The Big Bamboo

by Tim Dorsey

  Serge continued accelerating. “Have I lost them?” The needle hit an even hundred.

  “No, but they’re getting over in the next lane. They’re going to pass.” Coleman turned back around. “Guess you were right. Just speeders.”

  Serge looked up at the rearview again with a glint in his eye. “God, I hate speeders! Families drive on these streets

  I got an idea.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll see,” said Serge. “First I need to slow back down to the speed limit.”

  The Marquis’s passenger pointed again. “You were right. They’re slowing down. They don’t suspect us.”

  “I told you.”

  Serge switched his gaze to the side mirror. “You might want to buckle your seatbelt. This could get a little bouncy.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  Serge reached into the overnight bag under his legs. “Coleman, take this.”

  “Video camera?”

  “You know that destabilizing maneuver they teach on the driving course at police academies?” said Serge. “They steer the nose of the patrol car into one of the rear fenders, putting the suspect’s vehicle into an uncontrollable spin. Then it crashes and the driver is easy to beat up.”

  “I’ve seen that on the news,” said Coleman. “The cops capture it with the automatic dashboard camera.”

  “That’s why I want you to film,” said Serge. “We might make CNN.”

  Coleman turned on the camcorder and squinted into the viewfinder. “You going to do the destabilizing maneuver?”

  “No. I’m going to unveil Serge’s Super Destabilizing Maneuver.” He checked the mirror again. Two hundred yards and closing. “Coleman, I need you to check the rental documents. They’re in the glove compartment.”

  “I’m holding the video camera.”

  “You see what I’m doing over here?” said Serge. “You have two hands.”

  Coleman reached in the glove box and grabbed the rental packet. “What am I looking for?”

  “See if the collision coverage box is checked.”

  “Jesus,” said Coleman. “Did you notice what they can charge for a gallon of gas if we don’t bring the tank back full?”

  “Come on!”

  “Okay, wait, there’s a lot of shit here. That box is checked, that one isn’t

  here it is, collision. Yes, it’s checked!”

  “We’re go!” Serge’s eyes stayed on the side mirror. Four car lengths, three, two

  “That’s it, just a little more, come to papa

  ”

  One car length. A half. “Now!” Serge cut the steering wheel at the last second, slaloming into the next lane in front of the Marquis. He deftly worked the pedals in tandem with both feet, briefly slamming the brakes with his left, then punching the gas with his right.

  Alarm in the Grand Marquis: “What the hell’s he—”

  They tapped bumpers. The Chrysler accelerated away.

  “Are you filming it?” asked Serge.

  “Yep,” said Coleman, aiming back with the camera. “They’re having trouble doing eighty with the airbags deployed and

  Man! They sailed right through that guardrail!”

  “Make sure you get the fireball.”

  “I’m getting it.”

  Coleman finally turned around and shut off the camera. “Those poor guys.”

  “Speed kills.”

  Coleman was looking at the rental agreement again. “Serge, this collision box that’s checked. What’s waiver mean?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me it said waiver?”

  “You just asked if the collision box was checked.”

  “That means we turned down coverage. Now we’ll have to report the car stolen. On the other hand, I get to push it off a cliff.”

  Hollywood Tattletale

  FILM BUDGET TO BEAK RECORD

  HOLLYWOOD— According to a leaked copy of the secret shooting script for All That Glitters, legendary director Werner B. Potemkin is planning the most elaborate, expensive and dangerous movie climax ever attempted.

  No one dared hazard an estimate on the final cost of the scene, but all agree it will easily push the overall budget into record territory.

  An insider, who spoke on the condition of being paid, described a massive production that merges memorable scenes from numerous Academy Award–winning classics, including Casablanca, Lawrence of Arabia, On the Waterfront, North by Northwest and Oklahoma!

  But most ambitious are the technical challenges of combining the attack on the Death Star with the parting of the Red Sea, further complicated by Potemkin’s refusal to use scale models or computer manipulation.

  “We’re going to flood the two-million-gallon concrete basin on Soundstage 19 that we built for that pirate movie,” said the insider. “And we’re going to use real stuntmen with concealed scuba gear.”

