Hollywood Tough

Chapter 37

"Does the chief know about this?" asked Charlotte Brooks, who insisted on being called Charlie. They were in her cramped, windowless office in Legal Affairs at Parker Center.

"Yeah, kinda," Shane hedged, but in truth, he hadn't been able to get in to see the Day-Glo Dago. Four more gangsters had hit the sidewalk, and the escalating street warfare had Alexa and the chief in a frenzy.

"So I'm supposed to call this Mr. Feltheim at Universal, he'll put me in touch with their legal department, and then we're supposed to do what? Arrange for the LAPD to sell an interest in a movie that's being shot by a production company named Cine-Roma, that we supposedly own?" Her right eyebrow was cocked and she was looking sideways at him through thick octagonal glasses.

"Yeah, but you can't mention you work for the LAPD. Cine-Roma is a front company. All you have to do is take down their preliminary offer and make sure there're no loopholes."

"Sergeant, I don't know anything about movie deals. I wouldn't even recognize standard boilerplate."

"We'll… we…" He stopped and took stock of Charlie. She was only about twenty-six and looked frail and uncertain. She'd go down like Polish infantry in front of the leather-vested killers at Universal.

"Okay. I'll get a showbiz attorney to negotiate the general deal points, then you can go through it for the LAPD. 'Cause I need somebody from our legal department to approve the contract before I sign it."

"Why is the LAPD making a movie?" She pushed her glasses a little higher on her nose. "I don't think we should be doing that. I mean, we're a city service, a nonprofit agency."

"Wonderful observation, Charlie. And when I come up with an answer, I'll have my people call your people."

Shane left Parker Center and decided that he'd better get Nicky to call his entertainment attorney after all. He tried Cine-Roma from his cell phone and got Nicky's secretary.

"Cine-Roma, Mr. Lubick's office, Daphne Del Rey speaking."

"This is Shane, I'm trying to get in touch with Nicky."

"Well, I'm not that man's secretary anymore. I work for Mr. Lubick now." There was both disdain and relief in Daphne's voice. She had fended off her last bimbo in short-shorts.

"Hey, congratulations. But if you're with our esteemed director, throw away that computer, 'cause you're working with a shovel now."

"I know you think that's funny, but Mr. Lubick is a genius. His visions have creative magnitude. I didn't come to Hollywood to work on scams like Boots and Bikinis. Paul is actually trying to make a meaningful film here, so if you say one more smartass thing about him, I'll be forced to report it."

"As well you should." Shane shook his head; this wasn't getting him anywhere. "Look, Daphne, I apologize. You're right, of course. Paul Lubick is the best. He's tits. But right now I need to talk to Nicky. Think you could hook me up?"

"I'm not supposed to handle anything but Mr. Lubick's business. I'm his personal assistant."

"Could you make an exception just this once? Can you please just transfer me?"

"Nicky went home. He's at his apartment."

"Thanks. And congratulations on the promotion."

She didn't respond; instead she hung up on him. Shane dialed Nicky's apartment three times but kept getting a busy signal. The Hollywood Towers were only five minutes away, so he drove there, parked on the street out front, then went into the building. It was five-thirty, so he left the pizza box prop in the trunk. He was going to find the manager this time and just badge him. But his timing was perfect. Somebody was just getting off the elevator as he walked into the lobby. He sped up and caught the door before it closed. If he'd been a home invasion specialist, this building would be high up on his target list.

Shane exited on the twenty-fifth floor and walked down the hall to Nicky's apartment.

He pulled up a few feet away.

The door was ajar, the lock splintered.

Somebody had left a big, black boot mark up by the brass knob. This B amp;E was about as subtle as a gay pride parade.

Shane was still packing Alexa's Double Eagle in his belt, at the small of his back. He pulled the piece, chambered it, touched the door with his toe, and pushed it open. Then he dove into the apartment.

It wasn't pretty.

The place had been completely trashed. Tables and furniture were tipped over. The Japanese prints had been pulled off the wall and kicked to shreds. Shane rolled to his feet, and, not hearing any movement, began to creep carefully through the rooms. Just minutes ago, the phone had been busy, so he took no chances.

He slowly cleared the apartment. The destruction seemed gratuitous. This had been more than a search; there was anger here. It looked like whoever had done this came specifically to destroy things.

Nicky's personal effects were gone. The bathroom had been emptied.

Shane opened the closet door. Nicky's suits were all off the hangers and thrown on the floor. His jewelry box was crushed, his watches stomped on. The little grifter's tan Louis Vuitton overnight bag was missing. Shane reached up and found the shoe box that had contained the 9mm pistol and two clips. The minute he put his hand on it, he could tell the box was empty. He pulled it down anyway, carefully removing the top, using his thumbs to push it up and off.

He found a baggie in the kitchen and secured the box top for prints.

Nicky's trick book with all the girls' pictures in glassine envelopes had been removed from his sock drawer.

Then Shane's eyes fell on the telephone. It had been knocked off the hook, which explained the busy signal. This could have happened any time since Nicky left the apartment this morning.

Shane stood in the center of the ransacked living room trying to add this piece to the puzzle. Nicky was a smalltime crook, a petty criminal. He was a, well, to be honest, a Pooh. Nicky the Pooh was the kind of guy you slapped around but probably didn't hit. This angry trashing of his apartment was a troubling, discordant note in the whimsical life of the little con man. So who had tossed this place? Who could get this mad at Little Nicky? It didn't figure. But either way, Nicky was in the wind.

Shane looked at his watch: six o'clock. He needed to be at the Jonathan Club in Santa Monica in an hour for Farrell's bachelor party. He decided he would try to piece it together on the drive there.