by Reid, Joseph
Now I got to return the favor, pressing her with my eyes. “Weren’t you angry at her for holding up your movie?”
“Angry? Sure, I was angry. For the day or so it took us to round up a handful of nearly as talented, more-committed replacements. I mean, my Lord, Mr. Walker, do you have any idea how hard it is to get a fucking movie made? If I let a star dropping out send me off the deep end, they’d have carted me off to the loony bin a long, long time ago. Do you know what we ended up turning on that picture?”
“Turning?”
“We originally had a twelve-million-dollar budget. Dealing with Max and then replacing her pushed us three million dollars over. But with Ayannah Morris, Max’s replacement, the film grossed thirty-eight million dollars domestic, plus another twenty-nine international. A four hundred percent margin is nothing to sneeze at, Mr. Walker. Even in this business. So yes, while I was quite angry, I managed to get over it.” Irvine took a long sip from her iced tea.
“You said some fairly threatening things to Max.”
“I did?”
“You don’t remember telling her you’d ‘end’ her?”
“I might have.”
“So you can see how someone might view that as a threat.”
“To end her movie career, sure. To kill her? Hardly.”
I continued to stare at Irvine, and her eyes dropped back to the table again. Her long nails clickety-clacked against its glass top as she drummed her fingers. “I should have known better,” she said.
“About what?”
She looked up at me again—despite their color, her eyes seemed on fire. “Do you have any idea how hard it is dealing with child stars? The lengths we have to fucking go for them?”
I gave her a one-shoulder shrug. “Enlighten me.”
“Normal actors have an agent. You negotiate the contract with them; then the actor shows up and does his or her thing. They might have some special requests, but it’s all about leverage. The bigger the star, the more they can get because they’re bringing more to the table. But kids . . .” Irvine let out a chuff and shook her head.
“What’s the problem with kids?”
“Where do you start? I mean, just to be able to hire them, the studio has to have a special permit from the state. Then, before any arrive on set, we have to get a special permit from the Department of Labor for every single one of them. Just to get that permit is a giant pile of paperwork, including educational records and so on. And at any point, the state can send someone to come inspect us and shut down production if we’re doing it wrong.
“Once we actually get the kids on set, then the fun really starts. For someone Max’s age, guess how many hours a day we get to shoot?”
I shrugged. “Eight?”
“Five if it’s during the school year, seven if it’s not. We have to have a studio teacher available to them, one specially certified teacher for every ten kids. Plus, a parent or guardian has to be present for every second of work. Not just filming, but hair, wardrobe, makeup, PR, everything. And a SAG rep sits on every set, just waiting to blow the whistle if we do something wrong.
“Did I mention travel to and from locations counts as work time? Did I mention the twelve hours that have to elapse between the end of one workday and the start of the next? Or the files I have to keep on all of this crap for three years after the project is completed, just in case I get audited by the state?”
Irvine’s voice had risen to a crescendo, and now she looked off toward the horizon again, as if searching in the distance for some sort of refuge from it all.
“So you did all that for Max?”
“Absolutely. We had to, just to get the project started. Then the little diva herself showed up.”
“How was she?”
“Difficult.”
“Difficult how?”
“Well, she was only with us for about five minutes. But in that short time, she was surly. Wanted what she wanted and thought it was everyone else’s job to get it for her. Penny-ante bullshit, but it’s still a pain in the ass. Then you throw Daddy in on top of it all . . .”
“What was wrong with him?”
“Oh, he comes out here dressed like some slick Silicon Valley CEO and thinks he’s going to run circles around my thousand-dollars-an-hour lawyers. Honestly, he was much worse to deal with than Max. Talent’s almost always difficult, but no one likes an asshole lawyer.”
I cracked a smile. “Aren’t they all assholes?”
