by Lankford, Terrill Lee; Raphael, Lev; Parker, T. Jefferson
"The loft we used to use as a studio?"
"Uh-huh. I had a house in Brentwood but I picked up a divorce last year and I gave the place to her."
"Sorry to hear that."
"I'd only known her a year. . . . It was impulsive."
He sounded genuinely hurt, not just by the fact that it hadn't worked out, but that he had been foolish enough to think that it would.
We went through a thick padded doorway, down another long hallway to a massive shipping warehouse that made Paul Cutshaw's place look infinitesimal by comparison. Racks and pallets of porn mags, films, and tapes were stacked to the thirty-foot-high ceilings.
"But why would you go back to the loft?" I asked. "You must be loaded."
"It's just temporary until I find a new place. I kept the loft after you split so I could use it for downtown shoots. It's a nice location. I like the neighborhood."
"I hear a lot of artists have moved in around there."
"Yeah. It's become a very hip area. Can you believe it?"
A delivery man was unloading cases of video cassettes onto the warehouse dock from the back of a step van. He stopped and approached David.
"How you doin' today, Mr. Rink?" the man asked. He handed David an invoice on a clipboard.
"Great, Sal. And you?"
David checked the invoice against the number of boxes on the dock.
"Pretty good. My back's been acting up again."
"That's a bitch."
"Listen, we had to short you two cases of blank cassettes."
"Again?"
"I'll get 'em over to you first thing in the morning."
"Your company is slowing down my operation here."
"I'm real sorry. We just can't make 'em as fast as you need 'em. You guys are keeping us turnin' twenty-four hours a day."
"Guess we'll have to start manufacturing blank cassettes, too, eh, Nick?" David said to me as if we were still partners. He was having this guy on and strutting his stuff for me at the same time.
"Don't do that, Mr. Rink," Sal said. "We'd lose our best customer."
"Then tell Russell to get off his ass and fill our orders when we need them."
"You got it, Mr. R."
David signed the invoice and handed it to Sal. He noticed Sal eyeing the new pom magazines on the sample rack nearby.
"Want some reading material, Sal?"
Sal seemed a little embarrassed by the implications.
"My brother's in the hospital. It might cheer him up."
"Help yourself."
"Thanks, Mr. Rink."
Sal pulled the top copy from the invoice and handed it to David, then he began picking through the sample mags. David and I continued walking through the warehouse.
"That's the funny thing about this business, Nick," David said. "Everybody wants a look. Everybody is curious. Everybody takes if they can. Everybody is fascinated to see the fucking, but nobody wants to admit to the appeal. It's so hypocritical."
"I don't think the whole world revolves around porn," I said.
"You're naive."
"There are plenty of people who live without it."
"They may live without it, but only because they haven't stumbled across the right material yet. Everyone is turned on by something. Leave anyone alone in a room with the right magazine or video and they'll be grabbing themselves in less than five minutes. Anyone. I don't care if it's the pope. Then they'll be hooked. Sex rules the universe. Five billion customers can't be wrong."
"You don't think much of people, do you?" I asked.
"I love people. They're my business. Shit, they're my product . . . but you gotta face facts. Fucking's what it's all about. That's what makes the world go round. I just like to be up front about it."
"You've gotten awfully cynical in your old age."
"This used to be your bread and butter, too," David said. He was starting to get angry again. "When did you get religion?"
I laughed at myself and how ridiculous I must have sounded.
"Probably when they were reading me my rights," I answered.
David relaxed a little. An understanding smile creased his face. "That'll do it," he said.
We walked in silence for a few moments and went through a doorway into a large room filled with printing presses. They were all working, every single one of them. Slick color pages rolled off the presses filled with consenting adults doing what consenting adults do. No kids, no animals, nothing kinky, nothing illegal, just pure clean fucking. David nodded and greeted his printers, a multiracial mix of old-timers and young trainees. They all seemed happy to see him.
