Alarm Call

Chapter 22

The cops called for a wagon for the mugger and a paramedic crew for me; they were genuinely anxious that I had my ear patched up, so I went along with it.

They followed me on their bikes to the emergency room. The repair work didn’t take long; once my ear was stitched back into its customary shape and taped over, the two bikers even flanked the car that took me to the central police station in Vallejo Street. When we got there, I was welcomed by the station commander himself, a captain called Steyenheusen; word had got round.

I made a formal statement, saying that I’d gone in pursuit of the man. . they told me that his name was Leo Hoorne and he had two previous convictions for assault with a deadly weapon. . and that when I’d apprehended him he’d fired at me. The fat bloke and three other bystanders had given identical statements. Captain Steyenheusen reckoned that Mr Hoorne would be an old man by the time he got out.

They took me back to the hotel after that; well, not quite after that. They took me back after I’d run the gauntlet of the television and newspaper reporters who were waiting for me outside. The Public Affairs Office had been beating the drum; in fact, they’d made me into a civic have-a-go hero.

I downplayed it, but not too far: you never shun positive publicity in the movie business. On camera, with blood staining the collar of my shirt, I fed them the expected modest ‘Shucks, it was nothing’ line. I assured them that my wound wasn’t serious. . although I agreed with the woman who said that if I’d been a fraction slower I’d be dead. I told them that I’d been seriously impressed by SFPD. I told them that I hoped that Mr Hoorne looked upon his years inside as an opportunity for self-improvement. . that raised a laugh. I told them that I was merely on a visit to San Francisco, before going on to Vegas to start work on Everett Davis’s new movie Serious Impact. Happily nobody asked me whether I was there on my own.

The story was all over the local TV news by the time the cops dropped me back at the Campton Place, to face the only person in San Francisco who didn’t think I was a hero.

‘What the hell were you thinking about, chasing off after that guy?’ Prim blazed at me, when I let myself back into the suite.

‘It happened in an instant,’ I told her. ‘When I heard you shout I thought that it must have been Wallinger. That’s who I thought I was after till I caught up with him.’

‘You caught him?’

‘Where the hell do you think I’ve been for the last three hours?’

I picked up the remote and switched on the television, then zapped though the channels till I found the local news station.

There I was, on top of the pile, British movie star, Oz Blackstone, accidental tourist, accidental fucking hero. They tailed the piece with a quote from Cop Two, Officer Ronnie Rastrow: ‘He sure hits harder than Keanu Reeves.’ I liked that one. ‘Eat your heart out, Keanu,’ I said to the screen.

Prim stared at me. ‘You were shot?’ she gasped.

I turned my head and showed her my ear.

‘Bloody hell! You’re an idiot!’ Then, in the midst of her anger, she gave me some very good advice. ‘You’d better phone Susie right now, regardless of the time in Scotland. If she wakens up and sees that on the news tomorrow. .’

She was right: I’d have been better off dead. I went into my room and called her right away, even though it was two in the morning back home. Susie had often complained about being unable to sleep properly when I was away; plus, there were wee Jonathan’s teeth.

As it turned out she was asleep. I waited till she was properly awake, then told her. ‘There’s been this thing. I caught a mugger. There was a shot fired.’

‘What?’

‘It’s okay, honest, no damage done. But the telly people here are getting silly, and I didn’t want you to hear it from them first.’

‘You’re sure you’re okay?’

‘I’m fine; it was just a wee nick.’

‘What?’

‘It’s just a graze, love, really.’

‘It’s just a what?’

It took me ten minutes but finally I was able to calm her down. ‘While all that was going on,’ she asked, ‘what about this man Wallinger? Did he turn up?’

‘Do you know?’ I told her. ‘I have no idea.’

I left her to a certainly sleepless remainder of the night and went back into the living room of the suite. ‘Wallinger,’ I said to Prim. ‘Did he show?’

‘Yes, he did,’ she replied, bitterly. ‘Just at the very moment you turned into Charles Bronson and all hell broke loose. When I shouted it was to tell you I’d seen him.’

‘And what happened?’

