,” Driscoll said as he gave him his card. “We understand you’re making a movie down here.”
“That’s true,” Mahler said. He glanced at the card, then took a closer look at the two of them. The Chinese man who’d admitted them into the house stood just behind him, his hands behind his back in a casual pose, his eyes missing nothing. Dressed all in black—turtleneck, slacks, even his high-tops—he was the picture of some latter-day palace guard.
Deal noted a speck of shaving cream on Mahler’s ear, sensed a wavering in his gaze as their eyes met, but maybe the latter was just a trick of the lighting. They were in the vast living room, the place still gloomy, even with a couple of parchment-shaded floor lamps burning. There were banks of big windows flanking the fireplace on one wall, but the sun had yet to clear the jagged desert peaks visible in the east.
“So what is it, a Western?” Deal asked.
“Actually,” Mahler said after a moment, “it’s a contemporary piece. We’re using one wing of the estate to do some interior shooting.”
Driscoll nodded. “Your wife’s place, I understand.”
Mahler nodded, apparently surprised by what Driscoll knew. “There’s quite a bit of film history connected with this location,” he said. “The Devil’s Due was shot in this very room, with Constance MacKenzie and Humphrey Bogart. You remember the famous death scene?” He pointed. “Right over there by the fireplace?”
Driscoll glanced over, shrugged. Deal couldn’t tell if that meant he remembered. “You make a lot of films, Mr. Mahler?”
Mahler gave him a look. The man was gathering strength, Deal thought. “It’s my first, Mr.…”
“Driscoll,” the ex-cop said. “Vernon Driscoll. This is John Deal.” No one offered to shake hands.
Mahler nodded. “Most of my life I’ve spent getting people into movies,” he said. “I’m really an agent.” He waved his hand about. “I’m just down here indulging a whim.”
“I’ve never seen a movie being made,” Deal said, letting the suggestion linger.
“Not very exciting, I’m afraid.”
“It’d be worth it, just to see what goes on,” Deal said.
Mahler gave a shrug of his own. “We’re having to keep our sets closed,” he said.
“Uh-huh,” Deal said, feeling his innate distrust growing. “Why’s that?”
Mahler let out his breath with a sigh. “Tell me, Mr. Deal, is that it? Is that why you sought me out? Because you’d like to watch a movie being made?”
Driscoll cut in. “No, Mr. Mahler, it isn’t.”
Mahler turned back to him then, and the two men faced each other for a moment. Deal noted a movement out in the hallway, saw a familiar hulking shape appear briefly in silhouette, then disappear.
“There’s a phone number on the back of the card there,” Driscoll said. “I wonder if you’d mind taking a look at it.”
Mahler’s eyes stayed on Driscoll for a moment, but finally he gave in, turned the card over. Deal watched intently, but if the man had a reaction to what was written there, it was not visible. When Mahler looked up, his gaze went to Deal.
“I owned a portable phone with that number,” he said.
“Owned…?” Deal said. He felt menace creeping into his voice, saw Driscoll shoot him a warning glance. He tried to force himself to be patient. What he wanted to do was jack this scumbag up by the balls, squeeze him until he sang opera.
“I lost it,” Mahler said, still looking at Deal. “Or else it was stolen. I haven’t seen it in several days.” His face brightened with false cheer. “Maybe you’ve found it?”
Deal shook his head. “Did you lose it down here?” he asked.
Mahler pursed his lips. “Back in Los Angeles,” he said. “I haven’t missed it,” he said. “I think it’s a dead area down here, to tell the truth.”
“No,” Deal said. “There’s cellular service here. We checked.” He thought he saw a glimmer of approval on Driscoll’s face: Deal the detective, grinding the guy the proper way.
There was a pause as Mahler seemed to gauge Deal’s intentions. “Well, that’s good to know,” Mahler said finally. “But if that’s all, gentlemen, I’ve got a busy day coming up…”
“You represent Paige Nobleman?” Driscoll cut in.
Mahler broke off, fairly glaring back at him. “Yes, I do,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
“Because, Mr. Mahler,” Driscoll said, “that’s what we’re doing here. She hired me to do some work for her down in Miami, and then she disappeared. I thought you might have heard from her.”
Mahler took a moment, then walked over to one of the broad windows and stared out toward the mountains, which had begun to shade from blackness into various purple hues. The very highest of the peaks seemed to glow, backlit now by the sun.
“The last I heard from Paige, she was in Miami,” Mahler said. “She’d just returned from the hospital where her mother had died.” He turned back to them. “She was extremely distraught. She said she’d had a row with her sister and told me she wouldn’t be returning to Los Angeles as planned.” He threw up his hands. “She wouldn’t say why.
“We’ve been involved with some tricky negotiations with a British film company concerning a part for her and I told her it was important that she hold to her schedule, but she was too upset to listen. When I tried to get back to her, I found out she’d left her hotel.” He shook his head in concern. “I’ve been worried myself. Paige hasn’t been herself lately, and then all these family concerns…” He trailed off.
“Was there something specific that was troubling her?” Deal asked.
“Just the usual,” Mahler said. “I think she was having troubles with the fellow she’d been seeing…and she’d hit the wall for an actress, too old for the obligatory sex interest roles, not quite well enough established to be in the running for the more serious parts, what few there are for women…” He shrugged. “That’s why these negotiations were so important.” He gazed out at the mountains again, the very picture of concern. “Paige just seemed to be losing heart,” he said.
“You think she was capable of doing harm to herself?” Driscoll asked.
Mahler turned, looking as if it pained him to consider the possibility. “You know, gentlemen, you and I have jobs,” he said. “We have good days and bad days, of course, but we get up every morning knowing we’ve got an office to go to, calls to make, things to do.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “But an actor…” He broke off. “It’s a terribly tough business,” he said. “I’ve seen so many ruin their lives with drugs, drinking, impossible love affairs. Even the successful ones. So many of them seem to recognize how shifting are the sands their existences are founded upon.” He folded his hands in front of him and gave a wistful smile. “I know it must seem l
ike a terribly glamorous life from the perspective of two private detectives from Florida. But the reality is quite otherwise, I can assure you.”
Driscoll nodded as if a grave truth had been passed along to him. “Well, I appreciate your concern, Mr. Mahler.” He gestured at the card again. “We’ll probably be out here in California for a few days, but if you hear anything from Ms. Nobleman, you could leave a message for us at that number.”
Mahler glanced at the card again, then stopped. He looked up at Driscoll, puzzled. “Are you sure this is right?” He gave the card back to Driscoll, who held it up to the light, puzzled. “Sorry,” Driscoll said, glancing sheepishly at Deal. “One of yours.” He showed him the DealCo emblem on the card he’d handed Mahler by mistake. “Always getting these things mixed up,” he mumbled, fishing in his wallet. He found one of the D & D Investigative Services cards with the corny hunting cap and magnifying glass logo, handed the card back to Mahler. “You’ll let us hear from you?” he repeated.
Deal could only imagine what the man thought. Confronted by two private detectives who have a sideline in the construction business? Whatever intimidation factor they might have walked in with, it was surely gone.
“Of course,” Mahler said, turning the full force of his smile upon them now.
He was about to turn away again when something seemed to occur to him. “I don’t suppose I could ask just what sort of work you were doing for Paige, could I?” He’d struck what seemed to be an avuncular pose. “She’s like a daughter to me, you know.”
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