by Neil Russell
Ovitz and I met when I engaged him to manage the sale of Black Group, Ltd.’s only Hollywood holding, a small television advertising company with one very large client. In the end, he didn’t actually do the transaction in a traditional M&A sense, but he generated the heat that raised the price beyond my—or anyone else’s—most optimistic projections. As was to be expected, this caused considerable teeth grinding among those who had begged me to steer clear of him.
The brain trust that runs CAA today is not as visible or as well-known. They are, however, more than worthy heirs, and it has been said that the coldness of their new quarters equals that of some of the hearts that work there. Not being in that business, I can’t speak to cold hearts, but Jake has clients all over town, and he says that if he had to pick one agency to negotiate with St. Peter for his eternity, CAA would not only get him into Paradise, but a three-picture deal with first-dollar participation.
One of the nicer things about going out in LA is that if you’re neat and clean, you’re acceptable. You don’t have to dig deep in your closet if you don’t want to. After Beau Stephenson and Lord Rittenhouse had left, I showered and washed off several layers of FBI. Then, dressed in an open-necked blue-and-white pin-striped shirt under a camel cashmere sport coat, a favorite pair of Levis and white deck shoes, I headed for Avenue of the Stars in my Dodge Ram.
I half expected the valet to blanch at the sight of a pickup amid the German and Italian steel, but the guy taking cars eyeballed me and decided that, even if I wasn’t somebody he recognized, I was too big to hassle.
Because of its hole-in-the-middle configuration, the CAA building has been unflatteringly nicknamed the Death Star—as in Star Wars. Detractors say that’s unfair to Death Stars, but I kind of like the place. Admittedly, it’s not I. M. Pei, but they’re making deals, not design history.
The reception was in full swing. The soaring atrium with its pastel-lighted panels flanking open walkways was crowded with the beautiful, the powerful and the hungry—and more than a few who were all three. Jake had left my name at the door, but it wasn’t necessary. No one at CAA misses anything, and I was immediately surrounded by two of the managing partners and several Armani-clad underlings. Star power is important, but money drives the machine.
I smiled, shook hands, promised to have lunch, then broke away to find my lawyer. He was standing with a young lady dressed in a red, black and gold matador outfit, minus the montera. Some women spend all day getting ready to make an impression, and some roll out of bed with their hair mussed and take your breath away. Marisol Graciela Rivera-Marquez could have been wearing a nun’s habit, and it wouldn’t have made any difference. When she turned, I stopped dead in my tracks.
If you’ve ever looked into a woman’s eyes and felt yourself being hopelessly pulled into another reality, this was one of those moments. I was suddenly completely lost. She was so delicate, so finely featured, that she seemed surreal, like a three-dimensional mirage. Her raven hair was pulled back tightly into a chignon with gold chain woven into it, the two loose ends hanging down her back. And the makeup brush had only touched her flawless, pale copper skin.
Jake introduced us. Holding on to her hand and feeling its warmth extend up my arm, I stumbled for something remarkably brilliant to say, and came up with, “Was it challenging to play a matador?”
Her look was one of bemused dignity. “Mr. Black, I am a matador.”
Never one to miss an opportunity to add to someone’s discomfort, Jake intoned in his best Charlton Heston, “The picture’s a documentary, Rail.”
I was saved by Dallas Bronston returning with a couple of flutes of champagne. Since I’d last seen him, he’d given his hair plugs the gift of Hollywood Orange #6, sometimes called orangutan’s ass. As a director, though, he should have known better than to stand under a green ceiling light. He gave a flute to Marisol, then shook my hand. “Rail, long time. I see you’ve met my wife.”
I felt the wind go out of me, then Marisol said, in her featherlight, high-Spanish accent, “Dallas, please stop telling people that.” She turned back to me. “He thinks it is good for promoting the picture, but he already has a wife.”
I smiled and was rewarded with a better one in return. Something was going on in her too, and I didn’t think I was imagining it. I glanced at Dallas, and he didn’t seem to be thinking about promoting pictures.
Jake, as lawyers always do, killed the moment. “You said you wanted to talk about something.”
I looked at my watch—10:55. “There’s somebody else coming, and he should hear it at the same time. Be right back.”
* * * *
A number of people had drifted onto the plaza to smoke and talk. Earpieced security men, muscles bulging inside dark designer suits, meandered on the perimeter, alert for intruders. A photographer and his assistant were taking unobtrusive candids that would find their way onto the next day’s tabloid shows. CAA and the other heavy hitters around town have long ago mastered the art of stiff-arming the paparazzi, so even though there was the occasional long-range flash, the LAPD had them penned up blocks away.
I wandered out toward the valet and looked across the street at the Century Plaza Hotel, where Reagan declined the vice presidency from Ford, then four years later turned its penthouse into the White House West. Even from fifty yards away, I could identify Lieutenant Manarca’s slightly bowlegged walk coming down the hotel drive, and I watched as he ducked traffic running across one of the widest boulevards in Los Angeles.