‘Nothing. All the commotion must have panicked him, for he just turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd.’ She glared at me. ‘And where were you when I needed you, Captain Fucking America?’

‘Getting fucking shot,’ I reminded her. That seemed to soften her; a little.

‘What will we do now?’ she asked me, quietly.

For the first time since we started our quest, I found that I didn’t care quite as much as I had at the outset, then had an immediate flash of guilt at the thought of her missing kid. Not that I told Prim any of that, though: to her I said, ‘Be a good girl: go into my room and get me my laptop. There’s a modem point in the wall over there.’

She did as I asked, and watched as I set it up. I ran it on battery, not bothering with the power unit. I went straight into AOL. There was some Spam, sneaked through the filters, a raft of messages from media people, wanting interviews, no doubt, and in the middle of it all, a fresh message from Wallinger.

You blew it in Union Square, people. Don’t mess up in LA tomorrow. Damon and Pythias, Westwood Village, same time.

‘Bastard,’ I muttered. ‘I’m getting heartily sick of dancing to your tune. If you don’t show tomorrow, well … I’m an all-American hero now. I’ll put my friends the cops on your trail.’

Prim frowned at me. ‘You won’t really do that, will you?’

‘Maybe. I just get the feeling we’re being fucked about, and I don’t like it. This is about extortion, love, plain and simple; you know that. Maybe I should use whatever clout I’ve got with the police.’

‘Yes, and maybe that’ll mean I never see my son again. Don’t say that, Oz, please.’

‘I’ll sleep on it. But let’s stay positive: he probably will show tomorrow. Better make sure we get to LA on time.’

I shouldn’t have uttered the word ‘sleep’: as soon as I did, the day, and probably the rest of that week, started to catch up with me. I felt dog tired as I called Reception and asked the duty manageress to book us on to an LA flight in the morning and into the closest hotel she could find to Westwood Village.

We both knew the Village; it’s one of the nicest parts of LA and one of the safest. I felt comfortable about taking Prim there. The woman called us back inside half an hour, which I had spent drinking Bud Light from the mini-bar in an attempt to dull a growing ache, not just in my ear but all over the side of my head. They had given me painkillers at the hospital; they were starting to wear off. She told us that we were on an American Airlines flight and that she’d reserved a room in the Century, on Wilshire Boulevard. I’d been so damn tired, or drugged, that I’d forgotten to ask for two. . or maybe I was getting used to the way things had developed.

Don Johnson’s place seemed a long time past, but I didn’t fancy going anywhere to eat, not even down to the hotel’s excellent restaurant. Instead we ordered a couple of room-service salads and a few more beers in an ice-bucket and spent the evening getting quietly plastered. . at least I did, I can’t speak for Prim.

I don’t remember who suggested the sleeping arrangements that night. I only know that I woke up slightly feverish in the middle of the night, from a very bad dream involving gunshots, to find that I was in her bed, without a pyjama in sight. For a few moments, I was worried, but I wasn’t so drunk that I’d have forgotten that. Still, after I’d relieved myself of the burden of all that beer, I crept back to my own room and flaked out on top of the duvet.

She said nothing about it next day, other than a cheerier ‘Good morning’ than I had expected. She did ask about my ear, though; the pain wasn’t as bad, but it was still there, so I popped a couple of tablets to ease it.

We had room-service breakfast at eight o’clock; they brought a couple of Saturday morning’s newspapers with our order. I wasn’t the lead story, but I had front-page treatment in both of them. I was glad to be getting out of San Francisco, for all sorts of reasons. As I chucked the last one away, I decided I’d better phone Susie again.

I went to my room to make the call. She was still anxious about me: there had been some footage on the British TV news taken outside the police station and she’d seen the blood on my shirt and the patch on my ear. ‘I thought you said it was just a graze,’ she said.

‘It is, love, honest. They put in a few micro-stitches, that was all. I might have a designer ear for the rest of my life, but there’s no lasting damage otherwise. It’s all positive: it’ll make me look like a war hero and I’ll be able to bore dinner parties with the story for years to come.’

