Hollywood is an All Volunteer Army (6 page)

“Well, since I knew we were going to be up, I made you some peach cobbler. Served with heavy cream, of course.”

I was delighted. Peach cobbler is one of my favorites. “Well, thank you, Roee. That was sweet of you. It's that sensitive homosexual side of you, isn't it?” Of course I was saying this to a man who, in the line of duty, had fairly dispassionately dispatched to their various gods more than a few disrupters of civilized society.

Roee stood up abruptly, pushing his chair back several feet. “Fixxer, you ever call me sweet again,” he said as his eyes contacted mine, “and I'll have your guts for garters!” Then he rolled his eyes up and did a dead on impression of Truman Capote. “Nice red ones with a frou-frou of white lace.”

I laughed, of course. After all, I am the only audience Roee might ever have.

~ * ~

Roee brought out the peach cobbler, I poured on the heavy cream, I threw my palate into an ecstasy of sweet sensations, then laid out the particulars of the Lapham commission and my basic plan, including Petey's potential part. Then I went over my needs.

“By tomorrow we should know when and where Robert Jordan will screen Lapham's film. My guess is one of the screening rooms in the Tribeca area. He screens films alone, probably, most of the big critics do. Be prepared to fly to New York at a moment's notice. You'll need access to the screening room. If you can't get it through financial means, then use stealth. Be sure to take the Bag O' Tricks, and check out the night equipment before you go, especially the AN/PVS-4 scope. While in New York, negotiate for and secure the real estate, personnel and equipment we'll need. We'll use Michael Slayton, of course, but we'll fly him in just before the job. Better call tomorrow and make sure he's not on a film right now. If he is—get him a couple of days off. Who's our person on the
This Day
show?”

“A young PA named Andrea.”

“Has she been reliable?”

“She's only been there three months, but she's fed us some good stuff.”

I found it useful to have placed on every network morning show, on the Leno and Letterman shows, and on several of the crews on
Entertainment Tonight
and the E! Channel, representatives of, shall we say, my interests. These are people with a healthy interest in cash, who keep their eyes and ears open in the green rooms, the makeup rooms, and on location shoots for the little slips of action and information that can come when guests are either too nervous or too relaxed waiting to go on. Little rumors stated, opinions expressed, accusations made when scenes are played out with wives, husbands or lovers. Who has a drug habit? Who subscribes to an offbeat religious or political notion? Who orders the fat sucked out of their trophy wife's butt? Most of it is frivolous information, but Roee and I dutifully enter it into the data bank in the computer. You never know when circumstances will make the frivolous fortunate information.

“Have her start taking a full set of photographs. I want every inch of the studio covered. Where is she from?”

“Ohio. Town called Worthington.”

“Ah. The kind of place where one can build character.”

“Exactly.”

“Tell her to tell them that it's for mom and dad back in Worthington. Also find out from her Jordan's schedule of appearances on the show, and when he will be doing his on-air review of Lapham's film. We obviously gear everything around that date. I think that covers it. Got any questions?”

“No.”

“Good. If all goes well—and it will—we'll take the next day off and relax. Providing Petey gives us a break in the weather. You'll be able to visit Tom.”

“That would be nice.”

“And I can continue my search for Gilgamesh Paul. I think I may have a lead.”

Roee did not hesitate to display his disapproval. “When are you going to give up your obsession in trying to find that guy?”

“I wouldn't call it an obsession. I started something. Now I'm going to finish it.”

“How much time have you wasted here on it?”

“He obviously can't be found in L.A.”

“So you think you'll have better luck in New York?”

“Makes sense, doesn't it?”

“No. Why? Gilgamesh Paul is a forgotten man. There is no one left to care for him.”

“I care.”

“How can you? You really know nothing about him.”

“I know what I've heard. I'm intrigued. I think he's a man I would like to spend some time with.”

“He's a man from the past.”

“True, as, in many ways, so am I. Look I've never asked you to get involved in this.”

