by Lee Goldberg
“She seems pretty settled to me,” Margo said.
Mei set down the mug on the counter, opened a cabinet to get out a tea bag and packet of sugar, and then faced Margo across the island.
“Maybe you could help me with something,” Mei said. “Ian and I were watching Match Game the other night and nobody could come up with a good answer for this: Because Lola was a spy, she kept a microphone hidden in her blank. Any ideas?”
Ian was afraid of the “C” word Margo might use, more to describe Mei than to answer the hiding place question, but she simply smiled, got off her stool, and turned to him.
“Could I talk with you privately?” Margo didn’t wait for an answer. She grabbed him firmly by the arm and pulled him down the hall to his office. “Does Healy know about this living arrangement?”
“Only if he’s listening to your microphone.”
She pushed him hard into his office and slammed the door behind them. “I can’t believe you’re sleeping with her.”
He faced her quickly to hide his butt. “You’re just jealous because I got her into bed and you didn’t.”
“Of course not. I know you haven’t had any action in a long, long, long time, but this whole situation is a bad mistake,” she said. “You shouldn’t get involved with the people in our missions.”
“We don’t have missions.”
“We would if you’d write something,” she said.
“You’re overreacting. I’m just playing along with the romance cover story that Healy gave us.”
“Like hell you are,” Margo said. “Mei is taking advantage of you and you’re going along with it for the sex.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“Yes!”
“It seems like a fair deal to me,” he said.
“You’re selling yourself short, Ian. You can do better than her.”
“She’s a young, wealthy, beautiful movie star. It doesn’t get much better than that,” Ian said. “Do you know how many men would kill to be in my situation?”
“I know there are lots of men who want to kill her.”
“Because she defied government oppression.”
“Don’t give me that crap. I was there, remember? Mei did what she did for her own selfish reasons,” Margo said. “It’s also why she’s sleeping with you. She’s already got you doing something for her that you can’t stand and that will fill you with self-loathing.”
Ian couldn’t argue with Margo’s last point. “Don’t worry, this relationship isn’t going to last.”
“How do you know?”
“Because it never does with me and actresses,” Ian said. “I wish I could help you, but I’ve got writer’s block.”
“You’re writing a Hollywood & the Vine script.”
“That’s not writing,” Ian said.
“That’s true,” Margo said. “I’m not asking you to write a Straker novel, only the idea for one. Think about it.”
He had been. For weeks. And it was destroying him. “I will.”
“Thank you,” she opened the door and started to go, then looked back at him with a smile. “Nice ass, cowboy.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Nocello Restaurant. West Fifty-Fifth Street, New York, New York. November 6. 1:45 p.m. Eastern Standard Time.
Dwight Edney met his mother, Cloris, for lunch at Nocello, a tiny Italian restaurant in midtown Manhattan that mostly catered to the theater crowd. The food was good, but he knew that wasn’t why his mother had picked the spot. It was for the location, across the street from Spyscape, a tourist trap that charged people forty dollars a ticket for an interactive espionage experience, whatever the hell that was. For him, that experience was watching his mother drink half a bottle of wine while slurping up angel hair pasta, and it was about the same price.
She let him finish his rigatoni with sausage before she told him the reason for insisting that he meet her for lunch. “I have big news for your show tonight. The bodies of two women were found by San Diego police this morning. They were in a stolen SUV driven by their killer, an illegal alien who has been kicked out of the US five times before.”
Edney looked at his watch. “You got this news awfully fast. Almost as if you knew about it before it happened. But I’ve already done dozens of stories about illegal aliens committing crimes in this country. It’s becoming monotonous.”
“This one has a twist. The killer was a convicted rapist, recently released from a Mexican prison,” she said. “And he killed them with a gun that came from the Guns & Roses sting.”
Guns & Roses was the code name for an infamously stupid sting operation mounted by the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives. Over the course of four years, undercover ATF agents in Arizona and Texas sold two thousand marked weapons to Mexican drug cartels. The idea was to eventually expose the network of illegal arms sellers and buyers by tracking the market weapons. Instead, the ATF simply provided weapons to drug lords, specifically the Vibora cartel led by Arturo Giron. The scheme was exposed when gang members gunned down two LAPD patrolmen in South Los Angeles with AK-47s that came from the ATF’s Guns & Roses operation. There were Senate hearings, and lots of angry editorials, but the only people who were jailed were the gang members and the gun merchant who’d sold them the weapons. The ATF director resigned and the government paid $25 million to the families of the dead officers. That was two or three years ago.
“Those guns are the gift that doesn’t stop giving,” Edney said. “If it’s true the killer’s gun really came from that cache.”
His mother handed him a thumb drive, making no effort of any kind to be subtle about it. “The documents to back it up are all on here, along with the killer’s deportation and jail records. Nobody else has it yet. Not even the FBI.”
Edney pocketed the thumb drive. “Are the documents authentic?”
“Absolutely,” she said.
