Hollywood Tough

Chapter 50

The deal was signed at eleven A. M. in the main conference room on the twelfth floor of the Black Tower at Universal. Stevie Bergman was presiding over a roomful of even tans and perfect teeth. There was precise ethnic and gender balance.

Nicky Marcella arrived just as the meeting was convening. He waved at Shane but never looked directly at him. Nicky was wearing another two-tone number-green and blue this time. The fabric changed colors as he moved. He shined and shimmered like New Year's bunting.

The D people held the perimeter of the room, standing with their backs against the wall, looking proud. The Felt was grinning; so was Tammy Ansara. The African-American Ds looked foxy and cool. Jerry Wireman was there, looking, well, wiry. He was representing CAA's back-end points. Also present were Mike Fallon, Paul Lubick, and Rajindi Singh. Wireman had come with a head crammed full of Latin phrases, ready to kick some loquacious ass.

Along with Shane was Charlotte "Call me Charlie" Brooks, from LAPD Legal Affairs, who was representing the department. Charlie was nervous and overdressed.

Earlier that morning, Shane had been told by the chief, who was still in the Phoenix hospital, that the federal attorney wasn't going to file charges against Don Carlo DeCesare. The feds had listened to the tape and said it would be useless in court. So the New Jersey Don would just have to finish his life on Earth sentenced to a wheelchair parked in front of a plate-glass window, watching llamas eat grass while his deadly cancer spread.

The Day-Glo Dago must have been feeling better, because at the end of the conversation he implored Shane to "Get us da fuck outta d' movie business!" Which, at this moment, Shane was desperately trying to accomplish.

"Bueno," Stevie Bergman said, hosting the event with trilingual charisma. "This is excellent-o." He glanced at his watch. "I only have thirty minutes, boys and girls, so let's cha-cha-cha."

Shane was having deja vu.

As far as the LAPD was concerned, the deal was pretty straightforward. They sold their half of The Neural Surfer for four hundred thousand dollars, which was the accrued cost of pre-production up to nine o'clock that morning, less Dennis's hundred grand. Shane argued with the chief that the LAPD should retain some upside back-end points, just in case Paul and Michael actually managed to prove that turkeys really could fly. But Filosiani wanted out.

"Since this is now a major studio picture, Michael Fallon and Rajindi Singh should no longer be deferring salary. We want their contracted amounts up front, upon signing. Mutus consensus." Wireman smiled.

"Be smart and fair," Steve Bergman said. "Mens regnum bona possidet."

"Huh?" Charlie said, wrinkling her freckled nose. Apparently nobody spoke Latin in the LAPD Legal Affairs Department.

"Means 'A good mind will win the day,' " Wireman grinned, eager to translate for the dummies in the room.

"Actually, it means, 'A good mind will possess the kingdom,' " Stevie Bergman corrected.

Wireman pushed up the glasses on his nose, then smiled and nodded. "I stand corrected."

"Mentiri splendide," Stevie said.

Shane was getting another headache.

Despite all the posturing and bullshit, the deal was finally signed. The LAPD got its cashier's check for four hundred thousand dollars, which Shane handed to Charlie. She snapped it up into her worn leather briefcase like a fly down a frog's throat.

Soon they were out the door and in the elevator.

As Shane was unlocking his car in the Universal parking lot, he heard his name being called. He looked around and saw Nicky hustling toward him across the asphalt, teetering along on his stacked Cuban heels. Shane waited until the little grifter got there.

"Nice going, Nicky. Twenty-five percent of a major studio picture. Congratulations."

"The pricks reduced me down to ten, but, hey, who's complaining? I'm getting a producer credit, got a housekeeping deal here at Uni, complete with a development fund, and a great office in Building Nineteen. Got a neat little patio. If I go out there and stand on my furniture, I can actually see Steven Spielberg's tile roof over at Amblin Entertainment."

"Sounds like you're well positioned," Shane said as he turned and popped the lock on his Acura, then took off his coat because it was a hot day.

Nicky was shifting back and forth, looking a little like a seal, waiting for his trainer to throw the ball. "Something on your mind?"

Nicky stopped rocking. "Yeah…" He squinted at Shane, using his doe-eyed expression, the one he'd used to con old ladies on Sunset Boulevard back in the nineties. "I feel kinda funny about all this. I mean, if it hadn't been for you, I would've never got the front money to get this movie going, hire all these A-listers. Now I got a major studio movie, and you got nothin'."

"I got what I wanted, Nicky. You got what you wanted. We're square, okay? Don't worry about it."

"Yeah, okay." But his ferret eyes looked puzzled, his narrow face scrunched up with worry. It wasn't hard to read his thoughts: Had Shane scored a piece of this deal that he didn't know about? Was he being screwed? "What did you get that you wanted?" Nicky asked suspiciously.

"I got the D. A. to indict Dennis for Carol's murder. Insane Wayne was in on the hit. He's downtown, singing like Pavarotti. Dennis is gonna go down. The full twenty-five with an L."

"Oh, that," he said. Now he seemed recalcitrant. "Y'know, Shane, that wasn't my fault she got killed." "Yes, it was. Yours and mine."

"But I didn't know he was gonna clip her."

"You knew she was using heroin when she auditioned for you."

The little grifter looked down in embarrassment.

"And you knew Dennis had something more than friendship on his mind when he asked you to find her. You must have guessed she was threatening to go to the cops and expose Dennis's movie scam if he didn't give her money for her heroin habit. You had to know it wasn't going to be good once he found her."

Nicky slowly looked up. Shane saw deep pain and guilt on his narrow face.

"Nicky, we were careless, and we set her up for him. Admit it, 'cause if you don't own up to your mistakes, you'll just keep making them. It's how you grow. It's how you reach out and finally come to Jesus. Say hallelujah."