There were a couple of pedestrians on my side of the street, and I lost sight of the detective for a couple of seconds as his path intersected theirs. When he came back into view, he was clutching his neck with both hands and staggering up the half horseshoe of grass toward me.
I grabbed one of the security men and ran. Before I got to him, I saw the blood running between Manarca’s hands and down the front of his shirt. While the security guy got on his walkie-talkie, I raced down the sidewalk in the direction the pedestrians had gone. At the corner of Constellation, I looked right and saw the two rear doors of a dark Denali slam shut and the SUV peel away. All I caught of the plate were the first two letters, KS.
When I got back to the fallen detective, a crowd had formed, and a doctor who happened to be at the party was applying pressure in the right place to stem the blood flow. Manarca’s eyes were wide open, and he tried to say something, but the only sound he managed was a stomach-turning gurgle. The gaping knife wound ran almost ear to ear but had not gone deep enough to bleed him out.
Jake pushed through to us and knelt beside me. “What happened?”
I heard sirens in the distance and turned to him. “I know you don’t like listening to anybody, but this time you have to. This probably doesn’t have anything to do with us, but until we’re sure, you can’t go home. You can’t even take your car out of here.”
He surprised me and nodded. “Then where?”
“We’ll figure it out in the ambulance.”
He looked down at Manarca and shook his head. “Jesus Christ.”
* * * *
At first, the EMS crew wasn’t going to let us go with them, but Manarca countered with his shield and some hand gestures, and they backed off. Now, as we roared toward UCLA Trauma Center, I got a chance to talk to the doctor who had probably saved the detective’s life. Hadley Carson was a pediatric neurosurgeon at Children’s Hospital of Orange County who had just begun dating an actress on a well-known network show. The CAA reception had been his first Hollywood event.
“Welcome to the dark side,” said Jake. “Next come the jackals looking for your life story rights.”
Manarca held up two fingers, indicating the number of attackers, and I nodded. “They left in a Yukon Denalir - Mean anything?”
He shook his head, and Dr. Carson almost shouted for him to lie still.
With a physician in attendance, both EMS guys were in the front, the one in the passenger seat holding Manarca’s ID and talking on a c
ell phone. “Like I told you, he’s a cop. Manarca. LAPD. The doc is Carson. From Newport Beach.” The guy turned and leaned over the partition. “They want your names too.”
I could read his name tag. v. conway. “I’m Conway,” I said.
“And I’m his brother,” said Jake.
Conway gave me a twisted grin, shook his head and turned back to his phone. “They’re busy. You can ask them when we get there.”
When we hit the outer edge of UCLA, there were dozens of agitating blue lights a couple of hundred yards ahead. Exactly what you’d expect with a cop down, but it wasn’t going to do any of us any good being tied up for hours answering questions. I gestured to Manarca that we were getting out. He blinked in acknowledgment.
“Stop,” I shouted to the driver.
“No way, man. We’re almost there.”
I reached out and opened the back door. We had just swung into a turn, and the momentum wrenched the handle out of my hand. The door flew open and slammed into the vehicle’s side.
The driver got all over his brakes. “What the fuck?”
Jake and I were already out and walking quickly back the way we’d come. Suddenly, a BMW sedan loomed out of the darkness, flashing its lights. It stopped.
I looked in the open passenger-side window. The driver was wearing a matador’s outfit. “You sure you’re not a lawyer.” I smiled.
“I do not understand,” Marisol Rivera-Marquez said. “I just thought you might need a ride back.”
Jake and I got in.
“What will Mr. Bronston say?”
“He will say nothing, or I will go back to Spain, and he can promote his movie by himself.”
* * * *
7
Pizza in White Silk
As it happened, one of Jake’s clients, some music guy I’d never heard of named D. D. Shoulders, was making an early appearance in the speedball section of Forest Lawn, and while the estate was being settled, his Malibu place was vacant. We sat in front of a closed Baskin-Robbins in an empty strip center while a Realtor drove over from Calabasas with a couple of remotes and the alarm code. While we waited, I dialed the Beverly Hills PD and got a Sergeant Fordham on the line. He recognized me right away. “What can we do for you, Mr. Black?”
“I’ve been called out of town for a few days, and I was wondering if you could rotate some off-duty uniforms to babysit my place. Maybe park a black and white outside the gates. I’ll be generous.”
“Everybody here knows you, Mr. Black. No problem. You expecting trouble?”
“Couple of anonymous phone calls,” I said casually. “Probably nothing, but Mallory’s there by himself.”
There isn’t much overt crime in Beverly Hills, but because of the high-profile and economic status of many of its residents, there’s always unseen danger. Threats from angry exes, disaffected business partners and the occasional deranged groupie are commonplace. Then there are the professional criminals who spend years in San Quentin dreaming about scoring something more valuable from a celebrity than his autograph. Even if they get caught, taking down a mansion that makes national news ratchets up their status during their next stretch.
Like most major departments, the BHPD cross-trains with the Feds, but they spend extra time with the Secret Service and receive regular briefings from the intelligence agencies. As a result, they operate as proactively as a presidential detail.
