“Sure, but it’s pennies. No one would sell me completion insurance with Thistle in the movie.”
“But you can get back some of what you spent.”
“Some. Rodd and the cinematographer both have play or pay, which means they get their money one way or the other. But most of the rest of it, I can get back. The problem is that I’ve fallen on my ass, made promises I couldn’t deliver. It was a bad judgment call. I’m not in a business where people forget bad judgment calls.”
“Listen,” I said. “This is probably a stupid question, but suppose I could find Thistle and bring her in, and she’d work for you, but not in that kind of movie?”
“She’s a television star,” Trey said, “and, sure, she was big, but it’s been years since she’s been on the air. There’s some curiosity about her, we saw that yesterday, but I doubt she could carry a movie, not a real movie, anyway. The kink thing, that’s what would have driven the sales. All I needed was four, five million units worldwide at twenty, twenty-five bucks, maybe sell to one out of every hundred people who thought she was so great, and I’d have been solid gold. Put her in some other movie, you’re talking art house. English majors, people in sandals. And anyway, what do I know about making movies? Porn, sure. That’s easy. Buy some Viagra, rent a camera, find a star in some strip club. But something good? Like with a story and everything? I’m just a girl from the Valley.”
“Well,” I said. “It’s not over yet.” I suddenly had a case of the guilts about Trey.
“It’s over as of tomorrow night,” she said. “We’re doing inserts today, but Friday at six I’m pulling the plug unless you’ve got Thistle back and she’s working. And if I do pull the plug because she’s not around, I’m not going to go out of my way to make sure you get any kind of cushy treatment from Hacker and Wattles.”
“No reason you should,” I said.
“On the contrary,” she said. “You’re a nice person and everything, but if I really have to fold this thing, and I find out later you’ve actually been working against me, I’d probably shoot you myself.”
I ate lunch at a coffee shop on Ventura. This being Los Angeles, there was a coin newsstand selling the entertainment trade papers, and I spotted Thistle’s name on the front page of Variety, so I parted with quite a lot of change and bought it. What the damn thing costs, you’d think they print it on money.
Variety writers, at least the journeymen hacks, use one-name bylines, and this story was by someone who signed him/herself as Vern. According to Vern, Thistle had “emerged from seclusion” to appear in front of the press at a “local indie studio” to announce plans to star in a “multiple adult flix package.” Vern went on to say that Ms. Downing had appeared high-strung and contentious, displaying a tendency to ramble and, at times, to forget which of the reporters had asked the question she was answering. And a lot more, all of it shorthand for drug problem.
But the placement was interesting: front-page, below the fold. I left my mushroom and grease omelet to cool and solidify, and went out to the news vending machines on the sidewalk and bought the Reporter and the LA Times. It was starting to sprinkle, so I got back inside at a trot. Both the Reporter and the Times “Calendar” section had put Thistle in prime position. The Times ran the story in the lower corner of the section’s front page, with a big jump to page five, where there was a two-column story on her, with photos from “Once a Witch.” The story felt like it might have been adapted from a pre-written obituary, the Times always being in the forefront of the vulture watch. It told the story of her discovery, of the amazing success of the series and the fall-off in ratings toward the end, and it referred to vague “problems” during the show’s last two seasons, followed by Thistle’s plummet out of the public eye. The reporter who had been at the press conference described Thistle’s demeanor as “troubled,” another code word for stoned. In one of the pictures from the press conference, I loomed beside her, arms crossed menacingly, looking like a gargoyle on loan from Notre Dame. The caption referred to me as “Ms. Downing’s companion, ‘Pockets’ Mahoney.” It was good to know someone had been listening when Thistle suggested the quotes around “Pockets.”
The Reporter was less chatty, but they had what qualifies in entertainment news coverage as a scoop: they’d somehow got hold of the fact that Thistle was to be paid $200,000 for the movies. They spent a paragraph on the historic deal she’d made for her “Once a Witch” residuals and then speculated that “an erratic lifestyle” may have accounted for the fact that she was now, as far as anyone could tell, the next thing to indigent. Yet more code for drugs.