“Absolutely. But there are two kinds, you know. Some are doing right by their client. They drive a hard bargain, but that’s their job. You may not like them, but you can respect them. Then there’s the ones like him. I mean, talk about not knowing the business—what kind of showbiz father doesn’t have a Coogan account set up by the time their kid gets on set?”
“A what account?”
Irvine took a sip of iced tea and swallowed it slowly. “A Coogan account. Named after Jackie Coogan.”
I shook my head.
“Coogan was a child star back in the twenties. He was the little kid in that Charlie Chaplin picture. Anyway, Coogan woke up on his twenty-first birthday to find that his parents had spent every nickel he’d made.”
“What happened?”
“He did what anyone in Hollywood would do—he sued. Sued his parents. Didn’t get much out of that, but they passed a law with his name on it to protect kids’ earnings, and it’s been in place ever since.”
“So what’s a Coogan account?”
“Back when he was working, wages belonged to the parent. The Coogan law changed that, made the parents fiduciaries, with an obligation to look out for their kid. Plus, it forces them to create a special account, a blocked trust the parents can’t access for themselves. Fifteen percent of the kid’s wages have to get deposited into that account, and California law says we can’t issue a paycheck until it’s established by the bank.”
“But Drew didn’t have one for Max?”
“Fuck no. He didn’t have that, which is one of the most basic things anyone who knows anything about entertainment would know. But then he takes our employment contract and starts trying to rewrite it. I mean, he wanted to work over every section. My lawyers were pulling their hair out—he was calling them every five minutes.”
“Max and her father gave you that much grief, and yet you still didn’t feel the urge to do anything about it?”
Irvine’s voice picked up a bit of a snarl. “Oh, I did something about it. Make no mistake. I fired her ass before she ever made a dime. I turned around and replaced her. And after that, I made damn sure to throw a large, extravagant party for all my producer friends, whom I told all about my dealings with Max Magic and her lawyer father.”
“What was their reaction?”
Irvine’s face relaxed again into an easy smile. “Sympathy. For a moment. But their general response was to toss back a big slug of whatever they were drinking and think to themselves, ‘There but for the grace of God go I.’ Because every last one of them has horror stories like that. We take risks on talent because talent is what makes the magic happen. And, if you’re talented enough, you get several shots. I hear Max is about to start work on another project very soon.”
I stared at her, not blinking.
“What, you think I’m trying to kill her out of jealousy? Because she’s making this other movie instead of mine?”
“It crossed my mind.”
“What I think you’re missing, and where I think you’re giving Max’s imagination about my power and influence too much credit, is that I really have no need to do anything that drastic.”
“How do you mean?”
Irvine raised her eyebrows. “Whatever I do, or don’t do, whether Max makes this new movie or not, do you really think that kid’s still going to have a career in two years?” Irvine shook her head. “She’s a flash in the pan. Sure, she’s got talent, but if you’ve spent time with her, you must have seen, she’s not committed to anything but herself. The great ones�
�the ones who emerge from childhood with something still to do—they’re humble, they’re committed to it. They love it. They want to learn to get better. Not just strike it rich and drink all the Cristal they can find. But those are few, we’re talking one or two in a generation. And none of them have parents like that father of hers, I can promise you.”
“So?”
“So you think I hired some . . . some army to kill Max Magic? No one hires an army to kill a moth, Mr. Walker. And that’s what these stage kids are: moths. They’ve got a twenty-four-hour life span if they’re lucky, and if you just leave well enough alone, they’ll fly themselves right into a flame. If I wanted Max Magic to never be seen or heard from again, I wouldn’t have to do anything. I’d just sit back and watch.”
Irvine crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair again. A psychologist friend of mine once said that was a sign people were trying to create emotional distance between themselves and the situation before them. I didn’t get that sense from Irvine, though. This was about confidence. Power. She radiated it now, the same way she had when ordering Julian to holster his gun.
“Okay. If you haven’t tried to hurt Max, do you have any idea who might?”
