Scavenger hunt

by Robert Ferrigno

  "That's right, Packard was the star of Hammerlock."

  "Mr. Action Hero himself. He was hotter than Boys Town on a Saturday night in those days, and he wanted the whole world to know it. God, was I grateful when his career went into the shitter. Talk about karma."

  "What were he and Walsh arguing about?"

  "No telling. It was one of those typical Hollywood-alpha-male pissing contests from the very first day on the set." Martin took another sip of his power drink. "In your article I hope you don't just talk about the bad things that Walsh did-killing that poor girl. He was a very talented man. The Hammerlock shoot was a mess, disorganized and self-indulgent, but he shot some incredible footage. Walsh's out-takes were better than most of the crap that gets released today. I just hope you tell people the truth about him."

  "Are you going to the funeral tomorrow?"

  Martin looked pained. "I thought about it, but I can't afford to miss work, and besides-it's just kind of sad, isn't it? Drowning in a fish pond, eaten away by koi, for God's sake, which are just so… passe." He started giggling, "I know I shouldn't laugh." He laughed harder. "Forgive me, but it's this stupid movie-you spend all day making beautiful girls look like hamburger, it changes your sense of humor."

  Jimmy smiled. He didn't even have Martin's excuse.

  Martin drained the blender, stood up, and stretched. "Finish your shake, dearie. It's got yohimbe extract-your prostate will thank you."

  Chapter 10

  "You can always tell a true has-been, pilgrim-they have lousy timing," said ATM, shaking his head at the sparse turnout for Walsh's funeral. He snapped a couple of telephoto shots of a cop scratching his nuts beside a wilting floral display at the entrance to the chapel. "Walsh gets planted on the same day that a nationally syndicated talk-show queen may be getting indicted for murder, you know where the cameras are headed. Not that I blame them. Debra! caps her longtime boyfriend-that's entertainment."

  "So what are you doing here, ATM?" Jimmy looked across the grassy expanse of Maple Valley Memorial Gardens, a boneyard just outside Seal Beach, with a view of the ocean from the most expensive plots, and a view of the 405 freeway from the lowlands where Garrett Walsh was being interred. "Why aren't you camped out at the Hall of Justice, waiting for the DA to announce his decision?"

  "Major miscalculation." ATM sighed, the three cameras slung around his neck swinging gently. He was a rotund, slovenly paparazzo specializing in car crashes and Hollywood Babylon, utterly heartless in pursuit of a tabloid buck. "Not an A-list star in sight, no current ones anyway-strictly cable and movie-of-the-week-grade heat." He assessed the crowd. "No wonder the only other shooters here are amateurs who wouldn't know an f-stop if it blew them." He snorted. "Second-rate media coverage too. A couple of radio talk-show remotes and one local TV news crew. Bottom line: This funeral is a waste of film."

  "Not for you," said Jimmy, looking at ATM. The photographer was renowned for staking out the rich and famous in a food-stained sweatshirt and baggy shorts, but today ATM wore reasonably clean jeans and a black tuxedo T-shirt, his tangled hair freshly washed. "I think you knew what you were doing when you came here today."

  "Yeah," ATM admitted, scratching his belly. "Walsh-he was a stone genius. A snap of Debra! sneaking out the side door of County is good for a paycheck, but sometimes you have to show respect. Even if it costs you."

  "Does that mean you didn't try to bribe the funeral director to open the casket for a shot?"

  "Come on, give me some credit."

  "I am."

  ATM sighted through his camera. "Open-casket portrait of a floater that used to be famous? I could peddle that horror show to some European tabs maybe, but it would barely bring in what I'd have to lay out to take it." He swung the barrel of the telephoto toward the chapel. "Just for your information, never approach the funeral director-go through his assistant. It maintains deniability, and assistants have a better grasp of the marketplace."

