Marked Man

51

It turned out to be Los Angeles, which was absolutely not a surprise. If you’re chasing Sammy Glick, you don’t head off to Moline.

Driving north on the 405, or at least pointing north, I had the strange feeling that I’d found my place in the world. I had sprung for a convertible, bright red and cheap – characteristics I find incredibly sexy in both convertibles and women’s lipstick – and I had the top down. The wind wasn’t quite blowing through my hair, since the 405 was more parking lot than thoroughfare, and, to tell the truth, with the sun uncomfortably hot on my shoulders and the nauseating scent of hot pavement and exhaust, I wasn’t feeling all that swell, but still, something felt so right about the place. And look, down there, well beyond the highway, on one of the streets heading off to the left, wasn’t that a palm tree?

I wondered if the other motorists saw a young man on the make, come west to stake out his future, or just a pathetically pale tourist in a cheap suit, kiosk sunglasses, and a rent-a-car convertible trying to act L.A. and failing miserably. Well, really now, who the hell cared what anyone else thought? I was here, I was in a convertible, I had a beautiful woman by my side, I was ready for my close-up. And yes, to top off the picture, I was heading for a meeting with a mogul. Life in the fast lane, baby.

Now, if only traffic would start moving.

AFTER I HAD dropped Rhonda Harris off at her hotel and bitten my lip in frustration as I saw her sashay into the lobby, I placed a call to Skink. We met in his dust-up of an office and tried to figure out where the hell was that bastard Teddy Pravitz. All it took to find him, finally, was a little triangulation.

“What do we got to go on, mate?” said Skink, lying on the leather couch with his shoes off. Skink did his best work with his shoes off.

“Not much,” I said. “He probably changed his name. At one point he was in California. He wanted to make a movie.”

“Who doesn’t?” said Skink. “I got this idea myself. It’s about a private dick in Fresno what brings down a motorcycle gang to help a damsel in distress. Turns out the damsel ain’t so much in distress and ain’t so much a damsel. All I needs to do is write the screenplay. What’s it take to write a screenplay anyway?”

“Just a few free hours, I’m sure,” I said. “You spent some time in Fresno, didn’t you, Phil?”

“So he’s out west, is that it?” said Skink, quickly changing the subject.

“That’s my best bet right now.”

“It’s a big country.”

“I might have something else.” I took a piece of paper out of my jacket pocket and handed it to Skink.

“What’s that?”

“A list of phone calls made or received by a dead man.”

“Come again?”

“These are all the incoming, outgoing, and missed phone calls for the last week from Stanford Quick’s cell phone.”

“Cops give you that?”

“Not exactly.”

“Oh, I get it. Frisked a corpse.” Skink grinned in admiration.

“My guess is, one of the numbers is connected somehow to the guy we’re looking for. We should concentrate on the West Coast for starters.”

“I’ll see if I can rustle up a name for each number with the right area code,” said Skink, sitting up in interest. “I’ll also run a name what I’ve picked up about that Lavender Hill fellow, see if anything matches.”

“Great,” I said. “Meanwhile I might be able to find us another lead.”

“From where, mate?”

“A woman I know,” I said.

“Business or pleasure?”

“She’s a Realtor.”

“That’s the answer, isn’t it? With a Realtor it’s always business.”

“YOU NEVER told me the plan,” said Monica as she sat beside me in my rental red convertible. She near shouted to be heard over the bleat of L.A. traffic and the loud hum of the wind racing over our heads now that we were moving again.

“Plan?”

“You don’t have a plan?”

“Plans fall apart,” I said. “A strategy is a mode of operation infinitely adaptable to the truth of the situation as we find it. I prefer strategies.”

“Okay. So you never told me your strategy.”

“Strategy?”

“You don’t have a strategy either?”

“That, I’m working on,” I said.

Monica turned to me and frowned, and I must say it was a lovely frown. Her black hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, her sunglasses were big and round. To the other drivers peering into the cabin of our convertible, she must have looked like a starlet on the way to the set. I probably looked like her accountant.

“It will be all right,” I said. “Hey, we’re getting close to the Pacific Ocean. Can you smell it?”

“We have to take a right somewhere.”

