I put my finger to his lips. ‘You held out the best you could.’
The paramedics rolled him gently to one side and slipped the stretcher beneath his hips and shoulders. His eyes glimmered not with physical pain but shame. ‘I didn’t hold out two minutes,’ he said. ‘I didn’t have the courage to last even that long.’
While the emergency room personnel at St John’s Hospital patched Lester together again I walked down the street to an all-night drugstore. The masks concealed the faces of his assailants but not their identities. I’d taunted Earl that afternoon. The real-estate agent had told him who I was, what questions I’d asked. Lester was payback. My imagination hummed with fantasies of ringing the bell at the gate to Burke’s estate and shooting whoever came out to answer. It made me feel better but didn’t solve any problems except the immediate craving for revenge. I bought a case of weight watchers’ liquid diet and a box of straws for Lester’s broken jaw and a canister of pepper spray for me. I couldn’t risk carrying a gun in my duffel bag but against a guy the size of Earl I’d need something more than my fists.
Two fractured ribs hurt Lester to walk no less than his compression-braced and wired jaw hurt him to talk. Still, he managed better than twenty words a step up the stairs of his West Hollywood apartment, mostly about how happy he was to secure a legal prescription for Percodan. He wanted to know why two goons should beat the hell out of him looking for negs shot by an English paparazzo. Didn’t they know Gabe was represented by Crash Foto? I took his keys and half-carried him through a spare and tidy living-room on to a four-poster bed.
‘Not the boots, clean sheets.’ He tried to bend and unlace the big-heeled Doc Martens that boosted him up to five-foot-four. I held him back with a hand on his shoulder, slipped off first one boot, then the other. He allowed me to unbutton and remove his shirt but tried to paw me away from stripping off his jeans.
‘I’ve seen plenty of naked men so don’t think you’ve got anything special to hide.’ Underneath his jeans he was all fur, like a little bear. I guided his feet beneath the down comforter.
‘You’re the first woman to see me naked since my mother.’
I was about to tell him nobody’s sex life is that bad when I noticed the Robert Mapplethorpe and Bruce Webber prints. His sex life had nothing to do with women. ‘Our loss,’ I said.
‘Right.’ He giggled until the pain stopped him. ‘If short, skinny and hairy guys ever come into style I’m going to be a ten.’
34
Like many Santa Monica apartment buildings from the early 1960s, the one in which Frank lived enclosed a central courtyard landscaped with browned evergreen hedges and an amoeba-shaped swimming pool. The Southern California fascination with space and stardom was captured by gold glitter rolled into the structure’s stucco façade and in the name, originally the Stardust Apartments until some wag reversed the central d to spell out Starbust. Frank lived on the second floor, up a set of concrete steps flanked by wrought-iron railing. It took five minutes of applying my knuckles to the wood to rouse him and when the door did snap open his body blocked the wedge at the jamb. I felt about as welcome as a Jehovah’s Witness peddling copies of Watchtower door to door.
‘You going to let me in?’ I hoisted the tray of coffee and breakfast pastry I’d brought to improve my reception.
‘Let’s go down to the pool.’
I followed him to a splash of morning sun at the base of the stairs, where he unbuttoned his Chicago Blackhawks windbreaker and collapsed into a plastic chair. For a man who couldn’t run more than fifty yards without stopping for a cigarette he showed a lively interest in sports apparel. ‘This weather is sick,’ he complained. ‘Middle of December and you can sunbathe.’
‘Next you’re going to tell me you miss the seasons.’
‘No, I’m gonna tell you we’ll all die of skin cancer.’ Frank took a muffin and cup of coffee from the tray and lit a cigarette. ‘The cops, they say anything since you gave them the disk?’
‘Not a word. You still think I made a big mistake in handing it over?’
He blew a stream of blue smoke toward the pool, homesick for the kind of breath you can see in cold weather. ‘Yeah, I do. Any chance you can see me as a really masculine-looking woman so we can sleep together?’
The blankness of his expression betrayed the joke. If he could joke about it, our friendship would survive. I said, ‘Depends on how cute you look in a dress.’