"I know you're making fun of me, but I did find Jesus. And I do pray for her, Shane. I pray for her every day." He was close to tears.

"Me, too."

They stood uncomfortably in the parking lot, bathed in hot sun and shared guilt.

Suddenly Nicky leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Shane…" he said softly, looking like a man on the edge of a confession. Then his resolve hardened and he said, "You were right…"

"About what?"

"I knew she was on drugs. When she came in for that reading a few years back, she was pretty seriously tweaked. She looked like shit and tried to borrow money and I didn't do anything… not a damned thing. I just.. I kinda. I got her out of the office because she…" He stopped, tears welling up.

"She embarrassed you," Shane finished.

"I had to get her out. My investors were shocked at her appearance." Now the tears were flowing.

"It's okay, Nicky… In the long run, you'll feel better if you own up to it."

"It's not okay, Shane… It's not. I owed her much more. She was my friend in school when nobody else was willing to be. I didn't protect her when she needed me." He pulled out a silk handkerchief and wiped his eyes.

"Neither did I," Shane said softly.

They looked at each other across this big ugly fact.

Finally, Nicky seemed to shake out of it. He put the handkerchief away, reached into his pocket, pulled out an envelope, and handed it to Shane.

"What's this?"

"Well, it's probably not worth anything, but I'm giving you a point and a half outta my back-end of The Neural Surfer. Course, by the time Universal gets through bookkeeping the profit participants, net points are usually worth bubkes. But who knows? Stranger things have happened."

Shane nodded and put the envelope in his pocket.

"I really did love her, Shane," Nicky said softly.

"I know," Shane said sadly, then got into his car and pulled away.

As he turned the corner on Lankersheim, he looked back and saw Nicky was still standing in the Universal parking lot… a tiny little man in an iridescent suit. Thinking. Rocking. Looking down at the pavement.

Carol's funeral was at five o'clock at the New Calvary Cemetery. Besides the minister, there was just Shane, Alexa, Chooch, and Franco. Delfina couldn't make it because she was still in the hospital. But she was being discharged the next day, and moving in with them.

Nicky called at the last minute to say he had to go into a budget meeting and wouldn't be able to make it. Apparently somebody in Universal's auditing department had discovered a line-item for five Oregon redwoods, which were cut and shipped at fifty thousand per tree. Nicky conceded to Shane over the phone that they should have used papier-mache. Just before the service began, a flower truck arrived with a wreath from Nicky that would have held its own at Gotti's funeral.

Alexa cradled Carol's cat in her arms while the minister read the service.

Chooch had donated the casket, his mahogany Heaven Rider, as well as his preselected, prepaid burial plot-all courtesy of American Macado and the 18th Street Surenos. Carol was being laid to rest surrounded by the graves of dead Emes. Amac's funeral wasn't scheduled yet, because the Scottsdale P. D. hadn't released his body. Once they did, Shane, Alexa, Chooch, and Delfina would be back here, standing two plots away, while a hundred Mexican bangers, wearing their trademark Eme blue, stood on the graves of their fallen brothers, nodding wisely, saying that Amac was con safos-one hundred proof-rifa. It was an endless, useless cycle of death that showed no sign of ever ending.

After the minister finished with the "dust to dust" part of his ceremony, Shane walked him to the road. They stood next to his two-year-old station wagon while Shane paid him.

"Not much of a turnout," the minister said.

"What it lacks in size it makes up for in quality."

The man nodded, got into his Chevy, and pulled out. As Shane watched him go, he thought it was ironic how things happened. He had never had a family growing up, and now that he finally had one, he seemed to have an overpowering desire to take in every stray that touched his heart. First Franco… now Delfina. He wondered who would be next.

After the service ended, they walked over to the morteary building to check on the brass headstone that Shane had ordered. Once completed, it had been waiting for the grave to be filled. Now the headstone could be placed in cement over Carol's earthly remains. The man behind the counter handed it to them, then he turned and went into the back room. The plaque was heavy in Shane's hands, almost twenty pounds. He set it on the floor and they all looked down at it.

Shane often thought that guilt was like poison, that each person had only a limited amount they could absorb. Once you hit your saturation point, guilt got its shot at you. It would knock you down and feed on you, weakening you until you could no longer stand the consequences of your actions. Guilt could drive you in dangerous directions, push you up against defining prerogatives and ugly realities. It seemed to him that cops were especially susceptible. They saw the worst of society and often got the worst. They wore thin armor constructed out of cynicism and disdain, but often got pushed into dark emotional corners where they ended the struggle by chewing on their own gun barrels. Carol had pushed Shane slightly closer to his own psychological and emotional edge. Pushed him there because, since Alexa and Chooch had come into his life, he had started to feel. He had started to care. But feelings were sloppy, untidy emotions that, in law enforcement, were a terrible liability.

For the hundredth time, Shane wondered about changing careers. This time, maybe something shiny and fun. He had tried being a Blue Knight, had tried living up to a higher vision of himself. But when Carol White needed a hero, there were none around-only a confused cop who had badly misplayed his hand.

If he quit the job, what would he do? Run a fishing boat? Work with kids? Open a sporting goods store? Fireman… lawyer… teacher?

He could not choose.

Franco began to squirm in Alexa's arms, so she put him down. He sniffed at the corner of the brass headstone.

Then he looked up at them, and cried.

Shane stared at the plaque and wondered if he had chosen the right inscription. He didn't know. Maybe it was okay, or maybe it was just stupid and corny. It probably didn't say what she would have wanted. Shane barely knew Carol White, but she had affected him in ways he found hard to understand. Yet if life was going to be about anything, maybe it should be about hope.

Shane picked up Franco and read the inscription one last time…