He focused on the cop in front of him.
“We were old buddies in the past. He left me a voice message.”
“Which you deleted?”
“Yea, why save it, Detective McNeile? He asked me over for a drink …”
“At midnight?”
“Sam was Australian. If you were standing up, it was time to have a drink. Be logical. If I had anything to hide, I would have run,” he added.
Marcus had been at the station for over 18 hours. All he wanted was to get out of that interview room and into a shower. He thought about his options; maybe protesting, ‘You can’t hold me. I know my rights’, though in his experience when anyone said that, they invariably didn’t. Demanding a lawyer may look good in the movies, but in real life it just pissed cops off and made him look guilty. They had a million ways to make life more uncomfortable. Better to wait.
Eventually a uniformed cop came into the interview room and whispered something to the detective.
“Seems Mr. Wood had been dead for a number of hours before you got there,” sighed the Detective. “Your hotel confirmed that at the time of his death you were out cold in your room. Pains me to say it Mr. Riley but you’re free to go… but do not leave the city without telling me.”
The police were satisfied Sam’s death was a result of him surprising a burglar during a break-in. Now they were just tying up loose ends before dumping the case on the pile of unsolved break-ins.
The first thing Marcus did on returning to the hotel was to thank the woman behind the desk for providing the alibi.
“And that package, just another script rejection I’m afraid,” he added in case the police dug any deeper.
He needed to contact Sam’s widow, Jax. It was going to be a very hard call.
She eventually picked up the phone. The grief. The anger. The recriminations. Eventually the flow subsided.
“Marcus, how did we all lose touch? You know, there was a time when I considered you one of my dearest friends. Then that disaster in the Philippines” she said.
“THE LAST COMPANY left us all with scars, Jax.”
“It may have scarred you, but it killed what I loved in Sam. He turned bitter. Why did you let it happen, to him, to us? Oh God, and poor Bill?” her voice drifting off without finishing her thought.
That name hit Marcus hard.
“I was the one who was angry. With Sam…with you. When the marriage collapsed and I left him and came to Seattle, I would have decked you if you had walked through the door in the first year. Deep down, I wanted my old life back…wanted the old Sam back.”
“And now?” he asked.
“I’m at peace here, not some coke-crazed hard-ass, living the LA lifestyle. But that won’t help Sam, will it? He’s gone…a stupid, pointless ending.”
There was a beat as she pulled away from the past. “Now you want me to let you try and make this script he sent you…on some whim?? Why, what’s the point, Marcus?”
“Because it’s damn good. You’ll be so proud of him.”
“You sure this is what Sam wanted” Jax queried?
“I promise, I’ll do what he wanted.”
“Let’s hope so,” she said. “The funeral is next Wednesday. See you there.”
Marcus felt at once both elated and guilty. He did, however, have what he wanted. He was going to see it through.
He had managed to track down the address of Cara Baines only to discover she was away on vacation. He had googled Stefan de Turris, who seemed to have retired and still lived in London. That left Robert Kelso and Louis McConnell. They both had good reason to hate him.
5
TOPANGA CANYON, LOS ANGELES
Director Robert Kelso had spent years determinedly navigating his directing career from an ‘about to be’ to a ‘whatever happened to’? An Emmy and a Golden Globe award two decades old gathered dust in an alcove, which was stacked with scripts and treatments long ignored.
Back in the day Kelso had been on the cusp of success. He had followed up a hugely successful TV mini-series with a commercial and hit movie. He was the creator and director of the first in a cycle of teen slasher horror movies called POLE-AXED, following trends set by Freddy in A Nightmare on Elm Street and Jason with his hockey mask in Halloween; but POLE-AXED had an eloquent and artistic flourish that put it above the rest of the genre.
He had unleashed a franchise that even now, without his involvement, was in production on movie sequel number 11. Each movie paid him a handsome royalty, in exchange, it seemed, for the sale of his creative soul.