So, loaded or not, Thistle was big news. This was important, if the part of my plan that involved proud new Paul Klee-owner Jake Whelan was to have any possibility of working out. Hollywood reads these three publications every morning as though Moses personally brings them down from the mountain at dawn. Jake Whelan’s participation, assuming he’d play, would be plausible.
I was blotting cooking oil off the top of the omelet with a napkin when the phone rang. It wasn’t a number I recognized.
“Our girl ain’t happy,” a man said.
“That’s a terrific sentence,” I said. “Gets you off to a fast start, takes the audience right into the thick of the action. Raises all sorts of fascinating questions. What girl? Why isn’t she happy? And who the hell is this?”
“Wattles,” Wattles said. “You want to watch that lip, you know that?”
“My lip is the least of my problems.”
“Listen, I don’t really give a shit one way or the other, you know? This is like a friendly call, like a heads-up. But Hacker, you want to watch out for Hacker. This girl Trey is half his paycheck. Something goes wrong, he’s gonna be like the Bloodmobile, but in reverse.”
“Do they still have the Bloodmobile?”
“I’m dating myself, huh? Hey, you asked Janice out yet?”
“I’ve actually been kind of busy.”
“You gotta look at your priorities,” he said. “Life is short, although you wouldn’t know it to look at me, and I’m telling you, that girl’s ready. Buy a new shirt, get rid of some of that hair-”
“What’s wrong with my hair?”
“Huh? Probably nothing. But, you know, a guy like you, you can use any edge you can get. I’m telling you, though, she thinks you sweat perfume.” He hung up.
Hacker, I thought.
I gave up on the omelet and went into the parking lot to call Kathy. The drizzle had intensified slightly, so I stepped under the overhang above the restaurant’s front door.
“Is your watch broken?” she said by way of openers.
“I am calling to tell you personally that there will be no movie.”
“And I’m supposed to believe you have something to do with that.”
“I can’t help what you believe or don’t believe. But I’m putting a stick into the spokes of this project. If this movie is made, Thistle won’t be in it.”
“If that’s the best I can get, it’ll have to do,” Kathy said. “Rina’s fighting me anyway. There are times I wish she didn’t love you so much.”
“Not a wish I can share.”
“Okay, then, I wish there were times you loved me more.”
“I do love you,” I said. “I love you the best I can.”
“And look where that’s gotten us.”
I said, “Kathy,”
“There was a time,” she said, “when I thought that hearing you say my name in the morning was the way I wanted to begin every day for the rest of my life.” She paused, while I tried to think of something, anything, to say. “That time lasted quite a while, too.”
“Kathy,” I said again. “I haven’t bought a house yet.”
“Oh,” she said. There was another pause, and I could see her in my mind’s eye, standing at the kitchen table with the little stone Buddha on it, phone to her ear. “Well,” she finally said, “you’ve always liked motels.”
“I hate motels.”<
br />
“Poor us. I guess we’re both someplace we hate.”
“We’re both a hell of a lot better off than Thistle Downing,” I said.
Kathy let a few seconds pass, probably to let me know I wasn’t getting away with changing the subject unnoticed, and then she said, “How bad is she?”
I said, “She’s the saddest person I ever knew.”
41
A little more about moderns
The former police car I’d gotten from Louie was a beast. It steered like a hippopotamus, pulled to the right, braked unevenly, and had springs like an Army cot. It skidded all over the wet street every time I made a turn. The windshield wipers captured the drizzle, mixed it efficiently with dirt, and spread a thin and surprisingly opaque layer of mud over the glass. I had to pull over twice and wipe it off.
But it helped me solve the mystery of why cops usually look so grim. If I had to drive something like that all day, I’d want to shoot somebody, too.
