The Big Bamboo

by Tim Dorsey

  The detectives were upstairs, going room to room. Cameras flashed. They passed the guy shooting video in the hall. Babcock flipped his notepad to the number he had written down from the caller ID at Vistamax. He entered it in his cell phone and told everyone to be quiet. They listened. Nothing.

  Neighbors and passersby filled the street behind police lines. Gestures, gossip. Satellite trucks arrived. News crews zoomed through the back window of a patrol car, where someone was hiding his face.

  Babcock gave the cell phone a couple more tries in different parts of the apartment. No luck. He left the building and stood next to the patrol car. He opened his phone again to call headquarters. He hit redial.

  A muted ringing sound from somewhere.

  Nobody was answering at headquarters. Hmmm, that’s weird. He hit redial again. The soft ringing started again. Where was that coming from? Babcock turned around and saw Ford’s car. He looked at the display on his cell. Of course. Headquarters was usually on redial, but not this time.

  “Reamsnyder, come here.”

  “What is it?”

  Babcock didn’t answer, just walked slowly toward Ford’s car.

  “Something’s ringing,” said Reamsnyder.

  Babcock showed him the display on his phone. “Sounds like it’s coming from the trunk.”

  “The car’s not in the search warrant.”

  Babcock opened the back door of the police cruiser car and helped Ford get out. “Have any objection to us looking in your trunk?”

  “I’m innocent. Look wherever you want.”

  The detectives slipped on latex gloves. “Keys?”

  Ford turned sideways. “Right pocket.”

  Babcock hit redial again. The ringing started again. Reamsnyder unlocked the trunk. The sound got louder. The detective reached inside and gingerly picked up a ringing cell phone. “I thought you said it was stolen.”

  “It was. How’d that get there?”

  “That’s our question.”

  “Look at this,” said Reamsnyder, holding up a pair of monogrammed women’s panties. A.S. “Bet we get a DNA match.”

  Babcock put a hand on top of Ford’s head and pushed him back into the patrol car. “We have some new charges.”

  The door slammed.

  THE STANDARD HOTEL , ROOM 222

  Serge had been sitting on the edge of the bed for fifteen minutes, staring at a half-empty prescription bottle with a faded, three-year-old label.

  Coleman surfed the TV. “I thought you threw all that stuff out.”

  “I did. Found this in a drawer six months ago. Don’t know why I kept it.”

  “You said you hated taking that stuff.”

  Serge nodded and unsnapped the cap.

  “You’re not thinking of going back on it?” asked Coleman. “We won’t have any more fun.”

  “I’ve got a big appointment in the morning.”

  “That’s right. Your final condition of employment with the Glicks.”

  “It’s something I’ve dreamed about my whole life. Now that I have it, I don’t want to screw up.” Serge stared at the bottle another moment, then closed his eyes and tossed a handful of pills down his throat. He opened his eyes. “No going back now.”

  Hollywood Tattletale

  STALKER FORD OELMAN ARRESTED AGAIN

  HOLLYWOOD— A former low-level employee of the Vistamax props department has been arrested and charged with the murder of abducted movie icon Ally Street.

  The apprehension of stalker-turned-killer Ford Oelman came during a coordinated raid on his Alto Nido hideout near Ivar and Franklin, where police intercepted the suspect just as he was attempting to flee the jurisdiction. He is being held without bail in the theatrical wing of the county jail.

  Discovered during the raid was the cell phone used during ransom negotiations as well as an unidentified piece of apparel rumored to be of a sexual nature. The clothing item has since been scientifically linked to Ms. Street, according to LAPD Detectives G. Babcock and P. Reamsnyder, who spoke on the condition of anonymity.

  Investigators are still unclear on motive, but studio sources describe a disgruntled employee who was fired for erratic behavior including bursting into the private office of Vistamax owners Ian and Mel Glick.

  “He was insane,” said Ian.

  “I feared for my life,” said Mel. “I hope he gets the help he needs.”