"As you can tell, I'm very hands-on around here," David said over the clattering of the presses. "This is a big operation and I don't have much of a life outside of this building, but I like it. I've got a good crew. They're very loyal."
That was a direct hit. He was practically spitting on me and my lack of "loyalty" a decade ago. I knew we were closing in on a conflict. I decided to go for broke and try to get anything I could from him before I got tossed out on my ear.
"Nate Boritzer told me you bought the last photo session that Candice Bishop posed for."
"Just this morning. You must have found out before I did."
"Could I take a look at the chromes?"
David had heard enough. He snapped. "Look, what do you really want? What are you trying to get at?"
"Nothing," I said, a little startled at the bluntness of his attack. "I'm just trying to find some answers."
"What the hell kind of answers do you think you'll find in a bunch of porn chromes?"
"I don't know. Maybe some clue to her state of mind or who she was hanging around with. I'm totally in the dark, looking for whatever leads I can find."
"So you think I'm some kind of lead in your murder investigation?"
"Of course not. It's just that you bought the pictures."
"I buy pictures all the time. It's what I do for a living. What business is it of yours?"
I decided not to mention to David that I saw him at Mark Pecchia's party Friday night. Instead I tried to play on what little positive history I might have with him.
"Shit, David, I'm accused of killing that girl. Don't you want to help me?"
"Ten years ago you walked out on our partnership and broke all communication with me, now all of a sudden you show up asking for favors. You're unbelievable!"
"You know why it had to be the way it was."
"You didn't tell me shit. Just that you were in trouble and had to split."
"I couldn't give you details. I didn't want you dragged into the thing."
"So why the big change now?"
"I thought it had been long enough. I thought we could be civil about it all. I thought we could put it behind us."
"You didn't think too hard, did you?"
"I guess I was wrong."
"I guess you were."
I headed for the door. "See you," I said.
"Good-bye, Nick." There was a very bitter, very satisfied tone to David Rink's voice. He mumbled something to himself as I left, but it was drowned out by the gnashing and grinding sounds of the printing presses.
2
I went to a local bar to cool off. The encounter with David Rink had gone about the way I figured it would. Badly. I had learned nothing. I wasn't even sure what I was trying to discover. The pictures of Candice Bishop that Nate Boritzer had sold to David Rink could be of little consequence. They would just be more shots of her doing what she did best. I was using them as an excuse to revisit the past; something I had been working diligently to avoid for more than a decade. It was surprising how little had changed in that time. Sure, stars had risen and fallen, people had passed away, new people had entered the fray, technology had revolutionized certain aspects of the business, but the game was still basically being played the same.
The bottom line was that I hadn't gained any ground. I was no closer to extricating myself from this mess than when I first began snoop
ing around. I had just gotten a few ass whippings for my trouble.
I kicked back two Tanqueray and tonics and felt a little better. I began to develop a renewed sense of confidence and a strange sensation of blind optimism. While I hadn't truly discovered anything specific in my travels, the alcohol convinced me that I might have accomplished some things nevertheless. I had stirred the pot. If anything was going to come up from the bottom, I had done my bit to loosen up the stew.
I left the bar and headed over the hill to my office. I was in the mood to have a conversation with Lou. When I got to the parking lot I saw that Lou's Bentley was in its spot. The master was in.
I entered Lou's outer office and approached Iris, our secretary. Iris was cute, in a baby-fat sort of way, and about twenty years younger than Lou's long-suffering wife, Katie. Lou and Iris had been having an affair for the last six months, but neither of them would admit to it, even to me. I had respected the deception, not just in deference to Lou and Iris, but to Katie as well. Katie was a classy woman. I had spent much time with Lou and Katie when Lou and I first partnered up. Katie had earned my respect on many levels. I wouldn't feel right keeping a verified indiscretion from her. She was one of the few people I had met in L.A. who had a sense of honor. I could not actively conspire against her, even for Lou and Iris. Occasionally Lou would manage to sneak in a bit of model action on top of it all, cheating on his wife and his mistress simultaneously, but he never flaunted it and I did my best to look the other way.