I was not terrifically happy with the precipitation, which was threatening to turn into real rain. The black PACIFIC SECURITY lettering on the doors of the car was damp enough to run. This would not contribute to the persuasiveness of my disguise. I kept seeing a chalky fluorescent flicker of heat lightning down near the horizon that suggested that something more ambitious might be on the way.
But the weather on hand was the weather I had. It wasn’t as though, with less than two days of relatively safe life remaining before Rabbits and Bunny got back, I could enjoy the luxury of waiting for a sunny day. I wrestled the car to the curb in front of the Stennet mansion, braked with an attention-getting soprano squeal, got out, kicked the door twice, opened the trunk, and grabbed my bag. I was wearing white jeans and a white shirt with PACIFIC SECURITY written on it in letters so big they could be read from a helicopter. No furtive movements today. Today called for bold as brass and obvious as daylight. I was one of the good guys.
I stood in front of the door, listening to the dogs go crazy inside, and presented the broadest silhouette I could, trying to mask what I was doing with my hands. It took only a minute to pick the lock, now that I’d already done it once, and the little noises I was making raised the level of the canine frenzy inside. Once I had the lock taken care of, I didn’t open the door. Instead, I pulled a tire iron out of the bag and began to tap it, somewhat carefully, against a ruby-colored pane of glass at eye level. The stained glass was made up of individual pieces of different sizes and shapes, like a puzzle, with strips of lead between them. The lead was good, because it meant I didn’t have to break the whole window. The last thing I wanted was to knock out a huge hole that could be seen from the street. I wanted a relatively small opening, and I wanted it at eye level so I wouldn’t have to bend over or take any stance that might raise questions in an onlooker.
The chicken wire was a pain in the ass. The glass shattered easily and thanks to the lead the breakage didn’t travel to the adjoining panes, but the glass was fused to the wire, and it took more work than I’d anticipated to knock it free. Time is risk, as far as I’m concerned, and by the time I had created a neat hole five or six inches around, I was getting into thrill ride territory.
I could see into the Stennets’ entry hall now, and it was more fully inhabited by dogs than you would have thought possible when there were actually only four of them. They were in constant motion, sometimes packed close together, sometimes running at the door, sometimes snapping at each other. The snapping was pretty much an equal-opportunity activity, with one exception. Nobody snapped at the big guy. Moby-Dog had his own little nation of floor space wherever he went, and nobody crossed his borders.
When most of the glass was gone, a pair of wire cutters cleared the hole and gave me better access. I put the tire iron back and got the awkward, heavy, not-very-accurate gun Wain had rented to me, popped in a cartridge, loaded a dart, and stuck the barrel through the hole in the glass.
I chose the nearest of the beasts and waited until he turned sideways to present me with the biggest target. I aimed a little high and a tad to the right to compensate for the throw, and pulled the trigger.
PHUT. It was a lot louder here on the porch than it had seemed at the Snor-Mor. The dart found its way to the dog’s shoulder and he jumped and let out a little yelp, then turned to look at it. Dogs have amazingly flexible necks, and he demonstrated that now by craning all the way around and, with some delicacy, removing the dart with his teeth. Then he launched himself at the door again.
This was not the reaction I had planned for. I now had seven darts left and four dogs standing, one of whom was Moby-Dog, the Dog of Bad Dreams, who I’d figure would take a couple of darts at least. Time seemed to be accelerating: security uniform or no security uniform, I could only stand here so long without attracting unwanted attention. I repeated the intricate routine of preparing the gun, chose another target, and missed altogether.
Six darts and four dogs left.
My eyes registered a flash of light, and a moment later I heard a dull rumble of thunder. Behind me, the sound of the rain intensified. That would make me less conspicuous, standing here, but it increased the danger of my car’s mascara running.
One of the dogs was right there, simply too close to miss, and I pulled the trigger. This time the dart was high enough on the back of the dog’s neck so that he couldn’t reach it with its teeth. I was so busy watching it, waiting for some sort of reaction, that I almost missed it when the first dog I’d hit went down, just toppled over sideways like a tree. He lay there with his legs stretched out as though he were still standing, sleeping like a baby. He earned himself a couple of interested sniffs from the others, and then they all turned their attention back to me.
