Hollywood Assassin - A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller

by MZ Kelly

Natalie was on her feet. “You’re nothin’ but a ginormous ass trumpet.”

  Then Bernie came up. There was a low growl as I restrained him. Donovan also rose and pulled the robe around his mammoth body, but not before he revealed something that was far better left unseen.

  Natalie decided to describe the actor’s body. “Haven’t seen that many rolls since I was at the bakery. What are you wearin’, an ass tent? Bet there’s a family of squirrels in there searchin’ for your little nuts.”

  I tried to stop her, but the girl was on a roll. “By the way, your tits are as big as a woman’s. You’re so fat, I’ll bet crap is backed up into that giant ass of yours. Betcha can’t even wipe it.” Natalie sniffed the air. “Anyone smell shit? I do.”

  Donovan pulled the sash on his enormous robe. His face was bright red as he made a motion and several bodyguards, including the man I recognized as Zen, appeared instantly at his side.

  Before we were ushered away, the actor stared down at us like a colossal, angry giant. His voice broke into a wheeze of laughter.

  “What if I did it all and got away with it? Even if I did what you suggest, I could never be caught. The problem is your small minds could never prove it, even if it was all right there is front of you like some grand sport. You don’t have the brains to play the game at my level.”

  The actor started to walk away, but stopped and turned back. He locked eyes with me.

  “And you, Ms. Sexton. What will become of you as a result of this mindless pursuit? I’ll tell you. You will end up with nothing—no job, no brother, and, perhaps, no life.”

  I moved toward him as Zen grabbed my arm. “This is no game, Donovan, and the threats will get you nowhere.” I jerked my arm away and fixed my eyes on the bodyguard.

  I turned back to the actor as he said, “It is all a game, Ms. Sexton. I speak of matters beyond your comprehension. Leave me.”

  After we were escorted to our car, Zen opened the door and smiled down at me. His eyes were dead. I hobbled closer to the bodyguard and thought about whacking him in the groin with my crutch. Natalie came between us and looked up at the muscular brute.

  “Hey, action-man,” Natalie said, pointing at Zen’s ponytail. “I’ve been wonderin’ about that skullet of yours. Do you use some special conditioner on your ponytail?”

  Zen didn’t answer.

  “’Cause I once saw a horse’s tail all glopped out like that. It covered his backdoor so no one could see his ugly balloon knot. Kinda reminds me of your face.”

  The bodyguard stood in stony silence. I heard muffled laughter from the other guards.

  “Good thing you’re not sayin’ anythin’, grotbag,” Natalie went on. “’Cause my guess is that if you opened that arseface of yours, it would be like blowin’ the air out of a baker’s shit biscuit.”

  We finally got Natalie in the car and headed back down the hill. As we moved through the gates and left the estate, I was sure of two things: Natalie’s tongue was a match, and Rome was burning.

  Chapter Forty-Five

   

  After our meeting with Wolf Donovan, I spent the following afternoon with someone I despised almost as much as I did the famous actor—Jimmy Chester. We were in the union attorney’s stuffy little office near the police administration building, preparing for my Board of Rights hearing.

  Chester was wearing an open collar blue shirt, which allowed gray chest hair matching his moustache to blossom. Guess he’d never heard the term “manscape”.

  “I think we should consider a medical defense,” Chester said, his beady eyes fixed on me. “If you can convince the panel that you were under extreme stress in your personal life, they might consider referring you to a psychiatrist. They could declare you temporarily unfit for duty. After a lengthy suspension and medical leave, you might be declared fit for duty again.”

  I stood up and walked away from the blathering little rat. I’d left my crutches at home, since my ankle was feeling better.

  While Chester went on about a shrink and medication, I stared out the window. By the time he was finished, I felt like maybe I did need medication, just to put up with him.

  I turned and faced the rodent. “Listen to me. I am not unfit for duty. I am not seeing a shrink. And the only medication I take is an occasional glass of wine so I can forget about having to deal with people like you.”

  “I understand you’re upset, Ms. Sexton, but if we go in there and tell them about your investigation…”

  “That’s exactly what I intend to do. I won’t settle for anything less than the truth.”

