The Acid King

by Maggie Abbott

  Cortez joined her at the racks as she carefully plucked out one tantalizing garment at a time and waved it slowly in front of him.

  He was just enjoying this and the clear progress in their new friendship when he heard the shop doorbell tinkle and thought, damn, this customer will interfere with the flow. But in walked another lady of the same age, and the two greeted each other with warm glee.

  “How’re you feeling today, honey?” asked the new arrival. “I won’t hug you in case it’s catching.”

  “Oh no, it’s just that migraine again, I swear I couldn’t stand up. Couldn’t sleep either. Thanks for taking care of the place. Sorry it was so quiet.”

  “Suits me, Juno, I just enjoyed reading my book and did some tidying in the back. I closed early but it was a nice change to be out of the house for a while,” she said, looking over at Cortez.

  Good, they were best friends. And now he knew why he’d lost an entire day waiting outside her house yesterday. Now all Cortez had to do was spread around his good vibes and take them both out to lunch. It was better. This way he wouldn’t be in danger of getting too intimate with Juno, now he knew that was her name, and the women would compete for his attention, so he could expand on the new relationships and get himself over to Rivkin’s place faster. Maybe even this afternoon. He was still working on the right motivation, spinning ideas as he went along. He had a lot of wasted time to make up for but he knew he mustn’t appear to be in a rush.

  Shirley was eager to know more about him, bolder than Juno, and he basked in the attention. They could tell he wasn’t a local.

  “Are you from New York?” she asked, pointing at the paper.

  “No, Florida.”

  “Oh. But interested in the market I bet.”

  “In a way. I’ve always been in broadcasting, but recently I shifted to movies and television. Formed my own production company and just got some funding.”

  “Oh, that’s really exciting,” said Juno, stepping forward.

  “Hope so. I’m here in L.A., looking for screenplays.”

  “You must meet a friend of mine. He’s a screenwriter, very imaginative.”

  “Your ex, you mean, some friend,” mocked Shirley, as Juno glared at her.

  “Oh, ignore her, I can’t stand him either, but he’s a good writer.”

  Cortez chuckled. Instinct told him they were talking about Rivkin.

  “Is it worth discussing over lunch?” he asked.

  There was a moment of awkward silence.

  “I’m inviting both of you. Any place you want,” he said, raising both arms in a grand gesture.

  Shirley laughed and Juno answered.

  “We’d be delighted.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Griffin’s Place

  Rivkin’s ominously armed door threw out an aggressive don’t come near me ray which made Cortez unusually uncomfortable and nervous even in the full light of day. He was accustomed to high degrees of danger with deliberate risk taking, but this was different.

  He examined his feeling as a professional, in order to assess how to cope with what was coming next. It was fear he felt, dark and hostile like the door. Of course. He was on his way to facing the man who’d killed someone he’d admired and wanted to emulate, a skilled agent who had somehow made a fatal error. What kind of man was behind that door, he wondered, someone who killed, ran, and did the almost impossible, managed to hide from investigation and pursuit all these years.

  Cortez forced the image away and focused on the person these two women had described to him. A struggling writer, a brilliant storyteller, a lovable if foolish man who was working on an exciting visionary screenplay. He formed a warm loose smile and crinkled his hard brown eyes as Juno pushed the door open and he met the sharp blue ones of the man at the top of the stairs.

  The shock pulled Cortez back instinctively and he was afraid he might have betrayed himself with his reaction. He saw Rivkin dart some meaningful glares at the two women then do a snap top-to-toe evaluation of him. Not a good start, Cortez thought as he stepped towards Rivkin, following the two women who greeted him with the brushing hugs and lip pursing that passed for affection in L.A. Cortez made an effort and offered a handshake which Rivkin was slow to accept.

  “Hi, Calvin is it? Calvin what? Juno said you’re a producer.”

  Rivkin was bouncing on the balls of his feet like a boxer, showing some energy, probably to make up for not being as tall as any of his three visitors. He flicked ash off his cigarette, took a pull at it and shot another blue laser at Cortez, this time squinting a bit and twitching his mouth into a very small grudging smile. He suddenly changed to a welcoming mode and ushered Cortez to a large wing armchair that dominated the small space.

