“Overcoming the monster, rags to riches, the quest…” he whispered kissing her after each one on the list, “the voyage and return. …”
“Ya-di-ya-di-ya. It’s all one movie,” she teased, looking away from him, pretending to be bored. He quietly reached down into the ice bucket still at the side of the bed and popped a cube into the side of his mouth.
“You know what the most common line in a movie is?” he slowly licked her throat, pushing the ice cube against her hot skin.
Mako looked down at him. There was a glint in his eye. He moved down her body and started to kiss her firm breasts, her nipples responding quickly to the ice.
“I’m too old for this shit?” she sighed, repeating an overused movie cliché.
Without stopping he shook his head, intensifying the sensation. “Th-Th-That’s all folks?” she asked, a slight tremor in her voice.
He turned for a moment before his head dropped between her legs, “Try and get some rest…,” he whispered.
She gasped as the cold of the ice melted into her warmth and wetness.
* * *
An hour later Marcus turned to Mako, her black hair matted with sweat, her long legs still intertwined with his. He kissed her.
“You know, I really need to call Garance,” she sighed. “It’s not fair, he must be beside himself.”
“You trust him?”
“With my life. He treats me like his ward.”
“Your call,” Marcus replied.
Mako reached over for the phone and started to dial.
“And I need the copy of your screenplay as well as Kelso’s, which I left at your place. Can he forward them?” Marcus added.
Mako nodded.
“I should have read it, but no one has sent me a script before” she said, waiting for Garance to answer, “But when I looked at it and saw how long it was, I just couldn’t bring myself to plough through over two hundred pages that had no relevance to me. And at the end of the day it’s my father’s world. Not mine.”
Marcus gave a small start, his finger quickly pushing down on the phone cradle, halting the call.
“You sure?”
“Sure about what? What’s wrong?” Mako asked.
“The number of pages,” Marcus responded, worry in his voice. It struck me, stuck in the memory. Two hundred and two pages It’s… was, my father’s pet number. His peg from prep school. His car registration was SDT 202.”
“Get Garance to scan it and send it as an email.”
“Garance can’t work computers…”
“Then express courier them to your house in Switzerland. Mako, my screenplay only had 199 pages.”
“Maybe it was done on a different printer, so what?”
“No Sam was a seasoned professional. He would have typed FALL OUT encoded on FINALDRAFT, the industry standard for screenplays. To avoid confusion, it always prints the same numbers of pages. Your father’s copy has a couple of extra pages. Just the odd line perhaps, but it’s definitely different.”
“Why would Sam do that?” quizzed Mako.
“We’ll know when we find out what the hell those extra lines say. Now call Garance.”
38
MARINA DEL REY, LOS ANGELES
The sign read “Please wait here to be seated.”
“Ignore it,” Dalinda whispered in Cara’s ear, walking straight in. Cara followed her friend out onto the patio and chose a table not far from the large circular open fire pit. The flames from the gas below licked at a pile of imitation logs adding warmth to the mid-morning air. Seagulls cried overhead telling their friends that brunch was now being served.
The Cheesecake Factory in Marina Del Rey had panoramic views of the beach as well as the marina and was already crowded. Cara flipped through the lengthy menu and wondered how so many slim people could possibly be regulars.
Having walked in with the two women, Cato was lying at Cara’s feet, his eyes half shut and his hind legs stretched out behind him. The dog was delicately sniffing, as if trying to filter out the smells of the beach and concentrate on the plates of food being served to the assembled customers. Dalinda and Cara ordered, with Cara adding a couple strips of crispy bacon to her whites-only omelet as a treat for Cato.
Despite having turned her back on the film and television industry, Cara still had clients who worked in it. It had been a few weeks since she had been in LA to see McConnell. She had been so happy to return to Santa Barbara, hoping never to see him again. His pragmatism disgusted her. Today she was in LA to follow up on wedding plans for the daughter of a wealthy actor. His PA wanted to go over the final floral design details and lock the budget.
“Mad money,” explained Cara to her old friend who had agreed to join her for brunch before the meeting. “I should be grateful that it filters down to me, but it’s obscene what some of these people get paid.”
“You saw the news this morning? Not everything goes the way they plan,” replied Dalinda.
“No, I was up early to get here in time. What happened?” asked Cara, taking a small bite of her breakfast omelet and slipping a piece of bacon to Cato.
“Some director drowned in a pool in Cannes. Trying to make a comeback… probably all too much.”
Cara suddenly stopped eating and looked up.
Before Cara could say anything Dalinda pointed her fork at a silent tv screen over the bar running the story with subtitles to the assembled patrons, “There you go.”
A picture of Robert Kelso flashed across the screen. “Ever come across him?” Dalinda asked.
The look on Cara’s face gave her friend the answer.
Cara was no longer hungry. “I’m sorry Dalinda,” said Cara, dropping her fork and pushing back from the table. “Got to see someone. Excuse me.” As she got up to leave, she turned to her shocked friend. “Please. Can you keep Cato for the day?”
* * *
Louis blinked as he held the phone to his ear and looked up from his waiting room chair at the starched white-uniformed nurse beckoning him.
