And that would be?
Usually, girls offered a berth in the program talked with their friends about the good news, got a little cautious feedback. Friends who had heard x, y, z. Tit for tat, yin and yang, quid pro quo. There were no questions. “What is your question, Miss Hill?”
“Have you ever heard of Vincent Furnatato?”
“I don’t know that name, Miss Hill. Who is he?” Sounded like a repairman.
“He’s an actor. A really good actor. He’s done some regional theater and some extra work. He was in The Schwarzschild Radius.”
“The Schwarzschild Radius.” Small world. “Wonderful.”
“He was one of the Cluddum.”
“The Cluddum. Who were the Cluddum?”
“They were a sect of the Dark Farmers. Opposed to the rule of the Pappam.”
“The Pappam.” The Pappam and the Cluddum. He was conversing with an imbecile. One of the befuddum. “Tell me about Mr. Furnatato. Is he your boyfriend?”
“Yes. But I’m professionally objective about his talent.”
“Of course.”
“What I’m wondering is . . .”
Christ the Redeemer. He was going to need more Tylenol before she was finished. Tylenol with heroin.
“What I’m wondering is, might there be a place in the program for Vince?”
Melvin had never heard that question before.
FORTY-SIX
Viking Smoked Salt
The best method for dealing with pain was sleep. Nazarian had slept for almost twenty-four hours. He awoke in agony, but, Christ, he had to be a little better. He swallowed another couple of what the doctor down at Century City Hospital had prescribed. He went to the refrigerator, realized he couldn’t open his mouth. He slurged down another disgusting helping of the vanilla nutrition solution. He was ravenous. He’d pay a million dollars for a lousy Denny’s Grand Slam.
Which reminded him.
A violet shaft of worry transited his consciousness. The check. And the gun.
His mind was back. He was thinking like himself again. His anger was no longer throbbing and amorphous. It was a thrust, looking for a target and results.
In his office, the phone was blinking. Messages. Maybe clues. He listened to the first of nine.
“Mr. Nazarian, this is Dr. Wolf calling. We need to talk. About the, uh, the special events . . . that occurred over the past days. You’ve accumulated some significant costs both for yourself . . . and the girl you injured. I’m doing my best to keep everything hush-hush—if you know what I mean. But sometimes a golden gun speaks for itself. Call me. Good day.”
Nazarian hung up the phone, the pain in his tightened jaw flaring to an ice-pick stab. He forced himself to let it go, to relax. The pain subsided back to its normal tide of disquietude. He inhaled, exhaled.
He almost chuckled, but it hurt too much. The Nazi quack was trying to blackmail him. Obviously, the doctor did not know Eli Nazarian.
The Bentley started right up, it’d better; he rolled down Coldwater into Beverly Hills. By the time he reached Sunset his face was on fire. He couldn’t keep his growing rage and outrage out of his jaw. Blackmail. Fuck it, them, everyone, everything. He would channel every joule of his pain. Into a polite discussion.
He pulled up in front of the address he’d gotten from Marco. The blackmailer lived pretty well, looked like. No wonder.
He rang the bell, heard the chimes through the paneled wooden door.
He could feel his blood pressure rising as he waited. His jaw pincered. A pretty Hispanic woman opened up. She had a misshapen forehead. Probably raised in a mud hut.
“Yes?” said the woman from behind the door.
“I’m here to see Dr. Wolf,” he said through clenched teeth. “Is he in?” He tried to smile. A lip smile.
“I see. May I ask who calling?”
She wanted his name. How about his ZIP code? How about his Social Security number? “How about my Social Security number, too?”
“What?” asked Paulita.
Of course, what. The little muchacha didn’t have a Social Security number. He grabbed the edge of the door, pulled it out of her fingers. Then shoved it back, hard, right into Puff’s forehead. Bonk. Down she went. He stepped over her, into the cool of the house.
• • •
At the kitchen table, Dr. Wolf suffered through the sound of Rhonda Carling’s chains sinking into the deep and Gretchen’s inane small talk about a birthday luncheon for their granddaughter.
