Hollywood is an All Volunteer Army (50 page)

“I assume in the movie too, you'll be kicking some groin?”

“Sure. I can justify it dramatically.”

“I'm sure you can. Now, what's the end of the story? Was Max's body recovered?”

“No,” the Captain stated. “Found lots of debris from the plane in the ocean, but no body. I think, though, we can assume that Maxwellton James is dead.”

“Can we?”

“Fixxer, don't get melodramatic with me. He's dead. Now what about this Enclave stuff. You buy any of it? Do you think it's real?”

“I don't know. Could be. The sentiments that Max claimed for it are certainly real among certain people. Some of them undoubtedly powerful people. Whether those sentiments have been organized into the Enclave is something, I suppose, for further investigation.”

“The question is,” Roee said, “who's going to conduct that investigation?”

“No, the question is, who's going to conduct it competently? Lydia's story will demand some action. It will also feed the Millennium need for conspiracies. It will play well among the masses that Max and Sara seemed to have disliked. If it's all real, are there then people in high places who can assure that it remains just entertainment? Not a question we can answer today.”

Mike, whose simple love for Bea Cherbourg was the author of the recent events we had been discussing, had sat during all this, quiet and still.

“Mike,” I said, “how do you feel?”

“Strange, Fixx. Displaced, somewhat, you know what I mean? Here but not really here. I'm glad Max and Sara are dead, I'm real glad of that, but that's not very satisfying. I still don't see why Bea had to die. It's still, I don't know, still a bit surreal.”

“Innocence harmed, always is,” I said, “or at least, Mike, always should seem so to us.”

Mike gave me a weak smile acknowledging my wisdom.

“Mike, I'm going to send you back East to talk to Bea's parents. I want you to explain things to them. Share some grief with them, Mike. Share some, ‘Good grief.' Once done, come back and get back to the newsstand and open those receptive ears of yours. I still need your valuable information.”

“You got it, Fixx. Anything, anytime, anywhere, you got it. There is one other thing that bothers me.”

“Speak.”

“Did you have to destroy the Hollywood sign?”

“Unavoidable, I'm afraid. By the way, was there any damage or loss of life in the crash?”

“One house,” the Captain said. “Empty at the time. The LAFD got there quickly and put out the fire before it could spread.”

“Who did it belong too?”

“Oddly enough, to one Maxwellton James.”

“You're kidding”

The Captain smiled—a rare uplift for him. “Yes, I am, but we've been studying irony in my creative writing class.”

~ * ~

Everyone then left except Lydia. We had a couple of cold vodka tonics and a large plate of feta cheese and olives.

“You know,” I said, “for a moment I thought Max had gotten to you. That the whole idea of the Enclave was seductive enough to recruit you.”

“How could you think that?”

“Things said in the past.”

“Yeah, I know, but, once it was all articulated by that nut, I could see, well, I could see that it was nuts.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“No. Nuts is nuts, that's all.”

“Oh.”

Lydia took a critical look at my face.

“You look worse than the first time you got beat up.”

“Sorry to abuse your sense of aesthetics.”

“Come back to Kassiópi, to my villa. To heal. I called Helen. She misses you.”

“I miss her. Especially her lamb.”

“Good, we'll eat lamb; you'll sit in the sun and heal; I can work on my expose; we can fuck. Maybe—maybe we'll like it so much we'll want to do it for a long time. Then maybe you'll tell me your name.”

“My name is Nico.”

“Oh, sure.”

“For you, my sweet Greek, my name will always be Nico.”

“Then you will come?”

“No. No, thank you. Not this time. I feel like staying close to home.”

“Home? You call this slice of a high-rise box a home?”

“I do. It is.”

“You went through hell for this Bea Cherbourg. Would you go through hell for me?

“Depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“Depends on the outside forces.”

“You are—Fixxer—you are unfathomable.”

“Thank you. I work hard at it.”

“I'm going to kiss you now. I am not wearing Petey's lipstick. Let's see if we can conduct some electricity.”

She did.

We did.

After Lydia left and after we excused, and paid rather generously, our nurses, who then packed up their paperbacks and left, I turned to Roee and said, “Roee, wounded and recovering though you are, what's for dinner?”

“Didn't you just consume a rather large quantity of feta cheese and olives?”

“As Odysseus said to his host Alcinous, ‘The belly's a shameless dog.'”

“Braised horse meat, then?”

“Roee?”

“Well, I suppose I could easily prepare some eggs and bacon.”

“Turkey bacon, right?”

“Of course. My god is—”

“Determined to keep me from the pig flesh of my fantasies.”

“How about the simplicity then of fresh pasta with olive oil and garlic, garlic toast and a fresh green salad.”

I thought about that for a second then said, “Sounds good.”

~ * ~

Which, of course, it was, and I even drank a wine recommended by Roee. He said it would be more restorative than the vodka tonic I had requested.

During dinner we discussed the adventure just concluded. It was Roee's opinion that we had done some good.

“Good, as you know,” I said, “is so relative you would think Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principal applies.”

“Certainly bringing revenge to those culpable in the death of Bea Cherbourg was good.”

“Roee, you are so Old Testament.”

“I've never denied it.”

“Yes, I suppose it was good. It was, in any case, my desire. I thought, though, you were referring to the destruction of two soldiers of the Enclave.”

