Fool Me Twice js-11

by Michael Brandman

  “Has there been some sort of increase in the Paradise utility rates,” she said.

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Well, my water bill’s higher.”

  “Are you using more water?”

  “No.”

  “How do you know it’s higher?”

  “Every month I write down what I pay Paradise Water and Power, and every month I compare it to what I paid them a year ago.”

  “That’s very efficient, Belva.”

  “Don’t condescend to me, young man. Just ’cause I’m old doesn’t mean I need to have my cheeks tweaked by the chief of police.”

  Jesse didn’t say anything.

  “Don’t go all quiet on me, Jesse.”

  “I’m sorry, Belva. I wasn’t aware I was being condescending.”

  “Then pay closer attention. In any event, my water bills for the months of August and September were higher than they were a year ago.”

  “And you’re certain you weren’t using more water?”

  “I checked the meter readings.”

  “And?”

  “They were the same as they were a year ago.”

  “But it cost you more?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you receive a notification of a rate increase?”

  “No. Did you?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” he said.

  “So what are you going to do about it,” she said.

  “Let me ask around.”

  “About other people’s water bills?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. But I don’t want you shunting me aside ’cause I’m old. I want answers.”

  “If you’ll let me get off the phone, I’ll try to get you some.”

  “Don’t be fresh, Jesse.”

  “I’ll get back to you, Belva.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” she said, and hung up the phone.

  Jesse put down the receiver and stared out the window for a while.

  Paradise is a small town, he thought.

  Then he called out to Molly, who was leaning in the doorway, one hand on her hip.

  “What?”

  “Are you aware of any recent increases in W and P water rates?”

  “Why?”

  “Belva Radford says her bills are higher.”

  “Belva Radford’s a head case.”

  “That may be so, but she’s still entitled to an answer.”

  “Then you’ll have to give her one.”

  “I’m aware of that. That’s why I’m asking you. Could you call over to W and P and ask whether there have been any recent rate hikes?”

  “I’ll have to check my schedule,” she said.

  “Quit giving me a hard time, Molly. Just call and find out, will you, please?”

  “I’ll take it under advisement.”

  Then she walked back to her desk.

  Jesse watched her.

  This is going to be a long day, he thought.

  8

  After a rash of disappointing meetings with a handful of assistant casting directors, Ryan returned to the mansion he shared with Marisol.

  Things had slowed considerably for him, and he thought that if he could at least get the assistants talking about him, perhaps they might be more successful in finding him work. But it was fruitless. Although it remained unspoken, Ryan was aware that people knew he and Marisol were having issues and they wanted to wait until things resolved themselves before they risked antagonizing her by casting him.

  He parked the Prius in front, picked up his shoulder bag, and headed for the house.

  When he put his key in the lock, it didn’t fit. He looked at it to make certain it was the right key. It was. He tried it again, but it still didn’t fit.

  He walked around to the back of the house and tried to unlock the kitchen door. That key didn’t work, either.

  He then tried every other door of the mansion, but his keys worked in none of them.

  “She changed the locks,” he said to himself.

  Which pissed him off. He rang the bell. He banged on the door. There was no response.

  He considered breaking a window, but he knew that the glass was reinforced and all he would succeed in doing would be to attract the attention of the security service.

  Things had gone badly for him since he married her. He knew she was a bigger star than he, but his expectations were that his star would rise, not fall, as a result of their marriage. He hadn’t been prepared for the level of attention she received wherever they went. And the manner in which she diminished him.

  In the paparazzi photos, he was always in the near background, standing slightly to her left, an insincere smile plastered on his face.

  She often neglected to introduce him to the important people at the Hollywood functions they frequently attended. When his agency dumped him because they didn’t want to represent “Mr. Marisol Hinton,” he became alarmed.

  He tried to talk it over with her.

  “I’m hurting here,” he’d said, on their way home from a party honoring Tom Hanks.

  “‘Hurting,’” she said.

  “Nothing’s going right. I wish there was something you could do to help me.”

  “Like what,” she said icily.

  “I don’t know, Marisol. We were doing so well for a while. Now I get the feeling you’d be happier alone.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Would you?”

  “Would I what?”

  “Be happier without me.”

  “Don’t start, Ryan.”

  “‘Start’? You could make a big difference for me. If you tried.”

  “You could make a difference for yourself if you stopped with the crystal meth.”

  “I don’t ever use it when I’m working.”

  “That’s a load of crap, Ryan, and you know it.”

  “Do you still care about me?”

  “About you or your career?”

  “About me.”

  “Of course I care about you. I had such hopes for you. For us.”

  “Then help me, Marisol. Make an effort on my behalf. Let people know that you think I’m a talent. If you’ll at least do that, I’ll stop using.”

  She looked at him.

  “All right,” she said.

