The prostitutes ball

Chapter 27

"Hitch, I really don't want to be in the movie business," I said.

"Doesn't matter. I'm selling this story whether you like it or not. I got two back-end points on Mosquito. My agents at UTA say, because that was such a monster hit, I should be able to negotiate seven on this. Because you're my tight and because I always take care of my posse, I'm gonna carve out two of my seven points for you. That way you'll get the same on this as I got on my first movie."

"I don't want movie money for doing my job."

"You can set the money on fire or give it to charity. I don't care. But that's our split, seventy-thirty."

"And I got nothing to say about whether we sell it or not? Isn't this story half mine?"

"I don't need you to sell my side of the story. You can't stop me, because I own the rights to my own life. You can also sell yours if you want, but you'll get bupkis because nobody in the biz has a clue who you are. With no Hollywood representation you have no path to the market."

"1 don't believe this."

"Believe it. I'm gonna try and convince you not to be stupid here. Your best play is to go in with me so I can help you maximize your profit."

This was coming at me so fast I was a little stunned.

"My guys at UTA think we can get five hundred grand for the story rights, then another half mil as a production bonus when it starts shooting." He went on, "I intend to get Jamie to do this as a sequel to Mosquito, and if that happens we could end up making millions more on the back end. He plays me, we get Brad Pitt or some other handsome asshole to be you. If I set this up right, Brinks will back a truck up to your front door and start unloading cash."

I sat in his lush house with his midnight blue Carrera parked out front, looking at his spectacular view and getting more confused by the minute. In that second, I realized it's very hard to say no to potential millions. You like to think your knees won't buckle over money and that, on principle, you'll be true to your code, but I have to admit, I was struggling.

"The reason I'm getting five points and you're only getting two is because, in essence, you can take a ride on my past success. Because of Mosquito, I'll get a big piece this time and I already have killer agents to hammer the deal points. That's the only reason we don't split fifty-fifty." He was selling this hard to me. "Seventy-thirty is eminently fair."

Crystal came out of the kitchen holding a big pasta fork. "The ripiena is cooling," she said. "You guys get your business sorted out?"

"Shane is having second thoughts about selling his part of Prostitutes Ball" Hitch said.

"You should do it," Crystal advised me earnestly. "There's nothing wrong with it. Hitch knows the ins and outs of Hollywood and, as he's certainly proven, selling a movie concept doesn't stop you from staying on the job and being a highly respected cop."

"Not for nothing, but Hitch is not a highly respected cop. Even though he's obviously smart as hell he's also turned himself into a joke. The sole reason for that is all this movie BS."

Hitch frowned. "That may be a little harsh, Shane. I think it's probably worth noting that jealousy can often manifest itself as sarcasm and ridicule."

"I thought we were still in Act One," I said to change the subject, trying to keep myself from taking a dive. "I thought you told me we didn't have anything until we found that big, dark, scary complication that was hiding under the surface that suddenly reared up and changed everything in Act Two."

"It's already reared, dude. Act One is the whole Vulcuna mess in eighty-one. That's why we gotta get busy and figure that out. Then our complication comes in Act Two with the whole Karel Sladky thing culminating with three new murders. Then Act Three is going to be the breathtaking resolution that brings these two murder cases together in a spectacular conclusion that nobody in the audience sees coming."

"Act Three? You mean there's more? What the hell is going to be in Act Three?"

"We ain't quite got that yet, but once we do, then all that's left is we throw in a bunch of gun-wielding assholes in a helicopter, some shoulder-mounted Stingers to give us that Michael Bay factor, and, voila, you got yourself a hundred-million-dollar domestic gross."

I started rubbing my eyes. I wanted to say no, but damn it, a million dollars is hard to walk away from. I put that thought on hold, hoping that events would submarine this whole thing and make the decision for me.

I thought my price for selling out would have been much higher than a few measly million, or better still, perhaps even be nonexistent. Apparently I lacked that kind of principle or moral fiber. It was a moment of sad realization.

"I'm not doing this," I whimpered, but quite frankly, as I sat there listening to the bubbling Jacuzzi and the distant strains of Dave Brubeck on his jazz piano, it sounded like a feeble protest even to me.

Hitch was up here on Apollo Drive living like a god on Mount Olympus, while I was in the flatlands on Anchor Way, living like an aging cop in a developer's scaled-down version of Venice, Italy.

The twinkling lights of L. A. graced Hitch's spectacular view.

A few plastic mossy-bottom gondolas greeted mine.

Was that fair? Shouldn't I be getting more perks in life?

"I think we should stop talking about it and let it settle in your mind," Hitch said. "I'm gonna assume you'll eventually come to your senses. In the meantime, we need to flesh out Act One and get working on Vulcuna."

He got up and walked into the house, leaving me with the lovely Crystal Blake. She was still holding the long-handled pasta fork. She looked beautiful in the gentle outdoor lights spilling out from under the eaves of the overhanging roof, throwing a rose glow across the deck and her life with Hitch.