‘The guy who did it’s not going to get out or anything, is he?’

‘Not in the full vigour of his youth, that’s for sure.’

‘That’s comforting to know. Just you be sure you don’t get into any more trouble. Do you hear me?’

‘Yes, my darling, I hear you.’

‘Ah, so I’m still your darling, am I?’

‘And always will be.’

‘That’s good to hear, since that carry-on in Minneapolis. The sooner this thing is over with and Prim’s far away from you, getting on with her life, the happier I’ll be.’

‘Hopefully that’ll be tomorrow.’ I told her about Los Angeles. ‘He’s got to show himself this afternoon. I feel the same way you do; I just want the deal done, whatever it is, and the kid returned.’

‘And Prim? How does she feel?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Will she give up her fortune for her son?’

‘Wouldn’t you?’

I heard her sigh. ‘Yes, of course. Ignore me, love, I’m super-cynical about people and money, that’s all. It’s all right talking about sacrifice; actually making it’s the acid test. I wonder whether she’s hoping that, when the moment comes, you’ll be able to muscle the boy away from Wallinger.’

‘Hey, if I see a chance to do that, I’ll take it … as long as it’s within the law.’

‘You keep that in mind,’ she warned me. ‘In this world you can be a hero today and a villain tomorrow.’

‘I promise.’

‘Good.’ She paused. ‘By the way, I didn’t tell you. When I saw you on television, I was prouder of you than I’ve ever been before. I’ll bet your dad and Ellie are too.’

‘Oh, Christ, I never warned them!’

‘Don’t worry, I did.’

‘Thanks. Listen, love, I’d better go.’

‘Do that. Did you make those calls?’

‘What calls?’

‘The ones I told you about, remember?’

‘Oh, shit. With one thing and another. . I’ll make them now.’

I dug out my pocket PC … techno-freak, I know … where I keep my contact numbers, for convenience, and found the number of the Merchant’s Hotel. As I dialled it, I wondered whether the general manager would be on duty on a Saturday or whether he’d be taking his kids to the lakes, as all good Minnesotans do, but Benjamin E. King was conscientious: he was in his office.

‘Mr Blackstone,’ he said, as he answered my call. ‘I’m so glad you could get back to me. I see from the newspapers that you’ve been having an exciting time since you left us.’

‘One I could have done without,’ I confessed. ‘Why did you want to speak to me?’

‘I wanted to let you in on the results of my investigation into the incident which marred your stay with us. I’ve spoken to the clerk who dealt with your booking and now I know the whole story.’

‘I thought your assistant manager had done that.’

‘I’m afraid that gentleman was negligent,’ King admitted. ‘The story he fed you about your reservation being misunderstood was a fabrication, designed to get him off the hook. The person involved was off duty on Tuesday and only returned to work on Thursday. She tells it completely differently: it’s still not a pretty story from our point of view, but it’s better than an outright lie.’

‘Let’s hear it, then.’

‘Apparently, your booking was made correctly. You were allocated two of the last three rooms we had available at that point. However, on the morning of the day you were due to check in, the reservations office had a call from a gentleman who said he was your personal assistant. He said that your arrangements had changed, that you were now travelling with your wife and would only require one room. In accordance with our normal practice he was asked to confirm by fax or e-mail. He chose the latter, and a message was received. If the clerk had been super-efficient, it might have occurred to her that the original instruction was confirmed by electronic fax, on your personal letterhead, but she accepted the change at face value. By the time you checked in, your second room had been allocated, and the hotel was indeed full.’

‘What was the e-mail address on the message?’ I asked.

‘Hold on, I have it here.’ I waited, but I knew what he was going to say, even before he had started spelling the letters out. ‘It reads “p-w-a-l-l-i-n-g-e-r at trickledown dot com”. Does that mean anything to you, sir?’

‘Oh, yes. It surely does.’

‘Then I am afraid that you have been the victim of a practical joke, with our unwitting connivance.’

‘As a matter of interest, did the person who booked that other room ever turn up?’