“Since they were out of the prime rib,” said Gretchen, “which I can’t believe—did you know they were out of prime rib last time?—it’s unbelievable—what kind of business is that?—anyway I decided on roast beef slices, rare, with Viking Smoked Salt.”
The doctor wanted to slap her saggy, rouged, oblivious cheeks. Whap, whap, whap, whump. Knock her right on her fat ass. Did she bear any of the weight that he shouldered to sustain their way of life? He desperately wanted to be on the boat with Paulita. Rocking in the sun and salt air. Forgetting everything.
The doorbell rang. A shard of panic pierced him high and low. Head and colon. The police!
• • •
Eli Nazarian heard sounds from the kitchen, walked back. Aha. The doctor. And his wife. Probably. Wolf got to his feet, confused.
Nazarian stepped up, knocked the doctor to the floor with a backhand slap. The woman shrieked. Nazarian pointed down at her. “One more sound, lady, I’ll kill him. Then you. Got it?”
She got it. Strangely, she found no ready connection between her brain and her tongue. It lolled, a fat oyster, behind her teeth. Her legs didn’t seem to be her own, either.
Nazarian pulled Wolf to his feet. “Guess what? I’m not paying you a penny. You got balls calling me, you fucking Nazi. Now, where’s my gun and where’s my check?”
Wolf shook his head. “I don’t have the gun.”
Nazarian shook him. “Where’s the gun? That you mentioned in your call.”
“I don’t have it.”
“Lie—I take an eye.”
Wolf shook his head rapidly, side to side, indicated over his shoulder with his thumb. “I saw it at the apartment. The table by the couch.”
“And my check?”
“Check?”
Nazarian slapped the doctor again. “Don’t disappoint me. My check. Where is it?”
“I don’t know anything about a check, I swear to God. I don’t know.”
Nazarian raised his hand, the doctor cowered. Maybe he hadn’t seen the check. Nazarian lowered his hand. “Where’re my clothes, Doctor? The clothes I wore here. Where are they?”
Wolf pointed.
Nazarian grabbed his shoulder, shoved him in that direction. “Take me there.”
He followed the doctor out of the kitchen, through the garage, through a door into the clinic. Nazarian remembered the clinic. They turned a corner and there was the nurse.
“Remember me? Where’re the clothes I wore in here?”
Nurse Stanleigh sensed something wrong. “Doctor, are you alright?”
Nazarian smiled at her coldly. “The doctor will be alright if you help us. Where’re my clothes?”
Carol looked to the doctor, he nodded, his face burning.
“Your clothes have been dry-cleaned. We were going to call you.”
“But you didn’t. You go through the pockets?”
“Of course.”
“You find anything?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do with it?”
“I threw it away.”
“You threw it away?”
“I threw away a packet of cocaine, Mr. Nazarian. Haven’t you done enough of that shit?”
Nazarian stepped forward, towering over the nurse, a finger in her face. But Carol Stanleigh had seen a lot of bullies in her lifetime and was unafraid.
Nazarian, teeth clenched, was suddenly aware that his jaw was on fire. He turned on his heel, retraced his steps, went out the way he’d co
me in.
PART THREE
A Sentence
FORTY-SEVEN
In Memory of Betty Ann Fowler
With my contacts downtown, and the dispensation of several honeybees, I checked out the address and background of the Hancock Park mansion where fictional producer Hubert Hull had his fateful party as described by Davis Algren. The address was real.
Tax records indicated the home, at that time, was owned by a company named Frame 24. Twenty-four frames per second was the film speed necessary for human beings to perceive individual photos as a flow, as motion picture, as a movie.
Frame 24 was owned by a variety of partners. The presiding interest was held by the Marjorie Group—one of thirteen entities controlled by Howard Hogue.
But how to trace the girl who’d gone down to San Pedro from a screenplay of phony names?
Lew snapped his fingers. “Maybe her name is real. There’s no need for disguise.”
