by J. R. Rain
“Beautiful girl,” he said.
“She ever drink here?”
He frowned, which for some reason caused the spike in his chin to turn up a little. “Looks a little familiar.”
“She was here two weeks ago,” I said.
“Why do you care?”
I told him why I cared, that she was missing and quite possibly dead, and showed him my PI license. He squinted at my picture. Frowned some more. The spike in his chin quivered.
“What day was she here again?” he asked.
I told him the date on the receipt. He went over to a dirty calendar hanging on a wall near a door behind the bar. He pealed back a page and scanned the dates with his finger. As he did so, he unconsciously pushed his lower teeth out against his bottom lip. The movement projected the spike forward, making it look like a mini warhead ready to launch from his face.
He came back and stood in front of me. More frowning. More quivering. I found the spike highly distracting.
“Yeah,” he said. “I worked that night. Mind if I see the picture again?”
I showed him it again and he studied it some more and began nodding. The spike nodded, too. Damn that spike.
“Yeah, I remember her. Hard to forget that face, come to think of it.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“Seriously. She had everyone here going.”
“Who’s everyone?”
“Another bartender, the bus boys, some of the local chaps.”
“Did she do anything to get you boys going?”
“Didn’t have to. Just sitting here was enough.”
“She that pretty?” I asked.
“Look for yourself.”
I did, again, for the millionth time.
“She’s a real looker,” I said.
“That’s an understatement.”
“So what did she do when she was here?”
“She ordered a glass of wine, paid for it with cash, and then a guy comes in and sits next to her. We all sort of groaned, you know. The lucky son of a bitch.”
Ah, the plot thickens.
“Could you describe the guy?”
“Sure, we all checked him out. You know, the old ‘what’s he got that we don’t?’ sort of thing.”
“So what did he have that you didn’t?”
“Muscles. Thick neck.”
I showed the bartender another picture. The bartender took one look at it and nodded. “Yup, that’s him.”
It was Flip Barowski, of course.
“Can you tell me what they did together?” I asked.
“Talked—and lots of it. The guy seemed upset, or something. Not necessarily at her, you see. He was talking—” he searched for the right word, “—excitedly.”
“Like perhaps he was trying to get her to forgive an egregious error.”
The bartender grinned and the missile in his lip turned up. T-minus and counting....
“Sure, something like that,” he said and grinned again.
“Did they kiss, hold hands, any public displays of affection?”
He was nodding. “Yeah, I noticed his hand in her lap, but that was it. And then they left together and I haven’t seen them since.”
And he wouldn’t, either.
Chapter Forty-seven
A true multi-tasker, I went from the pub straight to my next appointment.
I was early for the appointment, but I didn’t care. I’m a rebel like that. Besides, I was giddy with excitement. I hadn’t been to the Paramount lot in nearly forty years. I doubted the old crew was still there, and if anyone was, they sure as hell wouldn’t know who I was, not now. Besides, I had just been a kid back then, determined and full of ambition. Paramount had given me my first movie break, and so, no matter what had happened after, they would always have a special place in my heart.
I pulled up to the pearly gates. Or, in this case, the massive wrought-iron gates right off Melrose Avenue. The security guard was packing heat. Movies are serious business.
“Name?” he said.
Elvis Presley.
“Aaron King,” I said.
He scanned his list, found my name, checked it off with a pen that had been tucked behind his ear. He gave me a parking permit that I placed between my dash and windshield. A moment later, the red-striped arm barrier rose. Access granted.
I drove slowly down a center road, passing between buildings and offices and sound stages. An entire street straight out of the Bronx appeared to my left, a beautiful replication of downtown living. Pedestrians were strolling up and down the thing as if it were the real deal. Maybe they were replications, as well. Movie magic.
My appointment was with Alpha-Beta Productions, the same company that had produced Miranda’s first two movies. The same movies which just so happened to feature her being kidnapped.
I eventually found Alpha-Beta’s building in the back corner of the lot. It was a massive, ivy-covered brick structure that didn’t look entirely structurally sound. It was also a building I was certain I had visited many years before, and under very different circumstances, of course.
I made movies here. My own first movies.
I turned off the car and stepped outside. There are few places on earth like a major Hollywood studio; truly worlds unto their own. I breathed in the surprisingly fresh air, air only marginally tainted with combustion and smog. This was Hollywood air. Magic air. Movies were created here, real movie magic, magic I had once been a part of. Those movies, no matter how campy, had put a lot of smiles on a lot of faces—as they would continue to do so—and, really, what more could you ask?
I stood there, next to my car, turning slowly, taking in what I could, knowing there was much more hidden from view, secret chambers and rooms and stages where the magic further happened.
Maybe I’ll make a movie again.
As Aaron King.
Lord, help me.
I stopped scanning and I think my jaw dropped a little. Actually, I was certain my jaw had dropped. There, just around the corner of Alpha-Beta’s brick building, was a fleet of white vans. White cargo vans. Five of them to be exact, all no doubt used to transport props, supplies and people to various sets and stages.
