Hot Shot (21 page)

In the old movies, they'd type “-30-.” I settled for “The End.”

Were there any more beautiful words in the English language?

THE END. One hundred eighty-four pages of double-spaced, spell-checked bull. I saved the floppy I'd been working on to the hard drive and made a couple more floppy copies. Danziger and Jocelyn could each have one. So could Brooks Levin, for that matter.

Jack Danziger was at his desk when I called. “It's done.”

“Way to go, Sport. When can I see it?”

“Whenever you want. I don't have a printer with me, so it's still on a floppy.”

“I can have my secretary print it out.” Papers rustled. “I'm coming to the Westside tonight for a dinner thing. Can I swing by and get it on the way back?”

“Sure. I thought I'd stay one more night and check out of here tomorrow morning.”

“You're a champ. Hey, I've got a surprise for you when I get there,” he said, and hung up.

I rolled my neck and checked the clock. Four in the afternoon, and one day ahead of schedule. Not bad, even if the book itself was crap.

I lay down and did my back stretches. It didn't help. I couldn't close off my mind as easily as I could a computer file. My left brain and my right brain just kept niggling.

The book might have been done, but there was one thing those two sides of my brain agreed on: Something was wrong with this story.

Mann's Woman
might be just fine for the mouth-breathers who bought
Celeb
and watched
Headline Journal.
It had sex; it had death; it had Hollywood.

But there was certainly nothing worthy of Brooks Levin's interest, much less worthy of breaking into a hotel room and cracking a safe to discover.

Was there?

Not that I'd found. But something felt incomplete. There was something in the center of the Felina Lopez story like a black hole. Everything seemed to revolve around it, but I just couldn't see it. There was nothing in that manuscript worth stealing.

But maybe someone didn't know that, O'Connor.

I wasn't going to be able to rest until I knew what it was.

*   *   *

“Sally Comiskey.”

“Hey, Sal. It's Kieran.”

“On deadline.” Her keyboard hadn't stopped clicking. “What do you need?”

“Can you have the library pull some clips for me?”

“On deadline, Kieran. You remember what that means?”

“It's important.”

“Life or death?”

“No…”

“This is. Call back tomorrow. After ten,” she said, and hung up.

Thanks, Sal.

Now what?

My computer bleeped. A screen saver came on. Trapezoids, folding and unfolding in space.

There was one other person I could call to get the information I needed. The question was: How bad did I want to know?

I stared at the trapezoids unfolding. It was a beautiful laptop, all tricked out with a CD-ROM player and an internal modem for sending E-mail and surfing the Internet.

I sat up.

If the computer only had the software built in …

It did.

*   *   *

Ten minutes later I was on the Internet, accessing the alt.true-crime newsgroup that Lydia had told me about. It was a long shot, but most of a reporter's job is just fishing in empty holes.

Most of the postings were about other cases. Apparently interest in the case had waned. Still, there were a few with FELINA in the subject title. I chose one at random.

»I think Felina was kiled because she knew something. Shehad traveled in circles where she would learn alotof secrets. Maybe one of the men she slept with thought she was going to write about his business dealings, maybe one of them was maried. Anyway, I think it was MURDER and not some acidental robbery thing. What was in that book that was so dangerous that is what I would like to know …

Yeah. Me, too. I clicked to the next message.

»This whole thing points to one person: Vernon Ash. She sent him to jail. He's out now and ready to even the score.

The theory was a little too pat, but maybe Ash thought her book would somehow have the same information as his. People killed for less every day.

»Homicide investigators look at one thing: motive. In this case I think it's safe to say that the motive is profit—not necessarily financial profit, but profit nonetheless. The cops ought to be asking themselves: who stands to profit from Felina Lopez's death?

Me, for one. Danziger and Kitty Keyes, for two and three. And Jocelyn, for that matter. But I couldn't think of anyone else. Betty Mann? No, the Dick/Felina stuff had already been covered ad extreme nauseum in the tabs and on television. Ash? His life story was public record; besides, he was ready to talk about it to anyone who would listen.

I clicked through the other postings rapidly.