‘I’m bow-legged and hate to shave my legs so I guess that means we gotta change the rules of engagement here.’
‘How so?’
‘I don’t need you to play me for a sucker. Don’t get me wrong, I like you, but it’s not like I’m in love with you. Not saying I couldn’t be if something like that was to happen. If, say, one night we were to find each other humping like bunnies, I’d probably be the happiest guy in town. But I still have a life. You gotta give me tit for tat here.’
‘What exactly you looking for?’
‘The story. I wanna write about Danavitch and Burke.’
‘You want to steal Gabe’s story.’
‘You don’t know he was writing a story. Not really. Just as likely he was blackmailing both of them. I’ll even wait until you decide to publish the photographs. In return, I’ll answer your questions, tell you what I learn from my investigation. And if I can keep your husband’s name out of the story, I will.’
I stared at the thin layer of scum forming along the surface of the pool, wondering how I could tell him no and not lose his help.
‘I don’t need your permission for this,’ he said. ‘I saw the images on the disk. I can write the story without you.’
‘You’d do that?’
‘You know the definition of a Hollywood friend? Someone who stabs you in the front. Yeah, I’d do that. But not without warning you.’
Reluctantly, I offered my hand across the gap between our chairs. I couldn’t stop him from writing the story by refusing to cooperate but by agreeing I could influence what came out when. Frank stuffed a chunk of muffin into his mouth, wiped his hand on the breast of his windbreaker and we shook on the deal. No reason I had to tell him everything I knew. If he found out what I knew on his own, fine.
‘I want to know about Danavitch,’ I said. ‘I know what the mayor is supposed to do, but not the board of supervisors.’
‘The mayor rules the city of Los Angeles and about three million people. LA County has, what, nine, ten million people? The supervisors’ jurisdiction includes Los Angeles the city, plus another eighty incorporated cities. That’s a lot of power for just five people.’
‘Exactly what do they supervise?’
‘Just about every government service you can think of. The sheriff department, fire department, animal control –’
‘What about building permits?’
‘Even better than building permits, they control zoning. In most areas the supervisors dictate what the land is used for – residential, commercial or open space. As you can imagine, real estate development companies are major contributors to the supes’ election campaigns.’
‘So if some company wanted to build a hundred homes somewhere in the city the first step would be to get the land zoned for new residential construction, and the supervisors could do that, is that it?’
‘All it takes is a majority of three. Each supervisor runs his district like a fiefdom. In most zoning matters, the supervisors yield to the one whose district is directly impacted.’
‘Sort of like, you don’t pee in my backyard, I won’t pee in yours?’
‘Exactly. You think Danavitch was in the pocket of this real estate company you mentioned a couple nights ago?’
A cell phone rang. Frank and I reached simultaneously into our jacket pockets, a moment repeated throughout the city a thousand times a day. Frank made a face at me when the next ring sounded in my hand and not his.
‘Hey girlfriend, I hear you were looking for me.’ The voice was young but already scratc
hed at the edges. Piña’s voice.
‘Still am.’
‘You called to tell me you found the negatives, right?’
I moved to the far end of the pool and spoke softly. ‘Not yet. I want to see you again.’
‘Jus’ business or you wanna get cosy?’
‘I want to talk about the night Gabe was killed.’
‘That’s a pop’lar topic. You got competition, girlfriend.’
‘What do you mean, competition?’
‘A journalist wants to talk ’bout the same thing.’
I turned and burned a look into my colleague across the pool. ‘Is his name Frank Adams?’ Frank glanced up at the mention of his name, a ‘Who me?’ expression above the half-muffin wedged in his mouth.
‘Somebody else. I shouldn’t even tell you but I want to be honest ’bout it. Ten grand just to talk.’
‘And you’re thinking about accepting?’
‘Yeah. Maybe a little more than thinking.’
‘You’ve already accepted.’ Her no answer was all the answer I needed. ‘Why are you acting like such a … such a…’
‘Whore?’ She didn’t say the word without bitterness.
‘I thought you were Gabe’s friend, maybe we might be friends too.’
