by Unknown
‘This is the first time I’ve ever seen you in a suit,’ Whitcomb said to him. ‘You look like a housebroken mastodon.’
‘Good to see you, Ross. It’s been a while.’
Whitcomb sat down across from Spandau. Whitcomb had a reputation for being an asshole, but like many actors he had a soft spot for stunt men and had always been pleasant to Spandau.
‘You broke your wrist. What movie was it? A Song for the Dying? God, that director was an asshole. What was his name?’
‘I don’t remember,’ admitted Spandau.
‘I’m fucking senile now anyway,’ said Whitcomb. ‘Everything runs together. I heard you got out of the trade.’
‘It wasn’t the same after Beau.’
‘Nothing’s the same anymore,’ said Whitcomb. ‘It’s all run by limp-wristed little la-de-das with pencils up their asses. Maybe it always was. So you’re with junior there?’
‘Security work. You know how it is.’
‘Somebody threatening to kill him?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Too bad,’ said Whitcomb. ‘That’s a bad sign. At my peak, I used to get at least half a dozen serious threats a week. I knew my ratings were slipping if it dropped much below that.’ He took a hefty pull on a large scotch. ‘Nobody wants to kill you, then you’re not making anybody jealous. If you’re not making anybody jealous, then you ain’t a movie star. Of course the number of sexual propositions manages to balance it out. Nowadays nobody’s looking to kill me except my ex-wives. And myself, of course. Actors should be like old Apaches. They should know when to quit hanging around, go wander off into the desert to die when the time comes.’
‘You ever think about just doing something else? Hollywood isn’t everything.’
Whitcomb gave him a cartoon look of astonishment. ‘Of course it is. To people like us, it is. What am I going to do? Sell real estate? I was the top box office draw in this country for ten years running. Ten fucking years, straight. They’d have stopped traffic to let me crap in the middle of Sunset Boulevard, then had somebody bronze it. In one year I slept with over two hundred women, most of them actresses – my attorney actually made me keep a record, in case any of them sued. Which they did.’ Whitcomb paused for breath and let out a small belch. ‘When this place likes you, it’s like owning the world. You can do anything. Anything. People think it’s about the money. Fuck the money. You don’t need money – people line up to give you anything you want. It’s about the power, the sort of power you can’t buy and you can’t make. People just surrender it to you. It’s like being elected God. I’ve met some of the richest people in the world – they’re fans, they come up to you and say, I’d rather be you. Fuck the money. If it were about money, people’d settle for being rich instead of being famous.’
‘Then there’s the flip side,’ said Spandau.
‘What?’ said Whitcomb. ‘Everything that goes up must come down? Like me, you mean? Look, you ask me if I think it’s worth it, if I’d do it all again, knowing what I know now, fucking-A it is. Why do you think us old has-beens make fools of ourselves, trying to hang on. Nobody wants to walk away from this. And do what? Go back to reality? Reality sucks. That’s why people go to movies in the first place. Still, I’ve had a pretty good fucking run. I wonder if we’ll be able to say the same about your friend there.’
‘He’s a smart kid. He’ll be okay,’ said Spandau, though even as he said it he didn’t believe it.
‘Oh sure,’ Whitcomb continued. ‘If he can survive the gifts of booze and drugs and sex and the fact that nobody is ever going to tell him when he’s ripped his pants and his ass is hanging out. He won’t even know that people are laughing at him until it’s too late. All of a sudden there’s just nobody there. That’s how you find out. Most never survive it. They bail, they find a different line of work or they shoot themselves. The tough bastards, like me, do what they have to do and bite the bullet and hang in there. I been up, I been down. Some little pimply indie director comes and offers me a role tomorrow, I wind up winning an Oscar next March. I’m back up again. That’s the way it works. Me, I’m going to die in the saddle. Your friend won’t last that long.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘He wants to be loved, this kid. He wants it all. You can see it all over him. Me, I never gave a shit if they loved me or not, as long as they gave me what I wanted. And, God help me, I actually like acting. But I never knew an actor who survived and ended up with any respect for the industry or the goddamn fans. But him, he needs the adulation. Look at him. That look on his face. He’s eating this up. He needs it. When all the kissing stops – and it will – he’s going to crumple like a Kleenex. They’re going to pat him on the head and suck him dry. Like a thousand spiders liquefying his guts and sucking them out through tiny holes. And us miserable old fucks are going to sit back and watch him implode. They outlaw cockfighting, but that’s like Monopoly compared to this. Great fun, as long as it’s not you.’