“No, not later. I need to see you now,” Cara was saying emphatically on the other end of the line.
“Cara. I will not discuss this now.” He paused as the nurse gestured towards a sign displaying a cell phone with a red line through it. He squirmed inwardly at the thought that this young girl knew perfectly well why he was here and the discomfort, let alone humiliation, the examination was about to cause him. He held up his index finger to signal just one more minute.
“You are in no position to argue. I am running into a meeting and cannot keep these good people waiting. Meet me at the Polo Lounge at 1:30.” The nurse was not impressed. “Ask Emilio to take you to my regular booth,” he added abruptly ending the conversation with Cara.
The mention of a regular booth got a glimmer of respect from the nurse. Louis was sure she’d fuck him in a heartbeat if she realized he could get her a job in a movie, rather than waste her time looking into other people’s assholes. He’d wipe that superior look off her face given half the chance. He walked towards the consulting room for his examination, prepared for an embarrassing and painful half hour.
* * *
“It’s partly your age and partly your lifestyle,” said the smug young doctor as he snapped off the rubber gloves and handed the endoscope to the nurse.
“You can avoid surgery if you take my advice, change your diet, cut out alcohol, clean up your lifestyle…”
“Work less and exercise more,” sing-songed Louis, finishing off the standard litany of do’s and don’ts that seemed to accompany all his visits to doctors. The specialist handed over a leaflet full of useful lifestyle information and with a smiling middle-aged man on a bicycle on the cover.
Louis scoffed at it and got dressed, seemingly oblivious to the nurse. He checked himself in the mirror then pulled a huge cigar from his jacket breast pocket.
“Let me explain how this works. I pay you. But if I want to smoke I will, eat good red meat I shall, and when I wan
t your advice, I’ll ask for it. You diagnose then give me the options that I can choose from. You do as I suggest. I’ll take the surgery, get it over with. I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”
With a perfunctory nod, Louis walked out stopping to tuck a $100 bill into the breast pocket of the astonished nurse. “Nice hands,” said Louis, “but next time make sure they’re warmer.”
* * *
Cara was already waiting in the booth by the time Louis’ Bentley Continental swooped up to the entrance of the Beverly Hills Hotel. A doorman snapped to attention and opened the car door.
“I’ll be an hour max,” Louis barked at Benjamin who had tried to rush around to open the car door for him.
The doorman smiled and saluted. “Good day, Mr. McConnell.”
Ignoring the doorman, Louis marched into the famous bar of the Polo Lounge, the scene of legendary fights and trysts of Hollywood royalty. He entered the room and walked past the assembled groups of well-healed rubberneckers and industry big shots who had gathered for lunch.
“Don’t even think of screwing with me, Louis,” was the greeting from Cara. “What the hell is going on? What happened to Robert?”
“Good afternoon to you too, Cara,” he replied coldly, taking his seat. He looked around the room, waving at a famous actor’s alcoholic son. Not that Louis knew him that well, but to show he knew who he was. The small gesture distracted Cara and enabled
Louis to ignore her question and take back control.
“May I remind you we are in a public place, where bad language is frowned upon, and indiscreet remarks are picked up to be reported in the trade papers and posted on the internet before you even get the check.”
She took a breath, then a mouthful of the Tequila on the rocks she was holding with both hands. Louis noticed they were trembling slightly.
“Cara, I know as much as you do. The director was there to meet our producer friend to try and buy the rights for FALL OUT. Next thing I know Robert is dead and no one is giving any information. Police are very tight lipped. Who knows? Something may have gone wrong, they might have argued. What I do know is we all need to stay quiet.”
She looked at him, then, checking over her shoulder to make sure that no one was listening, said in a hushed tone,
“Oh come on… Marcus? That’s bullshit. He was desperate to do a deal with Robert. Killing him serves no purpose.”
There was a faint buzz. The Polo Lounge frowned on calls, so Louis’ phone was on vibrate for calls but was still active for text and email. He saw a text from an unfamiliar number but from a country code he wanted to hear from.
“I need to take this,” Louis said rudely. He got up and walked to the bathroom, entered a cubicle and locked the door.
‘Head not here. What next? Will wait ten minutes for answer’ read the short message.
Louis was torn. On the one hand he had a growing problem seated in a booth not 50 feet away, as well as an increasingly dangerous Haribon Guinto in Manila; something made clear by those flowers. He wanted Jonathan back. On the other hand he needed the secret of that Buddha head. There was only one other place Stefan would have stored it.
He texted back Jonathan details from his address book and a curt order before hitting send.
Louis turned back to deal with Cara.
In two hours, Jonathan was back on a plane in a different disguise and with another false passport. He had been in London for less than a day.
39
LUGANO, SWITZERLAND
Marcus and Mako left the hotel early the next morning, both wishing they could stay there forever but knowing burying their heads in the Villa D’Este sand would solve nothing. Instead they crossed the border into Switzerland and stopped at a small gas station to refuel. Marcus paid the forty Swiss Francs for the annual ‘vignette’ that everyone needed to use the country’s motorway system and attached the small square sticker to the windshield.
