by Tim Dorsey
Could you believe those ransom calls? said Mel. Now the cops think shes dead and
Tori, why are you smiling?
Because of our incredible luck.
Every time shit happens, you say something like that!
Dont you see? said Tori. Death sells. Imagine the coverage after my press release. Then, in a few weeks, an even bigger wave of publicity when she makes the harrowing escape. This is better than before!
Mel grabbed his stomach. Why doesnt it feel better?
Tori opened her cell phone and punched numbers. We just have to make sure she stays completely out of sight while shes supposed to be dead.
LAX
Serges cell phone began ringing. He didnt hear it.
Al-ly! Al-ly! Al-ly!
A chugging contest.
The cheering crowd formed a giant ring around her and Coleman. They were up in the Encounter Restaurant. Most people dont realize its a restaurant, but almost everyone recognizes the futuristic building on spider legs that serves as the airports architectural signature. The restaurant is so tall and distinct that you can spot it from any point at the airport, like through the long line of picture windows at the international gates, where spurts of incoming passengers filtered through Customs.
Officials inspected passports and immigration forms. In the background: armed military, German shepherds and a quarantine zone for potted plants that people still insisted on bringing into the country for some reason. Ten lines and ten long, flat tables covered with unpredictable suitcase contents revealing the infinite variety of life. A separate area off to the side for random body searches. Also: language problems, crying children and a fast-talking guy in a red silk shirt explaining the case of Kahlúa hed failed to declare from Cabo San Lucas.
More passengers poured off the umbilical arm from a Boeing 747. A chorus of gasps. Everyone stared just a little too long at that skull-face tattoo, then quickly looked anywhere else. The Tat was pulled out of line for the full, high-risk search, just like every other time.
They tore through everything, felt luggage linings for secret compartments, patted him down, used wands, brought over the dogs, even unscrewed his stick deodorant to see if something was stashed below.
Whistle clean. They handed The Tat his documents and tried to smile.
The Tat didnt make the return effort. He exited the international air side and merged with a rushing river of foot traffic in the main terminal. A beeping cart came by with someone in a leg cast. He passed a gate pumping more passengers into the airport from a Birmingham flight connecting in Atlanta. An enormous man with pecs bulging out of a Roll Tide jacket came down the ramp. He checked an overhead sign and made a right turn for baggage claim.
Serge stared out a window of the Encounter Restaurant, watching an airbus with a sunburst foreign insignia thrust up at a sharp takeoff angle.
Ally was mobbed for autographs.
Coleman stumbled over to the window. Ive never come to an airport before when I wasnt flying.
Most people dont, said Serge. Thats why I do it all the time. Absorb the energy. Lives in motion. Sometimes I come just to ride the monorails, the last great free entertainment value in America before they started asking for boarding passes.
Coleman looked down. Tiny people caught taxis, checked in curbside and smoked rapidly. I think Ive seen this building before. Like in a movie.
One of L.A.s most recognizable landmarks, said Serge. Dozens of films set in this city have used it as background shots to bookmark the location.
Coleman pointed back at the dining room. Its the weirdest restaurant Ive ever seen, like the inside of some crazy spaceship.
Thats what its supposed to look like, said Serge. Its the Encounter Restaurant, as in alien encounter. Market research showed enough people wanted to simulate the experience of being abducted by extraterrestrials, getting beamed up to a flying saucer and having to pay a lot for dinner.
Dallas Reels worked his way across the room, slipping tiny envelopes into hands. Hey, Serge, new party. You in?
Sure. Be with you in a minute. Serge stared out the window again. A man in a Roll Tide jacket got into a Hertz courtesy bus. Look at all those people down there. Each with their own hopes, dreams, heartaches. He watched a man with a full facial tattoo climb in the back of a cab. Sometimes I wonder what theyre all up to.
** Chapter 35
REDONDO BEACH
A black stretch limo sat in the driveway of an expansive vacation retreat. A rented Taurus pulled up behind it. The driver didnt get out.
Inside the house:
Its Ally Street!
Its the guys from TV!
Another mob scene. The buzz swept the party. Coleman ended up on the back porch, surrounded by men in white robes.
Love your work!
One of the men pumped a keg and handed Coleman a plastic cup of draft. Have you ever given any serious thought to joining a fraternal organization?
Serge and Ally were trapped in the kitchen. More autographs. A young man in a leather jacket shook Serges hand. Youre my hero. You say everything thats on everyones mind. He handed Serge a cassette. Could you review my movie on your next show? Shot it with a friends video camera. About a misunderstood genius trapped in the body of a loser
A robed man held the keg spigot over Colemans cup.
And if you like sports, we have a strong intramural program. Remember the solar temple cult up in Frisco? We beat them silly every year in flag football. Except last year they forfeited because of that cyanide business. Their note said Earth was about to take a meteor the size of Utah, but they really just didnt want to face us in the semifinals
More autographs. A young man in a trench coat piled on the praise. I love you guys!