  A dozen or so demonstrators from Voices of Victims, a throw-away-the-key advocacy group, marched around the gravesite, waving their signs at a cluster of listless goth teenagers who squatted on the nearby markers flipping them the finger. Jimmy waved to Lois Hernandez, the Orange County chapter president, and she waved back. The goths were sweating in their black outfits, capes dragging on the grass, necks layered in silver crosses and ankhs, but even in the heat they remained cheerful; death of any kind was cause for celebration, but the death of a murderer was particularly festive. Every few minutes a bored off-duty cop would order the goths and the VV demonstrators to disperse. He was ignored by everyone. The cop didn't care; he was pulling down forty dollars an hour for standing around watching the freaks. The Maple Valley officials didn't care either- any kind of publicity was good for business, and they were as bummed out about the arrest of the talk-show diva as everyone else.

  "I'm going to check this out," ATM said, heading toward the demonstrators. "With any luck, maybe it'll turn into a riot."

  Jimmy watched him hurry down the grassy slope, then turned to see Rollo leave the chapel and walk rapidly toward him. The flowers and funeral expenses had been picked up by the Directors Guild, a legal obligation that hadn't entailed any current members showing up for the service. Jimmy had been disappointed when he found out who had paid the bill-he had hoped it would be the good wife. Or even an anonymous benefactor he could have tracked down.

  "I signed the guest book," said Rollo, oddly dapper in a blue suit-Armani, it looked like, one of the latest shipments of merchandise to fall off a truck at the precise instant that Rollo was there to catch it. "You wouldn't believe some of the nasty things people wrote in the book, Jimmy. What's wrong with people?"

  "They think the dead can hear them. Evidently so do you."

  Rollo slipped a business envelope out of his inside jacket pocket. "I brought you a surprise. Don't open it here."

  Jimmy tore open the envelope and pulled out five pages of telephone numbers with dates and time of day listed. He stared at the billing records. "How did you get these? Jane wasn't sure she could get prepaid records even with a court order."

  Rollo blushed. It made him look about thirteen. "These are only the records for the cell phone he had when-when we found him. No way to pull up any calls he might have made from another line."

  Jimmy riffed through the list. "You're amazing."

  Rollo pushed back his glasses.

  "How much do I owe you?"

  Rollo shook his head. "I don't know what you're up to, but I know you're trying to help Mr. Walsh." He stuck a finger under his glasses and wiped an eye. "Someday people are going to realize what a great man he was."

  Jimmy slipped the records into his pocket.

  "I'm going home and watch some movies. This is a bad day at Black Rock, man."

  Jimmy waited until Rollo disappeared into the parking lot before walking over to where Mick Packard was being interviewed. Jimmy had been on his way to talk to the actor when he ran into ATM, and he had kept Packard in sight ever since. He was interested in Packard, but he was even more interested in the woman hovering just behind him, keeping a discreet distance.

  Packard was at least twenty pounds heavier than Jimmy remembered, his extra chin badly hidden by a turtleneck.

  The interviewer was a freckle-faced redhead who kept thrusting the microphone at Packard's face. Packard had to pull back before he spoke. The cameraman was equally young, a well-built jock in shorts, muscle-T, and backward ball cap. The camera atop his shoulder had FULLERTON STATE UNIVERSITY stenciled on the side.

  Jimmy pulled out his reporter's notebook as he approached. The woman with Packard was in her early thirties, a beautiful brunette, long-limbed and tan, wearing a slinky charcoal-gray dress and huge dark sunglasses. Packard was shorter in person than onscreen, his thinning hair slicked straight back.

  Packard put his hand over the microphone. "I'll be right with you," he said to Jimmy. He acted like Jimmy should be grateful.

  "Hey, this is m
y interview," the redhead said to Jimmy.

  "Take your time," said Jimmy.

  "I don't want you listening in to my questions," said the redhead.

  "Don't fight, boys," Packard said beneficently. "There's plenty of me to go around. Just ask your questions," he said to the redhead. "I'm sure this gentleman will respect your professionalism." He glanced at Jimmy. "Who are you with?"

  "SLAP magazine."

  Packard brightened, then turned to the redhead. "Let's wrap this up." He smiled into the camera. "I had intended-make that, I had hoped that Garrett Walsh and I would have the opportunity to work together again. He was a flawed man, a haunted man, but I considered him a spiritual brother in arms, another Hollywood outlaw, just like myself." He nodded to the camera, walked over to Jimmy, and threw a mock karate chop at him. He looked annoyed when Jimmy didn't flinch, but quickly covered. "Nice to meet you. I didn't catch your name."