Mako went to use a payphone to contact the family lawyer Robin Vallings. A shocked Garance, so relieved to hear they had survived had told her on the call the previous evening that Vallings had rung earlier, frantic to speak to her. Garance had been unsure what to tell him. Despite his denials, Mako suspected Garance had told him everything. Marcus’ words about trust had echoed in her head that night as she had tried to fall asleep.
She slowly walked back from her call, head down as she climbed back into the car.
“Didn’t you get through” he asked, seeing she was upset?
“To his secretary, but Robin was out. He’s never out on a Friday unless it’s shooting season and he’s on the moors killing grouse,” she said slowly.
“With a client?” Marcus suggested as he started the car and pulled back out onto the road, trying to find out what was troubling her so.
“No. But I left him a message to say I was alive, to say nothing to anyone, and to call the house in Switzerland… Oh Marcus. After everything that has happened. I just forgot… He’s at my father’s funeral…”
Marcus knew nothing he could say would take away her guilt or make her feel better. All he could do was stop the car for a moment and put his arms around her.
* * *
They soon drove on in silence, Marcus letting Mako think things through. A few hours later, after crossing over the Lukmanier then Susten passes, they drove with the top down towards Interlaken, the sky crisp with late spring air and filled with the scent of mountain flowers.
Mako again broke the silence. “It’s done, Marcus. I wasn’t sure if I was going to go to the funeral anyway. Seems fate made up my mind for me. Time to focus on the present. At least this place has happy memories for me,” she said giving a faint smile.
Literally meaning ‘Between the Lakes,’ the famous resort lay in the folds of the Swiss Alps, cradled between the two large lakes of Brienz and Thun. The ancient and picturesque town offered majestic views of three of the highest peaks of the Alps; the Moench, the Jungfrau and the Eiger. Their destination was seven kilometers above Interlaken in the tiny town of Habkern.
* * *
Before taking the narrow winding road to Nisten, they stopped in Interlaken to fill up the car again. Mako went to the small stalls and shops of her youth to buy some provisions for dinner. Marcus wandered down Interlaken’s main street until it opened out to a vast expanse of green. He sat down opposite the huge lawn at the café outside the 19th century Victoria Jungfrau Grand Hotel.
He drank an espresso in silence, looking towards the majestic mountains. To his left stood a row of gingerbread-style houses. One displayed a plaque stating that Lord Byron had stayed there during the early 1800s, no doubt during one of his sex, drug, and alcohol-fueled tours of Europe. Judging by the happy faces parading past Marcus on their way out for an evening’s fun, nothing much had changed. He looked up and a cluster of hang gliders gently descended onto the grass in front of him. Everything was bathed in the early evening’s golden glow.
Peaceful. Normal. No danger.
* * *
Jonathan’s cab pulled up at the small Eiger Gasthaus thirty yards from the imposing Victoria Jungfrau Grand Hotel. He was barely out of the car when he saw a dead man quietly sipping an espresso on the grand hotel’s terrace.
40
BEL AIR, LOS ANGELES
Louis took a mouthful of the brandy he had been gently swirling in the balloon glass. He glanced at the gilt clock ticking on its marble mount, feeling no guilt at drinking what others considered an after dinner ‘digestif’ at three in the afternoon. Benjamin had prepared an excellent lunch.
He was in a reflective mood. That damned script was shining a hot light into some very dark corners. At least Wood, Kelso, Riley, de Turris, the man’s staff, and his daughter Melinda, were out of the way. With deaths on two continents and three different countries, he was satisfied no law enforcement agency would be able to join up those dots. Anyway, it wasn’t him causing all this, he rationalized to himself. It was Sam. It was his fault.
H
owever, Louis knew there were still a few others that could cause problems. He never needed to know the specifics, he just needed someone to make them disappear as well.
Cara. Ungrateful bitch. The truth had been buried out in the jungle. She took the money. Now she was getting all moral on him? He really didn’t see why he had even bothered to come up with stories of innocence each time they met.
Now Christo. He had left some garbled message from San Francisco airport about recognizing a blurred photo the police in Cannes had shoved in front of him. He thought Louis could help. But the smoldering fire that could engulf him was Haribon. He was not a man to double-cross. Jonathan said he had dealt with it all when he had gone back to the Philippines last Christmas.
With the arrival of those flowers though, Louis knew Jonathan had failed him.
His only real solution now was Tyler Gemmell, without the man really understanding he was being used. Louis was certain that Gemmell’s colleagues would act decisively if Tyler’s group felt threatened with exposure by Haribon. Others would see them for what they really were, just a bunch of hoods. So that’s what he needed to concentrate on. That was their hot button. Crack that veneer of respectability.
He remembered what a famous British film and TV impresario had once said to him when his TV series had come to an abrupt halt due to a union dispute.
“Jam donuts. That’s the secret. The man who has a steady supply of jam donuts can take care of business coz everyone loves ‘em. And I have a very big bag of them.” The local union representative went to a number of premieres on the arm of several beautiful and compliant young starlets… jam donuts, indeed, Louis had thought at the time. Sure enough the dispute was settled quickly, the union got back to work. But Louis had learned a valuable lesson.
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