Hollywood Tough (2002)

by Stephen - Scully 03 Cannell

  “I thought you might like a bottle of Taittinger,” Dennis said.

  “It’s ten in the morning, bud.” Fallon was slipping into his film gangster persona.

  “It chills nicely, perhaps you could have it later.”

  “I don’t drink anything unless Rajindi has blessed it, and frankly, champagne is all sugar.”

  “To the contrary,” Dennis said, smiling, eager to give a nutrition lesson. “Taittinger is the champagne of champagnes. It’s fermented in oak casks and kept in perfect, hermetically sealed containers at predetermined temperatures. During fermentation, the champagne is constantly refreshed and at bottling has over one hundred and one vitamins and minerals, as well as an array of life-extending, body-enhancing nutrients. Health food in a bottle, I call it.” His smile widened. “I’m vegetarian, so I read a lot about nutrition.”

  “You’re a fuckin’ nut,” Fallon snarled. “We’re having a business meeting here!”

  “Sorry to intrude,” Valentine said, bowing at the waist. “Before leaving, Mr. Fallon, let me just say that I have long been an admirer of your tremendous talent and magnetic film presence. I thought your performance as the taxi driver prophet in Yellow Angel was magic. Why you didn’t get nominated an …”

  “Get the fuck away from me,” Fallon growled, not knowing he was pissing on a made guy who had killed men for much less.

  But Dennis Valentine was acting like a fop prince. All that was missing was the little heel click. He backed away from the table grinning and bowing, until finally resuming his seat near the window.

  “Who’s that dipshit?” Fallon scowled.

  “A new producer in town, quite an up-and-comer,” Nicky said.

  “Then why they got him sitting in fucking Siberia over there, eating with all the losers?”

  Nicky shot Shane a look that said “See,” but Fallon was already staring at his watch.

  “Okay, look. In ten minutes it’s time for my next meal and neural blessing. We’re on a tight clock, so we better get going.” Shane thought it was a strange remark for a man with chronomentrophobia.

  Nicky took out his business cards and passed them out.

  “Your offices are at Hollywood General?” Fallon said suspiciously as he read it. “That’s the rental lot for jerks who can’t get studio deals.”

  “All of our money goes on the screen.” Nicky was coming alive again. “We don’t waste moolah on fancy overhead.”

  Fallon and Singh both slowly rose, then walked away from the table without even saying good-bye. Shane and Nicky were left sitting, watching them go.

  “Chronomentrophobia?” Shane snorted.

  “Fear of clocks,” Nicky answered.

  “He actually gets away with shit like that?” Shane was appalled.

  “Yeah. Pretty shrewd in a totally fucked-up way. A guy with chrono-whatever doesn’t ever have to deal with the film’s production schedule.”

  Shane could see Valentine starting to get up from behind his loser’s table. “Valentine’s coming. Let’s get outta here.” “That’s what we want, isn’t it?” Nicky asked.

  “I wanna troll the bait for a little longer before we hook him up.”

  Shane pulled the little grifter out of the booth, and they rushed to the front entrance of the Beverly Hills Hotel. He grabbed the valet ticket out of Nicky’s hand and gave it to the parking attendant. The rented Bentley was parked nearby, helping to decorate the entrance.

  The valet ran to get it just as Valentine’s stooge arrived. Up close his shoulders were so developed, he looked like he was wearing football pads under his suit.

  “I’m Gino Parelli, Mr. Valentine’s assistant,” the goon said in a heavy New Jersey accent. “He would like da pleasure of youse’s company back in da restaurant.”

  “Give Mr. Valentine our regrets, but tell him we’re late to a preproduction meeting,” Shane said. “Have him call CineRoma and set up an appointment with one of our secretaries.” He looked at Nicky. “Give him a card.”

  “Huh?” Nicky said.

  “A card. A business card.”

  Nicky had vapor-locked again so Shane reached into the little producer’s inside suit coat pocket, grabbed his billfold, extracted a card, and handed it to Parelli.

  “You ain’t gonna come?” the goon said, baffled. This was obviously something that rarely happened.

  “Yeah, we’re not coming,” Shane said. “We’re late. We’ve got a Michael Fallon film to make.”

