When the billy club came swinging at him again, he caught it in the palm of his hand. He closed his fist around it and yanked. The wielder lurched toward him, and Angel met him with a sudden kick to the chest. The guy dropped back, winded. With the same motion, Angel spun, dropping beneath the arc of the swinging bat. He came up under the bat guy’s hands, driving the billy club into the man’s throat. The man dropped the bat and fell to the ground, clutching at his neck.
Now it was just the big guy with the hammer. He looked at Angel with a half-smile on his face, as if looking forward to the matchup with delighted anticipation.
Angel stood in a partial crouch, billy club still in his grip. He watched the hammer guy’s eyes, ready for any signal that he was ready to charge.
Instead, he surprised Angel. “Okay,” he said. “You win.” The other guys piled back into the car, and the driver, gaze locked with Angel’s the whole way, went back to the driver’s door. He got in, and they drove away.
Angel made no attempt to follow, figuring they were just muggers who had mistaken him for an easy target. They were human, that much was certain. And that fact made it not overly worrisome. He’d practically forgotten the incident by now, but was strangely touched that Doyle hadn’t.
Sometimes Doyle acts like the only thing in the world he cares about is himself, Angel thought, but then he surprises you with unexpected depth.
Since moving from Sunnydale — and away from Buffy — Angel had found that Doyle had proven to be a big help in his activities. So, oddly, had Cordy, pushing him to “legitimize” his quest to help those in need, in the form of a business that, once in a great while, paid real money.
Angel had been a vampire for a long while. But for the last hundred years or so, he’d been a vampire with a soul, thanks to a Gypsy curse. Having a soul meant having a conscience, and having a conscience was naturally followed by feelings of incredible guilt for the many lives he’d taken during his vampiric days. Now he refused to feed on humans, restricting himself to pig’s blood from a butcher shop.
But no longer killing humans wasn’t good enough. He had many deaths for which to atone. He remained immortal, which was a good thing, because he figured it would take him that long to make up for all the misery he’d caused. And, if he wanted to get right down to it, he was still trying to make up for not having been such a good guy before he became a vampire.
It took, he thought, Buffy to help him see that. She allowed him to understand that a person got to choose between being good, and being something else. And to value the choice for good.
Unfortunately, some choices were harder to make than others. Such as Buffy. Being with her, and then leaving her behind. Moving to Los Angeles. But they had to be made, and he made them and tried not to look back.
Anyway, his apartment was cool, and had access to underground tunnels, which came in handy for moving about in the daytime. And it came with the upstairs office space, which Angel didn’t want to let go to waste. So the detective business seemed like a reasonable compromise.
“Bank robberies, killings, general meanness, that’s all the news is ever about,” Cordelia said, sinking into Angel’s dark blue couch, next to Doyle. “If there’s so much bad stuff happening in L.A., what I want to know is, why aren’t we profiting from it? I mean, how come business has been so slow lately? You’d think some of these people in trouble would come to Angel Investigations to get help, right?” She looked hard at Doyle, who turned away from the screen when he felt her gaze on him.
“Maybe it’s you,” she went on. “Maybe that vision radar of yours is out of whack or something. Have you had it tuned up lately?”
“I don’t need to —”
“Because if you’re supposed to be having visions of people who need help, you’re falling way behind,” she interrupted.
“The Powers That Be don’t exactly explain how they work to the likes of me,” Doyle said. “All I know is I get ’em when I get ’em, and if I don’t get ’em, then I don’t get the excruciatin’ headaches that go along with ’em, and that’s just fine with me.”
“Well, maybe we should think about renting a billboard or something. Or those benches at bus stops. Because if we’re relying on your visions to grow a business, and you’re not having visions, then we’re in trouble.”
“Maybe that’ll be my next vision,” Doyle said. “Angel Investigations in fiscal crisis. But what do you care, Cordy? You’ll be on the arm of some ninety-year-old discount store billionaire, escortin’ him from the nursing home to the opening of a new location in Wichita Falls.”