‘I got expenses, y’know?’
‘Meet me before you meet him. At least do me that favour.’
‘You’re too persuasive in person, girlfriend. If you don’t seduce me, you’ll beat me up.’
‘Then name the place you feel safe from both.’
The sound of her laugh came across the line like rustling leaves. ‘No place on earth. But y’know the Tower Records on Westwood Boulevard? I might see you there ’bout four. Maybe I’ll tell you then why I think Gabe had a partner nobody knows about.’
‘What partner?’
She hung up without answering. I slipped the phone back into my side pocket and walked back to Frank’s side of the pool to collect my duffel. ‘The area around Lake Hollywood, is that, whose district is that?’
‘Danavitch’s. His district begins in the Hollywood Hills and stretches west to Santa Monica. But where you goin’?’
‘Something just came up.’
‘You gonna tell me about Stone, Fell and Hughes?’
I walked backwards a few steps, imitated a phone with my thumb and little finger and said, ‘Later.’ Out in the car I turned off my cell phone. Like I said, if he wanted to write a story that was fine but I didn’t have to help him.
I took surface streets to Westwood and caught up on my sleep in a shady corner of the UCLA Medical Centre parking lot. At two dollars for all-day parking, it was the cheapest hotel in town if you brought your own sheets. The Caddy’s big bench seat was so comfortable I didn’t drag myself up when my wrist watch alarm sounded and didn’t get to Tower Records until a quarter past the hour. I browsed the CD stacks while I waited for Piña to show, glancing at every fresh face to swing through the door. I was disappointed but not really surprised when none of those faces were Piña’s. The easiest way to blow somebody off is to agree to meet and then fail to show. She didn’t owe me anything, at least nothing worth ten grand. She’d told me someone else was willing to pay for the story. That was favour enough. On my way past the cash register I picked up a copy of ‘Lady In Satin’, Billie Holiday’s final recording, in which gin and cigarettes have damaged her voice as much as pain and longing had long scarred her heart. When I needed her pain to feel my own, I’d buy a bottle of bourbon and listen to it.
But just at that moment I had someone else’s pain in mind.
35
I don’t believe you can judge a man by what he drinks but you can tell a lot about someone’s character and aspirations by where they choose to drink, no matter whether it’s milk or vodka filling the glass. The zinc and blue resin bar where Finley stopped after work buzzed with those perfect people you find in LA who by the age of thirty have yet to acquire a wrinkle or lose one strand of hair, as though they regularly send not just their clothes but their entire bodies out to be dry cleaned. In the crush of the bar scene they tried to pick each other up, waved about nouvelle nothings from the adjacent restaurant, or, in a few desperate, isolated instances, actually drank. Finley had entered alone and after he spoke a few words to a brunette who quickly fled I guessed that he had not come to eat and, by the pale green bottle of Pelegrino on the bar before him, certainly not to drink.
I hooked the Caddy into the back alley and found a parking slot behind a beauty salon closed for the night. A caged security light illuminated the back door and in fading arcs diminished to darkness at the far slot. It was a good spot for bad business. I touched up my face by the light on the vanity mirror, circled to the trunk and dolled myself up in the blonde wig, a Wonder Bra and tight-fitting black cocktail dress guaranteed to flick the tongue of Finley’s reptilian brain. Before locking the car I stashed the pistol under the seat and the tyre iron under the lip of the trunk, just to the side of an artist’s portfolio stocked with photos of naked blondes.
I didn’t blame the men for looking when I walked into the bar; I couldn’t have advertised myself better with neon and half-price stickers. I slipped through the crowd, deflected the offer of a drink, nudged up to the bar next to Finley and ordered a Jack Daniel’s neat, water back. I focused on the movement of the bartender’s hands as he poured the bourbon and set it down before me. Then I allowed myself to glance to the mirror behind the bottled bar and, just as I figured, Finley was staring. When he caught my eyes he smiled.
‘That’s a strong drink for a little lady.’
‘This little lady has just worked a long, hard day under hot lights and she needs a stiff drink.’
