The prostitutes ball

Chapter 26

According to the detective roster at Homicide Special, Sumner Hitchens lived in the hills above Nichols Canyon in an expensive L. A. development called Mount Olympus, which was only a few miles from Skyline Drive.

I found I couldn't get there from Mulholland, which was the quickest route, because the feeder road, Woodrow Wilson Drive, was torn up and blocked by sewer repair. I had to go all the way down into Hollywood and approach Mount Olympus using Laurel Canyon.

Ten minutes later, I pulled through the kitschy, ornate, Olympian-style monument that marked the main entrance.

Sumner Hitchens, Apollo of Bullshit, appropriately enough lived on Apollo Drive.

I pulled up across from a very large two-story Georgian. The front lawn was almost an eighth of an acre of beautifully manicured rolling grass. I could see the Carrera parked under the porte cochere that overhung a sweeping circular drive.

From the look of it, this place had to be worth a lot more than three million, which was the rumored number around the water-cooler at the LAPD.

I fought back a wave of jealousy, got out of the MDX and walked up the steps to the large front door. Some kind of progressive jazz was playing from a sound system inside the house.

Before I could bang the brass lion s-head knocker or ring the bell, the large oak door was opened by a barefoot African-American beauty in her midthirties, wearing cut-off jean shorts, a tie-dyed T-shirt, and a commercial-looking chefs apron.

"So you're the infamous Shane," she said, smiling.

"I must be putting off a strong vibe," I answered. "I usually have to introduce myself first."

"Hitch saw you coming. We've got video." She flicked a thumb toward the porch surveillance cameras. "He couldn't come out cause he's in the kitchen, crisping the chickens, and that's the most critical part. We're making galletto alia piastra. He said I should bring you back. I'm Crystal Blake."

We shook hands. She had an athlete's grace and a dancer's legs, which I couldn't help but admire as she led me into the expensively decorated entry, across a carved plush pile rug, and through a beautiful living room where the walls were rose and the trim white.

The furniture was eclectic and tasteful, the artwork expensive but not overdone. Hitch had obviously spent a fortune decorating.

Off to the right, through plate glass, I could see the lights of the city winking and blinking like a carpet of jewels. A big wood deck overlooked the view. I could see patio umbrellas and expensive deck chairs out there along with a king-sized Jacuzzi that was bubbling like a witch's brew.

Damn, I thought. Maybe I should take this movie stuff a bit more seriously.

The kitchen was big and professional. There was a center island with a huge leaded skylight overhead, burnished stainless-steel appliances, and spacious, oiled wood counters.

Hitch was in Bermuda shorts, flip-flops, and a tank top that showed he was staying in shape. He was pressing an aluminum-wrapped brick down on some filleted chickens.

"Hey, be right with you, hoss. Crys, hand me the black pepper and that dish of chopped rosemary and sage leaves."

She grabbed a huge pepper mill and a glass dish with the chopped herbs.

"This is the tricky part." He grinned. "Can't take my mitts off these little gallettos 'til they're seared."

"How'd the shooting review board go?" I asked as he cooked.

"Only took an hour. It's closed. Not even going to call you to appear. Came down as an in-policy shooting because my three shots were determined to be IDOLs." He was talking about rounds fired in immediate defense of life mine. "Your support statement clinched it," he added, sprinkling chopped herbs on the chicken.

"This is some place," I said, trying to keep the awe out of my voice. It's one thing to hear he bought an expensive house in the Hollywood Hills, it's another to actually see it.

"Check it out, homes." He pointed at the range he was working over. "Wolfgang Puck doesn't even have one of these. Ten burners. This is the NASA Space Orbiter of commercial grills." He grabbed another brick wrapped in aluminum foil and placed it carefully on top of the other two chickens, glancing at his thirty-thousand-dollar Corum watch.

"Three minutes, we flip 'em. Hardest part is to resist the temptation to peek."

"You want them to be golden brown," Crystal said. "If you lift them and peek it ruins the color. The bricks hold them close to the grill so they'll sear, but if you go too long they burn. Whole process, both sides, takes about seven minutes."

"Crystal knows her stuff. She's the pastry chef at Lucques. You should taste her desserts. Killer."

She put an arm around him and leaned a hip into his side. They were an affectionate, attractive couple.

"I thought you were a dancer," I said. "You move like one."

"Used to be," she said, but added nothing more to that.

Seven minutes later Hitch was pulling the four spring chickens off the grill and wrapping them in a cloth, which he explained was to soak up excess marinade.

"We're also having pasta ripiena, but it's lagging a bit. Crystal, can you keep an eye on this while I fix Shane a drink?" She nodded and he turned to me. "Let's go into the other room. I'm assuming you'll stay for dinner."

"Yeah, I guess," I said. "It smells great."

He led me out of the kitchen into the large den area, where a movie poster for Mosquito and half a dozen framed shots showing Hitch on the set with Jamie Foxx were hung behind the wet bar.

"I called Records," I said. "I understand you took the hard-copy evidence boxes for the Vulcuna case."

"Yeah, I did. But before we go through them, you and I need to get a few things worked out."

"That was gonna be my next suggestion," I said.

"Good. What are you drinking?"

"Beer's good."

"All I got is imported lager. I got a great Paulaner from Germany, okay?"

I nodded. He uncapped two beers and handed me one. We went out on the deck that overlooked the city. The view was priceless.

"Okay, homes," he said, "time to get a few things out in the open."

"You're right, cause this still isn't quite working."

"We need to make some important partnership decisions."

"Exactly. Like how we go about doing this case without losing our badges or killing each other."

"Well, that wasn't exactly what I was talking about," he said. "We got more important issues to discuss."

"What's more important than that?"

"The back end on the movie. What we will accept as our definition of net profit. How many profit points we each get, stuff like that. If we do this now, before it gets too pregnant, we'll be cool. If we wait 'til some studio dumps a bunch of cash on the table, it inevitably turns into a brawl. You should have seen the mess my homicide table at Metro got into over the profit split on Mosquito."

"I don't want to sell this to the movies."

"Too late. This afternoon I sketched it out to my guys at UTA, who called me back an hour ago. They already have serious interest from Spielberg, Bruckheimer, and Joel Silver. This has just become the greatest of all the Hollywood nirvanas, the Weekend Auction. That's where you have three or more prime players fighting to control a hot project before start of business on Monday.

"Each of those guys will be desperately trying to keep it from the others, driving our sales price through the roof. A high-dollar auction like this only comes along once or twice a year in Hollywood. I predict Prostitutes Ball is gonna be even bigger than Mosquito."

He reached out and clicked my beer bottle with his.

"You're gonna be rich, dawg."