  Chester’s moustache wilted. “That, I’m afraid, will end your employment.”

  I gathered up my purse. “It’s a strange set of circumstances when the truth counts for nothing.”

  I spent the remainder of the day with Robin and our mother. Mom’s surgical dressings had been removed, and she wanted to see herself in a mirror. Our arguments about waiting until the swelling went down were dismissed. We brought her a hand mirror and let her examine the results.

  “It’s not really so bad.” Mom turned to me for encouragement.

  “I think you’re getting better every day,” I lied. Mom looked like a bloated cat on amphetamines. I took the mirror away, suggested more rest.

  I spent the next hour arguing with Robin about him staying with Mom for a few more days until things were settled. He agreed, only after I promised to introduce him to a guy Natalie and I had met at her actors workshop. I left Bernie with him again for protection.

  When I got home, I found that Natalie had left me a note saying she finally had a lead on Cassie Reynolds’ pimp, Maurice Simpson. She said she was going to bob off for a few, whatever that meant, and not to wait up for her.

  I began worrying about what Natalie might be up to and poured myself a glass of wine. It wasn’t a complete pity party, because I was out of Fugs. All I could find was a bag of stale potato chips.

  I channel surfed, finding an infomercial about how to lose cellulite in fourteen days, but fell asleep before they showed the results of their miracle pill. The phone woke me up a little after eleven. It was Charlie.

  “I’ve been trying to call you all night. Your cell goes to voice mail, and your answering machine isn’t picking up.”

  I remembered I’d unplugged the answering machine and phone to again check for bugs and forgot to plug it back in. My cell phone was in my purse in the bedroom, and I’d only heard it after several rings.

  “I’ve been right here all evening,” I said. “What gives?”

  “Got a call from a guy I know who works over in Hollenbeck. He said they were notified about an overdose case this afternoon. The guy’s in his early twenties and was found dead in a motel room.”

  My heart was racing. I prayed Robin hadn’t gone looking for Clark again.

  Charlie came back on the line. “When they began doing the notifications, they came across a name in the vic’s wallet. They tried calling him, but didn’t get an answer. They found your name and phone number on the back of the card. They tried calling you. When they couldn’t get through, I got the call.”

  “Who was the OD victim, Charlie?” I asked, holding my breath.

  “A guy named Clark Henderson. The card they found in his wallet had your brother’s name on it.”

  I felt a strange mixture of relief and sorrow. I was relieved that Robin was okay, but I knew, even after everything that happened, the impact of Clark’s death would hit my brother hard. I was also angry, knowing that Wolf Donovan and his son were probably behind Clark’s overdose.

  “Thanks for letting me know, Charlie. I need to go talk to Robin.”

  As I drove through the streets of Hollywood, I began having second thoughts about waking Robin to give him the bad news. I knew he would be devastated over Clark’s death, and I worried he might once again try to confront Bon Bon or Zen.

  I had decided to wait and tell him first thing in the mornin
g when I saw Natalie on the side of the road. She was dressed in her best come fuck me outfit and standing next to a large black woman. I knew that a woman that large, in clothing that tight, could only be one person—Mo.

  I pulled over and asked Natalie if she was trying to make some extra money.

  She motioned to the cars slowing down on the street. “Nah, these curb crawlers give me the willies.” Natalie turned to Mo. “You wanna tell her, or should I?”

  “Let’s get some coffee,” Mo said. She motioned to a couple girls working the street. “These ladies got my number if they need anything.”

  Natalie and I followed Mo, who I learned made her rounds about town on a Vespa. The little motorbike was almost lost beneath the enormity of the rider as we followed her to a Denny’s on Sunset.

  The waitress poured me a cup of coffee while Natalie ordered what she called a chicken-titty sandwich.

  Mo put four packets of sugar in her coffee cup, next to the largest slice of cheesecake I’d ever seen. She looked up at me and said, “I’m Maurice Simpson.”

  I looked from her to Natalie, trying to understand.