There was no question that somehow the Kitchen had engineered these killings and his estimation of their skills rose considerably. It made him wonder what their long game was. It had to be more than just reviving the old Guns & Roses scandal. But there was no time for him to give the matter real consideration. His mother was right: this was big news, and if he was the first to break it, he would become the story, too. His face would be on every network. Dwight Edney would be leading the news cycle for at least the next twenty-four hours, maybe longer.
“What is the killer saying?” Edney asked.
“Hello to Satan,” Cloris said, laughing at her own joke. “He ran away from the police and got hit by a truck.”
“That’s convenient and tidy.” Edney signaled the waiter for the check. He had to get out of here and put his staff to work on the story for tonight’s broadcast.
“What is your angle going to be?”
Edney thought for a moment, then faced his mother as if she were a television camera. “Mexico is a deadly threat to our country. What’s our government doing about it? They’re giving out guns like breath mints to Mexican psychopaths and inviting them into our homes to rape and murder our wives, our sisters, and our daughters.”
“It’s a good start. The Kitchen wants you to go to Los Angeles as soon as possible and shoot your show from there for a while.”
That took a lot of the joy out of the story she’d just given him. “What’s the point of that? LA is an asphalt wasteland, a giant parking lot devoid of anything that gives life meaning. It’s the American Siberia.”
“They want you closer to the border,” she said. “A lot is going to be happening there and you’re going to make it your crusade.”
A man needed to be passionate about something to make it his crusade, and he wasn’t feeling it. Maybe he would if the Kitchen would share the big picture with him. If they wouldn’t, he’d have to start finding his own crusades, whether they liked it or not.
The one upside to being in Los Angeles was that he’d be thousands of miles away from his mother and that made him smile.
/>
“I can’t wait.” Edney rose from his seat. “You can pick up the check.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The White House. The President’s Study. November 6. 11:40 p.m. Eastern Standard Time.
The president of the United States watched CNN’s report on Dwight Edney’s revelations on a small orange TV, the kind with an actual picture tube in it, that must have been a gift from Elvis to Nixon or bought by Ronald Reagan because the White House curators wouldn’t throw the damn thing out and install a flat screen for him. He was mad enough to smash the TV and solve the problem right now.
The president wore pajamas and a bathrobe, both with the presidential seal embroidered on them, because he’d come to the study straight from the residence, where he’d been watching Edney’s program in bed. Now Edney and his scoop about Gustavo Reynoso were on every Goddamned channel.
He was joined in his cramped inner sanctum by his chief of staff, Loretta Jones, a statuesque African American who’d once served as White House counsel and, long before that, was an exceptional long-distance runner who’d chosen Yale law school over a potential Olympic medal. Standing beside her was Attorney General Ritchfield Douglas III, the slim vegan grandson of the fat meat-eating segregationist, KKK grand dragon, and former Alabama governor. Their awkwardness standing beside one another would have amused the president if he wasn’t so angry about what he’d seen on Edney’s show. He’d called them moments after Edney’s show was over and demanded to see them in his study immediately.
“Is what Edney said true?” the president asked, turning off the TV. “Did a Mexican we’ve deported five times slip back into our country and kill two women with a gun that the ATF sold to the Vibora cartel?”
“Yes,” Jones said. “I confirmed it with the directors of ICE and the ATF.”
The president turned to Douglas. “I want all of the ATF morons who were responsible for this scheme sent to prison.”
“The sting was an incredibly stupid idea,” Douglas said, “but the people involved in it are no longer in the ATF and it wasn’t a crime.”
“It became one when the guns they sold the cartels started being used to kill Americans,” the president said. “Those ATF assholes are accessories after the fact.”
“I share your anger and frustration, Mr. President,” Douglas said. “But we’ll lose the case and the Justice Department will be ridiculed.”
“That’s already happening,” the president said, pointing at the TV. “This is how you save face. I want to make it absolutely clear to the nation that these murders are a consequence of the last administration’s monumental fuckups, not ours.”
“I wish that were true, sir,” Jones said. “But the killer slipped back into the country on our watch. I agree with the attorney general. If you set a precedent for prosecuting past officials for their mistakes, the next administration could decide to prosecute us for ours.”
The president wasn’t worried about that. He was worried about getting a second term. That wouldn’t happen if he was seen as ignorant and feckless, which is how he felt right now. “How did Edney know all the details about the killer before I did?”
“It was news to me, too, Mr. President,” Douglas said. “None of the details had worked their way up to me yet. In fact, I wasn’t able to officially confirm the killer’s criminal record in Mexico until a few minutes before this meeting.”
“Then how the hell was Edney able to do it? How did he get all the incriminating documents so fast from the ATF, ICE, and the Mexicans?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Douglas said.
The president glared at him. “So you’re telling me that you’re inept.”
Douglas took a deep breath. “Someone on the ground level of law enforcement or ICE in San Diego must have passed the information to Edney before it moved up the chain of command.”
“Or there are people against you at ICE and the ATF who leaked the material to Edney,” Jones said.