After POLE-AXED became a box office smash, he was determined to make high quality drama and pick his way to an Oscar. Instead his career suddenly and spectacularly imploded with a movie called THE LAST COMPANY.
THE LAST COMPANY was a simple heist movie, albeit with a twist. Set in April 1975 the script began with the fall of Saigon and the image forever seared into America’s collective memory of that last helicopter rising from the US Embassy rooftop. At the same moment, thieves were plundering the Embassy safe in a room below.
The idea was both shocking yet plausible. For years rumors had swirled that in excess of $75 million had gone missing during the final hours and chaos of the evacuation.
In the film the thieves are a stranded bunch of bad-assed US soldiers known as THE LAST COMPANY. After the robbery they flee for the Thai border, continually harried along the way by Viet Cong who know what they have stolen. With their numbers dwindling from casualties inflicted by their pursuers, the few survivors decide to bury the cash in a cave and retrieve it later. However, the heat and desperation of their plight starts to wear the men down. They fight among themselves as they dig in the cave. Eventually there is a sole survivor. All alone, he slowly goes mad and runs off screaming and naked to be swallowed up by the jungle. The audience is left with the tantalizing idea that the treasure is still out there awaiting discovery.
It should have been a box office and creative success. However, no audience ever saw the movie. The Executive Producer Louis McConnell was forced to call a halt more than midway through filming and Robert Kelso’s career, like nearly all those associated with the movie, became toxic. Flops in Hollywood were common but failing to complete a movie was rarely forgiven.
It wasn’t only that no one wanted to hire him, Robert stopped asking. He gave up. He descended into drugs and alcohol and stewed there a long time until he met Christo Murray in rehab. Christo, kind and beautiful, had been a member of the staff and now, he was Robert’s companion and partner.
Although off drink and drugs, Robert lingered outside the movie world waiting for his creative flame to reignite. He and Christo retreated to Topanga Canyon in the hills northeast of Hollywood. The canyon suited him; a place rooted in the past, full of people reliving the sixties, most of whom were too young to have been a part of it, but too scared to live in the present.
* * *
It was midday. Robert was sitting under the large ceiling fan in his cluttered study, the double doors open to the garden. Barefoot, he had settled into the embrace of his black leather and wood framed chair, feet on the footstool.
Christo, stripped to the waist and squatting on his haunches, was glowering at some garden weeds. He had tended the vast garden for years, always taking it as a personal affront when something sprouted that was not on his green-fingered agenda.
“You want a Diet Coke?” he asked as he stood up. There was no answer.
Christo was used to one-way conversations with his lover, so did not bother to wait for a reply. He walked into the house through the open patio doors to the kitchen where he pulled two cans of soda out of the fridge.
He had occasionally glimpsed the sparkle and energy that had made Kelso a powerhouse director. He had found his vocation; to bring back the bloom in Robert Kelso. All that was needed now was a spark, a catalyst, a perfect script.
As he entered the study with their drinks, he saw the director reading, fully engrossed. Not unusual
in itself except it was neither a book nor a newspaper, but a script. That was a first. A new shoot, in every sense of the word.
Without looking up or even acknowledging his partner, Robert lifted his index finger to his lips to signal ‘silence’ and turned another page. The cover of the screenplay read FALL OUT.
An hour later, Christo heard Robert pick up the phone. “Louis, do you still represent Sam Wood…or should I say the bestate…terrible way to die…well, if you don’t who does? You need to read his last script. Got it a few days ago. Only just got around to reading it and…”
The voice on the other end cut Robert short.
“Oh…Oh, I see…” And with a slightly trembling hand, Robert hung up.
6
BEL AIR, LOS ANGELES
Roneale, read the sign in elegant wrought iron lettering. The home in Bel Air looked too big for the plot of land it was built on, hemmed in by what was left of the garden. An endless number of extensions and add-ons had turned the mock French chateau into a mishmash, in which only one man and his staff rattled around.