  Olive Avenue bends north through Burbank. Then it becomes wide and straight, a corridor of tall palms, abrupt mountains at the end. Serge reached the 1600 block, checking stores for addresses. He spotted the retro sign three blocks ahead.

  “Coleman, there it is! I’ve got chills!”

  “That motel?”

  Serge whipped the convertible through the entrance of the Safari Inn. “This is where Jim Lovell’s wife lost her wedding ring down the shower drain in Apollo 13. Christian Slater and Patricia Arquette also stayed here in True Romance.”

  Serge jumped out of the car and ran inside to the front desk. “Serge Storms. Secret message for me?”

  The manager stared at Serge a moment, then went looking through the wooden slots on the wall behind the desk. He found a slip of paper and handed it across the counter.

  Serge ran out the door.

  The Chrysler was waiting outside. Empty. Serge’s eyes swept the parking lot. “Coleman!”

  A horn honked. Tires screeched. “Watch it!”

  “Sorry.” Coleman stopped and stood on the centerline of the highway. He drank a freshly popped beer while cars whizzed by on both sides. Finally, a break. Coleman trotting the rest of the way back to the car. “Hi, Serge.”

  “Coleman, what are you doing?”

  “Store over there. I was thirsty.”

  “We’ve got work to do.” Serge unfolded the note and read. He stuck it back in his pocket and walked quickly through the parking lot, checking doors for room numbers. He came to the end. He opened the note again. “This can’t be right.”

  “What is it?”

  Serge pointed up at the second floor. “Room 109.”

  “So.”

  “That’s where Slater and Arquette stayed. She got the stuffing beat out of her in there by James Gandolfini, still unknown before The Sopranos.”

  “Rooms all look alike.”

  “I’m positive.”

  “You know the number?”

  “No, but I freeze-framed the DVD a bunch of times. Last room upstairs on the left that forms an acute angle with the south wing.”

  Coleman chugged the rest of his tall boy. “I’m thirsty again.”

  “This is too much of a coincidence.” Serge reached in the convertible for his .45 automatic. “What are we dealing with here?”

  “Let’s leave.”

  “The note said the door would be unlocked. Go inside and wait for the meeting.” He checked the Colt to make sure the magazine was full, then stuck it in his waistband and covered it with the untucked floral shirt. “My street sense tells me it’s a trap. We’ve already been marked for death.”

  “And you’re still going?”

  “I make a lot of stuff up. I don’t know why.”

  Coleman was playing with the front of his pants. “My belt’s too tight. I’m out of notches again.”

  “Or maybe I’m not making it up. I could be giving myself a test.” Serge reached in the car for his video camera. “Coleman, stay here and keep watch.”

  “Why the camera?”

  “I loved True Romance,” said Serge, checking the battery. “There’s no way I’m not going to film this.”

  “You need me to do anything?”

  “Yes! Stand watch!” said Serge. “Stay in the car and honk three times if anyone ap
proaches the room. No, wait. They’ll recognize that. It’s the standard warning honk. Okay, I got it. First, don’t honk. Then honk three times. It’ll confuse them.”

  Before Coleman could respond, Serge was bounding up the stairs three steps at a time. He made the second floor and flattened himself against a wall in the breezeway. He peeked around the corner. So far so good. He began creeping along the landing like a cheetah. Room 112, 111, 110

  109! Serge coiled and leaped to the other side of the door. He silently reached for the knob. Unlocked.

  Coleman leaned against the rental car. He watched Serge turn the knob the rest of the way and slip inside. Coleman forgot his beer was empty and raised it to his lips. “Hmmm.” He looked inside the hole.

  Serge moved through 109 on tiptoes. Nobody home. He looked under the bed and made the standard sweep, closet, shower, all clear. He set the video camera on the dresser and glanced at his watch. Two minutes till the meet. He sat down on the edge of the bed and began to relax. A car honked three times.

  Serge sprang and pulled his pistol. He crept across the room and slowly reached for the knob. Careful

  Quiet

  He jerked the door open and lunged with the gun. An empty landing. Three more honks. He looked down at the parking lot.