  The Bentley pulled up so they walked around and got in. Nicky was moving in a frightened daze as he sat behind the wheel and drove the huge car away. The startled bodyguard was left standing there, casting a giant shadow, muttering to himself.

  Chapter 21.

  BUGS

  They always left notes on the refrigerator door at the Venice house, but he was surprised to see one taped to the Sub-Zero in the huge country kitchen on North Chalon Road. It read:

  Had to go back to the office. Chooch at Public Library till it closes, working on history paper. Chicken in the fridge.

  Ha, ha, ha … Love ya, Babe.

  —A

  He opened the fridge. Cold and empty as a drug dealer’s heart.

  The only guy eating right in the house was Franco, who was crouched over his dish of cat food, purring loudly.

  Shane went back into the living room and Franco dogged him like, well, a dog. Franco was turning out to be very uncatlike—not standoffish, like most felines; he actually liked being near you. Fido with cat whiskers.

  It had been a long, hard day at CineRoma Productions. It turned out that Nicky had only rented the one big suite. He didn’t even control the space across the hall. He’d stolen a key to get into that office. In order to keep the sting going, they would have to rent more space from Hollywood General Studios, but Shane was already out of money. He and Nicky had opened negotiations with both Paul Lubick’s and Mike Fallon’s agents. They were also represented by CAA, so it became something called an “Agency Package,” where because they controlled three major elements, CAA also got five percent of the budget in back-end points. Once that happened, the three CAA agents started making more ugly demands than the West Hollywood House of Bondage. Shane had called Alexa at two that afternoon, pleading with her to put another fifty grand into the blind account for front-end deal money. She had reluctantly put in ten and said she would check with Filosiani on the rest. Nicky had been bustling around the office like Louis B. Mayer on speed, filing old scripts, redecorating, neatening up, polishing and moving his rented awards, getting ready for the arrival of Michael Fallon and Rajindi Singh.

  Shane tried to get a copy of The Neural Surfer from CAA but had been informed that Rajindi had instructed his agent that no copies be released because he wanted to do some potchkehing on the script. Shane wondered if a potchkeh was the same as a rewrite, and if they were going to be charged for it. Several girls in booty shorts and stilettos showed up to audition for Boots and Bikinis but had to be turned away.

  That was his day.

  By the time Shane was back on North Chalon Road, he was exhausted and wished he had stopped at the market to pick up a six-pack of beer.

  Then the doorbell rang.

  It surprised him, because except for Shane’s immediate family and Chief Filosiani, nobody else knew he was living there.

  He had picked up a backup Beretta Mini Cougar from his locker downtown, and as he walked to the front door, he pulled it out of his ankle holster and relocated it in a handier spot at the small of his back, then he unlocked and opened up.

  Valentine’s goon was standing there, his overdeveloped traps still hopelessly bulging a size-fifty suit.

  “Evening,” the man said.

  “Hi ya,” Shane replied.

  “I’m Parelli. Youse may remember me from this morning.” In truth, Parelli was impossible to forget.

  “Whatta you doing here, Gino?”

  “Nice house.” He was looking around, craning his neck to see more
of it from the porch.

  “Same question,” Shane persisted.

  “Mr. Valentine wanted me to give youse this.” He reached into his inside pocket. Shane was poised to hit the deck and come up shooting, but instead of a gun, the gorilla removed a fat envelope and handed it over.

  “What is it?”

  “Open it.”

  Shane ripped the envelope. It was full of C-notes, at least a hundred of them.

  “The price is right,” Shane said, “but I should warn you, I never kiss on the first date.”

  Parelli didn’t think Shane was funny. He just stared at him. “Mr. Valentine wants that youse keep that as his gift, and would very much like the pleasure of youse’s company—no strings. The money buys a meeting. He’s waiting at a restaurant not far from here, on Fairfax. Just follow my car.

  “Why?”

  “He don’t tell me things like that.” Gino gestured to the envelope. “It’s ten large for an hour of youse’s time.” “Which car is yours?” Shane asked.

  Parelli pointed to a blue Chevy with black-walls that was parked at the curb with a Hertz tag hanging off the mirror.