  After being terminated, Mr. Oelman was overheard making threats against the entire studio before having to be physically removed by security. Court records also show hundreds of civil filings against Vistamax by the former employee.

  “That’s a red flag,” said an unnamed attorney at the studio. “He was clearly obsessed. We could barely keep up with all the paperwork he was generating.”

  Police initially suspected Mr. Oelman amid reports that he had been stalking the actress at Skybar just hours before her abduction. He was briefly taken into custody for questioning during early stages of the investigation, but was soon released based on what now appears to have been a bogus alibi.

  “Would Ally still be alive if the police hadn’t made a mistake?” asked Mel Glick. “Who knows? You can drive yourself insane with questions like that.”

  Second-guessing the police dominated all local newscasts. A handful of buildings burned to the ground.

  “I don’t blame the detectives,” said Street’s distraught agent Tori Gersh. “I blame the sick bastard who took Ally!”

  Meanwhile, at the county jail, celebrity attorneys were lined up around the visiting room for a chance to take on the no-win case. In a late-breaking development, however, Mr. Oelman has made the highly questionable decision of retaining legal newcomer Rodney Demopolis, who has never been on a talk show.

  Mr. Demopolis’s first press conference is scheduled for noon.

  ** Chapter 38

  BEVERLY HILLS

  Serge parked in front of a sleek professional building and took the elevator to the tenth floor. Vistamax Development Division. He entered an office. The walls were covered with autographed movie posters in expensive frames. Eastwood. Pitt. Gibson.

  The receptionist was wearing a telephone headset. “

  Have a seat, Mr. Storms.”

  Serge had just started picking up a magazine when a door flew open on the other side of the waiting room. Two men waved furiously. “Serge! Get in here, you maniac!” “We’ve been dying to meet you!”

  Serge entered the largest office he’d ever seen, made even more spacious by the lack of furnishing. Just two swivel chairs facing a white leather couch. It helped showcase the view: The wall opposite the sofa was a single, giant floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the Hollywood Hills. Serge could see the sign.

  They all sat at the same time, Serge on the couch, the two men in the chairs. The chairs were the retro kind that looked like carved-out eggs. The development guys had to swivel to see each other. Serge didn’t have a problem confusing the two. The one on the left was muscle-bound with a shaved head, blue warmup pants and a sleeveless workout jersey. The other wore the traditional business shirt and tie in a slightly mussed fashion like the drummer for Cheap Trick. They had notepads and anticipating smiles, waiting for Serge to say something.

  Serge sat, eyes moving back and forth between them.

  A chair squeaked as the muscular one swiveled toward his colleague. “That’s so cool. He’s the writer and he isn’t saying anything.”

  “You’re the writer. You can say anything,” said the drummer. “But the fact that you’re not saying anything says a lot more.”

  “The Glicks are high on you. They absolutely insisted we take a meeting.”

  “Told us great things.”

  “They did?” said Serge.

  “In theory. It’s a thrill to meet!”

  “We have huge plans for you!”

  “You’re the next big thing!”

  “Which means we have to act fast, because the next big thing is tomorrow’s yesterday’s news.”

  “One day we love you, the next we can’t take your calls.”

  “Sorry, those are the rules.
”

  “Need anything? Espresso? Biscotti?”

  “I’m fine,” said Serge.

  “Heard about your asymmetrical conjoined twins treatment.”

  “Love everything about it.”

  “Just a few tweaks for the market. But in strict fidelity to your vision.”

  “You’re the writer.”

  “First, we make them symmetrical.”

  “Then they’re not twins.”

  “Only one person.”

  “She’s a secret agent.”

  “We’re talking to Sandra Bullock.”

  “What else you got for us in that nutty head of yours?”

  They leaned forward again.

  “Uh

  ” Serge checked his notes. “I was thinking a sports movie that’s also chick flick. Like A League of Their Own, only—”

  “Gender crossover.”

  “Genius.”