That turned his attention full frontal. Finny was designer slick from Bruno Magli foot to Armani cuffs. I could see how some women would think him attractive. He was tall enough to look up to and his eyes were nice in a lost-little-boy way and he certainly dressed like he had some money in his creased trousers. Finley was like a lot of LA guys in their mid-twenties to late thirties regarding the importance he placed in surface values, from the clothes he wore to the car he drove and the bar he patronized after work; some people do not mature into themselves so much as construct an image of who they want to become and then imitate it. Trying to hold a conversation with one of these is like talking to a twelve-year-old boy behind a Tom Cruise mask. He looks good and he sure can smile but behind that it’s all zits and caca jokes. The lenses of Finny’s Armani glasses looked so thin I wondered if they corrected not a defect of vision but image; like the Pelegrino water at his side they served no useful purpose except to suggest he was a serious person, perhaps even intellectual.
The notion that he was intellectual was promptly dispelled by his next conversational gambit, which was to ask the quintessential LA question, the one strangers inevitably ask of each another within a minute of meeting in this town. ‘What kind of job do you, I mean, what do you do?’
I told him I was a model. Men like models in the same way they like marlins and other beautiful creatures: as something to catch and stuff.
‘A beautiful girl like you, I’m not surprised. What sort of model are you, I mean, what do you model?’
‘Nothing particular,’ I said. ‘I just, you know, model.’
‘No, no, let me guess then. You’re a product model, one of those women whose hands we see holding the dish detergent or the shapely legs inside a pair of nylons. Am I right?’
I giggled like I thought he was awfully charming. ‘No, you’re wrong.’
He stepped back, took our little game as an excuse to eyeball me toes to hair. I was a little short of five foot ten and my style less than haute couture but he wasn’t interested in accuracy at that point; he wanted to get laid. ‘You’re a fashion model.’
I swung my blonde curls back and forth like a veil. ‘Wrong again. I definitely don’t model with clothes, I mean, sometimes I’ll wear heels and a garter belt but it’s not exactly like V
ictoria’s Secret if you understand what I’m saying, the underwear is not the thing.’
‘You model in the nu – I mean you, magazines, that sort of modelling?’ The question came out in spurts, like he had a sudden problem controlling his breath.
‘Magazines, yeah, I’ve done a lot of magazine work, but most of the money now is in video.’ Then I remembered that little move Piña made, where she put her hands behind her neck and stretched. So I did that too and said, ‘I guess you could say what I model is myself.’
‘Well, that’s –’ his glasses slipped down his nose in the sudden flush of hormones and with a deft movement of his forefinger he poked them back into place ‘– that’s just, yes, really interesting, just fascinating, really.’
‘The way I look at it, God gave me this body, and it’s like I’m an athlete, he didn’t give me a beautiful body to hide it away, he gave it to me to share with others.’
‘I think, yes, that’s very generous.’ The way he looked at me it was like I was an open net with no goalie, no way he could miss this one. ‘Maybe I’ve seen you?’ He closed his eyes and shook his head, afraid I’d get the wrong idea. ‘I mean, I don’t subscribe to a lot of magazines, or watch a lot of, well, videos, but maybe? I’ve seen you? In one of your spreads, I mean layouts, I mean, what would you call it?’
‘Pictorials.’
‘Pectorals! Of course! Maybe I’ve seen one of your, uhh, pictorials, though again, I don’t really look at those things, I mean I look at them but not all the time?’
I put my hand on his arm to calm him. ‘Let me, no, you wouldn’t have seen that one, but how about Playboy? October ’98? The girl-girl pictorial? I wanted the centrefold, you know, it’s good exposure when you get to be the peeoh’em – sorry, that’s show-biz speak for Playmate of the Month – but I guess just being featured is honour enough.’
‘Playboy, I mean, wow, that’s the top end of the business isn’t it? No, no, I think it’s just, fabulous, really, that you were in any part of the magazine, I mean, if you want my opinion, they really made the wrong decision there, you should have been the centrefold, but, yes, I mean, just getting in at all.’
Killing Paparazzi Page 19