The Asian cyclist was always puzzled by the rejection of land for interior space, for rooms no one would use instead of a garden and sky. The assassin tapped in the series of numbers on the security pad to activate the gates and entered the grounds.
Years ago, a realtor had told the prospective buyer, Louis McConnell, that the rumor was the house had been designed for Gloria Swanson as a gift from her lover Joe Kennedy.
The cachet of class and sophistication this brought had quickly tipped the balance, but the realtor failed to understand that it was not the name of Swanson and all she represented of ‘old Hollywood’ but the name of Joe Kennedy and his support of Irish heritage that had helped close the deal.
The rotund middle-aged man bought the house that day, deftly signing a check with his solid gold fountain pen. From that moment, agent turned businessman Louis McConnell owned a part of Hollywood history and more importantly in his mind, a connection to a great Irish patriot.
The cyclist dismounted from his bike, wheeled it to the side of the house and then approached the main section well out of the line of vision of the security cameras. He saw Louis McConnell through the conservatory glass. He was talking to someone.
The burly 65-year-old owner of the house looked pensive. A Monte Cristo No. 3 cigar was screwed into the corner of his mouth. McConnell paced the floor of the newly built conservatory, filled with Napoleonic furniture that he had bought in an attempt to gain ancestry. Louis turned to his guest who was sitting languidly on an ornate silk upholstered chair.
“So how about it?” he said with an attempt at a smile.
“Why that part of Asia?” replied his guest.
“It’s wide open for us and production is on the up in that part of the world. It’s a launch pad for the rest of Asia. Even better there’s no competition, just one man, Haribon Guinto. We just need to persuade him to step aside.” He paused. “Forcefully,” he added. “A minor detail, like we’ve done elsewhere, Tyler.”
“Louis, you were the first guy I met in this zoo of a town who never tried to sell me a script…but still let me fuck a bunch of starlets,” said the man with a grin. “I liked that. You were right. Producing is for suckers. We started a real business and now we own just about every type of movie supply company in town, for chrissakes.”
“All hidden behind a number of dummy corporations,” added Louis to himself.
“Louis. We got it good. We control everything from lighting rigs to catering, crystal generators to transport. Even those mega trailers stars like to hang out in. We have this town locked up, and the Teamsters in our pocket.”
“I’ve never steered you wrong,” Louis smiled through a cloud of cigar smoke. “So, trust me on this one. It’s a real opportunity. Cigar?”
Tyler shook his head. “Let it go, Louis. Another continent? I just don’t see it for my guys, but I’ll ask. While on the subject of trust though, a few of my colleagues are asking questions. The numbers seem to be getting light,” he paused, “Do we need an audit?”
The emphasis on the last words made it clear what finding a shortfall would mean.
“Studio cutbacks. Movie production revenue will be down for a while,” replied Louis reassuringly. “All the money is pouring into TV now and those fucking kids at Amazon, Netflix and Hulu. Even my A-listers are begging to do TV. For no real money.”
“I don’t see talent accepting austerity for long,” said Tyler. “I gotta go. Need to check on a new string of polo ponies.”
With that Tyler Gemmell rose from the chair, straightening his jacket and palming his straight brown hair. Although nearly the same age as Louis, physically Tyler was Louis’ opposite. Suntanned and handsome, his tall, lean frame still hinted at the Golden Gloves champion boxer he’d once been.
In Louis’ opinion Tyler’s physique failed to compensate for clothes and shoes that displayed too many designer logos. No class. Louis smiled and shook Tyler’s hand, hoping his utter contempt for him and his associates was well hidden. He bade his guest farewell as a formally attired butler escorted Tyler to the front door. Louis followed.
“Thanks Benjamin,” smiled Tyler to the butler as he opened the door. “If you ever need a change of scenery…?”
“Trying to poach my staff? You haven’t a hope. It’s all about loyalty, isn’t it, Benjamin?” The butler’s face showed no reaction. Tyler shrugged and turned to walk down the drive.