  "I'm Jimmy Gage."

  "Great. Fabulous. Shall we get started? It's Jimmy, right?" Jimmy smiled at the woman in the gray dress and sunglasses. "We haven't been introduced. I'm Jimmy."

  "Hello," the woman said, her voice soft, a little tremulous. "I'm Samantha Packard." Her eyes were invisible behind the dark glasses.

  "Hey," said Packard, "are you interviewing me or my old lady?" If it was supposed to be a joke, none of them believed it. "So you want to start with my new movie, or you want me to spout off on Hammerlock?"

  "Let's go with Hammerlock," said Jimmy, watching Samantha Packard as he wrote in his notebook. "That must have been an interesting shoot. Big budget, and Walsh had just won a couple of Academy Awards-"

  "Those awards are just popularity contests. I was the number-one box-office star in the U.S. the year before-that's all that counts," blustered Packard. "Walsh knew that. He was a rising star, but I think I intimidated him. I get that a lot."

  Jimmy dutifully entered the information in his notebook under Packard's watchful eye.

  "Is this going to be a main feature in SLAP?" demanded Packard. "My agent said I should always insist on a cover." He patted his shellacked black hair. "What the hell, I'm doing this one for Garrett."

  "Were you and Walsh friends before Hammerlock, or did you get close during the shoot?" Jimmy saw Samantha Packard pull a pack of cigarettes out of her tiny purse and light one up, inhaling as though it were the last breath she was going to take.

  "We knew of each other, of course," said Packard, keeping his chin high as he looked around, checking to see how many in the crowd were noticing him. "But it was only when we got on set that things started to click. You have to remember, Walsh was still new to the big leagues. I like to think that I showed him the ropes, helped him to stand up to the studio. I don't think he would mind me telling you this, not now, but he used to ask my advice on blocking and dialogue. I was happy to help, of course."

  "Of course." Behind Packard's back, Jimmy could see Samantha Packard turn away, her hand shaking as she brought the cigarette to her mouth again.

  "Where's your photographer?" asked Packard. "It's Jimmy, right? You want to do something here, Jimmy, or should we arrange for a photo session later?"

  "Later is fine. I'm traveling light today." Jimmy took a slow pan of the cemetery. The victims' rights demonstrators were circling more slowly now, beaten down by the heat and the lack of TV news crews. The goths had taken off their capes and were fanning themselves. At the buzzing sound of a prop airplane, everyone looked up-maybe they thought it was going to be some flyboy supporting the cause, but it was just a Piper Cub towing an AGAVE GOLD TEQUILA banner along the beach. Jimmy turned back to Packard. "I heard there were a lot of problems on the shoot."

  "Studios never really understand talent," said Packard. "They understand money, that's all, and schedules and contracts-"

  "I was told that you and Walsh didn't really hit it off."

  "Walsh was okay. He and I-giants always bump shoulders. That doesn't mean we didn't respect each other." Packard squinted at Jimmy. It was the same look that usually preceded Packard breaking somebody's neck or throwing them down a flight of stairs. On film, anyway. "Maybe we should talk about my new movie? It's called The Holy Killer, and I think it's really going to change the way a lot of people in this town think about me. So far we haven't gotten an American distributor, but that's just the way it works. You buck the system, you maintain your integrity as an artist and a man-you get knifed in the back. That's why I chose to work overseas. Foreigners-they have an appreciation for integrity."

  Jimmy wrote down integrity and underlined it three times for Packard's benefit. "My understanding is that you and Walsh had some pretty intense arguments." He sneaked a look at Samantha Packard, but she had her back turned toward them. "What did you fight about? Integrity?"

  "Artistic differences, that's all. No big deal."

  "I heard you actually broke down the door to Walsh's trailer."

  "Who told you that?"

  "Just doing my research."

  Packard gave Jimmy a little shove. "Was it Danziger? That fucker hated my guts from day one. He blamed me for everything that went wrong on Hammerlock. Said I had bad chemistry, which was bullshit, because I was only on steroids for a few months, under doctor's orders, for inflammation… or something." He glared at Jimmy. "Is Danziger the one telling tales about me and my chemistry?"