  Coleman was looking back. He held a beer can upside down and shook it to show it was empty. He pointed at the store across the street.

  Serge shook his head hard and threw up his arms. He went back in the room.

  Before he could close the door all the way, a muscle-bound man with dreadlocks darted out of the next room and kicked it in. He decked Serge with a right hook. Serge jumped up, but the man was already aiming a gun. Like a cobra, Serge struck and knocked the pistol out of his grip, sending it clattering across the tile floor. Serge was off balance from the follow-through, and the man kneed him in the groin. He doubled over; the same knee came up again and caught him in the chin. He tumbled toward the bathroom.

  Serge groaned on the floor, trying to clear his head. The man had at least fifty pounds on him, and it wasn’t fat. He reached down for a two-handed grip, picked Serge up and flung him through the glass shower door.

  Coleman tossed his empty beer in a garbage can and walked back to the car. He looked up at room 109. Nothing happening. He reached into the convertible and fiddled with the radio until he found a groove. He hit a roach secretly cupped in his hand.

  “

  Hollywood’s swingin’

  ”

  Crash.

  Serge slammed into a full-length wall mirror, crumpling to the floor with the jagged pieces.

  The attacker found his pistol in the corner. He walked up to Serge and aimed at his forehead. “This is it. Moment of truth.” He cocked the hammer.

  A woozy Serge struggled to push himself up to his knees. Dazed, bloody. He reached in his shirt pocket and slowly removed a comb. He pointed it with an unsteady arm.

  The man chuckled. “Got a lot of heart, kid, you know that?” He stuck the pistol back in its shoulder holster. “You want to play? I’ll give you one shot.”

  Serge was having trouble holding his arm up. He wiped blood from his eyes with the other hand.

  The man leaned forward, toying with Serge. “Come on. Do your worst.”

  Serge lunged with the comb. The man reeled backward in agony—“Aaaauuhhhhh!”

  He flashed with rage and charged Serge, catching him in the gut and driving him across the room until they both went sprawling in a tangle of limbs. They wrestled across the floor. They grabbed each other by the throat and choked. Both beyond exhaustion. Serge wearily drew his right hand back, delivering a listless punch to the jaw. The man’s head bobbed and he pulled his own fist back, returning the halfhearted jab. Serge swung an off-the-mark roundhouse; the man missed with an uppercut. Back, forth, over and over, until they were completely spent, panting hard, unable to do anything but prop themselves up next to each other against the side of the bed. A minute later, Serge jabbed his arm out sideways.

  “Ow,” said the man.

  A minute later a jab hit Serge in the cheek. “Ow.”

  “Let’s take a break.”

  “Okay,” said Serge.

  “I’m still going to kill you

  ”

  “In a minute

  ”

  The man felt a slight pain in his thigh. He realized he was sitting on the gun. He retrieved it and summoned the strength to press the barrel against Serge’s temple. “Minute’s up

  ”

  “Dammit!” said Serge. “I told myself this was a trap!”

  “You should have listened.”

  “Just hold on,” said Serge. “Before you shoot, would you at least tell me why?”

  “Why what?”

  “I came here in a pretty good mood. We could have had some laughs, but instead you have to kill me.”

  “The double cross. Pretending to be Serge

  ”

  “But I am Serge.”

  “You think we’re stupid? Like we weren’t watching the rental lot when you left with your backup?”

  “What backup?”

  “The black Grand Marquis.”

  “I didn’t have a backup.”

  “I know we fucked you over, but you can drop the act now.”

  “Wait a second,” said Serge. “Black Grand Marquis?”

  “This is getting old.” The man cocked the pistol again.

  “I swear!” said Serge. “I can prove that wasn’t our backup. Just let me get my video camera.”

  “It’s a trick. Forget it.”

  “What if I am Serge? Think of the mistake you’ll be making.”

  The man paused. “I should have my head examined. Okay, make it quick. But the first wrong move

  ” He pushed Serge’s head with the end of the gun.