  Natalie set down her teacup. “Told you I thought Maurice was a woman. And, in case you’re wonderin’, Mo’s not a chick with a dick.”

  I processed what she’d said while, between mouthfuls of cheesecake, Mo explained. “I worked the streets for a few years and saw too many girls being used in a bad way, including myself. When my pimp got whacked, I decided to become an entrepreneur.”

  “Mo’s like a social worker for workin’ girls,” Natalie said.

  “I try to be fair, offer some protection, and get the girls who want out off the streets,” Mo said. “The only condition I have is that they never give up the fact that I’m a woman. Wouldn’t be healthy for me.”

  Mo took a bite of her cheesecake, then motioned to Natalie and laughed, her red spandex reaching something my friend might describe as “critical ass”. “Guess some people can’t keep their mouths shut.”

  “It’s probably an occupational hazard,” Natalie said, laughing at her own joke.

  Natalie was wearing an off-the-shoulder white tank top that was tied at the waist, and a micro miniskirt. Every guy in the restaurant was using a napkin to wipe the drool off his face. She was giving them her best stink-eye as I processed what Mo had said.

  “Can you tell us anything more about Cassie Reynolds?” I asked. “We’ve looked into the Roger Diamond connection you told us about. We think Cassie may have learned something about his drug dealing that got her killed.”

  “Don’t know nothin’ ‘bout no drugs,” Mo said. Half her cheesecake was already gone. Her eyes softened. “Cassie was a fragile girl who Roger met while he was partying up in the hills with a bunch of celebs.”

  I looked at Natalie and then back at Mo. “Where in the hills?”

  She lowered her voice. “She was with that asshole Donovan and his crew. She lived up there off and on for years, ‘til she met Roger.”

  I felt something shift inside me, the pieces of broken glass aligning again.

  Natalie said it bluntly, “You mean that fat lump o’ gas was doin’ the squirt the blurt with Cassie?”

  Mo shrugged. “Cassie lived at his estate since she was a teenager, even before her aunt died. She never told me exactly what went on up there, but I didn’t get the feeling any of it was good.”

  “And Roger Diamond changed that?” I asked.

  “I think she went to live with Diamond to get away from Donovan. Roger knew a producer, made promises ‘bout getting Cassie into the movies, and she believed him.”

  “Was the producer Conrad Harper?”

  “Cassie told me he liked to watch,” Mo said, nodding. “She and Roger put on some shows for him. I think she thought it would help her with her acting career. But as I said before, the only thing Roger had in mind for Cassie was doing porn. After she figured that out, Cassie left Roger and came to work for me. She wanted off the streets, out of the business.”

  I was thinking about all this as Natalie said something to a man who had approached our table. There had been a cover-up, but maybe there was a different angle than what we had suspected. Cassie’s mother, Gloria Stallings, had to know about Cassie living with Donovan, but she’d kept it from us. Why?

  I looked up as Natalie stood and wagged her finger at the man. “Take your limp sausage home, find a dirt rag, and beat the bishop.”

  The man turned and made a hasty retreat.

  “Guess he got the message,” Mo said. “You ever need a job, you can come work for me, helping me get girls off the street.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” Natalie said. “If I decide to leave Clyde for good, I’m gonna need me a trade.”

  “Speaking of that,” Mo said, “I’m worried about the girl you both met at the Marquee. Hoover’s been missing for a couple of days.”

  “Did you file a police report?” I knew it was a stupid question, even as I said it.

  “Wouldn’t do any good. Hoover’s a working girl. They won’t take a report for seventy-two hours and even then she’ll be lower than a stray cat on their priority list.”

  “I’ll ask around and see if Vice knows anything,” I said, as Mo finished her dessert. “Do you have any thoughts on what Cassie might have known that got her killed?”

  “All I know is Cassie was planning to go to the cops about something she found out about her father.”

  “You mean about who killed him?” I said. “His name was John Carmichael.”

  “Don’t know. All Cassie told me was that she was gonna tell a cop ‘bout everything that happened thirty years ago.”