»Sounds like a drug deal to me.

»Maybe she was still turning tricks. Maybe she was into kinky sex (S and M) and one of her customers went too far. Maybe that's what happened.

»This is all a big publecity stunt, the crime scene was obviously STAGED so her book would do well, Falina is “LAUGHING ALL THE WAY TOO THE BANK” and living somehwere probably in MEXICO. She will split the $$$ with her publisher when it becomes a bestsleler, I wont buy it because it is WORNG to be a whore.

»Did Felina's “little black book” ever come to light? Would love to know who was in it …

»Was Felina a lesbian? She sure looked like a dyke to me. And I'd like the chance to set her “straight”

»I think Betty Bradford Mann found out what she was doing with her husband and “O.J.'d” Felina!;-)

»Does everything *have* to be a conspiracy theory? Can't this just be a rich lady who got offed in a robbery gone wrong? Haven't you people ever heard of Occam's razor?

»All I know is: this is gonna sell a hell of a lot more books than it would if she were alive.

If there were any words of wisdom there, I couldn't see them.

I had one option left.

Sighing, I picked up the phone again and dialed.

“Celeb,”
said a voice with a Texas twang.

“Gina Guglielmelli, please. This is Kieran O'Connor, returning her call.” She hadn't called me, of course, but I always used the line to get past receptionist roadblocks.

Miss Texas sent me into the hold ether, where I got to hear an elevator version of “Smells Like Teen Spirit” before a speakerphone picked up.

“Guglielmelli.”

“It's Kieran O'Connor.”

“O'Connor.
O. Connor.
” She was enjoying this. I pictured her leaning back in her chair, folding her arms behind her head.

“Can you take me off speaker, please?”

She picked up. “What do you need, O'Connor?”

“Information.”

“Dial four-one-one.”

“Just tell me how much I'm gonna have to grovel so I can get started, okay?”

A laugh. “What do you need?”

“What do you know about Brooks Levin?”

When she spoke, her voice was guarded. “He's a P.I. and a personal-security expert. If you want to know if he's worked for
Celeb,
I don't know anything about that.”

“That's not what I…”

I sighed. This felt like the end of the road—telling a tab reporter that I was being pursued by Brooks Levin. Unfortunately, she was the only one who could help me.

“O'Connor? Is something wrong?” Her voice had a note of genuine concern. Or else she was a damn good actress.

I weighed how much to tell Gina Guglielmelli, and then I told her everything.

“You're sure he's the one who broke into your hotel?”

“I don't have proof. But who else could it have been? Sloan Baker couldn't pick her nose, much less a safe.”

“And you don't have any idea who he could be working for? Because, believe me, it's not us.”

“I don't.” I paused. “Gina, if this was you, would you feel like you were in any danger?”

“No. Not now, at least. Think about it. Getting that manuscript stolen was the best thing that ever happened to you.”

“Why?”

“Somebody wanted to see what you were going to write. Assume Levin or his client—or clients—have read it. You said yourself there were no major revelations in there. So you've got nothing to worry about, right?”

“But … if someone's that interested, there must be more to the story than I've been able to find out.”

“O'Connor…” She sighed. “I'll deny I ever told you this. But I've been ahead of you on this from jump street, and I can assure you there's just nothing more out there. I'm sure the only thing you've got that I don't is Felina's manuscript. And you've already told me there's nothing explosive in there.”

“There isn't. But I'm sure there's something else.”

“Assuming that's true—and I don't believe it, by the way—is it worth sticking your neck on the chopper to find out what it might be? This isn't Watergate.”

“I guess not…”

“Look, O'Connor. I don't know Brooks Levin, but I've heard the same things you have. He's a strong-arm and a bully. But he doesn't come after people with guns. He wins through intimidation. You haven't heard anything from him since your manuscript was stolen, have you? So get it out on the stands, toot sweet. And then move on to your next project ASAP. Now get off my phone. I've got work to do.”

“Thanks, Gina. I owe you dinner, I guess. Or something.”

“Don't sweat it.”

“No, I owe you a favor.”

