by Tim Dorsey
Its Canters. Serge made a squeaking sound rubbing a finger along the dark orange vinyl. The menus part of the experience, like trying to crack the Dead Sea Scrolls. God, I love this place!
I got a hangover.
Breakfast will cure that. Its the most important meal of the day, especially the Final Day.
A waitress as old as the restaurant came by with Serges coffee. She opened her menu pad. Serge opened his notepad.
Are you ready to order yet?
No, but Ive got some questions. Which wall did Nicholas Cage shatter the ketchup bottle against?
I dont know. I just work here.
He was trying to impress a date, said Serge, spooning ice from his water into the coffee. But he got thrown out for that stunt. Good for you! Raising Arizona doesnt mean you can go through life slinging condiments.
You want me to come back?
I think were ready. Serge chugged his coffee and raised the plastic menu. Coleman, you know what you want?
Whats lox?
Liquid oxygen, said Serge.
Ill come back
No, Ill order for both of us. Serge snatched the menu from Coleman, folding it along with his own. Hell have the corned beef, and Ill get the matzo balls with a double side of bacon. He handed the menus to the waitress. And a refill on the coffee when you get a chance.
She left in no-nonsense shoes.
Serge leaned over his notebook and clicked a pen.
Coleman popped a beer under the table. How does the Final Day start?
Thats what Im working on. Serge scribbled. Its very intricate. Timing has to be absolutely perfect. First, we run by the police department and Vistamax, then head back to our hotel
But, Serge, we already checked out.
I know. We have to swing by to pick up our tail from Alabama.
Arent we supposed to lose tails?
Not on the Final Day, said Serge. Otherwise they wont know how to get to the studio. They should be arriving any minute for their stakeout.
Coleman pointed across the dining room toward a thumping sound. Whats that section over there? Looks like they serve alcohol.
The Kibitz Room. Added in 1961 with live music. Tiny dive with an old Hebrew sign, which is why its so cool to see all these famous acts drop by for impromptu sets.
Like who?
Like Slash. He used to work at a newsstand up the street.
From Guns N Roses?
Another cool thing about L.A., said Serge. You walk up to a newsstand: Id like a USA Today and some gum and
Hey, Slash! Didnt recognize you. Welcome to the jungle. Whens the new album?
Food came. Coffee topped off.
Serge continued writing in his notebook.
And we do that, and then this happens, which leads to this mental note to bring extra ammo there
and then that
Look at the size of this sandwich. Coleman removed the cellophane toothpick. Someone must be stoned back there.
Serge entered the brass-tacks zone, time-motion efficiency, eating with his left hand, jotting with his right, coffee gulps. Faster and faster, quickly filling several pages with small, tightly spaced print. Finally, he reached the end.
And then the credits roll. Serge smiled with fulfillment and clicked his pen shut. He looked at his wristwatch. Damn. Were behind schedule. The planes start landing any minute at LAX. He stood and threw currency on the table.
LAX
Predawn darkness at the terminal, employees with photo-badges arriving, some kind of maintenance vehicle with a blinking yellow light in the fog. All the coffeepots going in the cafés. A skycap smoked on the sidewalk in front of Delta.
Flights started trickling in from the runways. An international red-eye, a private Lear.
The Lear taxied to an executive terminal. Six large men with Dixie drawls and blood allegiance to the Southeastern Football Conference sat quietly with automatic weapons in their laps. The plane taxied to a waiting limo. The men piled in.
The limo exited the tarmac behind the international airside, where six large Japanese men had just cleared Customs and marched with silent purpose for their own limo waiting outside Baggage Claim.
Ian and Mel arrived early at Vistamax.
Did you count it? asked Mel.
Ian set the briefcase on his desk. Twice. Its all there.
When do we make the handoff?
Said hed call.
Wait. Whats this? Mel noticed something in his in basket. An overnight article Betty had dropped off from the studios clipping service.
What is it? asked Ian.
Oh, my God! The Tattletale. They found out about the contract!
Howd it get out?
Who cares? Were dead!
You-know-who could show up at our door any minute!
We have to leave town!
A knock at the door.
The brothers screamed.
Betty came in. You all right?
What is it?
This just came for you. She handed Ian a small brown package. The courier said you needed to open it right away. Seemed a little strange.
Ian gave her a curious look as he peeled strips of packing tape.
Theres no return address, said Mel.
Ian tore open a cardboard flap. Audiocassette?
A piece of paper fell out of the box and fluttered to the floor. Mel picked it up. Its a note. He started reading out loud, then stopped. Betty, you can go now. Were fine.
She didnt think so, but left anyway.
Whats it say? asked Ian.
That a duplicate of the tape is on its way right now to the police.
The brothers ran across the office to the shelves with the stereo equipment. They inserted the cassette and hit play. They listened.
Holy shit! Its our meeting at the Polo Lounge! Its got everything!
That son of a bitch recorded us! The murder! The coverup!