  “Here, have a chair, man. Sorry, just woke up a while ago. Heavy night.”

  “Calvin Robert Cortez. Yeah, I’m from Florida, great place to raise money and make movies. Not such a good place to find the screenplays we want, so…”

  “So, you found anything yet?”

  “I’m reading a few, trying to get more meetings with good agents. It seems to be a very tight place, Hollywood. I should have spent more time and money on getting column inches for myself and my company before I got here. But I prefer to meet the writers personally. Apart from the top guys, I get the impression there are two kinds of writers, those with agents who can’t sell their scripts, and those who are looking for agents and can’t get them to open the first page. Where do you stand on that?”

  Rivkin looked wary and alert again. He obviously didn’t like being questioned and was touchy on the subject of agents. He behaved as if he were surrounded by strangers, which Cortez thought odd, as Juno was his ex-wife, and he’d supposedly known Shirley for years. It was clearly habitual paranoia, the edgy behavior of a man on the run, in hiding, guilty and on guard.

  “No agent. You got that part right. I’ve been let down by a few people I thought I could trust with my work. Which is of the most paramount importance, to me and to the world. You ever been an agent?”

  Cortez’s eyes flickered at the question, he felt it and knew Rivkin saw it too.

  “Hell no. I was in radio for many years, went through the system from sweeping the floors to disc jockey to buying the station and then a few others. They did well. I had an affinity with behind the scenes and I always had a yen to get into films, so I made the moves, the right ones, and now I’ve got the funding to go into probably three movie productions over the next two years. I want to be Jerry Bruckheimer.”

  “Yeah, and what about his partner?”

  “No, I don’t want to be him. And I don’t need a partner. What’s your story about?”

  “Action adventure. Background story’s a plot situation concerning something major that’s coming down in the future. Rock the world big time.”

  “Science fiction?”

  “No. Didn’t Juno tell you anything about it?”

  “Not a thing. She only told me you had a good story, and a movie that would bring in a big audience. That’s the basic element I’m looking for. With some intelligence in there too. You don’t have to tell me right now if you don’t want to. I could just read it.”

  “Well… that might not be exactly what I want to do right now. I’m keeping a lot of the detail under wraps. It’s sensitive. I’m the receiver and guardian of some significant vital information, which I’m using in this story, you understand. No, you don’t understand. It’s the sort of material Langley would want to know about. You know what Langley is?”

  “No, is it a movie company?”

  “You could say that, it’s a company and it’s a place. Never mind.”

  Cortez felt a veil of sweat oozing from his forehead, and tried to relax. He sat back in the chair and crossed his legs, moving his face away from the yellow flare of the lamp beside him. By contrast his mind was working fast, his voice still casual.

  “I can understand your being careful about material. There’s a lot of plagiaris
m potential in movies. Did you register it with the Writers Guild?”

  “Sure thing. You smoke?”

  “Na, gave it up years ago.”

  “No, I meant one of these,” said Rivkin, waving a rolled joint he seemed to have plucked out of nowhere. He flicked his lighter, lit up, pulled a very deep chestful of smoke, and deftly turned it around in his hand to pass it across to Cortez. It was one of those significant moments that can make or break a stake-out. Cortez took it and grinned with pleasure at the joint before drawing on it himself.

  “My, this is a welcome sight. Nice to know you, Griffin.”

  He coughed a little, and laughed. As he let go of his own shoulders, he could see Rivkin also relax and let his blue eyes twinkle.

  “Now I really feel I’m on the West Coast.”

  Rivkin accepted the tribute and waved for Cortez to take another toke. He breathed in the joint, holding it awkwardly, coughing some more as he let it all out. Cortez passed it to Juno, who took a long draw on it before passing it to Shirley.

  The atmosphere in the room noticeably changed. Rivkin was still on his feet, laughing now but still watching the other three with the eyes of a hawk. The pot had loosened them all, and Cortez figured that Rivkin was ready to open up.