Irvine raised her eyebrows again, eyes growing wide as if she was scanning something in front of her. “I mean, let’s be honest, a huge part of her popularity is the Lolita angle, so I’m sure there are millions of men who fantasize about having their way with her. One or two or five of them are probably completely psychotic, with little shrines to Max in their basement, and if one of them went off the deep end the right way, he might want to hurt her. But that’s not gonna get you an army.
“On the other hand, knowing how she behaves, I’m sure there’s a line around the block of people Max has pissed off. But then I think you have to ask, who’d stand to gain enough from doing it that they’d actually go through with it? What’s the motive?”
“Revenge isn’t enough of a motive for you?” I asked.
She shrugged and smiled like she’d just taken a bite of something unpleasant and was trying not to let it show. “I’m a businesswoman. And, let’s be honest, my business is all about money: who’s got it, who can get it. In my experience, there’s very few hurt feelings money can’t salve over. Now, if you told the people I work with they could have a billion-dollar hit on their hands and all it would take was one little murder, yeah, they might take a crack at it then. But not because they got pissed off.”
I might not have agreed with Nancy Irvine on human psychology, but I was fairly certain my first instinct was right: she hadn’t tried to kill Max. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Irvine. And for keeping your guards from shooting at me. I’ve had enough of that this week.”
“My pleasure,” she said, her face breaking into a relaxed, easy smile. “But if that’s all the questions you have about Max Magic, can I ask you something?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Have you ever done a screen test? Auditioned for anything?”
“Me?” I chuckled and shook my head. “No, ma’am.”
“Oh, you should.” She leaned forward, nodding, and for the first time the robe she’d kept tightly wrapped around her gaped open just a little, revealing the swimsuit underneath. “You’re good-looking, ambiguous ethnicity . . .”
“I already have a job, ma’am.”
Irvine cocked her head. “There’s precedent for it, you know, people leaving law enforcement for the movies. What are you, twenty-seven, twenty-eight?”
“Thirty-one.”
“See,” she said, resting her chin in her hand and blinking slowly at me. “That’s still plenty of time to get you started. Men age gracefully—they get good parts into their forties. I know I could find a place for you.”
I checked up and around, but found I was still sitting in the shade. The heat I was feeling wasn’t coming from the sun.
“If you did it, you’d need to lose all the ‘ma’ams,’ though. With the tattoos and the muscles and the shaved head, you’d need to be a bad boy.” Irvine’s eyes glistened. “Give it some thought. Let me know.”
“I certainly will. Ma’am.”
CHAPTER 10
My drive back down PCH stalled as the Lexus became mired in midafternoon traffic. The line of cars stretching to the horizon left me time to gaze wistfully out at the water and consider where the meeting with Irvine had left me.
If Nancy Irvine hadn’t organized the attacks on Max, that left former bodyguard Brad Civins and Charlie Garcia, the head of Max’s label, as my remaining suspects. The FBI had supposedly cleared Civins. While I wasn’t inclined to give that too much weight, Garcia had always seemed the most likely to me. If Max died in some shocking, tragic fashion, didn’t that increase his chances of selling a whole bunch more records before she faded from memory? There’d be tribute albums, previously unreleased recordings. Who knew, if Papa Drew had mucked up the contracts, Garcia might even own her rights going forward. Taking Max out might give him complete control over the whole operation.
Although I didn’t know yet where Civins lived, investigating Garcia meant traveling to Austin. Normally, I wouldn’t have batted an eye at that: a quick call to Loretta and I’d be on my way, maybe even tonight.
But now I had complications.
The first was what to do with Max.
I could leave her with the guys, like I had this morning. That would have been easiest, at least for me. And, the truth was, part of me was convinced she’d be perfectly safe with them; any trail the gang had been following had gone cold now. As long as we kept a low profile, the chances they’d catch on were awfully slim.
But I couldn’t guarantee it. Not 100 percent.