"Hi, Iris," I mumbled as I approached her desk.
"Your accountant has been calling you for two days," she said. "He said there's going to be serious trouble if you don't get some money into your accounts immediately."
"Trouble?" I said. "That's funny." I made a lot of money, but I spent a lot as well. The wolves were always a few feet away from the door, but now I had bigger wolves to worry about. The kind of wolves that could put me in jail. I had trouble my accountant couldn't even comprehend. At the same time, I needed to stay flush to keep my attorneys happy. Their retainer had taken a big chunk out of my savings, but it was only a drop in the bucket compared to what was ahead.
"Bob Tate called, too," Iris added. "Said it was important."
"Get him on the phone for me, please."
I went into my office and waited for Iris to buzz me. I hadn't even gotten seated when the intercom blared.
"Bob Tate on line two," Iris said through the fuzzy speaker system.
I picked up line two and sat behind my desk rigidly.
"What's up, Bob?" I asked with some trepidation.
"It's not looking good, Nick," he replied in a too-friendly tone. "They're building a good case against you. I've got a team going over everything with fine-tooth combs, but I wouldn't bank on any loopholes pulling us out of this one. I want to ask you something, man to man, off the record, but within the protection of our attorney/client privilege. . . . "
"I'm innocent, Bob," I said, anticipating the question. "I did not do it. If I did, I would tell you right now. I mean it."
"You understand why I had to ask, don't you?"
"Yes."
"In a way it would be easier to defend you if you were guilty. At least we'd know what we were dealing with. We could work out an acceptable plea bargain. This kind of thing, you'd get about five years nowadays if you plead out."
"Sorry I can't accommodate you. I didn't do it."
"You ever hear of Dale Holiday?"
"Who hasn't?"
"I want you to go see him. His office is in Brentwood. Can you be there at four?"
I checked my watch. It was almost three.
"Yeah. Give me the address."
I wrote it down on a piece of scrap paper.
"Nick, just tell Dale the whole story. Don't leave anything out. If he can't find out who did it, no one can."
Bob was trying to sound optimistic, but there was an underlying tone of desperation about it all.
"Thanks Bob," I said. "For everything."
"That's what we're here for. Stay out of trouble, okay, buddy?"
"I'll try."
I hung up and looked at the scrap of paper with Dale Holiday's name and address on it. If they were bringing this guy in on this I really was in trouble.
I headed for Lou's inner office.
"Nick, don't go in there yet," Iris said nervously. "He's on the phone—"
"Screw that noise."
I flung the door open and entered. Lou was on the phone. He looked up at me and showed me how irritated he was with a flick of his middle finger. I slammed the door shut behind me and smiled wickedly. I had caught him in the act.
"Gotta go, John," Lou said into the phone. "Don't forget, eight a.m., ten twenty-two Melrose. We're counting on you. . . . Right. See you tomorrow." Lou hung up the receiver.
"I hope you're making good money off my jobs," I said.
"If I could get you a gig, believe me, I would," Lou said. "I'm losing my shirt farming out our assignments."
"Then put me back to work."
"I could get more business for you if you had leprosy than I can right now. Between the girl and your little incident at the strip joint you're getting quite a reputation as a psycho. Plus I've had the cops on my ass every day since this started and I'm getting bored with the harassment."
"They can't do that."
"Well, they can and they are. That cop, Di Bacco, has it in for you in a bad way and it's eating into my racquetball game."
"So fucking sorry."
"Then do something about it."
"Like what? You think I like being in this mess? We're partners, man. I should be getting a little support from you."
"Partners, shmartners," Lou grumbled. "This business is about to go down the shitter and I'm not going to lose my ass 'cause you can't keep your dick in your pants."