“Wrong. I had to check out the Santa Barbara lead.”

“I was down with the flu at the time.”

“It couldn't have waited?”

“The lead was fresh.”

“And false.”

“What, you didn't enjoy the day in Santa Barbara?”

“Well....”

“You got back really late.”

Roee rolled his eyes up. Then smiled. I got up quietly, having decided to leave him with his memories. “Oh, by the way,” he said stopping me.

“Yes?”

“Anne Eisley called.”

“Anne? From Australia?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.”

“I told her you were out, that we had some business to take care of this evening when you got back, but that you would be available to take a call—” Roee stopped and consulted his watch. The Phone rang. “Just about now. I'll get it, shall I?”

“Oh, yes, please do.”

“Fine. If you'll but retire to the library, I'll send the call through.”

I had not heard from Anne for quite a while. Indeed, until just that moment, I did not expect to ever hear from her again—outside of my monthly commission checks. I had done a job for her a while back, a little Hollywood pest control. Then I asked her aid in another job I was doing, the same one that had introduced us all to the wonders of Veritas. For that job I had a particular use for her extreme beauty. The kind of beauty most men fall in love with upon first sight. Yes, love, not just lust. Lust is a knee jerk reaction—emphasis on the Jerk. After the job we—“Stayed in touch,” is the properly delicate way to put it. It was an amazing time. I couldn't chronicle it if I wanted to, but it has its own neural net in my brain, which I like to throw out every now and then to capture my imagination.

The phone rang in the library and I picked it up. “I thought you said you never wanted to talk to me again?”

“No,” came her voice, thrill inducing waves of perfect pitch, “I said I never wanted to see you again. I'm not seeing you, I'm just hearing you.”

“So, when you get back to L.A. we can only have phone sex?”

“I don't know. What's your credit card limit?”

“I'll hock Roee.”

There was a sudden quiet on the other end. Except for the breathing that seemed an airy manifestation of thoughts trying to be gathered. “Fixxer, I, uh—I just thought you might like to hear that I've missed you.”

“Can't say I blame you.”

“Oh, god, you're infuriating!”

“Oh, god, you're enchanting.”

“You're insufferable!”

“And you are indescribably beautiful.”

“Yes, well, I know, but that's my trade, isn't it?”

“Don't undersell your acting ability.”

“Fixxer, I am not the female lead in
Return of the Road Warrior
because of my acting ability.”

“I heard you only got the job because you had paid up insurance.”

She laughed. A little. Then it stopped. “You were not very kind to me when we last saw each other.”

“I was honest.”

“Honest? How can you call yourself honest when you have no name, no past, or, at least, won't reveal them.”

“Never explain the mystery.”

“Even to me?”

“Even to you.”

“But I, but we—”

“That's a condition I can't help. Nor, I assume from the fact that you called me, can you. We are just going to have to deal with it.”

“Or not.”

“Or not.”

“Good-bye, “Anne said softly.

“Good-bye.”

“Sweet dreams,” were her last words before she hung up. I believe it was a sincere sentiment.

It's the life I've chosen for myself, or maybe the life chosen for me. I try not to dwell on the fine points.

~ * ~

A week later I met Larry Lapham in his office at 4:45 in the morning.

“Why are we here so fucking early?” he asked, expressing the pique he had probably been rehearsing since his shower an hour earlier.

I looked at him for a moment, focusing on his goofy overbite, then orally punctuated the look. “I do not allow my clients to ask questions.”

“I am paying you a million dollars plus expenses and I can't ask questions?”

“Ignoring for a moment that that is another question, I'll simply state that because you are paying me a million dollars plus expenses you should rest in a wonderful and blissful state of quiet confidence and know that you do not need to ask questions.” I handed him a small slip of paper. “Dial that number and put the call on the speaker. Say nothing. I will do the talking.”