“I know. But it is so cool, isn’t it? Sit back and take a sniff. The Pacific Ocean, the Santa Monica Pier, Muscle Beach.” I had gotten off the blocked stream of traffic on the 405 at Venice Boulevard, heading west toward the Pacific Coast Highway. Not the most direct route, maybe, but scenic, sure, and, dude, like, what’s the rush? “Maybe I should pop my biceps for the locals.”

“You’ll need to give out magnifying glasses.”

“Be nice,” I said.

“Really, Victor. What’s the plan? We’re just going to march up and demand the truth?”

“Pretty much,” I said. “He’ll be prepared for us. I don’t know if we’ll be shut out or charmed to death, but whatever game he plays, we’ll adjust. Sometimes the best strategy is to just blunder forward and make a mess. It’s how I found him, I riled things up enough so that he knew I was coming, and he got nervous. That’s why Mrs. LeComte was rudely warned to keep quiet and why Stanford Quick ended up dead.”

“And from that you found his new name?”

“Well, I had some help,” I said.

THE LAKESIDE Chinese Deli was not by a lake and not a deli, and with its bare tables, busted sign, and the hand-scrawled Chinese posters in the window, the joint screamed botulism. But if you wanted dim sum in Philadelphia, if you weren’t looking for linen tablecloths and silver candlesticks, and if you didn’t mind being the only Occidentals in the place or being treated like family, which included rude service and a lot of yelling, then there was no better place than the Lakeside.

“You’re not eating,” I said to Sheila.

“I’m not really hungry.”

“But I ordered all this for us,” I said, gesturing at the metal steamers and small round plates sitting before us, a tempting array of dumplings on each.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find a good use for it.”

And she was right, I would. I was suddenly starving, ravenous, as if my brush with death had fed my hunger. Eat while you can, because you never know when it will be you in that chair with an unfinished drink and a bullet in your head while some skeevy interloper gropes through your clothes for a cell phone. I pinched a dumpling with my sticks, dipped it in the dipping sauce, popped it in my mouth. Shrimp. Nice.

“So if you’re not hungry,” I said, “why did you come?”

“Because you called.”

“It’s that simple?”

“Why not?”

“How’s your fiancé?”

“Lovely. Thank you for asking.”

Her smile was sly, her lips were coral, her eyes were bright, and I liked the way her false blond hair rested lightly on her cheek. Sheila was one of those women who got better-looking every time you saw them. How did she do that? I wondered.

“You sell that condo yet?” I said.

“Are you interested?”

“Not in buying the condo.”

“Good, because I don’t think it is a good fit.” She looked down, traced a Chinese letter on the tabletop with her fingertip. “But if you want another look, just to be sure, that can be arranged.”

“Not tonight, thank you. I’ve had a tough day.”

“Too bad. I’m feeling frisky.”

“Are you going to keep dating while you’re married?”

“I don’t know. Give me a call after the wedding and we’ll see.”

“He’s a lucky guy.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Investment banker?”

“Of course. But I have something special just for you, Victor. A name.”

I put down my chopsticks. “Go ahead.”

“That house you wanted me to keep tabs on? The Ciulla property? There is another Realtor who is showing surprising interest. His name is Darryl. I had lunch with Darryl just yesterday. We chatted, we laughed, we drank too much. It was quite chummy.”

“I can imagine.”

“Darryl is short and sweaty and wears a toupee, yet still he thought just the thing I wanted in my ear was his tongue.”

“Men are funny like that.”

“In the course of our rather wet lunch, we decided to work together and form a syndicate to purchase the Ciulla property for ourselves. It’s unethical and illegal, which is why it’s so delicious. Instead of bidding against each other to make the seller rich, two Realtors buy the property for themselves and then let the clients bid to buy it from the syndicate. It costs the clients no more, but the Realtors end up splitting the profit.”

“Sweet.”

“Of course, even in a syndicate, the name of the buyers always stays confidential. No Realtor wants another Realtor to poach a client.”

“You would never do something like that.”

“I’m a Realtor, Victor. But in the course of our conversation, after our fifth drink, while I was trying to keep my eardrum from drowning, Darryl let slip a bit of his client’s name. Reggie, he called him.”

“Reggie as in Reginald?”