“Eew,” Cordelia replied. “Old guys. I hadn’t thought of that. I can get a young, handsome, successful rich husband.”
“It seems like the young, handsome, successful ones are seldom in need of trophy wives,” Angel pointed out.
“You could be right,” Cordelia said, stifling a yawn. “Maybe there’s a flaw in my plan after all. This’ll require some more thought.” With a flutter of pages she tossed the magazine onto a table. “It’s too late to think tonight. Try to remind me to do it sometime tomorrow, okay?”
“Quiet,” Doyle snapped. “Sports’re on.”
“I don’t know why I’m so sleepy,” Cordelia continued. “It isn’t that late. Remember when I could stay up until all hours and still look beautiful in school the next day? Well, of course you don’t, Doyle, you didn’t know us then. And I guess staying up late is not an especially impressive skill, to a vampire. So never mind.”
“Cord . . .”
“Okay, quieting here.”
“. . . Padres were swamped,” the sportcaster announced, “twenty to seven by the Kansas City . . .”
“Sorry, Doyle,” Cordelia said.
“No big,” Doyle replied. He looked crestfallen. “Just, if the phone rings, I ain’t here, all right?”
“You gave our phone number?” Angel asked.
“Hey, these guys aren’t the kind I want callin’ me at home, if you know what I mean.”
“Got it,” Angel said. Sometimes he’s a help, he told himself. Other times I have to remind myself why I let him stick around.
Then the sports was over and a wrap-up of international news came on. Heartbreak, greed, danger, and violence weren’t confined to the L.A. city limits, and Angel found himself wishing he could do more, be more places at once. He had to remind himself that he was only one vampire, and he did what he could.
Sometimes that was all one could ask.
CHAPTER TWO
The Beverly Mortuary was on Pico, not really even in Beverly Hills but not far enough outside to matter. It was well known in the business, and it was run by professionals who were known to be caring, compassionate, and discreet. There were less expensive funeral homes, but when the price didn’t matter, it was hard to do better than the establishment run by Mr. Moy and Mr. Carani. Those two men, both lean, white-haired, and solemn of demeanor, took good care of their clientele — even the ones who could walk out the door after the service instead of being carried.
Today’s service was very private. Family only, and not much of that. It was held in the Green Room because that was the smallest, most intimate setting they had. Everything was green — wallpaper with the subtlest floral print, carpeting, the cushions on the four pews. But even there, it was obvious that there were only a tiny handful of mourners.
And usually the green was broken up by sprays of flowers. Not this one. There was a single bouquet that the mother had brought in her hands. It rested now in a vase on a table at the head of the casket.
During the brief ceremony, Mr. Carani, watching from the back of the room, had noticed that the father seemed almost distracted. His grief was real, Mr. Carani was sure. But he kept glancing about the small room as if to remind himself of where he was. And he fiddled with something, almost incessantly. The one time Mr. Carani got a good like at it, it looked like a small rectangle of paper. A business card, perhaps. Not the Beverly Mortuary’s, which had a tasteful b
and of embossed gold around its perimeter.
But a business card, just the same.
“Your cappuccino, Mr. Willits,” Amber said. She put a ceramic mug down on the top of his vast expanse of desk. “Double shot, extra hot.”
“Thanks,” he muttered without really looking at Amber. Her title was administrative assistant. To Jack Willits, that meant she got coffee when she was told to, and did any other duties that occurred to him during the day. His wife had complained that he didn’t treat her with respect, so he tried to remember to say “please” and “thank you.” Even though, according to him, she was just doing what she was paid for.
“Can I get you anything else?” she asked.
“I need a copy of that script,” he said. “The one by that Hart woman, you know. What’s it called?”
“Taken by the Wind?”
“That’s it. And then get me Peter Delano on the phone.”
“The script is right here in your in-basket,” Amber pointed out. “I’ll get Mr. Delano right away.”