  Serge got up and grabbed his camera off the dresser. He rewound the tape and began playing the footage from the freeway. “See?”

  The man grabbed the camera and pointed the gun. “Step back.” Serge did. The man brought the tiny LCD screen to his face for a closer look. “That’s the car, all right, and

  Whoa. Nice footwork on the pedals.” He turned the camera off. “Okay, that definitely wasn’t your backup. But it still doesn’t mean you’re Serge.”

  Serge reached in his pocket.

  “Freeze!”

  “I’m just getting a piece of paper.” He pulled out the first page of the letter and handed it over. The man’s expression evolved as his eyes moved down the paper. He reached the bottom and looked up. “Oh, my God! You really are Serge! I can’t believe I almost shot you!”

  The motel room door opened. Two more men marched Coleman inside at gunpoint.

  “I don’t know how they got the drop on me,” said Coleman. “They were invisible, like they had some kind of cloaking device.”

  “We walked right up to him,” said the man with the gun. “He was in the car smoking a joint under the dashboard.”

  “Serge,” said the one with the dreadlocks, “I’m awfully sorry.” He picked up the room’s phone. “I’ll straighten this out. We’ll meet again tomorrow at noon. And this time there won’t be any surprises.”

  “Where?”

  “Pat and Lorraine’s.”

  “Pat and Lorraine’s!” said Serge. “I’ve always wanted to eat there! I hear they have great coffee.”

  The man smiled. “The last thing you need is another cup of coffee.”

  ** Chapter 17

  VISTAMAX STUDIOS

  Guards checked IDs. Golf carts zipped between sets.

  Upstairs in the administration building, copies of the Hollywood Tattletale lay on both brothers’ desks, folded over to the latest Potemkin article.

  “He’s lost it,” said Ian.

  “We have to shut him down,” said Mel.

  “But how?”

  Shouting in the lobby: “What do you think you’re doing? You can’t just barge—”

  The door flew open. Mel closed a drawer and sighed. “Nobody knocks anymore.”

  In stormed a female theatrical agent with clenched fists. “You mo
therfuckers!”

  “I tried to stop her,” said Betty.

  “You raped her!” yelled the woman.

  “Uh, Betty,” said Ian. “You can go.”

  The door closed.

  “Now just calm down,” said Mel.

  The woman breathed fire. She had a tangerine scarf and a vague resemblance to Penny Marshall, but lighter hair. “You won’t get away with this! I’ll have you arrested!”

  “Take it easy,” said Mel. “Let’s talk about this.”

  “Rape is such an overused word,” said Ian.

  The woman grabbed an abstract sculpture off a pedestal near the door. Ian ducked. It hit the wall, shattering into countless abstract pieces.

  “You’re obviously upset,” said Mel.

  “You think this is upset? You have no idea!”

  “Back up,” said Ian. “Who got raped?”

  “You know damn well who!”

  The brothers looked confused. It was sincere. There were so many.

  “That baby shower for the stage parents up on Wonderland!” yelled the agent. “Ally Street!”

  “Ohhhh,” said Ian. “Her.”

  “I think we can clear this up,” said Mel. “Just a big misunderstanding.”

  “Nothing happened,” said Ian.

  “And it was consensual,” said Mel.

  “Ally came on to us. She was really drunk.”

  “We helped her into bed before she could fall down the stairs and hurt herself.”

  “Bullshit!” said the woman. “You put something in her drink. I’ve heard the stories about you two!”

  “How about this,” said Ian. “We give her a part. She’ll even get a few lines, a nice credit for her résumé. We’re still not admitting anything, but we have a lot of respect for you.”

  “Your name’s big in this town,” said Mel.

  “What is it again?” said Ian.

  “Gersh!” she snapped. “Tori Gersh!”

  “That’s right.” Mel turned to his brother. “I always told you I liked Tori. Very reasonable person to deal with.”

  “We could have a big future,” said Ian. “Why don’t you head on up to legal.” He grabbed his phone. “I’ll call ahead and have them start typing the contract.”

  “Is that how you want to play?” said Tori. “Fine! Here’s the deal. Not a small little part with a few lines. A leading role.”