  “The key is to limit the sports

  ”

  “

  Then take it out.”

  “Just a hint of off-camera sports floating in the background.”

  “We’ve heard enough.”

  “You’re our man.”

  The secretary brought in the contracts. Serge flipped page after long-form page of microscopic print. Section C, Part 2, paragraph vii

  Serge shook his head in disbelief. “So it’s true.”

  “What’s true?”

  “I’d heard about these clauses, but I thought someone was pulling my chain. They really do exist.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “These right here,” said Serge. “Where you reserve certain residuals from the beginning to the end of time.”

  “In case they make time machines

  ”

  “On this world or any other,” read Serge.

  “In case we colonize Mars

  ”

  “In the known or unknown existence.”

  “You never know.”

  “This really is serious?” said Serge. “You don’t see the humor?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Serge began writing in the margins. “I need to make some changes

  ”

  They read over Serge’s new terms, then stood and shook hands. “You drive a hard bargain.”

  “Welcome aboard.”

  “Any questions?”

  “Yeah.” Serge pulled a prescription bottle from his pocket. “You got a wastebasket?”

  FOX NEWS

  “This is Greta Van Susteren and welcome back to On the Record, where our distinguished panel continues its gavel-to-gavel coverage of the Ally Street murder case. Just before our break, we witnessed the defense’s first news conference. Gloria Allred, your reaction?”

  “I’m still stunned. Is he working for the prosecution?”

  “Geoffrey Fieger?”

  “Sure, it’s a shaky start. But at least he understands these things need to be tried in the media.”

  “Let’s take another look at that tape.”

  Noon. Courthouse steps.

  A head with receding hair poked up from behind a bank of fifty microphones. He tapped one. “Are these things on?”

  “Go ahead!”

  “As you know, I represent Ford Oelman, who has been viciously smeared by a police department attempting to try this case on the courthouse steps. Not only am I prepared to establish my client’s innocence beyond all doubt, but in just a few days I will produce the real killers. We’re looking for a devil-worshipping Indonesian heroin syndicate in a brown van walking a dog—”

  “What about the panties?” yelled a reporter.

  “What panties?”

  “The ones found in your client’s car.”

  “You sure?”

  “They found them with his cell phone traced to the ransom calls.”

  “I’m going to have to ask him about that.”

  “What about the hundreds of court filings against the studio?”

  “That’s an easy one,” said Rodney. “I filed those for him.”

  “He asked you to?”

  “Well, yeah

  ”

  “So it’s true?” “What is?” “That he was bent on revenge.” “Who said that?” “You did.” “Wow,” said Rodney. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  ** Chapter 39

  THE GLICKS’ OFFICE

  Mel was on the phone.

  “You what!”

  “Signed him to a contract! Isn’t that great?” said the muscular development agent. “You’ll love the terms. We were able to pay him less than our usual low in exchange for certain provisos he requested.”

  “You weren’t supposed to sign him to shit!”

  “Thought that’s what you wanted. Said you were high on him.”

  “Favor for the in-laws. But now they can connect him to us!”

  “The in-laws can connect him?—”

  “Shut up! You have no idea what you’ve just done!

  Hold a sec

  ”

  Ian was whispering, motioning his brother to cover the phone. “This could actually help.”

  “How can it possibly help?”

  “Remember we were trying to figure how to get two million dollars out of the company without you-know-who in Japan finding out? Said not to pay a dime?”

  “So?”

  “It’s the perfect legit write-off, and the two bozos in development are our beards. We bury it deep in the books.”

  “Of course!” Mel uncovered the phone. “I’ve changed my mind. You did a fantastic job landing this guy.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “Found out he was about to go to a competitor. As a matter of fact, I want you to increase the deal. Two million dollars. Nonrefundable advance for an exclusive five-picture deal.”

  “Two million! No newcomer gets that.”

  “Do it.” He hung up.

  “Now we just have to make sure word of the deal doesn’t get out,” said Ian.