“Oh, I know you do. A big one. Don't you forget that.” She laughed. “You watch your back, O'Connor. I want to be able to collect.”

I hung up, feeling moody and broody and thoughtful.

The room felt like a four-star jail cell. I needed a break.

*   *   *

Down in the 4 West lounge, a picture window gave me a perfect view of the city and the Santa Monica Bay. Shadows were getting long in the yard, and the sun hung over the Pacific like a blood orange.

The only other person there was a leathery, sixtyish man who wore tinted sunglasses and a chestnut toupee of some space-age material. My guess was Ban-Lon. He was reading a copy of
Biz.
There was a tumbler of melted ice and Coke on the table next to him, two inches away from a coaster. The glass was sweating its way into the wood, making a chalky ring.

He peered at me through the sunglasses. “Hey, hey, I'm Sid McKay.”

“Kieran O'Connor.” We shook hands. There was a plum-colored half moon under each of his eyes. An eyebag-ectomy.

“Sit down, sit down,” he said. “You want a drink? The nurse is on his way back with another one for me.”

“I'm fine.”

“Come on. You're not one of those mineral-water types, are ya?” Sid guffawed. “Kids today, they act like having a drink or eating a steak is like taking freakin' arsenic.”

“Maybe I'll get some juice or something.”

“Juice. Horse manure. Live a little, live a little. C'mon, isn't this place great?” Sid leaned back expansively and shifted his weight in the chair with a groan. There was some sort of special rubber pillow under his butt. “I been to most of 'em. Wilson Pavilion at UCLA, the eighth floor at Cedars, but St. Elizabeth's is the way to go. This is like a vacation.”

“Working vacation for me.”

One of the Armani nurses came in with a fresh glass on a tray. “Cuba Libre, Sid.”

“Bring this young Irishman one, too.” The nurse/waiter smiled and slipped out. “Working vacation. What, you working on a screenplay or something?”

“Something like that.”

“Thought so. You look like a writer.” Sid grinned. “I'm in indie prod myself.”

“Indie prod” was independent film production. Some independent producers actually had studio deals, but generally indie prod was the glue factory for has-been studio execs and terminal wannabes.

“What kind of stuff do you do, Sid?”

“Mostly foreign distribution. I do a lot of business out at the festivals. Cannes, Berlin, Toronto, you know?”

“Oh, yeah, I know.” There were some good independent pictures at the festivals, but most of it was straight-to-video dreck with tits for days and self-consciously campy titles like
Space Sluts Invade Uranus.

My Cuba Libre arrived. The rum was coconut-flavored and smelled like sunblock. Tasted like it, too, but I drank half of it in one swallow.

“Christ, my ass hurts,” Sid announced, pulling the pillow from under his posterior and plumping it up.

“Hemorrhoids, Sid?”

“Nah. Lipo. Hemorrhoids I ain't got.” He knocked the table next to him. “Hey, you know what they did with the fat they sucked out of there?”

“Uh-uh.”

He pointed at his lap.

“I don't get it.”

Sid leaned over, grimacing from the pain. “My dick,” he said. “They took it out of my ass and put it in my dick. A penis extension.”

“They put the fat cells from your butt into your—”

“Actually,
extension
isn't really the right word. It's more a width thing than a length thing, if you get my driftarooney.” Sid beamed. “My M.D. says I'll be hung like a beer can.”

*   *   *

I was thirty pages into my shop-and-fuck when Jack rang up. “They won't let me up to Four West. I'm in the visitors' lounge on three.”

“On my way,” I said. The guard at the 4 West elevator sent me back to my room to pick up my I.D. badge. St. Liz was serious about security.

The lounge felt like a fish tank: all dim lights and glass. A digital clock on the table said 9:32
P.M
. in iridescent green numerals.

Jack Danziger was staring out the window, wearing one of his silk-armored power suits. Outside, the lights of Santa Monica glimmered in the purple-black. A fat moon had replaced the sun, hanging over the bay, shimmering like mercury in the dark water. If I cared to look, I could probably pick out Fourteenth Street and Claudia's neighborhood. I didn't care to look.