She walked out of his office and to her own desk, sat down, and touched a key on her computer. The screen came to life, and she pulled Peter Delano’s number from her database. She dialed the number, and Roxanne, Peter’s admin assistant, answered.
“Hi, Rox,” she said. “Jack wants Peter.”
“He on the line?” Roxanne asked.
“Not yet. When I have Peter.”
“I think it’s Jack’s turn to get on first,” Roxanne countered. “Didn’t Pete go first last time?”
“Maybe, but, Rox — Jack runs a studio.”
“Pete runs IFM.” Internationally Famous Management. Dumb name, powerful agency. With all the bad blood and in-fighting between the old, established agencies over the past few years, maybe the most powerful agency.
“I know, but —”
“Jack first.”
“He’ll hate it. He may not even take the call.”
“He’ll take it.”
Jack Willits had the power to give work to actors, producers, directors, and writers. He could green-light any movie he wanted, for any amount of money up to sixty million dollars, without taking it to the multinational corporation that really owned Monument Pictures.
But Peter Delano controlled the actors and directors that Jack needed, if he wanted to have a hit.
And Jack wanted, Amber knew, to have a hit. Needed to.
She buzzed his desk. “Mr. Willits, please hold for Mr. Delano,” she said.
He held.
The Monument Pictures lot was located in Burbank, down the hill from Universal but not as far down as Warner Bros. They had a couple of square miles of land, all tucked away behind high walls, with access through seven guarded gates. Inside those gates were soundstages, a big back lot, production offices, a mill, crafts shops, a commissary, and all the assorted offices and warehouses and incidental space it took to create movie magic.
Above it all, in the tower of the Gleason Building, was Jack Willits’s office. Jack liked his office. It was big and spacious. The bleached hardwood floor was partially covered by an Oriental rug. The thick adobe walls were whitewashed and glowed in the sun that came through nine-foot-tall double glass doors opening onto his private balcony. Massive wooden beams ran up the walls at wide intervals and were echoed in the support beams that crossed the high ceiling.
Jack’s desk was really a huge, flat table, the kind that would have seated a dozen easily, and sixteen in a pinch. It was also made of bleached wood. There was always a laptop computer on it, and a few stacks of scripts and other papers, but there was also room for him to spread out papers or cards or the trades when he wanted to. His chair was an upscale ergonomic desk chair in butter-soft black leather. Against one wall was a comfortable soft couch, and before that, three big overstuffed chairs and a low wooden coffee table. Bookshelves lined another wall. In one corner was a state-of-the-art sound and video system with a plasma-screen monitor.
He spent most of his waking hours in this room, and he wanted it to be comfortable. It was.
He didn’t want to lose it.
There was every danger that he might.
“Jack?”
“Peter.”
“What’s shaking?”
“You know, same. You?”
“Never better, my friend.”
“Glad to hear it.” I hope you go down in flames, “friend,” Jack thought. But not as long as you can do something for me.
“Talk to Geffen lately?” Peter asked.
“Tennis, last week. He won.”
“He wins at golf, too.”
Jack chuckled.
“So,” Peter said. “You called me.”
“Just figured it had been too long, Pete. Wanted to shoot the breeze, you know.”
“Sure, of course.”
“What’ve you got going on?”
A slight pause. “You know how it is. Warren’s in pre, Julia’s in post. Kevin’s on location somewhere. You got any idea how much it costs to feed horses? And Jimmy’s looking for a big project that has nothing to do with boats or water.”
“Can’t blame him there.”
“So what about you? Anything we can do together?”
“I’d love to. I’ve got a couple of powerhouse scripts here. I’ve got guys lined up around the block waiting to get at them, but I could push someone to the front of the line if you had anybody interesting.”
It was the same old dance. If Jack looked like he needed a hot director or a big-name actor, he’d never get them. If he didn’t need them, they’d fall all over themselves to work with him.