Mel grabbed the briefcase by the handle. We definitely have to leave town!
Detective Reamsnyder rushed over to his partners desk, waving a cassette tape. Youre not going to believe this.
A vintage mustard Citroën circa Day of the Jackal screeched away from the Vistamax administration building and raced across the studio, toward the entrance.
A uniformed man with a clipboard came out of the guard booth. He recognized the approaching vehicle and stepped forward with a smile. He dove out of the way.
The car never slowed, smashing the orange crossing arm to splinters and scattering Ally mourners. It made a skidding right on Olive and picked up the freeway.
Ian hyperventilated and grabbed his heart. Were dead for sure!
Shut up! Im trying to think! Mel cut the steering wheel.
They bounded down an exit ramp, scraping the guardrail, and sped south on Highland. Anyone back there?
Ian turned around. So far, so good.
Mel glanced at the lane next to them. Holy God in heaven!
Pull over, yelled Serge.
Speed up! yelled Ian.
Im going as fast as I can!
Hes going to hit us!
Serge smacked their rear fender in the traditional destabilizing maneuver. Mel spun out and violently jumped the curb at the entrance to the Hollywood Bowl.
The Sebring whipped around and parked on the far side of the stalled Citroën. Serge was out of the car in a flash. Ian went to lock his door, but Serge was quicker.
Come with me! We dont have any time!
The Glicks threw up their hands. Dont kill us!
Im not going to
kill you. Serge pointed up the road with his gun. They are!
The brothers turned. Two speeding limos. The first overshot the Bowl entrance and tore up the grass, skidding to a stop. The second went even farther and had to make a fishtailing U-turn.
Serge jerked Ian from the car. Move it! Mel grabbed the briefcase and jumped out the drivers door. They dove in the Sebring, on the opposite side of the Citroën from the first limo. Asians in black overcoats jumped out and formed a firing-squad line. Machine guns raked the French roadster. The Sebring shot out from behind and made a squealing left back into traffic.
The Asians piled back into their limo and sideswiped the Alabama gang accelerating out of their U-turn. Both vehicles recovered and shot up an entrance ramp.
Serge glanced in the rearview at two accelerating vehicles weaving through traffic. Good. Thought Id lost them. He turned around and faced the Glicks. So, how do you want this to end?
White and woozy.
Serge turned to his side. What about you, Coleman?
Hadnt given it much thought.
We could always pick an ending from a favorite movie, said Serge. Got one you like?
What about the wood chipper in Fargo? said Coleman. That was pretty funny.
Serge kept an eye on the gaining limos filling his rearview. I was thinking Magnolia. Lets catch some frogs.
POLICE HEADQUARTERS
Babcock and Reamsnyder were in one of the bigger offices. Their captain had heard enough. He hit the stop button on the tape deck. So they were in on it all along.
Didnt plan the murder, said Reamsnyder. But they were accessories.
And covered it up, said Babcock.
Approved planting that evidence in the trunk.
The captain nodded. Bring em in. And get public affairs moving. This is going to be a nightmare.
The detectives stood to leave.
Sir, said Babcock. The kid we arrested.
Damn. The captain closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He opened his eyes. Release him. And a press conference inside the hour. The works. I want his exoneration to get no less publicity than his arrest. Do everything to restore his good name
. Poor kid
You got it.
The departing detectives were almost trampled by a breathless lieutenant running in the door. Sir, the Glick brothers!
We know, said the captain. We just listened to the tape.
Tape?
Yeah, tape. What are you talking about.
Just got the call. Uniforms working a location at the Hollywood Bowl.
Serge smacked the steering wheel.
Coleman popped a beer. Whats the matter?
You see frogs all the fucking time, except when you need them. Now I dont have an ending.
I got an ending, said Coleman.
What is it?
A long time ago me and the heads went to the midnight showing of 2001: A Space Odyssey. Ever heard of it?
Im familiar.
We were baked! At the end, this astronaut is flying through space and were groovin on all these psychedelic shapes zipping by, and suddenly we all go: Holy shit! The end of the universe is some old dudes room!
Yeah?
Theres your ending.
What? Some guys room? That doesnt make any sense.
The stoners will get it.
Serge sighed and looked up at the mirror. Got an ending back there? Youre in movies.
Quiet sobs.
Theyre no help, said Serge. I
wait, thats it. The ending.
He pulled into the lane for the 405 and turned south. They exited below the airport and headed for the ocean. Serge picked up Palos Verdes Boulevard and drove along the coast. Coleman looked out the window at a seaside bluff. Where are we going?
Its the Big W, I tell ya!
The what?
A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World!
I loved that movie, said Coleman. Everyone ends up at these crossed palm trees.
Serge drove another half mile. He turned left around a last bend and pointed with excitement: Its the Big
I?
Theres only one tree left, said Coleman. Whered the others go?
Serge stopped the car and stared, slack-jawed.