Milton the bum had seen a white cargo van, driven by a man with pockmarks. There’s a million white cargo vans in L.A, of course. Hell, there’s probably a hundred or so white cargo vans here on this lot.
I think this was a clue.
Chapter Forty-eight
Heart thumping steadily in my old chest, I stepped into the Alpha-Beta offices and was greeted by a pretty young thing sitting behind a kidney-shaped desk. By greeted, I mean stared at blankly. The pretty young thing was wearing ultra-hip rectangular glasses that made her blank stare look even more blank. She asked if she could help me. I told her she could. She waited. I waited. She then asked how she could help me. I told her how, that I had an appointment to see Gregory Ladd, owner of the company. She asked for my name and I gave it to her. She tried to contain her enthusiasm. One of her techniques for containing her enthusiasm was to push her narrow glasses up the bridge of her nose and stare at me blankly some more.
Now, what if I had said Elvis Presley? I wondered. Well, she would have laughed or called security. Elvis is dead, remember?
“He’s in a meeting,” she said dispassionately. I hate dispassionately. “I’ll let him know you’re here as soon as he’s available.”
“That would be swell.”
And, to my surprise, the empty veneer showed some life. “Did you just say swell?” she asked.
“I think so, yes.”
“Haven’t heard that word in, like, forever.”
“It means ‘so well’.”
“Does it?”
Okay, I made that up. I’ve been making a lot of things up these past 30 years. What’s another white lie?
“Sure,” I said, and took a seat near the front door.
She went back to her computer, grinning, and for all I know Googlin
g the root of swell. Who knows, maybe I’m right and I’m a genius after all. At least she had smiled, and, dammit, smiles always made me feel good.
Of course, her smile had also made me think of my daughter’s smile. And as I waited for Mr. Ladd, I wondered how my baby girl was doing, and I wondered for the millionth time why I wasn’t with her and her celebrating her life. Our life.
Jesus, what the hell am I doing?
I looked again at the pretty young receptionist, but she was no longer smiling, which was just as well, because now she no longer looked like my little girl. Lost in thoughts of my empty life, I nearly failed to notice the man striding purposefully toward me down a side hallway.
“Aaron King?” he said, appearing before me, sticking out his hand. “I’m Gregory Ladd. Why don’t we go back to my office and talk.”
I looked up...and nearly gasped. Luckily, I’m a professional. The man standing above me, the man still holding out his hand toward me, was just the man I was looking for. Then again, I’ve been wrong before.
Not this time, baby.
And so I put on a big fake smile and stood on jelly knees and took the proffered hand and pumped it energetically. Gregory Ladd grinned, which made his badly scarred, pock-marked face significantly less menacing. He led the way back down the hallway to his office.
I followed obediently, my heart pounding somewhere near my throat.
Chapter Forty-nine
The office wasn’t so much an office as a massive open space with a desk in one corner of the room. The rest of the room was comprised of a lot of sofas and overstuffed chairs, and I imagined that the staff of Alpha-Beta had a lot of production meetings in here, hammering out all things to do with the making of movies.
I could also imagine nervous young screenwriters, sweating and stuttering, pitching their movies here. I’d been to such pitch meetings before with young screenwriters, and it’s not a pretty sight.
The room was covered with movie posters and bookcases and heavy curtains. The ancient wood floor was badly scarred and rutted, although it had probably been freshly laid and rut-free back when I was here making movies.
It was humbling to know I was older than wood itself. What was next? Dirt? Small hills? Dan Rather?
I was breathing slowly and calmly, or trying to. I was also trying to look cool and collected, and so, again, I reverted back to my acting days—no, not the parts where I break out in song and dance—but the parts where I really gave acting a go. I decided that an inquisitive, professional mask was best, and so, as Ladd stepped around his desk and sat down, I eased into character. Or at least tried to.
He gestured toward one of the cushioned chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat Mr. King,” he said.
As I sat, he rather hastily clicked off a few images from his screen. Unfortunately, I didn’t catch what they had been. And, yes, I’m nosy like that. I get paid to be nosy.
His desk was cluttered with tattered scripts, books with broken spines and unmarked DVDs. I hate seeing books with broken spines. Something sort of barbaric about that. Reckless and wasteful. Maybe I had been a writer in a past life. Anyway, he saw me looking at the paperback novels and picked one up.
“We had the author in here last week. A cute little old lady who writes some of the hottest sex scenes you’ve ever read.”
“You got her number?” I asked.
He laughed. “She’s a lot older than even you, Mr. King. In her eighties, I think. What are you...fifty, fifty-five?”
“Seventy-one.”
“No shit?”
“No shit,” I said.
“You’re in great shape.”
“It’s all the salsa dancing I do. Helps burn off the chocolate fudge Ensures.”
He was still grinning. “Ensures...that’s the old-people protein shake, right?” he said.
“Right.”