Just as a dart hit Moby-Dog, the second dog went over. Moby-Dog growled scornfully at the dart and threw his weight against the door. I was still loading, but I got him with another one as he retreated to take another rush. He looked at me, and I could see confusion in his face. Wasn’t he supposed to be doing damage to me? He sat down and scratched at the second dart with his hind leg as though it had been a flea, and he managed to knock it off, but then he very slowly went over sideways, his hind leg still raised. Lying on his side like that, he looked like he’d been stuffed.
I shot the final one right between the shoulders, aiming almost directly down as he charged the door. He backed off fast and started to turn in a circle, like he was thinking of chasing his tail, but then he changed his mind. I could see his mental processes slow down, and he looked like he was enjoying it. He shot me a glance that was almost friendly, let his tongue loll out, took another look around as though he’d never seen the place before, but, boy, it was far out, and decided, kind of dreamily, to go upstairs, just, you know, see what was happenin’, just kind of trippin’. He got about four steps up and then went down like a bundle of rags, sprawled diagonally across the staircase.
Grabbing a much-needed breath, I opened the door. I couldn’t claim to be relaxed; I suppose some part of my brain suspected that the dogs had recognized the tranquillizer darts and were only pretending to be out cold, but fortunately this was real life, and they were all several fathoms under. I stepped over two of them as though they were couch cushions and keyed in the number to disarm the alarm system.
First things first. I pulled on the ski mask, climbed the stairs, edging past the slumbering man-eater, and went into the bedroom. I grabbed the other Paul Klee, which, I was surprised to learn, I actually liked better on second look. I gave it a third look as I took it off the wall and had one of those moments, a moment when you think you might actually be changing. I liked it even better the third time. Hmmm. Maybe I should read a little more about the moderns.
At the top of the stairs I heard a sound that froze my heart and instantly put me in statue mode, every hair on my body bristling, and the temperature of my blood dropping by ten degrees. Then I heard it again, and I started to laugh. What I’d thought was a bunch of resuscitated Rottweilers getting
back into the growl state was actually snoring. All four killers were in doggie dreamland, where they were probably frolicking among daisies in gauzy slow motion and ripping kittens to tatters.
When I got downstairs, I stood the picture near the door, next to one of the torporous beasts, and gave it another look. Definitely growing on me. I even liked the colors, sort of. Then I picked up the bag and toted it up the steps to the raised living room, where I found what I assumed was a Kirghiz carpet, profusely soiled. Bunny was not going to be amused.
The box Dora was in had been sealed by some Chinese person who had probably found rich amusement at the prospect of Dora’s predictably impatient new owner discovering that it was literally impossible to open the package. It took me five minutes and two of the blades on my all-purpose knife to get her out, and when I did, I was briefly afraid I’d punctured her. I kept checking for leaks as I blew her up, but her skin, like her virtue, was intact. When I had her all plumped up, I did a couple of minutes on her hair, working from memory. Then I rolled up my computer-printed note and put it into the perfect circle of her mouth. As a final touch, I taped the color printout of the website download to her chest.
I stood back and admired the effect. She looked like she belonged here, which in a sense she did. At the bottom of my bag was a pocket digital camera, and I worked for a few minutes to get her best angles. Then I dropped the camera in the bag and grabbed the handle, left the box Dora had come in right where I’d dumped it, next to a Rottweiler deposit on the Kirghiz, went down to the entry hall, stepped over a few dogs, picked up my new Paul Klee, and let myself out into the rain.
I hadn’t gone half a block when the phone rang and Jennie said, talking very fast, “Thistle was here, and the big man who wrecked the apartment tried to catch her. Please. You have to come. You have to come now.”
42
A Funnel of whirling dervishes
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