He was right. The next day we found the one mention of a Betty Ann Fowler in Los Angeles history. An inquiry from her mother in Altoona, Pennsylvania. A month and half after the party. A missing persons report was filed. Nothing ever came of it. Nothing was ever going to come of it. She was the wrong kind of victim. Wrong money. Wrong skin color. Wrong everything. Betty Ann’s mother, Betilda Rowens, called twice more. And never again.
I looked at Lew, shrugged. We were as close as we were going to get. The screenplay checked out for location and time. Which proved nothing. “Peaches, baby,” I said.
He nodded. “Peaches.”
Like I told my son about girls. If you want the peaches, you’ve got to shake the tree. Walking around the tree, looking solemn, looking noble, did nothing but wear out your shoes. And your feelings. You had to employ the direct approach.
“And how do you propose to shake the tree, Dick?”
• • •
Thus, the San Pedro Film Company was established in the office under Myron Ealing in the Hollywood Professional Building. It was a two-room suite. A waiting room: a couch, a bookcase, a potted plant, a table, some weekly issues of Variety and The Hollywood Reporter.
And the office proper through the door. We moved in an old, scarred-up wooden desk, with an ancient wooden swivel chair as its partner. On the desk we put a green-glass banker’s lamp we picked up at Staples on Sunset. From the back of the third-floor maintenance closet we borrowed a battered cast-iron safe. It didn’t lock. But it looked serious.
We added two tiny cameras that disguised themselves as smoke detectors. Perfect.
We stood back and checked out our work. It looked alright.
Lew sprang doubts. “Who’s this going to fool, Dick? Won’t they look up San Pedro Film Company on IMDb?”
“Sure they will. And what’ll they find?”
“Nothing.”
“Exactly. So they’ll come here.”
“And what does this all mean?”
“We’re playing a recognizable hand, that’s all. A blackmailer’s hand.”
Lew shrugged. “Okay.”
We’d wiggle the pizza, see what flies it drew, then take their pictures.
Time to break a leg.
FORTY-EIGHT
A Package for America’s Favorite Granddad
Holmby Hills was the third of four districts comprising Los Angeles’s “Platinum Triangle.” Beverly Hills to the east, Westwood to the west, Bel Air to the north, Holmby Hills enjoyed some of the highest real estate prices in the continental United States. On South Mapleton Drive, well back from the street, stood the 11,500-square-foot home of America’s favorite granddad.
Hale Montgomery had awoken early that day, ten fifteen, and had already completed a few laps in the pool. Not brisk laps. Brisk laps were fifteen years ago.
In the kitchen, Nessie gave him the special basket from Liquor Locker. “Who’s it from?” he asked her.
Nessie shook her head. Her uniform had a stain on it. A reddish stain. “I don’t know, Mr. Montgomery. But I think there’s a card.”
He studied the card. A delivery from Liquor Locker meant somebody was trying to get to him directly, avoiding CAA, avoiding Mort Beider, his useless manager over at Brillstein. It was time to shitcan Beider.
Number Two Bollinger Blanc de Noirs Vieilles Vignes Françaises 1997. Never heard of it. Quite possibly it was shit. He wouldn’t know any better. In the dark, statistically, people could barely tell milk from orange juice.
He pulled out his cell phone and dialed.
“Liquor Locker.”
“Hi, this is Hale Montgomery.” He always paused right here. Giving his listener time to realize who was on the other end of the line. Realize and rejoice. Recognize that burnished baritone. The baritone that had induced three thousand women to leap out of their panties.
“Mr. Montgomery!” The voice was grateful, excited. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, I just got a nice little delivery from you guys. A bottle of Number Two Bollinger Blanc—”
“Blanc de Noirs Vieilles Vignes Françaises 1997. One of the best we carry.”
“Really. How delightful. How much does a bottle of this stuff go for?”
“Four hundred a bottle, sir. Retail, six hundred.”
“That’s a nice round sum.”
“Yes, sir. For you, personally, we could do a little better on the price, but, all in all, I think you’ll find it a very satisfying beverage. Made from pinot noir grapes. A very good morning libation.”
“Of course.” If they said so.
