Dog Beach (11 page)

18

WAGES OF FEAR

That Sunday they drove—Dutch, Louie, and Troy—way the hell out to Irvine to see an effects guy Dutch knew from the fringe. After meeting him at a warehouse—and Troy writing a fat check from the Dog House Productions account—they were driving back toward Malibu with a trunkful of explosives. Louie didn't say a word as Dutch maintained a careful, steady forty miles per hour in the slow lane.

“This is totally
Le Salaire de la peur
,” Troy said from the backseat, as if afraid his volume might trigger the explosives.

“You speaking French back there?” Dutch said. “You're making me horny.”

“
Wages of Fear
,” Troy translated. “French thriller from 1953. Ever see it?”

Neither Dutch nor Louie responded.

“Classic. These dudes have to transport nitroglycerine through a mountain pass in South America. You feel like they're going to blow sky high at any second.”

“How you know all these movie?” Louie said, watching the freeway ahead.

Dutch weighed in, stern: “There's a hundred and ten pounds of demolition charges in the trunk. We get rear-ended, even a little fender bender, we blow up the 405.”

“Don't worry,” Louie said.

Something about Louie Mo taking charge put Troy at ease. He asked him then if it was true that he had doubled Jackie Chan a few times but never got credit for it. There was a rumor, Troy said, that it was really Louie Mo who slid down a pole through shattering glass in
Police Story
.

“Boys together,” Louie said.

“What do you mean, ‘boys together'?”

“Peking Opera School.”

“Opera school?” Dutch chortled. “You never told me you were a singer.”

“No,” Troy volunteered. “He's talking about
Chinese
opera. Acrobatics and weaponry and shit.”

“That's right,” Louie said. “In same school, orphan boys: Jackie, Sammo Hung, Yuen Biao, Corey Yuen, Yuen Wah, Yuen Tak, Little Tai.”

“The Seven Little Fortunes,” Troy said.

“How you know so much?”

“They all left the school to become stuntmen,” Troy said. “Jackie and Sammo became action stars. The others just did stunts, right? The Seven Little Fortunes.”

“Eight,” Louie said, almost as if lost in a memory. “Eight boys.”

“Wait a minute,” Troy said. “You saying that the Seven Little Fortunes were actually eight?”

Louie confirmed with a crafty silence.

“Dude.”
Troy sat up. “You're like the fifth Beatle. That is so cool.”

“Youngest, me. Always I jump from the highest places, make everyone laugh. I did a lot of stunt for the famous ones. Sometimes no credit. Not good to make star lose face, you see.”

“What the fuck are you guys talking about?” Dutch said.

“That's why this is so freaking cool, Louie,” Troy said. “The Eighth Little Fortune gets his due.”

“I know.”

Dutch laughed quietly and mimicked the lack of modesty. “I know.”

Louie looked at her, offended, but her eyes had darted to the rearview, so he swung a look at the road behind, his eyes narrowing. Troy caught the look, turned full, and saw the black van following.

“Go fast,” Louie said.

Troy slunk down. “She can't, man. We'll blow.”

Dutch lowered her window, signaled for the van to pass. Instead, it hugged her bumper. “Do you know who this is?” Dutch said.

Louie shook his head, but his body said differently. Troy saw it; Dutch saw it too. “All right,” she said, steeling herself. She kicked her right sandal off, adjusted her seat. “You want to play chicken, bud?”

She monkey-toed the gas pedal and rocketed forward, coming up fast on a phone company truck. The van stayed with her, its windshield opaque. A foot from the truck bumper, Dutch cut the wheel and swung into a fast lane. Horns blasted and brakes pealed, but Dutch began jumping lanes, picking up speed.

Troy slid lower in the backseat, not breathing. He could see the black van hovering, tailing like a road-rager. Dutch hit ninety, jumped to the outside lane, and gunned it. When brake lights lit up before her, she swerved back to a middle lane, narrowly breaching a gap in the skidding traffic.

“Jesus,” Troy yelled. “You're going to blow us the fuck up.”

“Speak French, why don't you?” she said, roaring toward the slow lane and a confounding exit, half-blocked by construction signs and dead road machines. The van made the adjustment, stayed with her.

“Who are these guys?” she said.