“There you go.”

“Reggie.”

“Yes, and he’s on the West Coast. Darryl was very pleased to have a client on the West Coast. He mentioned it repeatedly. ‘My client on the West Coast.’”

“Reggie from the West Coast.”

“Does that help?”

“Yes, yes it does. You’re beautiful, do you know that?”

“It was nothing.”

“No, it was definitely something, but that’s not what I mean. You really are beautiful.”

“Oh.” She almost blushed. “Then thank you.”

“I was trying to figure out why every time I see you, you seem more beautiful, and now I know.”

“And why is that, Victor?”

“Because against all appearances and against all odds, despite your Escalade and your bracelets and your rather frightening profession, and despite all your attempts to appear otherwise, inside you are actually a doll. I asked a favor without telling you why, and you endured a drunken lunch with the likes of Darryl just to see it through. You are too sweet for words, and I think the more I see of you, the more it shows.”

She lowered her chin and stayed quiet for a moment. “If you tell anyone,” she said finally, “I’ll rip out your lungs.”

“I don’t doubt that you would.”

“Nobody wants a sweet Realtor.”

“Just promise me one thing.”

“Go ahead.”

“If things don’t work out with your investment banker,” I said, “you’ll give me a call.”

She fought a smile for a moment and then picked up her fork. “Maybe I will have one,” she said as she speared a dumpling.

TRIANGULATION IS as easy as one, two, three. We had the numbers from Stanford Quick’s cell phone, we had the name from Sheila the Realtor, and we had an intriguing piece of information picked up from Skink’s contacts in Savannah. Our friend Lavender Hill had mentioned something to one of his more sinister associates. Lavender had said he was thinking of getting into the film business. He had a screenplay he’d been working on, about an art dealer and a precious urn and old money gone bad, and now, thanks to a stroke of luck, he had a client to sell it to.

“Everyone thinks they have a movie in them,” I said to Skink. “What was the name of the company?”

“Sara Something Productions. The guy didn’t catch the whole thing, but he said it sounded like a name. Sara something.”

“Does it exist?”

“Couldn’t find it. Found me a registry of production companies, and there wasn’t a Sara Something or a Sara Anything in the whole list.”

“Sara,” I said. “Sara something.” I thought about it for a moment. “What about Zarathustra?”

“Say what?”

“Zarathustra, with a Z, not an S. It’s a Nietzsche thing, and our boy had a thing for Nietzsche.”

“Wasn’t he the bald guy what played for the Packers?”

“Sure he was. Check it out. Zarathustra Productions.”

And that was it, exactly. With an office in North Hollywood. There wasn’t much about it on the Web, just a few contact numbers, but one of them was for a Reginald Winters. Reggie from the West Coast. I laughed when I saw it. What a perfect name for an upwardly striving Jewish kid from Tacony to adopt, as if he played tennis in his whites growing up, summered on Mount Desert Island, had cousins at Andover. Reginald Winters. The more I rolled it over my tongue, the more I was certain it was a phony. It’s the kind of name that would be picked by a kid who had read one too many Archies and decided he was more a Veronica than a Betty kind of guy. Reginald Winters. How fake could you get? Except it wasn’t.

“I found out what I could about him,” said Skink after a few minutes checking out his databases. “Born in Ohio, graduate of Northwestern, started off as a reader for Paramount before latching onto his current position.”

“How old is he?”

“Mid-twenties.”

Ouch. Not the right guy, not the right guy at all. So much for my phony-name theory. “What’s his job?”

“Vice president.”

“Vice president of what?”

“Acquisitions, apparently.”

“Oh, I bet. Just the job for a kid in his twenties. The new Irving Thalberg. He’s an errand boy. That’s why he was dealing with Darryl the Realtor. Who does he work for?”

“The big boss at Zarathustra is a guy named Purcell,” said Skink. “Theodore Purcell.”

“Theodore, huh?”

“It’s his place. Apparently he’s been in the business for decades.”

“How’s the company doing?”

“Used to be big. Remember Tony in Love, huge hit back in the early eighties?”

“That sentimental piece of garbage about two doomed lovers where everyone ends up in tears?”