Whitcomb stood up, his face red from alcohol and too much talking. ‘I’m too old for free booze,’ he said. ‘I should be home with my Ovaltine, trying to get my Guatemalan maid to give me a hummer.’
‘Good seeing you again.’
‘Try not to get your neck broken,’ Whitcomb said to him. ‘It’s a rough crowd you’re running with. In a town full of shits, Jurado could be elected King Turd. Watch your back, hoss.’
Spandau got up and looked around for Bobby. He spotted him and Bobby glanced back but looked nervously away. Something was wrong. Spandau made his way toward him when Jurado and two large security guards blocked his path.
‘These gentlemen are going to escort you out of here,’ Jurado said to him. ‘I don’t want any problems, so leave nicely.’
‘I’m here with Bobby,’ said Spandau.
‘Not anymore. I’ve spoken to Bobby. He wants you out of here, and out of his life. In fact, if you ever try to contact him again you’ll get slapped with a court order for stalking.’
‘Let me talk to him.’
‘You’re not getting the message. You’re history.’
Spandau held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. He started toward the door, flanked by the guards, when he broke and cut into the crowd toward Bobby. Bobby saw him coming but turned his back.
‘Bobby?’
Bobby didn’t turn around. The guards grabbed Spandau and Spandau didn’t resist. Jurado said into his ear, ‘You don’t leave quietly and I’ll personally watch these guys break your ribs. And then you’ll spend the night in jail. Party’s over, pal. I’ll walk you to the door.’
Jurado walked Spandau out onto the sidewalk. It was a moment of triumph and Jurado wanted to enjoy it.
‘What did you say to him?’ Spandau asked.
‘I explained to him how your services were no longer needed. The case is closed. Everything is taken care of. I told you I could take care of my own business, and right now Bobby is my business. Stay away from him. He doesn’t want to see you again.’
Spandau looked at the guards waiting by the entrance.
‘You want to do the kid a favor, don’t fuck this up for him tonight. This is all for him. It’s his big night.’
‘And do what? And leave him to you?’
‘What are you? His mother? His boyfriend? Is that what this is about, you’re queer for him?’
‘Something like that,’ said Spandau, and hit Jurado in the stomach. Jurado doubled and the guards were all over Spandau. Jurado nodded and they dragged Spandau into the alley behind the restaurant and went to work on him.
The dark car pulled up to the curb, deposited Spandau on the sidewalk, and drove away. Spandau had sense enough to cover his face when he landed otherwise he’d have broken his nose, provided it wasn’t broken already. Actually the boys had done a pretty professional job of it, trying not to hit him in too many places that showed. Spandau rolled over and groaned and sat up in the middle of the pavement. He got most of the way to his feet
except his sides hurt and he couldn’t quite manage to straighten up. He eased over to a bus stop and sat down on the bench. He fished around for his cellphone to call a cab. When he found it he remembered he’d turned it off at the premiere. He turned it on and it rang before he ever had a chance to dial.
‘Where the fuck are you?’ Walter said. ‘I’ve been calling for two hours!’
‘I went to a premiere. I forgot my phone was off.’
‘I need to see you right now.’
‘I don’t have my car and I’m indisposed.’
‘Tell me where you are.’
Spandau got up, hobbled over and checked the street signs. ‘Eighteenth and Central.’
‘Don’t go anywhere,’ said Walter. ‘I’ll be right there. And stay out of sight.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘Just do it,’ said Walter. ‘I’ll be there as fast as I can.’
Spandau stepped into the shadows and waited. Walter was there within ten minutes. Spandau climbed into the car.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Terry and the girl are dead. The Ventura harbor patrol found them on his boat. They’d been shot along with some other guy. Terry was fucking tied to the bed and his legs were smashed.’