Backseat screaming: The limos are coming! The limos are coming!
Must have been taken out by some storms, said Coleman.
Or a blight.
Go! Drive! yelled Mel. Theyre almost here!
Now Im depressed. Serge listlessly put the car back in gear.
Theyre hanging out the windows with machine guns!
The Chrysler slowly pulled away without urgency, bullets pinging off the trunk. The Glicks balled themselves up on the floor.
Dont worry, said Coleman. Youll think of another ending.
No, I wont.
He drove aimlessly across the city, losing the will to live, not caring about the gunfire or the screaming in the backseat. They headed inland, store signs switching from English to Asian. Heavy traffic, pedestrians, sidewalk commerce.
Coleman watched a row of seafood stands go by. Why dont we just stop and end it here?
Forget it, Coleman. Its Chinatown.
Two detectives in an unmarked sedan arrived at the Big I, followed by five squad cars with all the lights going.
Nobodys here, said Reamsnyder.
Isnt this where we got the reports?
Reamsnyder nodded. Let me find out whats going on. The radio crackled just as he picked up the microphone. A quick exchange with the dispatcher. Ten-four. Were rolling.
Babcock gave his partner an odd look. Chinatown?
They must be heading back to the studio.
Where are we going? asked Coleman.
No idea, said Serge. I have to figure out
Wait, thats it!
What?
My big ending. Were heading back to the studio.
Vigil people scattered again. Guards came out to look, then dove back in their booth as a speeding convertible with Mel and Ian in the rear seat flew through the entrance. The Chrysler bottomed out on every speed bump as it raced across the studio on narrow, one-car-wide lanes between the sets. A caveman dropped his club and pasted himself against a wall. The convertible disappeared around the corner of soundstage 27.
The guards were sticking their heads out of the booth, looking in the direction of the Chrysler, when two limos zoomed by in quick succession.
Serge zigzagged across the studio, swerving to avoid more extras diving out of the way. Revolutionary War soldiers, angels losing their halos, the abominable snowman. Passageways grew tighter and tighter until the Chrysler came to a set of steel pylons blocking the street. Serge spun toward the backseat. Whats the deal?
Cars cant go any farther, said Ian.
Have to use golf carts, said Mel.
Serge jumped out of the convertible. To the golf carts!
They ran a hundred feet. A row of electric carts sat in numbered slots next to stage 14.
Hey! yelled a man with a clipboard. You cant take that Oh, Ian, Mel, sorry, didnt recognize
They sped off with a quiet whir.
The man with the clipboard heard a screech. A limo skidded up to the pylons. A half dozen men poured out and ran for the carts, cocking machine guns. The clipboard man backed up against a Coke machine.
Which way did they go?
He pointed.
The Japanese sped off.
Another screech. Another limo. Six southerners commandeered a third cart.
Serge looked back. The Japanese were gaining.
> Watch out! yelled Coleman.
They crashed through a giant pane of trick glass two men were carrying across Broadway.
Mel! Which way?
Left.
Serge took the corner on two wheels. He looked back again. Theyre still there. Another cart shot out of a service alley. Yikes! Serge swerved to avoid the rednecks, who raced parallel down the road, aiming weapons.
Serge
Not now, Coleman.
Vegetable cart!
Crash.
Both vehicles fought to maintain traction on squished zucchini, diverting on opposite sides of a fork at the Taj Mahal.
Detective Babcock honked his horn. Reamsnyder flashed a badge out the window at the vigil people. Move it! Now!
The crowd parted. An unmarked sedan and five squad cars raced onto the Vistamax lot.
Serge looked back at the still-gaining Japanese. We have to dump this thing. He steered straight for the soundstage that formed a dead end at the end of the street. It was the largest stage on the lot, number 19, where cast members strolled in and out of the enormous, open hangar doors. They noticed Serges cart just in time and jumped out of the way.
Inside number 19, Werner B. Potemkin sat atop a canvas directors chair, raising a megaphone.
Annnnnnnd
action!
A golf cart flew through the entrance, sailing completely over a set of metal stairs leading down to the concrete stage floor. The cart overturned and skidded on its side. Serge climbed out and pulled the others from the wreckage. Hurry!
Cut! yelled Potemkin.
Ill try, said his first assistant.
What do you mean, Youll try?
The scenes so complex, all kinds of valves and circuitry need to be reversed. He grabbed a walkie-talkie. Ill call Charlie
Another cart blew through the entrance for another crash landing. A half dozen Asians crawled out with machine guns.
Serge pointed. To the chariot. They jumped aboard and Serge cracked a whip. He-yaw! Horses began galloping. X-wing star fighters buzzed over their heads. Flames exploded from flash pots. If we can just make it to those doors on the other side
The doors on the other side opened. Southerners and guns poured in.
Serge jerked back on the reins. Whoa! He turned the chariot around. A second chariot full of Japanese raced toward them. Serge pulled back on the reins again.