‘Yes, sir, a Mr Jack Nicholson. He walked in off the street less than half an hour after your booking was changed. He took the room for three nights and paid in cash: unusual these days, I know, but it still happens.’

‘Which room was that?’

‘Twenty-oh-six; it’s across the landing from the room you and the lady occupied.’

‘Did he go out a lot, this Mr Nicholson?’

‘I have no idea, sir. This is a very large and busy hotel, you understand. But I can tell you that he took all his meals in his room.’

‘Did your checkin guy recall anything else about him? For example, did he have a laptop?’

‘He may well have done; most of our guests do these days. However, I have no way of knowing for sure.’

I could take a good guess at it, though. I thanked Mr King and hung up, then went back out to the living room, thinking all the way. What he had told me put a new spin on things.

Jack Nicholson, indeed! A name plucked from the flotsam of yet another shattered Hollywood dream? Or just a stupid bastard having a laugh at my expense? If it was, that was yet another mistake: I like to have all the funny lines.

Prim came out of the bathroom as I closed my bedroom door behind me; she had a turban on her head and another towel wrapped around her. ‘What’s up?’ she asked. ‘You look worried.’

‘It’s nothing,’ I said. ‘Are you finished in there?’ She nodded.

In the shower, even though I was concentrating on keeping the spray away from my wound, I thought some more. Wallinger had actually known when we were going to Minneapolis, and what hotel we would be in. The second part of that problem wasn’t insurmountable; I’m rich, so he’d assume that I’d be in one of the best hotels. Phoning round them and asking a few questions wouldn’t take long. One phone call to his cop brother, if I was wrong in my assessment of Lieutenant John the Second, would have been even quicker, and could have got him all the information he needed. But how the hell did he know when we were going?

He could have been watching Prim all along; he could have tracked her to Scotland, then followed the two of us everywhere we went. It was pretty clear he’d been following our trail across North America, keeping one guess and one step ahead of us. But there was one catch in that theory. If he was cash-flashing Jack Nicholson, as I was certain he was, and he had been snooping on us in the UK, how had he got to Minneapolis ahead of us? No way could he have done that, as we’d been booked on the first available flight.

So that left two possibilities: either he had an accomplice in Britain who’d trailed us all the way up to the KLM desk at Glasgow, worked out the rest from there. . there are only a couple of ways to get to MSP from Scotland and via Holland is one of them. . then phoned him, or. . and this was the one I feared most. . he had a spy in my camp.

But who knew where I was going and why? Susie did; sure, and it was likely to be her, not. Audrey did, and so did Conrad; they were fairly new in our employ, but they’d been well vetted and neither of them had any obvious link to an obscure American actor. Mark Kravitz knew, but he was my man even more than Connie was. Suppose he could have been bought, who’d have known to buy him? Mark operated in the shadows.

‘Miles would have known.’ I said it aloud, and was rewarded with pain as I forgot myself and let the shower jet hit my stitched-together ear. And why the hell, I asked myself, would mega-rich Miles Grayson get involved in a conspiracy to extort from his sister-in-law the sort of money that he would regard as small change? Did he and Dawn hate her that much? Rubbish, I told myself.

‘But still,’ I mused. ‘Wallinger: actor; LA connection.’

Roscoe Brown. Roscoe knew my travel plans. Roscoe was an actors’ agent and had been for some years. Did Roscoe know Paul Wallinger?

I turned off the jet, grabbed a towel and began drying off, as quickly as I could. As soon as I’d got myself down to merely damp, I wrapped myself in the hotel’s towelling robe to finish the job, went out to the living room and set up the laptop again. I didn’t bother with the e-mail this time. I went straight on to Roscoe Brown’s website and did what he’d challenged me to do a week or so before: I pulled down his client list.

It was extensive, built up through his years in the business. We were all there, from Adams to Zederbaum, like he’d said, but I was only interested in one letter. I clicked on the Ws and there he was, right at the top of the list. . Paul Patrick Walls.

Prim had come into the room, behind my back. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

‘Just possibly, honey,’ I told her, ‘I’m pulling someone’s world down on his fucking head. . and maybe if some contracts aren’t signed yet, on my own too!’