"Thanks for being his friend," she said.

"Huh?" I replied, sounding like a stoned guest at one of Brooks Dunbar's parties.

"It's hard for Sumner. He has big dreams. But underneath it all he's always striving to live up to a higher version of himself. Nobody ever gave him anything and look what he's accomplished. But despite the money and fame, he's still that little boy hiding under his uncle's car trying not to join a gang."

"So that wasn't bullshit. He really did that?"

"His big brother was killed in the gangs. Its why he decided to become a cop. He could have quit the department after Mosquito. Jamie Foxx wanted him to run his production company, offered him a fortune, but Sumner said no."

"I didn't know that."

She smiled and nodded. "He has the same calling in life that you do. He loves being a cop, getting justice for victims. It's just with Sumner, so much is happening on the surface, it's sometimes hard to see what's going on deep inside. If you're not paying attention, you can miss it."

Then Hitch came out carrying two large cardboard boxes. He set them down on the table next to the Jacuzzi.

"Here's the Vulcuna case. The homicide team that worked this in eighty-one was out of Hollywood Division. Norris and McKnight."

"Jack McKnight?"

"Yeah, you know him?"

"Met him once. An old patrol car gunfighter who was working Hollywood Homicide about the same time I first came on the job. They called him 'Midnight Jack McKnight' because the guv was always working a bunch of moonlighting jobs. If I remember correctly, he lives at the marina now. Retired."

Hitch pulled out the leather journal and read from it. "Marina del Ray, slip B-243."

"We should go talk to him."

"I already set up an appointment to go out there at nine thirty, after dinner," Hitch said. "Tonight's his bowling night, but he said he'd be back by then."

"You were gonna go without me?"

"Yeah," he said unabashedly. "Until you showed up, that was my plan."

He reached into the box and pulled out McKnight and Norris's old murder book. It contained all their thoughts and drawings on the case. Usually it also had duplicate crime-scene photos and autopsy shots.

I flipped through, reading notes, studying their crime-scene pencil graphs, looking for photos of the double murder/suicide. There wasn't much here.

Hitch said, "Their notes say the Luger jammed after the first shot. Vulcuna fired one to his head. It went all the way through his skull and ended up in the headboard."

"There had to be two shots because we found the other slug in the backyard," I said. I continued to flip through the book and realized there were no crime-scene or autopsy photos in here at all.

Hitch reached into the box and pulled out the Luger. It was in a plastic evidence bag. The magazine was in a separate pouch. He took an inventory sheet from the box.

"Eight-round magazine. According to this, only one was fired. We'll get ballistics to match the slug we found to this gun."

I looked in the second box, which was loaded with physical evidence labeled Baggies with hair and fiber, bloody clothes. Then I saw an old book with an ornate spine and pulled it out.

"The Divine Comedy," I said, reading the cover.

"That's right," Hitch said. "By Dante Aligheri. The guy was a great Florentine poet who died in the early thirteen hundreds. The Divine Comedy isn't a comedy like the kind Jim Carrey makes. In Italian literature, a comedy is defined as a story that begins in sorrow and ends in joy." Hitch was proving to be well read with wide-ranging interests, yet I didn't think he ever went to college.

I was looking for the marked passage. A paper clip pinned the page. I found the underlined paragraph and read it aloud.

"'Midway upon the journey of my life, I found myself within a forest dark, for the straightforward pathway had been lost.'"

"Kapow," Hitch said. I looked up and saw that he had made a gun out of his thumb and forefinger and had pointed it at his head.

"It feels like bullshit," I said.

"Ya think?" He grinned. I'm telling you, Shane, there is a lot more here than a double murder/suicide. When we get it all together, Act One is gonna rock. The movie producer in me feels this fact resonating in my bones."

As I was closing the book, I happened to see something written on the inside of the front cover up by the top. In light pencil script, somebody had written San Diego.

"San Diego?" I said.

"Vulcuna or his wife probably bought that in a used book shop. These old books go hand to hand. Very few belong to the original owners. This one was published in 1912, probably sold at a bunch of book sales over the years. One was probably down in San Diego. God knows how many people could have owned that before Vulcuna finally got it."

"I wonder where the crime-scene and autopsy pictures are?" I asked.

"Old case like this, they could be anywhere. Lost even."

I put The Divine Comedy back in the evidence box.

"Let's eat," he said.

The galletto alia piastra was delicious. The pasta ripiena was also knockout. The wine was a Louis Jadot pinot noir. For dessert, Crystal brought out two plates of tiramisu.

She set one down in front of Hitch, the other before her own place. She went back into the kitchen and returned a minute later with a small platter of brown gunk with a parsley sprig stuck on the top.

She set it carefully in front of me.

I sniffed it. Smelled like peanut butter.

"What the hell is this?" I said, peering suspiciously down at it.

"Bullshit, prepared in the French style," Hitch said, grinning.