"You're a fucker, Lou. A real fucker."
"Look, Nick, I'm sorry you're in this jam, but there's nothing I can do about it. I've got bills too. My life can't stop just because you're in a little trouble."
"A little trouble? I may be going to jail!"
My face was draining of color. I was sobering up fast and the truth was sinking in now. I wasn't going to get out of this mess. I was ruined and soon I wouldn't even have my freedom. I was in the middle of a terminal nightmare. Lou waved it all away with a simple gesture of his hand.
"You've got the best attorneys in town," he said. "They won't let you go to jail."
I sat down on his couch and stared at the floor. I felt the last bit of energy and courage float out of my body. I was beaten.
"They're about to run out of legal hocus-pocus," I said. "And when they do, I'm going down."
3
I arrived at Dale Holiday's office at a little after four. He was waiting for me. Dale Holiday is a small man with a ferret face and an equal talent for digging up shit. He is widely known as the "fixer to the stars," a private investigator who can place you in Hong Kong on the night you supposedly molested six young boys or sacrificed a goat on your neighbor's lawn. Holiday had been involved with "secret" investigations on some of the biggest Hollywood cases of the second half of the twentieth century. Most of his clients were still walking the streets as free citizens.
Dale Holiday was in his late fifties, but looked a good ten years younger. The amount of frantic energy that he put into his job seemed to be keeping him a few steps ahead of Father Time. He shook my hand with an enthusiasm that most people reserve for their first meeting with the pope or Elvis.
"Nice to meet you, Nick," he said excitedly. "Rough circumstances, I know, but what the hell? Marty and Bob have said a lot of nice things about you. Want coffee? A Coke?"
"No thanks."
"Have a seat."
I sat on a brown leather couch. The office was straight out of the forties. Redwood paneling and rich leather furnishings. The room had a claustrophobic, but luxuriant, feel about it and it smelled of fresh cedar, probably delivered via aerosol can.
"Tell me the story," Holiday said, sitting on the corner of his desk. "Give me everything, no matter how embarrassing or confidential or incriminating. I have a law degree and an affiliation with Marty and Bob, so we are protected by attorney/client privilege. Think of this room as your confessional. Everything you say here is protected by God and me."
He said "me" as if he was being generous to God by giving him first billing. Over the next twenty minutes I relayed the story to him in graphic detail. He had heard much of it from Smith and Tate, but I had details for him that the attorneys hadn't heard yet. I told him of my two neighbors on either side of my house, Robert Momberg, the soap actor who had been working late and getting up early as of late, and Teddy Vincent, the musclebound has-been who liked to freebase and beat women and was still harboring a grudge against me for having him busted on spousal abuse charges.
Holiday grew more and more excited as I gave him leads and suspects. He scribbled it all down furiously in a small reporter's notebook that he could carry in his breast pocket.
I told him about Candice's boyfriend, Angelo, and her girlfriend, Patti, from Texas. Then we discussed David Rink and Nate Boritzer, although their connection to any of this seemed tenuous at best, and I mentioned my suspicions about Mark Pecchia, although I wasn't exactly sure what I was suspicious about. They were all suspects as far as I was concerned. Even Jennifer Joyner. How could I be sure she wasn't some crazy stalker who freaked out and killed Candice out of some kind of jealous rage?
When I finished my bizarre burst of stream-of-consciousness paranoia Dale Holiday flipped his notebook over and laid it on the desk.
"I've got my work cut out for me," Holiday said with a ferret smile. "Actually it looks pretty simple."
I sat forward in amazement, my heart starting to race. Had this guy figured it out already? No wonder all the major talent agencies in town had him on retainer.
"Tell me," I said, hoping he could bring this nightmare to an end.
"Teddy Vincent," Holiday said. He didn't seem to see the need to elaborate.
"What makes you say that?"
"I've got a file on him that would choke Linda Lovelace. He's a bad boy. Sounds like a dream date for your girl."