Thanks, said Serge, signing a napkin.
Heres my business card. I have a wine and cheese showing next week. Im a performance artist.
Serge handed the napkin back. Performance artist?
I wanted to be a regular artist but didnt have any talent. The National Endowment doesnt understand.
Whats your medium? asked Serge.
Postmodern naturalism. I go to the landfill and collect everyday items that represent the entropy of civilization. Then I put them in my ass and take pictures.
Serge wormed his way through the packed living room and onto the porch. Coleman?
He went back inside and stuck his head in the den. Ally, you seen Coleman?
Ally looked up from the broken arm she was autographing. Hasnt been in here.
Whered that idiot go?
Coleman!
Serge walked down a hall, checking bedroom doors. Nothing but drugs and sex. He opened the last one. Coleman!
Hi, Serge, said Coleman, wearing a long white robe. Meet my new friends.
He was encircled by men in similar robes, holding candles.
What the hell do you think youre doing?
Joining their club, said Coleman. This is my initiation. Real nice guys
They handed Coleman another beer and gave him a light for the joint in his mouth. See what I mean? Ive found a home.
Serge glanced at a table against the wall: stainless steel tray with surgical instruments. Coleman! Theyre going to castrate you!
No, were not, said one of the robed men.
What are those tools?
There was a bris last night.
Serge grabbed Coleman and dashed from the room. The robed men watched the door close. Damn.
They collected Ally from the kitchen and rushed out the front door. Dallas was waiting in the driveway. There you are. He pointed at his beeper. We have to hurry.
Could you just take us back to our car? asked Serge.
No problem.
The limo headed inland a half hour and pulled up behind a rented Chrysler parked just down the street from the Frolic Room.
Thanks for the lift.
Sure you dont want to go with us? said Dallas.
Been a long day. Serge climbed out of the stretch and reached in his pocket for keys. Something up the street caught his eye. Uh-oh. He leaned back in one of the limos windows. Decided to go to that party after all. Well follow in our car.
Cool.
They jumped in the convertible. Coleman turned on the radio. What made you change your mind?
Cant go back to our hotel with that car following us.
Which one?
Dont look!
The Taurus. Its just like with the Crown Vic.
How long has he been there?
Since the cult house. Maybe the airport.
The Chrysler shadowed the limo, and the Taurus shadowed the Chrysler. They headed up the canyon, vehicles down-shifting, climbing higher and higher into the hills. Mansions rising straight up from the road. Serge followed Dallass taillights another mile and parked behind the limo. He got out and turned around. Three houses back, a Taurus turned off its lights.
I knew it.
Inside the house, the usual. Its Ally! Its the TV guys!
Except it was later in the evening, everyone deeper in the bag. The excitement took on its own life. Yelling, shoving fans yearning to touch them, feet stepped on. A uniformed man with a serving tray reached over several heads to hand Serge a stuffed mushroom and a stack of pages. Caterer finds sixteenth-century recipe that just might take down the pope!
There was a stir at the front entrance. People reflexively cleared a path when the giant in a crimson jacket ducked his head and came through the door. Serge noticed the ripple in the crowd. He traced it back to the meaty, sun-burned head sticking up above the rest, advancing toward him.
Coleman lost his beer in the jostling. Whered all these people come from?
I cant move, said Ally, fighting for elbow room to autograph stuff.
To the balcony! said Serge.
They wiggled their way outside, but it was only worse. Then they couldnt wiggle back. Instead, the mass of fans and autograph collectors followed and forced them farther out onto the balcony, until they were trapped against the metal railing over a sheer drop.
What are we going to do? asked Coleman.
Im getting crushed again, said Ally.
Serge didnt hear them. He was looking back in the house, focused on that one large head bobbing above a whole living room of heads, working its way toward the balcony. Serge turned around: that great sparkling view of Los Angeles again. He looked down over the railing. Not an option.
There was a creaking sound. Ally latched on to the railing. What the hell was that?
A sizable lurch. People screamed and grabbed each other as they lost balance. But they didnt go back inside. If anything, they pressed closer to the railing in hysteria. More creaking and another lurch, another round of shrieks. Serge looked at the home next door, a good two feet higher than it had been a minute ago.
Everyone, back in the house! yelled Serge. We have to get off the balcony!
They were screaming too loud.
Coleman! Ally! We have to get inside!
I cant move!
Neither can I!
Another lurch. Then a gunshot.
The yelling stopped.
Serge raised his pistol in the air again and squeezed off two more rounds.
The yelling started again, but at least they were moving back inside. And how. It quickly became a panicked stampede into the living room. Glass shattering, coffee tables collapsing, doors ripped off hinges. Strong as he was, the giant in the crimson jacket couldnt fight the tide. His eyes momentarily met Serges on the other side of the room. Distilled rage. Then Serge was off again, hugging close to a wall, skirting the crowd and leading his friends to a side exit in the split-level garage. The man watched helplessly, cursing and beating on the people carrying him backward out the front door.