  “If you-know-who

  ”— Mel looked west—“

  It’s sayonara.”

  “I’ll get ahold of publicity. Tell them none of the regular releases to the trades.”

  “And tell development it’s hush-hush— we’re trying to land Nicholson.”

  “We’ll pay them cash. I’ll go to the bank this afternoon and fill the briefcase.”

  “Cash?”

  “Shortens the paper trail. Fewer eyes in accounting the better.”

  “And we definitely don’t want those psychos coming by the studio to pick up a check.”

  “No kidding.”

  “That about does it. There’s no possible way this can leak.”

  “Jesus! Can you imagine if it did?”

  The brothers broke up laughing.

  Hollywood Tattletale

  VISTAMAX PAYS NEWCOMER $2 MILLION; JAPAN IN SHOCK

  HOLLYWOOD— In a stunning announcement, Vistamax Studios has paid an unprecedented $2 million advance to an unknown screenwriter with no previous credits to his name.

  Anonymous sources close to the negotiations say the contract was inked with Floridian Serge A. Storms based upon the strength of several plot synopses, including what is being described as a career vehicle for Sandra Bullock.

  Publicists for the actress said they were unaware of the proposed role for their client but welcomed the publicity.

  The normally frugal Vistamax (see related story) also made other unheard-of concessions to prevent Mr. Storms from signing with rival Warner Brothers, including distribution rights to several of the outer planets and certain periods of history.

  “Yes, it’s unusual, but this is a franchise player,” said one studio insider. “We don’t lightly hand over Neptune and the Dark Ages.”

  Reached in Japan, a Vistamax board member responded to the news with unintelligible shouting before the line went dead.

  Observers say the otherwise reclusive Glick brothers had been seen personally courting Mr. Storms for some time, although the intense negotiations almost collapsed last week during a heated argument in the Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel.

  “I’ve never seen anyone talk to the Glicks that
way,” said one of the hotel’s waiters. “We almost had to throw them out. And he took a bunch of our matchbooks.”

  Besides a volatile temper, little else is know about the mysterious newcomer. “I do remember one thing,” added the waiter. “He seemed to be an Eagles fan.”

  Reached in San Simeon, the Eagles’ publicist said he had never heard of Mr. Storms, but thanked Eagles fans in general, especially those who preorder the new box set.

  RELATED STORY, PAGE 17

  POTEMKIN DENIES SPECULATION

  HOLLYWOOD— In light of recent developments in the Ally Street kidnapping case, acclaimed director Werner B. Potemkin has decided to resume shooting his ambitious epic All That Glitters.

  A leaked copy of the shooting schedule shows the director now plans to go forward with the grand climax of the film and push the already record budget at least $25 million higher, not including settlements from pending wrongful-death actions.

  The revelation drew strong charges of insensitivity from the entertainment press, who further speculated that Potemkin was secretly planning to write Ms. Street’s part out of the movie’s final scenes.

  “Categorically not,” said a Potemkin spokesman. “Despite what the police are saying, we have every hope that Ally will be found alive in time to rejoin the cast before we wrap. That scene where we killed her off with a body double was just for the insurance company.”

  ** Chapter 40

  THE FINAL DAY

  Four A.M. It started like any other Final Day. A rented Chrysler sat at the curb on Fairfax. Serge and Coleman sat in a curved corner booth inside the restaurant.

  “Serge, I feel like crap. Why’d you get me up so early?”

  “Because it’s the Final Day. You have to get a jump.”

  Coleman unfolded a large laminated menu. “The Final Day?”

  “Everything comes to a head. Loose ends tied up. Justice rendered.”

  “But how do you know it’s the Final Day.”

  “You just know. Like when you’re in a theater watching a movie. At a certain point you look at your watch and get a gut feeling they’re about to wrap it up.”

  “Or when you’re reading a book?” said Coleman. “And there are just a few pages left?”

  “Or that.”

  “Serge?”

  “What?”

  “I don’t understand this menu. It’s got too many words.”