  ***

  I tried my best to get Natalie to come home with me, but she insisted on hanging out with Mo. As I drove home, I was convinced there was something more that Cassie had known than who was involved in the drug trade. If she’d lived with Donovan for years, maybe she had something else on the actor that got her killed.

  It was only a few hours before sunrise by the time I got home. I was thinking about having to be up early to talk to Robin about Clark. I’d then have to make it to my Board of Rights hearing at eleven.

  After unlocking the door, I started heading up the stairs. I turned and saw a man coming out of the shadows. He was holding a gun. It was aimed at my head.

  Chapter Forty-Six

   

  It’s dark when Kane finally opens his eyes. He hits the TV remote control. After several attempts, he’s able to focus on the screen. He finds a news channel, and it slowly dawns on him, it’s been over twenty-four hours since he was shot.

  He watches the commentator for a few minutes. Will the announcement about him being wanted on a parole violation be broadcast again?

  Nothing.

  It’s a good sign. He knows most people have the memory and attention span of a flea. People are stupid. Stupid people should die.

  Kane checks the dressing on his leg and sees that the blood has soaked through. After a shower, he again dresses the wound. The pain is still intense, but he can put pressure on the leg, even walk without too much effort.

  He waits to see if the blood will again soak through the bandage. Seeing nothing, he’s convinced that he’s well enough to leave the room.

  A lot should have happened in the past twenty-four hours. If Marvin Drake, for once, did what he was told, Kate Sexton should be dead. The same for Bautista. He still has plenty of contacts in the jail system. During one of his lucid moments, he made a call, put the contract in place.

  Two hours before sunrise, Kane dresses and leaves the motel. He carries a handbag. Inside the bag are three 9mm Glock 19 semi-automatic handguns, each with a thirty-three-round magazine. The pistols are all equipped with the latest in noise suppression technology.

  The weapons should be enough firepower to tie up all the loose ends. This is the end game. The time for killing.

  He drives until he finds a litt
le all-night diner in an industrial area near Mid City. He wears a cap, hobbles into the restaurant, and orders pancakes and eggs.

  The skinny young waitress who takes his order is an idiot. She brings him someone else’s food, then takes her time correcting the order. He wants to pull out one of the guns and blow her head off. He pushes down the anger, regains control. When he’s finished with the meal, he leaves without tipping the bitch.

  Back in his car, he drives up into the Hollywood Hills as the sun is rising over the city. It’s a beautiful morning. The perfect day for killing.

  When he reaches the top of the hill, he turns and travels down the long driveway leading to the marble security entrance. He notices the wolf’s head on the gate, the flags lining the roadway up ahead.

  Kane’s anger spikes as he pulls up to the guard station. If the asshole had controlled himself thirty years ago, none of this would be happening. Then the arrogant fool couldn’t leave well enough alone, he had to put it all out there for everyone to see. It will be a pleasure killing Wolf Donovan.

  A guard, wearing a costume, slides the little window open. He’s older than Kane and looks pissed, like he’s been sleeping most of his shift and just woke up.

  “State your business,” the guard grumbles.

  Kane smiles and says, “Death. I’m in the business of killing.”

  He raises the Glock 19, hesitates, wondering what it must be like knowing you’re going to die any second. He then extinguishes the thought and the guard, putting two in the man’s head.

  The guard shack rains blood. Kane smiles. It’s just a little storm front. A hurricane is coming.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

   

  I looked down the gun barrel aimed at my head. My vision widened, and I saw the smiling face of Marvin Drake.

  He motioned to my apartment with the gun. “Up the stairs. Now.”

  I moved slowly, favoring my sore ankle. It occurred to me that I could try to kill the light switch, then throw myself back down the stairway.

  By the time I reached the top of the stairs, it was too late. Drake had the gun pressed against my back.

  Once we were inside, he did a quick search before satisfying himself we were alone. I silently cursed myself for leaving Bernie with Robin.

  My hands came up in a defensive posture as Drake pushed me down on the sofa, ripping my blouse. My adrenaline was on overload as the captain pulled a chair up across from me and aimed his gun between my eyes.