  Wrong. Rivkin was suddenly behind him holding a gun to his head. Cortez was so surprised he did the unthinkable. Swiveling his head around at the touch of the metal, to look up into the blue-grey barrel.

  “You’re a spook, man, I can tell. I can smell spook. What the hell are you doing, bringing him into my house?” Rivkin hissed at Juno, who sat rigid and petrified, as Shirley gasped and grabbed a hold of her friend’s arm.

  CHAPTER 44

  Cortez stayed calm and strong. He was in known territory now and confidence flooded back into him in an instant.

  “Mr. Griffin, please. Whatever it is you think I am, I can assure you I am not. Now… Put the gun away. Please.”

  “What’s the matter with him?” shrieked Shirley. “Is he a racist? He’s sick. Juno, get me out of here. I don’t want trouble, I’ve got a husband to take care of.”

  Juno sat up straight in her chair, her stare fixed on Rivkin, her voice strong and unwavering. Cortez could see with some relief that she was familiar with this role and this scene.

  “Lennie, if you don’t put that gun away, I swear I’m never coming here again, and you know what that means. None of us are going to call the police. Just remove the gun from that man’s head and put it down on the desk. Right now, Lennie. Lennie!”

  Slowly Rivkin lowered his arm and stepped backwards, found the desk behind him and put down the gun, keeping his hand close.

  Cortez carefully let his breath out and heard his heart pounding as he got up and gingerly but expertly maneuvered his way towards the door as he spoke.

  “Let’s forget all this happened. Just pretend I never came here, right? I would have been very interested in your script but obviously we’re not compatible, if that’s what you want to call it. Hey, I thought you wanted to get your movie made.”

  Shirley was already on the way out, edging quickly past Rivkin in the narrow room and leaping up the stairs to join Cortez at the door. Juno stopped on the way to confront Rivkin and spit parting words at him, giving Cortez and Shirley the opportunity to leave.

  “You fucking fool, look what you’ve done. You blew another chance, you don’t want to get anywhere. You just want to rot here like a cockroach, afraid of the whole world.”

  “Look what you’ve done, bitch, bringing that stranger here. You swallowed his line. What do you know? I know. I can tell a government man from a mile away. You’re so gullible. You’re supposed to be protecting me, helping me with my work, my path in life. You want to find me a producer? Find me a real one.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with him, you’re just terminally paranoid and I’m sick of it.”

  “There are six ways I could tell that guy’s a fake.”

  “Yeah? Name one.”

  “Shoes.”

  “Shoes? You’re crazy. I’m outta here. Forget me ever trying to make something happen for you and your lousy writing, and stinking life.”

  “Secondly by the way he handled the smoke. Those guys don’t go near a joint, they never know when there’ll be a mandatory piss test. Probably his first time.”

  “That’s it, you lost me. Goodbye.”

  Rivkin reached out for her. She shrugged him off and ran up the stairs, heaving the door shut behind her.

  Outside, still running, she caught up with Shirley and Cortez, who was already in his car, revving the engine, Shirley standing by the window, trying to calm herself.

  “Look, I mean it,” said Cortez to Juno. “I want to just forget that whole scene. I should call the cops, I know, but that won’t help anyone. So , forget it.”

  He could see Juno was ready to jump in with a stream of excuses.

  “Don’t try to explain, he’s a drug casualty. Dangerous to you and himself. Drugs and guns are bad but he’s paranoid and that’s a triple play.”

  “I’m really sorry. I’m embarrassed.”

  “Like I said, I’m forgetting the whole thing and so should you. Now please go to Shirley’s, at least till he calms down.”

  Shirley nodded at Juno, and took her arm.

  “He’s right, Juno, you can stay in the spare room as long as you like.”

  Cortez stared hard at Juno now, making sure she got it. He was anxious to get this over and make his next move.

  “Go there and stay, don’t answer the phone, don’t even pick up your car at the store. And we’ll just write everything off except the great lunch and some pleasant shopping, huh?”