  “Okay, gimme a minute,” Shane said, and went back inside. He put the money in the top desk drawer in the entry hall, reholstered the gun on his ankle, grabbed his blazer, then rejoined Parelli and locked up.

  Then a strange thing happened. Parelli walked him over to the blue Hertz rental and took out a small battery-operated 2300 Frequency Finder exactly like the one Shane ff had gotten from the Electronic Surveillance Division yesterday. Parelli ran the wand over Shane, checking the meter as he did.

  “Sorry ‘bout that. Mr. Valentine insists we scan everybody for bugs.” Then he let Shane walk to the garage for his car.

  It was a ten-minute drive across town before they finally parked at a valet stand in front of a newly built brick-andstucco structure on the corner of Melrose and Fairfax. Across the front, in blue neon script, it said: Ciro’s Pompadoro Ristorante.

  “Best veggie lasagna in this whole fag town,” Parelli said as he led Shane into the restaurant.

  Chapter 22.

  THE HOOKUP

  The interior of Ciro’s Pompadoro was right out of the assassination scene from The Godfather: wine casks hanging from nets on exposed ceiling beams, red-and-whitecheckered tablecloths, straight-backed wooden chairs, and the pungent smell of garlic. The only thing out of place were the Mexican waiters, but this was true in French and Italian restaurants all over L. A. The maitre d’ made up for it with greased black hair, a heavy Sicilian accent, and the traditional five o’clock shadow.

  “Ah, Signor Parelli, benvenuto. Accogliere a Ciro’s Pompadoro,” he purred, then led Shane and Gino to a booth in the back. The restaurant was only half-full, but it was just slightly after seven, so it was still early.

  This time, Champagne Dennis Valentine was sitting in the best booth along the back wall. No postage-stamp loser’s table for the Don’s nephew at Ciro’s Pompadoro. At this watering hole Mr. Valentine was a person of value, a made guy—a caporegime. He was wearing tan slacks, a blue cashmere blazer, and a silk shirt. Expensive getup.

  Valentine was sipping from a champagne glass while an open bottle of Taittinger was icing in a bucket nearby. Shane slid into the booth as Gino went to his attack dog position at another table not far away, never taking his eyes off of them. Shane started to shake hands, but Valentine pulled away. He was going to have to break himself of that habit if he stayed in showbiz much longer.

  “I’m glad you were smart and came,” Valentine said, smiling.

  “It was a nicely worded invitation and in my favorite color.” Shane glanced around the restaurant. “This is nice. Never been here before.”

  “It’s okay. That guy on the desk is new. He looks good but he’s about as Italian as Danny Glover. He’s just an actor doing the accent—you can’t fool a real goomba. But it’s okay. They treat me good here. Everything is prepared special for me. Great vegetarian lasagna, everything healthy.”

  “Do they have a good veal piccata?”

  “You wanna put meat in your system, Mr. Scully, you go right ahead. With all that’s been written about cholesterol and animal enzymes, it amazes me how people eat these days. McDonald’s? You might as well open a vein and pour in a quart a grease.”

  “Right. But you gotta admit, the Beanie Babies in those Happy Meals were a classic.” Shane was just fucking with him now.

  Valentine didn’t say anything for a second, then shook out of it, and moved on. “With me, it’s healthy all the way,” he said. “Taittinger has a twenty percent alcohol level, which on the surface is sorts bad, but it lowers stress and the vitamin and mineral contents are primo, so I figure, on balance, it’s a big plus. I try and preserve my body; cut down on oxidants and free radicals, but I’m like almost alone in this, y’ know. Everywhere people eat, I see problems. Take that guy over there with the plate a spaghetti and meatballs, the fusilli and ravioli …”

  Shane turned to look, then nodded.

  “Y’ know what I see when I spot a guy eating shit like that?”

  Shane shook his head.

  “I see a giant digestive problem. Me? My furnace burns clean, run five miles a day, work out, take a cold swim. Back in Jersey, I’d run along the river, then when I was done, I’d dive into the water, right there by the George Washington Bridge. In the winter the water was forty fucking degrees, but after a run, you’re hot, and the icy water makes your epidermis contract, forces the oil outta your pores. Real good for your skin and circulation. Healthy… y’know?” He smiled at Shane. “What d’ you do to stay in shape?”