Pandemonium in the street. The Fullback broke free of the mob and sprinted up the road toward a Chrysler Sebring parked at the curb. But the three passengers were already inside. Serge turned the ignition.
The Fullback was at max stride, ready to dive onto the trunk. Serge hit the gas. The giant took a desperate swipe at the back of the car with his right hand, coming up with a fistful of air. The convertible sped away.
The giant spun on the balls of his feet, running back to his own Taurus. He threw it in gear and took off after the Sebring
Ker-thump, ker-thump, ker-thump. A stiletto knife through the sidewall of a flat tire on the drivers side.
Serge checked the empty rearview and eased off the pedal. He reached the end of the street and gently tapped the brakes for an expertly controlled slide through the hairpin turn. He accelerated in the other direction on a switchback, the only way to traverse the steepest sections of the Hollywood Hills.
Suddenly, a high-rpm roar overwhelmed the convertible.
What can that?
A jet-black ninja motorcycle shot between Serge and the guardrail with no room to spare.
The cyclist spun out with a smoking back tire and stopped in the middle of the road, facing the Chrysler.
Serge slammed the brakes. The gang stared in disbelief as the cyclist dismounted: black cowboy boots, long black overcoat and black helmet with tinted visor. The helmet came off.
Holy Jesus! said Ally. Look at his face!
Serge grabbed the top of the windshield and stood up. What were you thinking?
The Tat answered by throwing open his overcoat, revealing an array of menacing weapons from local pawnshops. Daggers, throwing stars, pistols. He whipped out nunchucks and twirled them around his head with invisible speed. The demonstration went on for some time. Finally, he stopped and flicked a pair of switches on the sticks, clicking open razor points at each end. The twirling started again.
Serge looked up at the starry sky and sighed.
The Tat eventually stowed the sticks. He crossed his arms over his chest and drew a pair of .44 revolvers. He tossed the guns back and forth between his hands. He started twirling them.
Serge tapped his watch. Get to the point!
The Tat turned with his back to the car, pointed the pistols over his shoulders and fired. Mirrors on both sides of the convertible snapped off with sparks. The Tat faced them again and took three dramatic steps toward Serge, raising the revolvers. Now you die
The sound of thunder. The Tat looked up.
A twenty-room house slid down the mountainside and crashed into the street.
Oooooo. Coleman winced. You can only see his feet sticking out.
But no ruby slippers.
The road was completely blocked. So Serge made a five-point turn in the narrow cliffside street and started back the other way.
What was that guys problem? said Ally.
Its L.A., said Serge. Everyone craves attention.
To the left of his periphery, a dark figure in a crimson jacket bounded down the hillside with incredible speed and agility. By the time Serge noticed, the phantom had reached the edge of the road just ahead of the convertible, still running full clip.
A jarring thud. He landed on the Chryslers hood, face and arms against the windshield.
Coleman pointed. Whos this guy?
Kaiser Sosee. Serge turned on the windshield wipers.
The Fullback snapped them off. He punched through the windshield with his right fist, reaching for Serges neck.
Serge leaned back. Now we definitely have to report the car stolen.
The Sebring headed down the canyon. Fingers g
rasped for Serges face, just out of reach. The Fullback tried pulling his arm back out.
Looks like hes stuck, said Coleman.
He is, said Serge, hitting a blinker and turning onto Hollywood Boulevard. Mustnt know anything about safety glass. You can punch through, but the laminated epoxy layer holds it all together and you cant get your arm back out. Like Chinese finger cuffs.
With his free hand, The Fullback began ripping open the hole around his arm. Blood squirted everywhere.
I think he figured it out, said Coleman.
Ally leaned forward from the backseat. I dont like him up there.
Gee. Im sorry, said Serge. I wont put him there next time.
Get him off!
Im working on it.
A hand came through the enlarged hole in the glass. Serge swerved. The hand went back out.
Coleman, what would they do in the movies?
If we were in Italy, you could take him out with a vegetable cart.
But its America.
Then youre supposed to drive down an alley with a bunch of boxes and trash.
Thats Jersey. The hand came through the window again. Serge viciously cut the wheel left and right. The hand went back out.
Hes still there! yelled Ally.
Not now! said Serge.
The Fullback had just gotten to his knees, preparing to lunge over the top of the windshield. Serge tapped the brakes. The giant flattened to the hood.
Traffic thickened as they raced toward the intersection in front of Graumans. Tourists snapped photos as the rental car whizzed by.
Check it out, said Coleman. One of those double-decker tour buses.
I see it, said Serge. They look cool, but so much depends on your driver, especially if they do the PA thing. I once got a Teamster way too into Tallulah Bankhead.
Slow down, said Coleman. I cant fire this joint.
Light it under the dash like you usually do.
Okay.
The Fullbacks arm was through the windshield again, inches from Serges face.
Hes still up there! said Ally.
Serge leaned his head back as far as he could, The Fullbacks fingertips brushing his Adams apple. Will you shut up back there!