“You’re a funny guy, King, I like that.” He sat back and steepled his fingers under his chin. He studied me for a moment or two. The light in this room failed to reach the deeper craters of his acne scars. He looked, in this moment, menacing as hell. “You’re here about Miranda Scott.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Word around town is that she went missing. I assume that’s why you’re here.”
“You assume correctly.”
“We’re all worried sick here.”
I’m sure you are, I thought, but knew that wasn’t entirely fair. After all, I wasn’t certain Ladd was the guy. Surely there were tens of thousands of men with facial scars in L.A. who had access to white cargo vans, who just so happened to produce two movies that features Miranda being kidnapped. Not to mention I’m taking the word of a career bum—hardly an iron-clad witness.
Still, say that to my thumping heart and the rush of adrenaline flooding my blood stream.
Easy, old boy.
“Yes, a difficult time for everyone,” I said, proud of my performance. “May I ask what your relationship to Miranda was?”
“I produced her first and second feature. We basically gave her her first shot.”
And, perhaps, feel entitled to her? A sort of ownership?
“So you were, in essence, her boss?”
“In essence.”
Gregory Ladd was a big man, although not overweight. He looked dense and strong, and if he was pissed off enough he could probably rip the arms off his swivel chair and pound you to death with them. Then again, that could be my overactive imagination at work. For the most part, he avoided direct eye contact with me, which I found odd, especially coming from a big Hollywood executive who made a living making the right connections with the right people. Maybe I was the wrong connection.
“Have the police interviewed you?” I asked.
“No,” he said, looking at me squarely. “Why would they do that? Our company hasn’t worked with Miranda for two years. We officially cut ties. She’s already made two other movies with a different studio.”
And how about unofficially? I wondered.
Ladd was trying to sound cool. He was trying to sound nonchalant, but I heard it in his voice. It was jealousy. And there was a touch of anger, too. To me it was obvious: he didn’t appreciate her leaving his production company.
Ladd was clicking his mouse nervously with his index finger, over and over...the movement was compulsive and revealing and I nearly reached across the desk and grabbed the guy by the throat and demanded that he tell me where the hell Miranda was, but I knew that would be a mistake. One, he outweighed me by thirty pounds; two, he was thirty years younger than myself; and three, I just might have choked the life out of him.
Deep breath, big guy.
“What was your personal relationship with Miranda?” I asked.
He shrugged, clicked the mouse. “Typical, I suppose. Saw her on the set. She mostly communicated with the directors.”
“So you did not have a personal relationship?”
“We were friends, yes. Many of us would go out drinking after a day’s shoot. She and I were friendly, certainly, but when the films wrapped....”
His voice trailed off and I knew the feeling. It was the cruel, unspoken reality of making films. Crash course best friends for three months, then...nothing. Sometimes the friendships lasted into other movies and sometimes into something deep and real, but more often than not the friendship was done along with the completion of the movie. At least, that had been my experience.
“Were you two lovers?” I asked.
He quit clicking and looked slowly up at me. His face, I saw, was unusually and deeply pock-marked. He looked like a hardened criminal. An unfair stereotype, certainly, but one that might be accurate in this case.
“No,” he said simply.
“Did you want to be?” I asked.
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“When I find Miranda, I’m sure she’ll appreciate my thoroughness.”
“Well I don’t,” he said. “You’re being rude and intrusive.”
I
said nothing. I wasn’t looking for an argument, and I wasn’t looking to one-up him with my dazzling wit. I wanted Miranda. I said nothing, and let his emotions play out as I sat there quietly.
“She was a beautiful young woman certainly,” he said finally. “Any man would have jumped at the opportunity to be with Miranda.”
His words hung in the air and I listened to them again, and again. “You just referred to Miranda in the past tense,” I said. “Do you know something that I don’t?”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“You tell me.”
“It was just a goddamn slip of the tongue.”
“Right,” I said. “Could happen to anybody. Do you ever drive those white cargo vans out front?”
“Sure, we all do sometimes. Why?”
“Do you ever shop at Trader Joe’s?”
“Rarely. I don’t see how that has to do with anything.”
“Miranda was kidnapped from a Trader Joe’s in a white cargo van. Follow me now?”
He looked at me openly and threateningly. His broad forehead crinkled. He leaned forward a little in his desk. I think I was supposed to shrink back in fear. I didn’t shrink.
“I don’t like what you’re insinuating,” he said.
“Hardly anyone would.”
“This meeting is over.”
“Figured as much,” I said.
Chapter Fifty
As I left the Alpha-Beta production offices, I quickly scanned the nearly empty parking lot—and spotted what I had hoped to see: A black Mercedes SL500, with a license plate that read: LADSTER.
Sometimes you just get lucky.
I exited the Paramount lot and turned immediately into a rundown gas station just up the street a little. I parked facing the street, with a good view of the Paramount lot. I bought a couple of Frappuccinos and a small box of Oreos at the station’s convenience store, then waited in my car and watched the main exit from Paramount Studios.
It was late afternoon and sweltering. No telling when Ladd might leave, and if he was in the middle of a project, he could potentially be there all night.