Lapham unhappily took the paper. Like most people in his position in Hollywood he is usually surrounded by a financially tied, thus loyal, staff that does everything for him, including a great deal of mundane thinking. To be sitting in the familiar surroundings of his glass and gray cocoon at an odd time and with a stranger whom he considered dangerous instead of the comfortable, warm, helpful bodies he usually relied on brought out the defenseless child in him. He fumbled the phone slightly, forgetting, at first, to dial 9 to get an outside line, but he finally got it, and Roee's voice came through hushed but clear.

“Talk.”

“Are you secure?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Has the target arrived?” Lapham darted me a look on that one.

“Yes.”

“The equipment is functioning properly?”

“Everything checks out. All tests positive. The lights were lowered just a moment ago. The night vision is clear.”

“The target is in sight then?”

Lapham jumped in, “You mean Jordan?”

I nodded yes while sternly motioning him to be quiet.

“Report once you have a positive on the shooting.” I instructed.

“I will be happy to do that.”

The line then went quiet. Lapham, worry widening his eyes, began to speak. I hushed him, stared him down, then casually and quietly sat, unmoving. After about fifteen minutes, during which time I practiced certain deep breathing relaxation techniques and Lapham sweated, Roee came back on the line.

“The target is down—”

Lapham jumped up screaming. “What the hell have you done, you bastard! You shot him, didn't you!? God damn it I said no—”

I had pulled a gun out of my jacket and was pointing it at Lapham's heart. It was a Russian Tokarev TT-33, short barreled, light, but with a lovely muzzle velocity that far surpasses a Colt 45. I like to think of it as a silencer—of hysterical nincompoops.

“May I finish now?” came Roee's voice laced with exasperation.

“Please do,” I quietly said keeping my aim steady.

“Thank you. The target is down, rolling on the floor with laughter.”

“Literally?” I asked.

“Well, metaphorically—but close.”

“Excellent. Keep shooting. I want the whole thing documented for posterity.”

“Your wish: my command.”

The line went dead from Roee's end. Lapham still stood, staring at the Tokarev. “You can hang up now,” I said.

Lapham slowly turned to the phone, and pushed the speaker button off. Then he sat and said, “What the fuck...?”

I put the gun back into my jacket. “I am constantly being misunderstood. I carry this for clarity.”

Lapham seemed to have nothing more to say. So I spoke. “All films for review are screened for Robert Jordan at the Rizzoli Screening room in midtown Manhattan, always at eight in the morning. The booking for screening your film was set for today. One of my agents, who, of course, I shall not name, flew to New York three days ago and was able to arrange with certain staff members of the screening room to allow him full access to the room and other connecting areas of the building. At this moment, he is sitting in an empty office two floors above the screening room keeping watch on a video monitor that is connected through a thin fiber optic line to a digital video camera, outfitted with the excellent AN/PVS-4 military night scope. The camera has been surreptitiously placed in the screening room and is directed at, and focused on, Mr. Jordan, documenting every he-he, every ha-ha, every ho-ho, and, most importantly, every guffaw that he is expelling in immediate, instinctual and unguarded response to your film. If he continues to respond to the rest of the film as he has responded to the beginning, we will have documented proof that he finds this particular “Film by Larry Lapham,” at the very least, quite funny, and at the very most, knee slapping hilarious. If he so reports in his review, then there is nothing left to do, and, indeed, I will charge you only ten percent of the agreed upon fee, plus expenses, of course. However, if our reading of Mr. Jordan is correct, he will not give a positive review of your film, he will go on the air and slam it. I have arranged that he will review your film on the
This Day
show before he reviews it on his own, syndicated show. Imagine now, if you will, that shortly after slamming your film on the
This Day
show, Charlie Wise, the host, will suddenly introduce you to come out and face your accuser. This will take Mr. Jordan by surprise, and, I assume, make him nervous. but it is live television, what is he going to do? He will just have to roll with it. You will face your accuser by running the video images of Mr. Jordan ‘losing it' to the mastery of your comedic touch which are currently being electronically laid onto digital video tape, thus exposing his complete lack of professional integrity and ethics over live, national television to a viewership of 15 million people.”