They clearly had my name, and Shen and I did plenty of business. If the gang was desperate enough, or resourceful enough, they might piece that together.
A quick glance at my forearm reminded me of the price for guessing wrong.
I couldn’t expose the guys that way. They’d already risked themselves enough taking us in. While Shen was more than capable of defending himself, the thought of something—anything—happening to him and Brian . . .
I wouldn’t go there.
I just couldn’t.
That left the possibility of moving Max, depositing her someplace else. But where? She was only sixteen; I couldn’t leave her alone. I couldn’t trust the FBI. Everyone at work was likely being watched.
There was really only one option left. It wasn’t ideal—hell, being honest, it was colossally stupid—but Max would have to come with me.
That left the question of how we should travel.
We needed to get there—and fast. That meant flying. But there was no way we could go commercial. Paying for tickets would mean using a credit card, and I had to assume the FBI was watching those. Maybe the gang, too. Even if Loretta managed to book the tickets for us, our names would be on the passenger manifest. We’d have to show IDs to check in and clear security. With no idea how pervasive the gang’s contacts were, we couldn’t risk that many people knowing who we were and where we were going—it’d be LAX all over again.
Of course, I didn’t exactly have any forgers on my contacts list to make us fake IDs, either.
But as I considered it, there was another option. A way to fly that wouldn’t generate much attention. Something most people wouldn’t think of.
The more I turned the idea over in my mind, the more perfect it seemed. It would take some phone calls to arrange, but looking at the traffic, I had plenty of time.
As I dug Shen’s cell out of my pocket, I realized I probably needed to check in with Lavorgna before we headed out of town. Calling the office would be too risky—Franklin could be monitoring those lines—but I had a work-around in mind for that, too.
I set the rendezvous at a Santa Monica supermarket, the kind where the store is built over an underground parking garage.
Although there were plenty of empty spaces, I parked the Lexus down on the bottom floor, of
f by itself. Then I rode the elevator up, grabbed a basket, and started strolling the aisles, trying to pick ingredients that looked like they went together. I was in “Baking Supplies,” between the flour and the muffin tins, when I heard a voice behind me. “What are you making, a cake?”
Spinning around, I found Lavorgna. He was also holding a basket, his bearded face twisted up in a grin. I stuck out my hand to shake, but with his free arm, he wrapped me in a hug, patting me on the back hard enough that it hurt my shoulder.
He glanced to either side and said softly, “Been a while since I’ve had a clandestine meeting like this.” With a flex of his arms and fingers, he added, “Feels good.” He started walking slowly toward the rear of the store, and I fell in beside him. “First things first,” he said. “I see the limp, the sling. How are you?”
“Better than some of the guys on the other side. Thanks for meeting me, sir. I’m sorry for bothering Judith at home. I just didn’t want to risk—”
His face straightened. “You did good. And calling her was smart—Franklin and the girl’s father have nearly taken up residence in the office. Drew’s no sweat, he’s on his phone the whole time. But Franklin’s listening to everything. Now, I don’t want too many details from you so I don’t have to lie, but are you getting anywhere?”
I shrugged my good shoulder. “Trying. There just aren’t that many suspects. I interviewed one today, but I think we can rule her out.”
“Speaking of which.” Lavorgna dug in his pocket and handed me some folded sheets of paper. “The name you asked us to run. I haven’t looked at that, but I’m told it gives you their latest address . . . and particulars.”
“Great.” I tucked the packet away without opening it. Now I’d know where to find Civins.
As we reached the end of the aisle and began rounding the corner to the next, I glanced at Lavorgna’s basket. It was loaded with cans of tomatoes and boxes of pasta.
He caught me looking. “When Judith told me where you wanted to meet, she gave me a list. But I also stopped and got you a couple of other presents on the way. They’re down in the trunk of my car.” With his free hand, he produced a key, which he dangled in front of me. “I’m on B1. You know the one, right?”