But Jack needed them, and bad. Monument Pictures was hemorrhaging money. The studio hadn’t had a real hit, a significant earner, in a couple of years. But that didn’t mean that things ground to a halt. Pictures greenlit two years ago were still in production. The studio had released forty movies the year before, and would release thirty-seven this year. Of those, at least twenty would lose money. The others might break even. There were one or two that had a chance of earning.
Jack needed a hit. His corporate masters had made it abundantly clear that if he didn’t deliver a hit within the next twelve months, he’d be looking for a new job. Twelve months, in terms of producing motion pictures, was not a lot of time, and he knew that nothing in the works was going to be satisfactory to them. Therefore, he had to bring something together fast. He had to have a star who could open a picture, and he needed a script that would give it legs.
Peter Delano could deliver both of those items.
If only he could just ask.
“Send me something,” Peter said. “I’d love to take a look. I’m looking for a script for Rob to direct, for one thing.”
“I think I have just the thing. It’ll be on your desk tomorrow.”
“Looking forward to it,” Peter said.
“What’s Blake up to?” Jack asked. Blake Alten could open a picture and keep it open. He was, at last count, the biggest action star in the world. His name on a movie was a guarantee of a hundred million in ticket sales, minimum. He was one of those people that Jack couldn’t come right out and ask for.
“He’s considering options,” Peter said. “You know, he’s always got a pile of great scripts in front of him. We’ll be picking something soon. Why, you got something?”
“I think of anything, I’ll send it over,” Jack said. “Talk to you soon, okay?”
“You got it,” Peter said. He hung up first.
But at least he’d taken the call, Jack reflected. There was a rule in Hollywood, and he was dangerously close to becoming personally impacted by it. If you called someone three times and they didn’t call you back, they were a jerk. If you called four times, you were the jerk.
It was a tightrope walk.
And the ground was a long way down there, with no net.
Jack Willits didn’t want to take that fall.
Los Angeles was an amazing place.
Mordractus had not l
eft Ireland in more than a hundred years. He kept in touch with the world through television and magazines and movies and the Internet. But to actually drive down the wide boulevards in a rented Rolls-Royce convertible with the top down; to see palm trees reaching into the sky like grasping hands at the ends of long skinny arms; to pass the HOLLYWOOD sign in the hills over-looking the city, and the stacked disks of the Capitol Records building, and the famous names of Sunset and Santa Monica and Doheny and Vine . . . it’s all a remarkable experience, he thought. He was sorry he hadn’t done it earlier.
Even though he rarely left the castle, he considered himself a fairly modern man. While he had once worn robes of silk, now he was more comfortable lounging about the drafty castle in a heavy sweater and a pair of jeans. He mail-ordered from a variety of sources, and his waist size hadn’t changed in more than a hundred and fifty years.
For L.A. he’d left the heavy sweaters behind. He wore a soft cotton polo shirt, dark linen slacks, a lightweight jacket of white nubby silk, and deck shoes with no socks. He’d pulled his longish white hair back into a ponytail. He figured that he looked about sixty, which was upsetting because until he’d begun this whole business with the Summoning, he had been stalled at a healthy thirty-five, in physical appearance. The only part of him that hadn’t seemed to age were his eyes, which, he’d once been told, looked as if they’d been plucked from clear blue sky.
But that compliment hadn’t earned his victim even a second’s hestitation.
The sun on his forehead felt glorious.
“I should have done this years ago,” Mordractus said. He was walking up Beverly Drive with David Currie, one of the humans who’d accompanied P’wrll here in the first place. Andrew Hitch, his partner, had stayed with the car. P’wrll was back at a rented house in the Hollywood Hills, with the rest of the staff he’d brought over. Since arriving in the city three weeks before, he’d gotten into the routine of taking an afternoon stroll through one of the neighborhoods. Yesterday it had been Brentwood, the day before that, Santa Monica’s Third Street Promenade. Today, Beverly Hills.
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