“Is there anything else, Mr. Montgomery?”
“No. That’ll do it. Thank you.”
He hung up before he remembered to ask who it was from. But here was the card.
From your friends at the San Pedro Film Company.
He didn’t remember any such friends. But the paper was thick, of good quality. He opened the envelope.
6356 Hollywood Boulevard Suite #317
From the desk of Jack Ireland
Dear Hale,
Hope this finds you well. We’re interested in your thoughts on this script. For you, as a starring vehicle. We think you can knock this one out of the park.
Jack
He weighed the script in his hands. Uhhhh . . . ninety-eight pages. He flipped to the end. 101. Nice. A good professional guess. He still had it. Of course he did. What was the name of this thing?
San Pedro.
San Pedro. By the San Pedro Film Company. That was a little odd. If this were San Pedro’s first film, fuck ’em. Unless they had a seven-figure offer. High sevens.
“Nessie?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Chill the champagne for me, bring it to me out by the pool when I come down. I’m going to get dressed.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Montgomery.” Good. The old man had not noticed the stain. It was cranberry sauce. But it looked like wine.
FORTY-NINE
Juan Valdez
Luis and Ernesto had arrived at Fairfax Convalescent a little after 9:00 p.m. They parked in the rear, rolled the gurney in. Like their previous delivery, they were only to speak with Moncrief.
Dr. Moncrief, as before, had everything arranged. The woman was off the drip and ready to roll. Luis scrawled something on the release form and they pulled her into the night.
Into the unmarked van she went, everything was secured. Luis told Ernesto to stay in the back. Moncrief said she was heavily medicated, don’t let her drown. Drown? In her own vomit.
The van started right up, jounced through the alley—sorry, lady—and made a left on Rosewood. Then a right on Fairfax.
Luis, with Ernesto, had picked the woman up from her place over on Rossmore a couple of nights before. She’d taken quite a beating. Looked a little better now. Not that much better.
Luis made a left at Beverly Boulevard. The Grove, and its huge parking structure, would be coming up on his right. Right on Stanley Avenue. There it was.
He turned into the parking structure, took a ticket,
circled up to the roof. He wondered where the cameras were up here. Somewhere. Didn’t matter. He’d borrowed the license plates from an old Buick. From over to his right, a pair of headlights flashed. He drove over, put his window down.
A man approached from a 700 series BMW. “Luis?”
Luis nodded.
“Park over there,” said the man, pointing to the space beside the BMW.
Luis parked, signaled to Ernesto to make ready. Luis exited the van, walked around to the sliding door. “What’s your name?” he asked the man.
“That’s not your business, Juan Valdez.”
Fair enough. It wasn’t his business. Who was Juan Valdez? Luis opened up the van. Ernesto had her unstrapped and loose.
“¿Listo?”
Ernesto nodded.
Luis turned to the man who didn’t want to give his name. “Open your doors.”
The man opened both front and back on the driver’s side. Luis leaned in to the van, grabbed her ankles, pulled her legs till they dangled. “Sit her up,” he ordered Ernesto.
Once she was up, Luis put his arms around her, stood her up, the drunken kiss position, rotated her to the open rear door of the BMW, let her carefully fall in backward. Except for banging her head, thunk, on the doorframe, the procedure went exactly as planned. She never complained. Her skin was warm. She wasn’t dead.
Yet.
But her luck had run out. Fuerte. Putting her in the hands of the BMW pinchazo would do nothing for her health, wealth, or future. The little man obviously cared only for himself.
The man was in a hurry. But he wasn’t faster than light. Luis had a clear look at his license plate and memorized it instantly. The car melted off, a big cat disappearing in the night. Luis wrote the number in his book, gave the thumbs-up to Ernesto. Now a call to Dr. Wolf to collect their two thousand dollars. Correction. Ernesto’s seven fifty.
• • •
In a small office near Seventh and Alvarado, Luis Torres handed a small piece of paper to the man behind the desk. Seven characters. The man looked at the paper, nodded. Vuelte sobre una hora.
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