“No, I wasn't. Although, assuming the Enclave does exist, that can't be bad.”

“Can't it? Maxwellton James was not wrong in this: The Twenty-first Century is going to be a bitch. You and I, as much as any two people on the face of the Earth, know that.”

“What century hasn't been a bitch, Fixxer? Isn't it a matter of how we handle the bitch?”

“Yes, I suppose so. Then it's a matter of figuring out what's good, as opposed to, possibly, what's smart.”

“Must the two be in opposition?”

“Well—as I'm not being paid to answer such questions, I'll be happy to leave it hanging in the air.”

“Speaking of which, while you were—saying good-bye to Lydia, I was going over the accounts.”

“A true Jew.”

“Fixxer!”

“Sorry. It's the wine.”

“You want pork, you are perfectly capable of going out to a coffee shop and getting it.”

“I said I'm sorry. You don't need to be disgusting.”

“I was going over the accounts and adding up what this little adventure is going to cost us.”

“A pretty penny?” I asked rather weakly.

“The backside of dollars leaving your accounts is never anything but ugly, Fixxer, but, if you'll remember, I have set a deal with Jim Duncan to get him installed as the new president of Olympic. We just have to figure out a way to accomplish it.”

“Roee, I can do that in a phone call. Get me Larry Lapham on the line.”

~ * ~

“What the hell do you want?” came Lapham's far from pleased voice. “Do you know Don Gulden's family is trying to sue me for damages. His fucking brother's a fucking lawyer.”

“He should be recovering any day now with no side effects.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Plus he's going to go to prison for a while.”

“Oh, shit! You had something to do with this Sara Hutton thing, didn't you?”

“Larry, how many times have I told you that I don't answer questions? Now, do you know Jim Duncan?”

“Yeah, I know him, I've worked with him. He's okay.“

“Good. Your deal at Universal is about up. Your exclusivity ends in three months.”

“Yeah, that's right.”

“Then I think the best home for you would be Olympic Pictures.”

“Olympic! Are you nuts?”

“I think you can get quite a good deal there.“

“I can get a good deal anywhere.”

“Better than good, then. They would want you badly. You should tell them that you would only feel comfortable at Olympic if someone like Jim Duncan was running the place, replacing the tragically late Sara Hutton.”

“What? You want me to take this deal just so Jim Duncan can get back into the executive ranks?”

“I guarantee that if you do this you'll both see success.”

“God damn it Fixxer! If I knew that using your services—”

“You did know.”

“Not to this extent.”

“Larry, for the first time in your whole career the word, auteur is starting to accompany your name, and you're still big at the box office. All thanks to me.”

“All?”

“All enough for our purposes, Larry. Don't tell me you don't agree.”

I made it sound like a threat. Which wasn't hard.

“Yeah. Okay. I agree.”

“So shut up, pay attention to your ego, and do as I say.”

“Jim Duncan, uh?”

“Jim Duncan.”

“He's a fine executive. I can work with him.”

“I thought you two were a good match.”

“You're so fucking perceptive.”

“Yes, I am, aren't I? Good-bye Larry Lapham.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Fixxer.”

I hung up the phone. “1.5 million. In the Bank.”

Roee seemed pleased.

The phone rang. Not The Phone, but rather the connection with the desk in the lobby of the building. This was odd for rarely did it ring unless we were expecting someone. The building staff was under strict orders not to call us in any other case.

Roee answered it. Spoke a few words. Then hung up.

“It's Anne Eisley.”

“Anne? Well, yes, the film was wrapping.”

“Landed at LAX from Australia just an hour ago. She's bringing up, uh, someone she found there?”

“What? Uninvited? She knows better than—”

“It's Gilgamesh Paul.”

~ * ~

The elevator doors opened and Anne Eisley stood there, radiant and lovely and not at all harried. You would not have guessed that she had just flown in from Sydney. Behind her stood Joe, the young man from the garage. He had a dolly and on the dolly was a large cardboard box slapped silly with airport labels.

Anne rushed up to me and kissed me. It was long and generous. Upon pulling back from it, she noticed my face.

“You look horrible. Been having fun?”

“Anne, you know I don't like uninvited visits.”

“Shut up. I come bearing gifts.”

“And you're not even Greek.”

“No, but we could talk about it. Roee, how are you? Oh, I see. Not much better.”

“Oh, we're worn, but not the worse for it, I hope,” he said

“Stop the chitchat. Is this my gift?”

“You'll never believe it. I found them in a used bookstore in a small town in the outback. Seems a man who used to live there in the 20s ordered them by mail subscription. His grandson had just sold them to the store. A complete set.”

I stared at the box. Disbelieving. Excited. Scared.

“Well, go ahead, open it up,” Anne prodded.

Joe took out a knife and began to slit the seal.

“Careful!” I said.

Joe was careful. Then he opened the box. I bent down, and folded back the flaps. There they were. Twenty volumes of “The Adventures of Gilgamesh Paul,” by S.Z. Sharpson, a long forgotten series of novels it had been my quest to find. I pulled the first one out. It was
The Case of the Unnatural Predator
. I pulled out another. It was
The Case of the Shy Gun
. And one more:
The Case of the Malignant Rumor
.