  Both the women were crying now and Shirley put an arm around Juno’s shoulder as she led her over to the car. Cortez watched their backs, and counted time, waiting for them to take off so they could all drive away together, Shirley’s car in the lead. He wanted to follow the women for a few blocks, to make certain they were far away when it all went down.

  CHAPTER 45

  Rivkin swiftly moved around his small space, taking a supply of bullets from a box on a high bookshelf, then checking a secret drawer at the back of his desk containing some papers, pulling them out and pushing it back to a concealed position.

  Next he grabbed a few bags of marijuana and packets of coke from behind a row of audio tapes, put them into a black leather satchel, like a doctor’s bag and added the gun, then opened a cupboard and took out a long black overcoat and a black trilby hat.

  He threw the coat on and arranged the hat on his head, letting loose some shiny ringlets of black hair from an attached wig, transforming him into an orthodox Hassidic Jew. Completing the outfit with a large traditional white and black trimmed scarf, and some wire-rimmed spectacles.

  Skirting around all the boxes and furniture at the back of the room, he undid locks and padlocks on the shop door, making sure not to disturb the thick surface dust, and locked everything behind him, doing the same moves with the rusty iron gate, scuffling with one foot the old papers and junk, leaving the whole area as if untouched for years. Lastly he pulled out a false beard from his coat pocket, fluffed up the hairs and attached it to his chin by hooking the ends into his false hair.

  He’d been waiting for this day. Planning for it. Now it had come.

  Rivkin hunched his shoulders, and walked briskly over to the café across the main street, took a table with a newspaper and sipped his coffee as the distant sound of police sirens echoed.

  He blithely studied the paper but his mind was racing. Did he take everything, what did he leave behind, where should he go, could he get hold of enough cash to run? Possibly forever.

  He took some deep breaths and joined the other staring eyes as three black and whites and a swat truck pulled in to cover the building he had recently vacated. His heart pumped, but he calmly turned to search out the waitress and lifted a finger for her attention. Asking for a menu. Quite happy to commit to an early din
ner.

  Rivkin wasn’t a mindfucker for nothing. He knew that now he was not only invisible on Fairfax but almost inviolable. They wouldn’t see him because they wouldn’t dare mess with one of them. Wouldn’t dare create an incident. There were three other Hassidic men having some dinner, and it was not possible to tell the difference between the real and the fake at this distance. The former King Leo had a lifetime of playing this game.

  Ordering the lox, cream cheese and scrambled egg special, he sat back and went on with his orderly planning. The truth was they’d found him. He shouldn’t have believed they’d gone away after murdering Billy. Seemed they were convinced they had the right guy then, he thought, and that was two years ago. But they’d kept the door open, someone was still on alert, always had been. But who gave him up?

  There were two new people who knew about him. Just a week ago, less, he’d told Madeleine, and she’d told Ann, he knew that now, and he’d told Ann even more. She wouldn’t let him down now he’d confided in her.

  In the distance, like a dream, he could hear the stentorian voice over a bullhorn, demanding that Mister Rivkin come out, with his hands in the air. Movies and television made these scenes almost familiar, but when they were actually happening it wasn’t any more real. It was surreal. He adopted the same kind of interest in the drama as his fellow diners, but not more. He wanted to blend in.

  Rivkin cleared his throat. He had business to take care of. He’d go straight to Ann’s place, check it out for the law first. She’d have to hide him, she’d be too scared not to. Besides, she was in love with him, he was sure of that.

  Rivkin got his fork to work on the special, savoring the tastes while watching the movement around the front exit of his home. Men were leaning over to study the locks close up, and shaking their heads over the debris in the area between the abandoned gate and door. He wondered if they had now broken into the back door and whether he should have bolted it from the inside to frustrate them.

  He shook his head in sad wisdom. He hated always being right about certain things, like recognizing the enemy, especially when people didn’t listen. But he was never wrong. That’s why he was still alive, and Billy wasn’t. As the mysterious guru writer producer, Griffin, he was never interviewed nor photographed, so Billy, his on-camera spokesman, became the target.