  “Well, recently I’ve been trying not to jack off as much as I used to. Other than that, not much.”

  Valentine took a sip of his champagne. “I know you’re just foolin’ with me, and that’s okay, Mr. Scully, ‘cause I gotta sense of humor. But don’t waste your shots.”

  “Always good advice.”

  They sat looking at each other. Shane decided to wait him out, and finally Valentine spoke.

  “I already ate, but you wanna order the veal piccata?” Shane nodded and Valentine waved the maitre d’ over. “Watch this guy. Lemme show you something.”

  “Si, Signor Valentine,” the maitre d’ said as he approached the table smiling.

  “Carlo, per favore ci serva presto, abbiarno fretta.” Valentine rattled this in perfect Italian and Carlo blanched. “Let me get Paolo over here to help.”

  Valentine smiled as the maitre d’ hit reverse and backed out of there.

  “Fuckin’ phony,” Valentine said softly. “I can’t stand phonies.”

  “Then you better get out of Hollywood,” Shane deadpanned. “What’d you ask him?”

  “Nothing. I just told him to serve you quickly. Guys like that ain’t got it. You can’t play an Italian if you haven’t lived it. Capisce? The attitude’s gotta come from the balls.” Valentine reached out, grabbed the champagne bottle, and poured a glass of Taittinger for Shane.

  “You probably wondered why I wanted to see you,” he said as he dropped the bottle back into the bucket of ice. “Crossed my mind,” Shane answered.

  “You’re partners with Nicky Marcella, but I’ve known Nicky for a long time, so I also know he couldn’t make a meatball sandwich without spilling half of it on the floor. So when I see you two guys having breakfast with Michael Fallon, I know this is not his doing.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Shane said.

  Valentine shrugged. “After this morning, I checked you out with some of my sources, even read about you in the morning paper.” He reached down on the seat beside him, grabbed a copy of the L. A. Times, then flipped it open and dropped it on the table. Right there, above the fold in the Metro section, was the article that the LAPD Press Relations officer had planted yesterday under the headline: UNREST AT PARKER CENTER. Shane’s picture was off to one side, along with Alexa’s. He picked up the paper and shrugged. He’d been so busy, he hadn’t seen
it yet, but he knew more or less what it said, so he threw it back onto the table.

  “Sounds to me like you and the little woman are getting screwed,” Valentine said.

  “And believe me, when the LAPD does it, it hurts,” Shane grumbled.

  “It surprised me, when Gino showed me this. I think you’re a movie producer, next thing I read, you’re a cop.”

  “Was a cop. I quit. Last few years I’ve been meaning to pull the pin. Been optioning properties, getting some film deals lined up. I was looking to change careers anyway.”

  “Cop to movie producer … pretty big jump.”

  “Mr. Valentine, not that it matters, but a lot of ex-cops have become big players in entertainment. It’s hardly unique.”

  Valentine didn’t seem too impressed with this remark, so Shane named a few: “Joe Wambaugh, Eddie Egan, Steve Downing, Dennis Farina … the list is endless.”

  “I’m not convinced.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but who gives a shit? I didn’t ask to meet with you. I’m still trying to figure out what you want.”

  “I have plans, okay? Big plans. And I think this Michael Fallon film you and Nicky are making could fit into my program.”

  “Really?” Shane smiled. “Trouble with that is, you aren’t gonna have one damn thing to do with it.”

  “But we’re gonna change that.”

  “No, we’re not.”

  “If I want, Nicky will hand over his whole piece; all I gotta do is ask.”

  “No, he won’t.”

  “Yeah? Why not?”

  ” ‘Cause if he does, I’ll kill the little prick.”

  They sat there, looking at each other over sparkling glasses of Taittinger.

  “I’m not used to hearing no.”

  “Get used to it. No is the principal word in entertainment commerce.”

  “How so?”

  “Film executives are in the ‘no’ business. You hear a lotta no’s out here ‘cause a no usually doesn’t hurt a studio exec, while a yes can ruin the guy’s career.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Valentine said. “How’s the studios gonna ever make a film if they say no to everything? Gotta be some yesses.”