Troy winced; bad timing for a movie quote, even if her father did double either Redford or Newman on
Butch and Sundance
. But then he realized she was serious, and rightfully so; she couldn't shake them, so she grabbed her E-brake and yanked. The Chevy skid sideways toward the exit; Troy almost puked. Flying at them now: a construction sign and white dust. The van kept going but was forced to stay with the southbound traffic, blaring a fitful horn.

The exit ramp came up like a cement floor hitting a drunk in the chin, then it doglegged back around. Troy closed his eyes; he could hear rubber shrieking and Louie making short, emphatic breaths in Cantonese, fully aware of the explosives in the caboose. Then they came to a stop.

“Asshole,” Dutch said, her eyes on the rearview mirror. She was sweating. Unusual for Dutch.

“Who was it?” Troy said. “Somebody you know?”

“In Los Angeles,” Louie said, “so many dangerous people. They are hijacking all the time, right on the highway.”

“Carjacking, you mean,” Troy said, still trying to breathe. He could see Dutch's attractive eyes in the rearview mirror and noted that they'd gone from hazel to a shade of green. Glassy green.

“Okay,” she said. “That was a hard nine.”

“What you mean?”

“On a scale of one to ten. Cortisol speedball.”

Troy didn't respond. He was feeling a strange lilt in his gut, not unlike what he used to feel at NYU when he'd cross Washington Square Park and have a close encounter with a mentally ill bag lady. Something was off here, something that fucked with the rules of normalcy. Dutch had told him, that night over sushi, that Louie had fallen on his head from great heights one time too many, had a few screws loose. Now he was wondering just how many, just how loose. And her, those eyes as glassy and tranquil as a heroin addict after a fix—that was weird shit.

“We'll go back through the Canyon,” Dutch said.

“Nice,” Troy said, imagining another three hours of hairpin turns and cortisol speedballs.

•    •    •

Banazak was walking his lapdog along the yacht basin on Fiji Way, his eyes hidden by a visor and sunglasses. He had an iPod in and was listening to classic vinyl. He loved new stuff like Government Mule, but when he really wanted to feel motivated, it was '80s rock 'n' roll. Van Halen could make him bench four hundred pounds on a good morning; Molly Hatchet could rock his deadlift off the charts. But this was his rest day and he was walking easy. Not that he wasn't vigilant; he was always keeping an eye out for the lesbian couple who walked a large Doberman. His only fear in life was of something happening to Captain Jack, his tiny apso.

His cell phone vibrated in his pink shorts and he slapped for it a bit awkwardly, overeager to take the call. When he checked the caller ID, he was even more eager.

“S'up, Paps?”

“Another call on the Chevy,” the former private eye to the stars said on the other end. “PCH. Malibu, between Dukes and Moonshadows.”

“On it,” Banazak said. He hung up, took a breath. He began to jog with purpose.

•    •    •

He located the Chevy right where Papagallo said, pulled in, and left a car length between them. He wanted some space to make an ID on the chink, and some ramp-up room so he could blindside him with the baseball bat. The guy wasn't going to get a chance to throw any karate or slip off behind a passing train. Banazak had him in a perfect position, would ideally beat him between the parked cars and the beach house gates, where no one could really get a glimpse. Some movie star—Banazak imagined Cher for some reason—would come out to her Mercedes and find a dead Chinese man.

Sitting there, like a duck hunter in a blind, Banazak rolled down his windows and slid his seat back half a foot to give his massive legs some room. In defensive football, they used to talk about the fine line between patience and overplaying the ball. Timing took years, but when it clicked, it was like bulldogging or spearing a fish. Fast, brutal, done. That's how he was going to blitz this rice monkey, make him beg. He wondered if it was possible to beat a man so forcefully that dental records would be moot. He even wondered if there was wisdom in flinging the guy out into the PCH traffic after rendering him disabled. Then no one would even know he'd been clobbered. Maybe get Papagallo to get some blow-job queen to call 911 and report a drunk Chinese guy walking down the middle of PCH. Whatever.

Then a car pulled in, oddly abrupt. The silver Lexus with rental plates nosed even with the Chevy, reversed into a smooth parallel-park job. In three seconds it was perfectly tight between Banazak's SUV and the target vehicle.

“Fucking asshole,” Banazak said. There were four guys in the car, all business. He felt his 'roid rage quicken as he waited for them to get out, but they remained seated. A few moments later, however, one of them opened a rear door. Slowly, he climbed out from the backseat. The guy was Asian and dumpy, dressed in a plain suit. He took a few idle steps, looked around at the addresses on the gates, then lit a cigarette.