  Then, a couple of weeks later, at a benefit dinner for the Motion Picture & Television Country House and Hospital, Marisol engaged in an intimate conversation with George Clooney and left Ryan standing alone, in his brand-new Versace tuxedo, ignored. He was livid.

  If she had really wanted him to succeed, he reasoned, she would have insisted that her big-time talent agency represent him, which would have been tantamount to an industry-wide show of her support for him. When that didn’t happen, the town, fickle and fearful as it was, backed away from him.

  He stewed. He used greater amounts of the methamphetamine. Things became worse between them.

  One night, after a party at Charlize Theron’s house, at which he drank too much, Ryan raped Marisol. Afterward, she lay in their bed, crying. Realizing what he had done, he apologized profusely. He begged her for forgiveness.

  Things got briefly better. Then they got worse.

  One night he smacked her. And raped her again. Which soon became a pattern.

  And now she had locked him out.

  When he noticed the Beverly Hills Safe Homes patrol car pull to a stop in front of the house and saw two armed guards emerge, he realized that reconciliation wasn’t in the cards. He got into his Prius and drove away.

  9

  Whenever a movie is filmed in a small town, it’s the equivalent of an invasion of that town by a large army.

  First come the production vehicles, led by a convoy of dozens of oversized trucks. Then come the motor homes for on-set use by cast and key staff, specially constructed mobile dressing rooms, fully outfitted bathrooms on wheels, catering vans, picture cars that will actually appear in the movie, special vehicles for use by the stars,
and a multitude of additional personal vehicles.

  A great many people involved in the making of a movie are imported, meaning that a huge number of production personnel suddenly show up on location, all in need of housing. They gobble up every available hotel and motel room. In many cases, even space in private homes is secured for them.

  The logistics of moving the personnel and all the vehicles from one location to another every day are staggering. Their impact on the life of an unsuspecting community can be devastating.

  The invasion of Paradise had begun in earnest. What had just yesterday been a lazy summer resort town had quickly morphed into a noisy, crowded, traffic-beleaguered nightmare.

  A large section of the Paradise Car Park had been rented to the movie company for use as a permanent base camp, resulting in a downtown parking logjam.

  Traffic was disrupted. Cars were frequently held up during the shooting, forced to wait endlessly until a shot was completed and the traffic could then be released. In some instances, entire streets involved in the filming were closed. Nobody knew what might be in store for them each time they turned a corner.

  In the evenings, movie people swarmed the town restaurants, often preempting the locals. They invaded the taverns and the bars, frequently disturbing the quiet of a neighborhood with their loud and boisterous behavior.

  Carter Hansen couldn’t have been happier, however. His days had new purpose. He circulated through town, preening, puffing himself up, introducing himself to the movie people as the head selectman. He was overjoyed by the money that the movie personnel poured into the Paradise cash registers.

  Jesse had appointed Suitcase Simpson to serve as the liaison between the movie company and the police department.

  “I’ve never been a liaison before,” Suitcase said to Jesse as they ate breakfast at Daisy’s. Suitcase was working on an oversized breakfast burrito. Jesse was halfway through a cheese Danish. A pot of coffee stood in front of them.

  “There’s a first time for everything,” Jesse said.

  “These movie people are very demanding.”

  “Stand tall.”

  “Don’t trivialize this, Jesse. I’m already weathering a shit storm.”

  “Then you’re gonna want to be wearing boots.”

  “That’s not very supportive.”

  “Nonsense. I have every confidence in you.”

  “I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

  “You’ll learn as you go.”

  “I wish I was as sure of that as you are.”

  “Let me share a bit of movie lore with you,” Jesse said, as he leaned closer to Suitcase and lowered his voice.

  “There was once a great Hollywood producer called Joseph E. Levine. He made The Graduate. The story goes that his assessment of the movie business was, ‘If it were so difficult, those that do, couldn’t.’ Keep that in mind, Suit. You won’t be dealing with brain surgeons here.”

  “How do you know this stuff?”

  “I used to live in L.A.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that however many movie meetings you may be forced to attend, more than likely you’ll be the smartest person in the room.”

  —

  Jesse and Frankie were in the taproom at The Gray Gull, away from the din of the crowded dining room. Strings of glimmering mini-lights that were hung above the bar cast a glow that bounced off the oversized mirror behind it, enhancing the room’s muted lighting. The faint tinkling of a piano could be heard in the background.

  Frankie was picking at her crab cakes and sipping a California Cabernet. Jesse sliced into his medium-rare porterhouse, his second Carlsberg lager at his elbow.

  “So you know more than you let on,” she said.

  “Can’t be avoided when you’re a cop in L.A.,” Jesse said.

  “Did you ever actually work on a movie?”

  “I worked homicide.”

  “So you were spared?”

  “I was.”

  “And now you’re a chief.”

  “Yes.”

  “With a great many important things to do.”

  “Not really. Mostly I write parking tickets.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  She took a sip of her wine.