“I’ll alert the appropriate people,” Sergeant Fordham said. “And if Mallory’s gonna be cooking, there’ll be guys putting in for vacation days to get the gig.”
“He likes showing off. Just don’t anyone ask him for a well-done steak ... at least not while they’re standing near a hot grill.”
Then I called Mallory and told him to be on the lookout for some hungry guests. Like the professional he is, he didn’t ask why. My last call was to UCLA, where the receptionist connected me to an LAPD Public Information Officer. “Unless you’re a family member, I’m unable to provide any details regarding Detective Manarca,” she said.
“I’m not the press, I just want to know his condition.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I was with him when his throat was cut.”
I could picture the young officer checking the phone screen, but even if the call hadn’t been routed through the switchboard, my number is blocked. For a long moment, the silence on the other end was deafening. “May I have your name, sir?”
“Is Yale Maywood there?”
“No, Commander DiMartino is in charge. Why don’t I put you through to him.”
I didn’t know DiMartino, and I didn’t think introducing myself over the phone was destined to do anything except raise both our blood pressures. “Thanks, I’ll pass,” I said. The PIO started to say something else, but I hung up.
I redialed UCLA reception and asked for the surgery scheduling office. There, a polite voice told me that Detective Manarca would be taken into Theatre 3 in approximately ninety minutes. He was being prepped now.
“Good news,” I said to my companions. “He made it. . . so far.”
* * * *
As Marisol wheeled the BMW through the eight-foot steel gates, vanity spots popped on and illuminated the courtyard of a long, low beach-modern place. It was fronted by a massive, gold tile waterfall that would have been impressive anyway, but flanked by life-sized, exquisitely painted, nude statues of two of the most famous female vocalists on the planet, the lily was gilded beyond even my fertile imagination.
“And I always thought they were both blondes,” said Marisol.
Our headlights picked up a couple of raccoons getting a drink beside the leg of the Texas-haired semi-brunette, but neither seemed fazed by the interruption. Our driver swung right and into an open garage, where she parked between a red ‘46 Pontiac Woodie and a max-stretched yellow chopper that looked impossible to ride.
The house, mostly glass and mostly overdone, was in the Colony, the oldest and most secluded section of Malibu, where the lots are locked between the PCH and the high-tide line. Inside, the flocked foil walls were decorated with the framed gold and platinum platters record companies hand out instead of royalties, and nearly every flat surface was festooned with overly exaggerated, erotic statuary that you had to be careful not to take out with an elbow.
Until the thirties, the entire—and uninhabited—twenty-seven miles of Malibu coast was owned by a Massachusetts insurance prick named Rindge, who maintained a private, tommy-gun-toting security force to run picnickers and shell-gathers back to Encino. After Rindge died, his widow, May, got into financial trouble and, desperate for cash, rented some of her precious land to movie stars to build secluded getaways. But by the early forties, May was dead, and the speculators had swooped in—one of them, a young millionaire named J. Paul Getty, who snapped up the sixty-four acres that would later become home to his first museum.
Today, an oceanfront lot with a teardown will run you $10 million—minimum. Fire and flood insurance? Well, if you need backstopping, you can’t afford to live there.
Marisol said she was going to take a walk on the beach and disappeared. I took a seat on the longest leather sofa I’d ever seen, which faced a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. Presently, I saw her, now shoeless, pad out to the lapping waves and head down the beach, kicking water like a schoolgirl. I admired the easy way she walked and the swing of her hips until she was swallowed by the dark.
Jake had been prowling around the kitchen and come up with a bottle of 12-Star Metaxa and two anisette glasses. He joined me on the sofa, and we sipped some Greek sweetness while I brought him up to speed.
When I finished, he thought for a long moment. “Chuck and Lucille were good people. Never met anybody kinder— except when it came to business. He ever tell you she wouldn’t let him sign the Paramount deal until the studio agreed to contribute the same amount to Blue Rescue? She was so damned mad about what they’d put her husband through, she didn’t care if they walked.”
“Chuck neve
r mentioned it.”
Jake smiled. “When I dropped that bomb on the production chief, I had to step away from the phone. ‘Blue Rescue? What the fuck’s that? Some kinda save-the-oceans bullshit?’ After he heard it was for dead cops, he came clear out of his lifts. ‘Dead cops! You’re kiddin’ me, right? You know I gotta go to the board for shit like that!’”
In a way, it wasn’t a funny story, but after the last couple of days, I was looking for any laugh I could find. “But the guy finally went along.”
“Not right away. He was in full studio stall. So I told him, no problem, I knew people on the board, and I’d take it up it with them myself. And while I was at it, I’d ask what they thought about that frog director he’d just paid seven mil. The one who told Dateline that if Americans had any class at all, we’d move our war dead out of Normandy.” Jake paused and took a pull on his Metaxa, obviously enjoying the memory. “Son of a bitch had a check on my desk before the receiver got cold.”