Banazak studied him; he didn't look like his mark. Had to be some connection, though. He caught a side profile of the driver, saw that he was Asian too. They all were. No, you didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to smell something fishy. And the way they were loitering, it seemed they were waiting for someone. Then the cigarette smoker looked directly at him, did a double take. He seemed surprised that someone was behind the wheel of the parked SUV; it almost made him jump. He stared for a time, smoking and squinting. The brazen eye contact did something to Banazak, made him get out. Fuck patience.

“Where is he?” he said, coming at the Chinese guy so aggressively that it made him scuff a step in alarm. “Where the fuck is he?”

“Sorry, my English not so good.”

Banazak went to the driver's side of the Lexus and leaned in, inspecting each face. The driver was a stout guy with a red tie. The one in the passenger seat had an expensive coif of layers like some sporty chick and wore tiny sunglasses.

“Where's your boy?” he said.

“Pardon?” said the passenger, his voice silky and British inflected.

“Which house is he in?”

“Why you are so angry?”

Banazak hiked a knee into the door with a bang, made all the men flinch. He put his face right in the driver's, nearly fogging his glasses with his breath. “I'll kill every fucking one of you little nip motherfuckers.”

Then he shoved the driver's head back against his seat. “English not so good?”

The passenger said something in Cantonese. The driver kept his head back, held it still. The passenger raised a small handgun and fired two shots, both punching into the big man's chest. Banazak rocked back half a step then pitched forward against the car. Tiger Eye fired a third shot, piercing Banazak's forehead. The huge man tried to fall in at them through the window, but his steps were carrying him northward, out near the traffic. Still, he kept on, shuffling toward his SUV now as if to go fetch the baseball bat. The four Chinese men watched him, fascinated. The big
laowai
was still alive with a bullet through his brain, staggering like a headless chicken at a Mong Kok market. He grabbed for his door then spun and slid hard. Buckling, he went still against his front tire, his eyes fixed toward the sun.

The Lexus eased out, drove away.

19

DEADLINE HOLLYWOOD

Avi sits at the Coffee Bean, the one at Sunset Plaza, looking at the trades on his phone, scrolling down through
Deadline Hollywood
's announcement blurbs:

—
CBS Buys Gay Father Comedy

—
MPAA's Chris Dodd Urges Tech Community to Support Ban on Rogue Websites

— Damon, Affleck to reunite for new Lehane Beantowner

—
Paramount proceeds with
Caution;
Cursio and Ellison to Pen Mo-Cap Actioner Based on Crosswalk Signal

Avi nearly spits out his espresso, scrolls back up. He reads only the opening line of the article and says, loud enough to reach every sidewalk table around him, “Tyler, you snaky little motherfucker. I'll sue your ass and I'll sue fucking Brad Gray—I'll own the studio.”

That's when he notices the guys getting out of the Hummer at the curb. Central Americans, five of them. Hektor walks at the front, quick and certain. Guns come up. A woman screams as—

BULLETS RIP INTO AVI GHAZARYAN, shredding his sport coat, throwing him violently from his chair. He tries to crawl toward the walls as chairs tip all around him, SAME WOMAN SCREAMING. Then, on his elbows, in pooling blood, he sees the back door of the Hummer open, white shoes step down. The guy walks calmly across the bloody plaza and trains an AR-15 on him. Avi looks up and recognizes the man as HARVEY KEITEL.

“You are a lying, scamming, scum-of-the-earth cocksucker,” Harvey says. “Amateur hour is over.” Then he UNLOADS. Avi feels himself jackhammered off the concrete in a death spasm. Still, he gets up on his elbows, looks right at the Central Americans and Harvey Keitel and says, “I'll fucking sue you.” And he dies.

In death—

•    •    •

Avi woke up. It was a cool, late morning in the Hills. He had slept in, compliments of a double dosage of Lunesta. Despite the slightly metallic taste on his tongue, he had needed it. But those dreams? Terrible. Violent. And what was up with Harvey Keitel? Maybe it had something to do with the doomed financing of an independent film that he had once tried to attach Keitel to. He had used the term “amateur hour” back then, when he walked out of a meeting on Avi. Must've stuck in his mind.