At first there was the disbelief, his mind telling him he’d heard it wrong, that it was a mistake. Spandau knew it was true though. The world had taken a wrong shift, moved into darkness and an evil time, and Spandau could feel it. There was nothing to be said. The guilt and the hatred would come later, he knew.
‘The cops are looking for you. I’ll take you home, and we’ll wait for them to come to you. Meanwhile I’ve got a lawyer on standby. She’ll meet us at the station. Don’t fucking say anything until you talk to the lawyer first.’
‘It’s all my fault.’
‘That is the one thing you don’t say. Just keep your mouth shut. But you’d better tell me the story first.’
Seven hours later Spandau, Walter and an attorney named Molly Craig walked out of the police station.
‘That was good,’ said Molly. ‘It went well. You know how to keep your mouth shut. That’s a great resource. I should have more clients like you.’
‘What now?’ asked Walter.
‘They asked their questions. They aren’t satisfied, but they can’t link him to the murders and he has a solid alibi. They’ll nose around but that’ll be it. They know it wasn’t him.’ To Spandau she said, ‘You going to be okay?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Just get some rest. If they try to question you again, call me. You have my number. Relax. They haven’t got anything. They’re just going through the motions.’
She got into her car and drove away. Walter said to Spandau, ‘You had no control over this.’
‘I brought him into it. I convinced him to use the girl. It was a stupid game.’
‘Look, Terry always was a wild card. I’ve warned you about him. You told him to leave the girl alone and instead of that he goes out and fucking takes her on some fuckfest on his boat. God knows what he was doing out there. He didn’t obey orders. That’s what got him killed. He was unprofessional. He was stupid.’
They walked to Walter’s car. ‘I want you to drop this,’ Walter said.
‘Sure.’
‘Take some time off. You’ve earned it. Go fucking break your neck at another rodeo or something. Promise me?’
‘Yeah, sure, okay.’
‘You feel like doing anything stupid, you call me, right?’
‘You mean like killing myself?’
‘I mean just stupid, you asshole. You call me, right?’
Spandau went home and did not kill himself. In fact he went inside and took a shower and climbed into bed and went immediately to sleep. He had the sort of mind that postpones grief until it can be afforded. By the time he walked into the police station and lied about what he knew, Spandau no longer felt much of anything. Later probably he would drink and break things and punish himself and rage silently at the world, but for now he knew what he had to do, finally knew the last phase in the ridiculous plan he’d set in motion that got his friend killed. Terry had given it to him. Terry had done what he was supposed to do. Terry had laid Richie Stella wide open.
The ringing phone woke Spandau late in the morning. He let the machine get it, as always.
‘Mr Spandau, this is Ginger Constantine. You left your car here and we want to return it to you. Would you like us to have someone drive it there or would you like to pick it up outside the gate?’
Spandau took a cab up to the top of Wonderland Avenue. This was how fallen angels felt when they returned home. His car was sitting outside the gate, not inside where he’d left it. The keys were where Ginger said they’d be, under the seat. Before getting into the car Spandau took a long look up into the camera he knew was watching him. He wondered if Bobby felt anything, or maybe it was Bobby’s gift to feel only what was convenient. You never knew with actors. Spandau got into the car and retraced his slow, winding descent into fire and brimstone. When he pulled onto Laurel Canyon he dialed Pookie at the office.
‘Walter says that whatever you ask for, not to give it to you,’ she said.
‘It’s just a phone number, Pook.’
‘I’m sorry about Terry. I can’t believe it. It’s like . . .’ There was a long pause. ‘I dated him once, you know.’
‘No, I never knew that.’
‘We went to some club in Venice Beach where we wound up playing Dungeons and Dragons all night with a bunch of other geeks. That was the sort of thing you could find yourself doing with Terry.’
‘I know,’ said Spandau.
‘You know who did it?’ asked Pookie.
‘Yes.’
‘Are you going after them?’
Spandau didn’t say anything.
‘I give you this number,’ said Pookie, ‘and you won’t get hurt, will you? You’ll watch yourself, right?’
‘I promise.’
‘Okay then,’ she said. ‘I want you to make the bastard hurt. I want you to make him hurt really bad.’