“It made me cry, too, mate. I’m not ashamed to admit it. That was Theodore Purcell. And Piscataway with Gene Hackman, the one with the car chase. And then The Dancing Shoes.”

“The Dancing Shoes?”

“Apparently things have gone a bit downhill since.”

“Not a surprise with those turkeys. What’s his background?”

“Can’t tell. All I get are filmographies, and they all start with him buying the book and then producing Tony in Love.”

“How’d he get the dough to buy the book?”

“Don’t know.”

“I bet I do. And he was even too cocky to change his first name. Do you have an address?”

“I’ve been looking. Nothing. He doesn’t want to be found.”

“How about on Stanford Quick’s phone? Any numbers match up with Purcell?”

“Nothing directly. But there does happen to be a number what came in to his phone a few times and what is seriously unlisted. Can’t get a thing on it. And when I calls it, the voice what answers won’t give me any info. Just wants to know who the hell I am and tells me not to call again. Quite rude, actually. Chinese guy, by the sound of it.”

“Give it another call. Tell the guy who answers that you have a package for Mr. Purcell. A gift basket from Universal, but you’re having a hard time finding the house. Try to get specific instructions on how to get there. Maybe he’ll give up the street and the number.”

“You think he’ll fall for it?”

“One thing I know about Hollywood, they love their gift baskets.”

THE HOUSE was high in the Santa Monica Mountains, overlooking the ritzy compound of Malibu. The ride was winding and steep, switching back here and there as we rose ever higher alongside the ravine, brown desert spotted with green. I stopped by the squawk box in front of the rusted gate. Beneath the intercom was a mailbox without a name or a number, and atop the gate, off to the right, sat a camera, pointed directly at our car. I leaned over to press the squawk-box button.

Nothing.

I pressed it again and then again.

Still nothing.

“Are you sure this is it?” said Monica. “Maybe we passed it already.”

“This is it,” I said, and pressed it again.

“What you pressing so much for?” came a voice from the box, the voice tinny and from the East, not the Northeast but the Far East. Not quite Chinese, but something. “We not deaf. We hear you. Now, what you want?”

“We’re here for Mr. Purcell,” I said.

“You have appointment?”

“No, sir.”

“Then what you pressing button for? Go away. Mr. Purcell not here for you.”

“I think he’s expecting me.”

“No he’s not. Mr. Purcell resting. Mr. Purcell ill. Mr. Purcell in New York. Mr. Purcell not here for you. What you got, script? We don’t take script unless we ask for script, and we never ask for script. Put in box, and we won’t get back to you. Go away now. Mr. Purcell has headache and cannot be disturbed.”

“You must have a law degree.”

“Why you want to insult me, when I just do my job?”

“Tell Mr. Purcell that Victor Carl is here to see him.”

“Victor Carl?”

“That’s right.”

“You Victor Carl?”

“That I am.”

“Ah, Mr. Carl. About time.”

“Excuse me?”

“We been expecting you for days. Hurry, hurry. Mr. Purcell waiting for you.”

“I bet he is,” I said as the gate swung slowly open.

When it had opened wide enough to pass through, I drove slowly forward. The drive headed up and then around, through a rising, overgrown landscape of thick flowers and shade tress and weed-strewn patches of sun-dappled lawn.

“I guess he’s going the charm route,” I said as we made our way up the drive.

“I think I’ll be immune to Mr. Purcell’s charms,” said Monica.

“Don’t be so sure. He’ll lay it on thick. But however charming he might be, don’t ever forget.”

“Forget what?”

“That he’s a liar. If the secret to success in Hollywood is to never say an honest word, then he’s found his perfect place. He’ll be convincing, his sincerity will flow free and threaten to drown us in its earnestness, he’ll peer into our eyes with the most unaffected gaze, and every instinct will tell us to trust him. We’ll end up liking him and we’ll want to believe every word he says. That’s how good a liar he’ll be. But don’t ever forget that he’s a liar, pure and simple, born to it, like the snake is born to crawl and the tiger is born to kill.”

“So why are we here in the first place, Victor, if all we’ll get is lies?”

“Because a great liar doesn’t make up his lies out of thin air. In every effective lie will be a kernel of truth, and that’s what we’re looking for. The kernel of truth about what that bastard did to your sister.”