With his kettle heating up and his medium-bold coffee in the Bodum, he did his stretches. As was his routine, he checked his iPhone as he loosened his quads, leg up on a chair. There, on the front page of the L.A.
Times
online edition, he saw it:

Ex-NFL Star Slain on Malibu Highway

A football photo of Jason Banazak in younger, healthier years appeared just below. Avi read a little of it, felt a kind of chill. Maybe he had picked up on the murder vibe and had the violent dream about gunshots. Ridiculous, he thought; he was starting to sound like his daughter, Zoe, when she'd go off about energy and chakras and all that New Age crap. There was a far more pressing article about the Euro and its impact on the U.S. economy just adjacent. If he had read on, he would have learned that the murder, in broad daylight, occurred less than a hundred yards down from the beach property he was renting to Troy and his film brat friends. He might have even worried about his daughter, the way she liked to sunbathe on Las Flores and go in and out of the house at will.

Avi poured hot water into the press. He was still feeling the nightmare—feeling the bullets—which was a good thing. After dreams like that, he didn't feel so unlucky. Especially when drive-by stuff actually happens, like to the football player on PCH.

As his coffee brewed, he stood in front of the wall calendar, did his shoulder rotations, and got his bearings. Troy had eight days to deliver a cut. Eight days. If he didn't, maybe that Coffee Bean massacre dream would come true. But if anyone was taking the heat, it was going to be Troy. Avi had trusted him, let him live in his house with all his little freeloading buddies.

He dialed Troy, was surprised how quickly the kid answered.

“I just want to say, you little motherfucker, you don't have my cut in eight days, I can no longer hold back the wolves. What you have is a clusterfuck. Unreleasable. Your second act is like the Bataan Death March. Fix it. I can no longer hold back the sharks. Eight fucking days, Troy, you little Jew motherfucker.”

He hung up and felt good. His coffee was ready. The first cup, always full of such promise.

•    •    •

“That was random,” Troy said, hanging up just as Durbin came out of his bedroom. “He was talking like he saw my cut or something. He even called it a clusterfuck.”

“At least you guys are on the same page,” said Malone.

“Dog House–gate,” said T-Rich. “We been hacked.”

“Dude,” Durbin said, holding up his iPad. “You see this? Murder on PCH this morning, right outside.”

“I heard the sirens, thought it was an accident.”

“No, check it out. Nine thirty in the morning, this Oakland Raiders guy was gunned down, just down the road from Gary's.”

“You shitting me?”

“No. That's, like, right outside our front door.”

Malone was already on it, reading his phone. “Steroids,” he said with that stoner grin. “Guy had a history of steroids, drug busts, date rape. I bet it was a drive-by. Lucky we weren't hit.”

The Dogs were on the case. T-Rich stepped outside, came back with the paper. “They got the yellow tape all along the road. CSI.”

While Durbin and Malone hurried with juvenile zeal to investigate, T-Rich opened his iPad on the table where Louie and Dutch were eating cereal. “Shot three times,” T-Rich said. “Point-blank. Sick.”

Dutch craned to look then choked a bit on her Puffins. Louie gently patted her back. “You see that, Louie?” she said.

“Football player was shot this morning, right outside.”

“Outside where? Here?”

“Yeah.”

She slid the paper where he could see it, the photo of a younger Banazak. Louie pulled it closer, looked harder.

“What, you like the Raiders, Louie?” T-Rich laughed.

Louie stared at the photo then looked over at Dutch. Her eyes said it all: It was him, the big steroid head who they'd subcontracted to and then ripped off. What had he been doing just outside the house where they were crashing? Had he been relentlessly tracking Louie Mo since the encounter in Monterey Park? More important, who put three bullets in him?

The way Dutch was looking at Louie, he felt like the accused. Then he wondered if maybe Dutch, who had finished off her bottle of vodka in the night, might have plugged the guy with her little .22 sidearm when she went out to her car for smokes. She did hate the guy for being a rapist. If not one of them, then who? Guanyin, goddess of mercy?

“All right, peeps,” Troy announced. “Big day. Let's go get it.”

Dutch looked back at the iPad. T-Rich was already on his email. Life was cheap up here, she thought, on the golden side of the overpass.

Louie shook an oxy like dice, then threw it back with a swig of orange juice. “Let's go get it.”

But Dutch could read Louie, could see he was disturbed; like something beyond his control was closing in.