  “How does someone become a line producer,” Jesse said.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No.”

  “You seriously want to know?”

  “I do.”

  She looked at him skeptically.

  “Okay,” she said. “Just remember, you asked. I studied to be an accountant, like my dad. After graduation, he helped me get a job at Warner Brothers. My job was to track the daily information flow as it came in from the various movie sets, synthesize it, and then report it to the head of finance. My boss took a liking to me, and before long he upped me to the job of production accountant. I had to be on the set in order to keep careful track of how the money was being spent and then report it to the studio. Is this in the least bit interesting?”

  “It is to me.”

  “Okay. Sorry. Accountants are generally considered to be notoriously dull.”

  Jesse smiled.

  “It was important that I be privy to how every penny was being spent and why, because accuracy in reporting that information to the studio was critical. Over time, I worked closely with several of the studio’s best line producers, and as a result, learned their job. I was in New Zealand with a small feature when midway through the shoot, the line producer suffered a heart attack. My boss back in Hollywood suggested that I step into the job. After all, I was on the scene and was an integral part of the process. I knew where all the bodies were buried, so to speak. It made sense. Plus, it was a chance to elevate myself. So I held my nose and jumped.”

  “How did it go?”

  “I threw up several times each day, but I managed to finish the picture. I’ve been line producing ever since.”

  “I like a story with a happy ending.”

  “Let’s wait until this one’s in the can before we talk about happy endings. I still have Marisol Hinton in front of me.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I worked with her once before.”

  “And you didn’t like her?”

  “It wasn’t a question of liking her. Marisol is permanently tuned to the Marisol channel. All Marisol, all the time. Twenty-four-seven. No one else exists. Nothing else matters.”

  “So why are you working with her again?”

  “She requested me.”

  “So she must have liked you.”

  “She and her husband both liked me. She didn’t perceive me as a threat, so I passed muster.”

  “Her husband?”

  “A small-time actor named Ryan Rooney. You ever hear of him?”

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  “Ryan Rooney was in Tomorrow We Love with her. They had the kind of torrid affair that she usually reserved only for members of the crew. Why, I don’t know. He’s as self-involved as she is. It beats me why they got married in the first place. She’s highly competitive. I can’t imagine her being helpful to him. Or to anyone, for that matter. It’s been all downhill for him ever since.”

  “Is he in this movie?”

  “God, no. Rumor is she accepted the part so she could get away from him. I read somewhere he had taken to smacking her around.”

  “Hooray for Hollywood,” Jesse said.

  After dinner, they walked the boardwalk to Frankie’s rented waterfront apartment. The warmth of the day had given way to the chill of an early fall evening. She wrapped her coat more tightly around her. She clutched Jesse’s arm as they walked.

  The crisp smell of the sea rode in on the coattails of a steady, bracing wind. A galaxy of starlight lit up the cloudless sky. A lone figure walked hurriedly by them, his head lowered against the wind.

  “Paradise is a long way from Hollywood,” Frankie said.

  “It’s home fo
r me now. I like where I live and how I live.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “L.A.?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe the anonymity. It’s hard for me to be private here.”

  “And that bothers you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Because?”

  “By nature I’m a hermit. I think I’d be happiest living in a cave and spending the winters in hibernation.”

  “It’s hard for a police chief to be a hermit.”

  “Exactly,” he said.

  They had arrived at her building, a new five-story brick-and-glass modern overlooking the harbor. When they reached the main entrance, she turned to him.

  “I had a lovely time, Jesse,” she said.

  “Me, too.”

  “Do you think we can do this again?”

  “I do.”

  “Goody,” she said.

  10

  Harry Kaplan, the process server, found Ryan Rooney in front of the trendy industry restaurant Craft, talking with a prospective agent, a toothy shark of a woman in her twenties, dressed entirely in black.

  Kaplan interrupted them.

  “Mr. Rooney,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  Kaplan pressed the summons into Rooney’s hand.

  “You’ve been served,” he said, before disappearing into the crowd on the sidewalk.

  Ryan shrugged.

  “It was nice to meet you, Ryan,” the woman said, and hurried away. Ryan watched her leave.

  Then he opened the document and began to read. Several lines caught his eye.

  “Marisol Hinton vs. Ryan Rooney . . .”

  “Reference is made to the prenuptial agreement between the parties. . . .”

  “The aforementioned will immediately vacate the premises of the residence located at . . .”

  “Mr. Rooney’s executive position at Marisol Hinton Enterprises shall be deemed to have been terminated. . . .”

  “No further financial obligations regarding Mr. Rooney shall accrue either to Marisol Hinton or to Marisol Hinton Enterprises. . . .”

  Ryan folded the summons, put it in his pocket, walked to the parking lot, and got into his Prius. He sat there for a while, considering his options.

  The prenup he had signed deprived him of access to any of Marisol’s assets.