  "You have a reputation for having a temper. So did Walsh," said Jimmy, baiting him. "I don't think it's some dark secret that you might have had words on the set. I just was curious to know what you were arguing about."

  "You write that I'm difficult to work with, I'm going to break your fucking face," Packard said quietly, barely moving his mouth. "Is that what you're really doing here? You writing a hit piece on me?"

  "I'm writing a piece on Garrett Walsh."

  "I'll take you out if you hurt my career," said Packard. "I'm the last of my kind-the last man in Hollywood that does what he promises-and I'm promising you, fuck me over, and I'll fuck you up."

  Jimmy nodded as he wrote in his notebook. "How do you spell fuck?"

  Packard stalked away.

  Samantha Packard turned around, covering a smile, her eyes still hidden. She flicked her cigarette onto the grass, then slowly followed her husband toward the nearest camera.

  Chapter 11

  His phone was ringing again, but Jimmy still ignored it, focused on the eight-by-ten publicity photos of Samantha Packard on his desk. He'd picked up one from about eight or nine years ago, when she had a minor role in a thriller called Bloodletting. He barely remembered the film, and he didn't remember her being in it at all. Eight years ago… if she was the good wife, that was around the time she would have met Walsh. He peered at the woman in the photo. Her hair was shorter then, and even though she was beautiful, she seemed awkward, not really comfortable with the camera. Real stars bloomed for the lens. Maybe Samantha Packard bloomed in private. He laid the photo back on the desk.

  After Walsh's funeral Jimmy had run a quick search on Mick and Samantha Packard. Packard was a martial artist and rumored ex-CIA operative. He had been hot box office at the tail end of the action-film era, but five consecutive flops had knocked him off the Hollywood radar screen. Now forty-five years old, no longer even a punch line on late-night TV, his screen output was limited to direct-to-video releases and Japanese commercials, where he still had a cult following. Samantha Packard was thirty-one, a marginally talented actress whose screen credits were limited to films in which her husband starred.

  Jimmy straightened the publicity photos and lined them up. Mick and Samantha had been married ten years and had no children. Twice in the last five years the tabloids had done stories about their imminent divorce, but no papers had ever been filed. He was going to have to move cautiously. Mick Packard had been on full alert yesterday; if he got spooked, somebody could get hurt. Starting with the good wife. Samantha Packard looked back at him from one of the photos, her face softly lit, her eyes expectant. Jimmy had to turn away and
stare out the window, but there was nothing in that clear blue sky that brought him any relief.

  People worked all around him in the main editorial office of SLAP, chattering away, fielding calls, pounding their keyboards-they barely registered. He hadn't yet gotten started on the list of Walsh's cell phone calls that Rollo had given him at the funeral yesterday. The list was five pages of single-spaced calls without referents-just date, time of day, and duration. Jimmy was going to have to go through the reverse directory number by number, then call up and find out who Walsh had talked to, turn on the charm and the lies. He smiled to himself. It was terrible the things he was good at.

  He looked at Samantha Packard's photos. If Jimmy had believed in prayer, he would have prayed that when he dialed one of the phone numbers on Walsh's list, Samantha Packard would answer. But Walsh wouldn't have been that direct, even if he knew her number after all those address changes. Jimmy whisked the photos into a stack with one sweep of his hand, slid them into his notebook, and turned to the computer. His phone rang again, but he kept typing, logging in.

  Twenty minutes later Jimmy was still intent on the computer screen, scrolling through the California Department of Corrections database. Three hundred and eighty-nine Shafers had been processed through the system in the last twenty years, but only six had Harlen as a first or middle name. He accessed three files, but none of them fit the profile for the man Detective Katz said was Walsh's last visitor. Number four, Maxwell Harlen Shafer, didn't look too promising either.

  "Jimmy?" Mai stood beside his desk, slim and straight as a needle, a first-generation Vietnamese immigrant, all eyes and ears and brains. No telling how long she had been standing there. "You are not answering your phone."