“No car, Tyler?” observed Louis, “It’s a long walk. Times must be hard.”
“Just my arteries,” replied Tyler. “It’s called exercise, Louis.” He glanced at his host’s midriff. “You should try it. Anyway, before polo ponies, the Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel and lunch with a hot little actress, beckoning; a client of yours actually,” and with that he turned and sauntered down the drive, his casual gait concealing his conviction that Louis was stealing from him.
* * *
The cyclist slid quietly into the room.
“Good afternoon, Jonathan,” Louis drew on the cigar and turned around exhaling a cloud of smoke. “That job out in Venice Beach. The cops still think it was a break in. The case will just rot on the pile of unsolved homicides.” Louis expertly rolled the ash off his cigar. “For us however it is not case closed. Sam Wood’s first mistake was to even go back…” He blew smoke at the ceiling as his sentence ended, his thoughts unfinished.
“His fatal one was threatening you on his return,” Jonathan added quietly.
“Exactly. However, he even topped that when he scribbled out a screenplay based on what he had found. He sent one to Kelso and to me. That’s a problem,” he added firmly.
Jonathan gave him a quizzical look.
“And judging from a recent call requesting a meeting, I suspect he sent one to Marcus Riley as well.” Louis paused and let that sink in.
“Go back home, do some digging. Discreetly. Just make sure whatever Sam Wood found out stays buried…
“And Haribon” Jonathan asked?
“Keep well clear of our dear, former partner. I am trying to get Tyler Gemmell to deal with that problem.”
With a wave of his hand Louis dismissed Jonathan, sitting down at his desk to figure out his next task. How to ensure that a dead man’s script would never see the light of day?
7
BEL AIR, LOS ANGELES
Take-off was in three hours. Jonathan slipped on the overalls. Minutes later he left his apartment next to the garage and his personal workshop at Roneale en route to the private airport. He’d done this more than a few times. He’d be safe. No one would know he was going back.
As the cargo plane with its sunburst logo on the tail fin swung out across the dark Pacific towards his homeland, Jonathan buckled into the jump-seat and mentally drifted back to the days of his youth, Haribon Guinto, and Manila.
MANILA 1965
As a young scrawny kid, Jonathan had run with a dangerous crowd, all testosterone
and hope. Always first with a blade and last with an apology, he became a feared member of the most respected gang in Manila. Their leader was Ferdinand Guinto, but everyone called him Haribon, the name of the huge eagle of the Philippines.
Jonathan was around eight years old when they first met. He had been slinking back home after an evening of petty larceny. A car radio here, a tourist’s fat wallet there, whatever he could threaten and get away with.
He was already an expert at balisong, the lethal art of Filipino knife fighting using the fearsome weapon of the same name. Also known as butterfly knives, the handle was in fact made of two halves that folded over each side of the blade like a butterfly’s wings yet could be opened in a blink by an expert flick of the wrist. He was thinking about treating himself to a new high-end version from one of the local craftsmen over by the Port.
Jonathan had rounded the corner to his home. At the end of a dusty street in the shanty Quaipo district of Manila, he could make out the figures of two disheveled older boys of about 15, sauntering away from his house. When they saw Jonathan approach the door, they grinned at each other. The uglier of the two had a toothpick clenched between his teeth.
“Don’t worry, nothing worth stealing,” he said, moving the pick to the corner of his mouth. “And that old woman was barely worth fucking,” he added as Jonathan passed him.
Jonathan stopped.
“He’s joking,” said the other. “We never touched her.”
“Not the point,” murmured Jonathan.
In a flash, he turned on his heel and kicked the first boy square in the groin. Jonathan heard the rush of air sucked into the young man’s lungs as the toothpick fell from his mouth. Even before the youth dropped wide-eyed to his knees with both hands cradling his crotch, he felt the sting of the blade slice through his cheek. A foot connected with his jaw, and then merciful blackness.
Fall Out Page 3