That seemed like the most likely explanation to the president. “I have to show the public that I am more outraged by this than they are. Call the director of ICE. It’s his fault the killer got back in the country. I want his resignation on my desk in an hour or I will fire him.”
“Yes, sir,” Jones said.
The president looked at Douglas. “I want you to announce in the morning that you are initiating a new investigation of the ATF agents in charge of the Guns & Roses sting.”
“I can’t,” Douglas said. “That case has already been fully adjudicated.”
“Not for the ATF’s complicity in the murder of these two women,” the president said. “You’re going after them for that.”
“But there’s no legal basis for an investigation on those charges,” Douglas said. “We’d be laughed out of court.”
“I don’t care if it ever gets to that point. All I care about now is taking decisive action and humiliating the bastards who put me in this position,” the president said. “And if you’re unwilling to do it, you have five minutes to either resign or be fired. I’m sure the deputy attorney general will be glad to step up and do the right thing. He’s had his eye on your chair from day one.”
“You’re putting me in an untenable situation,” Douglas said.
That was stating the obvious. The president knew that Douglas was screwed no matter what choice he made. If he resigned, or was fired, for refusing to investigate the ATF agents, he’d be castigated as a weak, cowardly politician trying to cover up the government’s mistakes rather than seeking justice for two murdered women. But if he pursued the charges, he’d be ridiculed as a presidential puppet abusing the justice system for political theater.
But the president didn’t care about Douglas’ predicament and tapped his watch. “Tick-tock, Ritchy. What’s it going to be?”
Douglas made the political calculations, considered the historical burden of his grandfather’s racism that he already carried, and made the decision that was best for his future ambitions.
“I’ll launch the investigation,” he said.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The final scenes from the first draft of Hollywood & the Vine script “The Bad Seed” by Ian Ludlow.
INT. FBI GULFSTREAM JET — DAY
Hollywood is kissing Jade. They share two adjoining seats on the private jet.
JADE
I could just eat you up.
HOLLYWOOD
Don’t let me stop you.
JADE
I won’t.
They embrace. He doesn’t see her FANGS. She’s about to bite his neck when Vine bursts out of the restroom, holding a gun.
VINE
Back off, you miserable weed.
HOLLYWOOD
What’s the matter with you?
VINE
She’s going to devour you.
She closes her mouth, hiding her fangs.
HOLLYWOOD
I’m counting on it. Go away.
VINE
You don’t understand — she’s the serial killer we’ve been hunting.
HOLLYWOOD
Don’t be ridiculous. She couldn’t hurt a fly.
VINE
She eats them — she’s only half-human. The other half is Venus flytrap.
JADE
Don’t listen to him, Hollywood. He’s insane.
VINE
Am I?
Vine tosses a ball of raw hamburger at her. She instinctively catches it in her mouth and eats it. Hollywood rears back in horror.
HOLLYWOOD
You’re . . . a plant?
JADE
You say that as if we’re something inferior. There are trees that have seen human civilizations rise and fall while they’ve stood tall, laughing at your brief, pitiful existences. It was easy to make you love me.
HOLLYWOOD
Don’t flatter yourself, baby. You’re just another lettuce leaf in the salad bar to me.
She raises her arm to slap him and he slips a pair of cuffs
on her wrists.
HOLLYWOOD
You’re under arrest on twelve counts of murder.
JADE
I’m just a woman with a healthy appetite.
HOLLYWOOD
Tell it to the judge.
Hollywood gets up and joins his partner.
HOLLYWOOD
The FBI’s top serial killer hunter is a serial killer. And to think I was about to fly back to Quantico with her. I was just going to be her in-flight meal.
VINE
Her mistake was forgetting that she’s half-woman. Every time she ate a man, she devoured another piece of her own humanity.
HOLLYWOOD
I think that was the idea.
VINE
But it was also her downfall . . . as her humanity diminished, more and more of her mindless, carnivorous nature revealed itself.
HOLLYWOOD
Not to me . . . you were the only one who saw it.
VINE
Because I’m half-plant, too.
HOLLYWOOD
But you’ve got more humanity than most people I know.
VINE
And there aren’t many plants who are as deeply rooted in justice as you are.
HOLLYWOOD
I guess that’s what makes us great partners . . . I just wish you weren’t so full of fertilizer.
And on their smiles, we FREEZE FRAME.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Ian Ludlow’s House. Malibu, California. November 9. 12:30 p.m. Pacific Standard Time.
Ian typed THE END on his Hollywood & the Vine script, emailed it to Ronnie, and for the first time in his life truly felt like a hack. He’d written the script in two days of nearly marathon writing and hated every word. At least when he’d written for the show, he’d been able to convince himself that he cared, that he was writing the best possible Hollywood & the Vine that he could within the framework of what the show was: a horrendous piece of shit.
But this time, what he was doing was not much more than typing, relying on pure, almost instinctive craft, the muscle memory of TV writing, and hitting every clichéd beat of a Hollywood & the Vine story by rote, hoping his utter disdain for the material didn’t come through.