Twenty-Two
It was the middle of the afternoon and Salvatore Locatelli sat at a table in the back of his restaurant in Thousand Oaks, arguing with the chef about how long you were supposed to cook the tomatoes in a marinara sauce. Normally Salvatore wasn’t the sort of guy anybody would be dumb enough to argue with, but the chef was his sister’s husband’s nephew and Salvatore had always liked the kid. Salvatore had helped send him to a fancy assed cooking school in upstate New York, where the kid had learned to do amazing things with scungilli but still didn’t know shit about marinara. He could also be very condescending in a college-boy sort of way. The kid said you didn’t cook the tomatoes for very long because they’d break down and lose their identity in the rest of the sauce. Salvatore said va fungool to tomatoes and their identity, his mother and his grandmother and her fucking grandmother for that matter had cooked the tomatoes until they nearly dissolved, and they made the best marinara in Europe. And unless the chef would rather end up picking tomatoes out in Bakersfield instead of cooking them in Thousand Oaks, enough with the goddamned identity crisis of fucking tomatoes and just cook them the way you’re supposed to.
Salvatore Locatelli’s world was a pleasant one. He had no real regrets in life. He had three kids who’d gone to college and still called him on weekends. He had a wife he still loved, and felt no guilt at the occasional indiscretion with younger women, since this was a perfectly natural thing for a man to do, and was doubtless the secret to his long marriage. Salvatore had no guilt about his business, which was mainly criminal, though not as criminal as it once was. He’d inherited the business from his father, Don Gaitano Locatelli, who ran Los Angeles the same way he ran his import–export business, his loan company, his three restaurants, his two car dealerships, his eight whorehouses, the burglary ring, and the variety of drug operations he’d lost count of. And this was only a few of his enterprises. Salvatore
was educated at the Wharton School of Business, but his real education had been watching his father, a genius in his own chosen profession.
One day Don Gaitano pulled Salvatore aside and carefully explained to him his philosophy of the world. Don Gaitano said that there were two paths a man could take in life. He could withdraw from the strife and competition in this world, become a priest, surrender his balls, and worry about the fate of his fellow man. There was nothing wrong with this, it was nice somebody did it, provided that you knew nobody actually gave a shit about what you were doing and you’d die poor. On the other hand, Don Gaitano went on, you could join in the fray and do the best you could do to avoid being eaten. You got to keep your balls and enjoy a family and sex and all the nice things that life had to offer. Provided you could afford them, and provided you were strong enough not to let some envious bastard take them away from you, which they would surely try to do. The key to getting by was to worry only about your family and your proven friends, to take care of them and they would take care of you. The rest of the world was on its own, and as Don Gaitano was sure that it was not the sort of world God had in mind when he set it rolling, he felt no shame that a good profit could be made by taking advantage of the confusion. At that point Don Gaitano kissed Salvatore and gave him his ring and the family business. It was a touching moment, and Salvatore could never bear telling him that the Wharton School of Business had taught him all this long before.
The restaurant was closed until six, and in the afternoons Salvatore liked to conduct business here, comforted by the smell of cooking. He owned a thirty-acre estate a couple of miles inland and an office building or three in Santa Monica but he preferred it here. Sometimes, like now, there was someone standing outside the locked restaurant door waiting to be asked in. Waiting to ask for a favor, usually. Salvatore didn’t think this guy was any different, though he had balls, Salvatore had to give him that. How he got the home number was anybody’s guess. Salvatore would have to find out. Anyway there comes this call right to Salvatore’s personal number, which maybe three people knew, and Salvatore himself picks it up, since the caller ID says unidentified and even the Pope blocks his caller ID. And this guy, this complete stranger, announces to Salvatore that he has information about Richie Stella that Salvatore would find enlightening. That was the word he used, ‘enlightening’. Salvatore said yes, he was a sucker for enlightenment, thinking that in truth there was something about this guy he liked in spite of the bastard calling him at home. Salvatore said he would send someone to meet him. The guy said no. Salvatore asked his name. And the guy told him. This set Salvatore back a little. He never expected the guy to tell him his name. Who the hell was David Spandau? And why wasn’t he worried about Salvatore Locatelli dropping him some early morning head first into the La Brea Tarpits?