The Big Bamboo (19 page)

“What is it?”

Serge pointed up at the second floor. “Room 109.”

“So.”

“That’s where Slater and Arquette stayed. She got the stuffing beat out of her in there by James Gandolfini, still unknown before
The Sopranos.
”

“Rooms all look alike.”

“I’m positive.”

“You know the number?”

“No, but I freeze-framed the DVD a bunch of times. Last room upstairs on the left that forms an acute angle with the south wing.”

Coleman chugged the rest of his tall boy. “I’m thirsty again.”

“This is too much of a coincidence.” Serge reached in the convertible for his .45 automatic. “What are we dealing with here?”

“Let’s leave.”

“The note said the door would be unlocked. Go inside and wait for the meeting.” He checked the Colt to make sure the magazine was full, then stuck it in his waistband and covered it with the untucked floral shirt. “My street sense tells me it’s a trap. We’ve already been marked for death.”

“And you’re still going?”

“I make a lot of stuff up. I don’t know why.”

Coleman was playing with the front of his pants. “My belt’s too tight. I’m out of notches again.”

“Or maybe I’m not making it up. I could be giving myself a test.” Serge reached in the car for his video camera. “Coleman, stay here and keep watch.”

“Why the camera?”

“I loved
True Romance
,” said Serge, checking the battery. “There’s no way I’m not going to film this.”

“You need me to do anything?”

“Yes! Stand watch!” said Serge. “Stay in the car and honk three times if anyone approaches the room. No, wait. They’ll recognize that. It’s the standard warning honk. Okay, I got it. First,
don’t
honk.
Then
honk three times. It’ll confuse them.”

Before Coleman could respond, Serge was bounding up the stairs three steps at a time. He made the second floor and flattened himself against a wall in the breezeway. He peeked around the corner. So far so good. He began creeping along the landing like a cheetah. Room 112, 111, 110…109! Serge coiled and leaped to the other side of the door. He silently reached for the knob. Unlocked.

Coleman leaned against the rental car. He watched Serge turn the knob the rest of the way and slip inside. Coleman forgot his beer was empty and raised it to his lips. “Hmmm.” He looked inside the hole.

Serge moved through 109 on tiptoes. Nobody home. He looked under the bed and made the standard sweep, closet, shower, all clear. He set the video camera on the dresser and glanced at his watch. Two minutes till the meet. He sat down on the edge of the bed and began to relax. A car honked three times.

Serge sprang and pulled his pistol. He crept across the room and slowly reached for the knob. Careful…Quiet…He jerked the door open and lunged with the gun. An empty landing. Three more honks. He looked down at the parking lot.

Coleman was looking back. He held a beer can upside down and shook it to show it was empty. He pointed at the store across the street.

Serge shook his head hard and threw up his arms. He went back in the room.

Before he could close the door all the way, a muscle-bound man with dreadlocks darted out of the next room and kicked it in. He decked Serge with a right hook. Serge jumped up, but the man was already aiming a gun. Like a cobra, Serge struck and knocked the pistol out of his grip, sending it clattering across the tile floor. Serge was off balance from the follow-through, and the man kneed him in the groin. He doubled over; the same knee came up again and caught him in the chin. He tumbled toward the bathroom.

Serge groaned on the floor, trying to clear his head. The man had at least fifty pounds on him, and it wasn’t fat. He reached down for a two-handed grip, picked Serge up and flung him through the glass shower door.

Coleman tossed his empty beer in a garbage can and walked back to the car. He looked up at room 109. Nothing happening. He reached into the convertible and fiddled with the radio until he found a groove. He hit a roach secretly cupped in his hand.

“…Hollywood’s swingin’…”

Crash.

Serge slammed into a full-length wall mirror, crumpling to the floor with the jagged pieces.

The attacker found his pistol in the corner. He walked up to Serge and aimed at his forehead. “This is it. Moment of truth.” He cocked the hammer.

A woozy Serge struggled to push himself up to his knees. Dazed, bloody. He reached in his shirt pocket and slowly removed a comb. He pointed it with an unsteady arm.

The man chuckled. “Got a lot of heart, kid, you know that?” He stuck the pistol back in its shoulder holster. “You want to play? I’ll give you one shot.”

Serge was having trouble holding his arm up. He wiped blood from his eyes with the other hand.

The man leaned forward, toying with Serge. “Come on. Do your worst.”

Serge lunged with the comb. The man reeled backward in agony—
“Aaaauuhhhhh!”

He flashed with rage and charged Serge, catching him in the gut and driving him across the room until they both went sprawling in a tangle of limbs. They wrestled across the floor. They grabbed each other by the throat and choked. Both beyond exhaustion. Serge wearily drew his right hand back, delivering a listless punch to the jaw. The man’s head bobbed and he pulled his own fist back, returning the halfhearted jab. Serge swung an off-the-mark roundhouse; the man missed with an uppercut. Back, forth, over and over, until they were completely spent, panting hard, unable to do anything but prop themselves up next to each other against the side of the bed. A minute later, Serge jabbed his arm out sideways.

“Ow,” said the man.

A minute later a jab hit Serge in the cheek. “Ow.”

“Let’s take a break.”

“Okay,” said Serge.

“I’m still going to kill you…”

“In a minute…”

The man felt a slight pain in his thigh. He realized he was sitting on the gun. He retrieved it and summoned the strength to press the barrel against Serge’s temple. “Minute’s up…”

“Dammit!” said Serge. “I told myself this was a trap!”

“You should have listened.”

“Just hold on,” said Serge. “Before you shoot, would you at least tell me why?”

“Why what?”

“I came here in a pretty good mood. We could have had some laughs, but instead you have to kill me.”

“The double cross. Pretending to be Serge…”

“But I
am
Serge.”

“You think we’re stupid? Like we weren’t watching the rental lot when you left with your backup?”

“What backup?”

“The black Grand Marquis.”

“I didn’t have a backup.”

“I know we fucked you over, but you can drop the act now.”

“Wait a second,” said Serge. “
Black
Grand Marquis?”

“This is getting old.” The man cocked the pistol again.

“I swear!” said Serge. “I can prove that wasn’t our backup. Just let me get my video camera.”

“It’s a trick. Forget it.”

“What if I am Serge? Think of the mistake you’ll be making.”

The man paused. “I should have my head examined. Okay, make it quick. But the first wrong move…” He pushed Serge’s head with the end of the gun.

Serge got up and grabbed his camera off the dresser. He rewound the tape and began playing the footage from the freeway. “See?”

The man grabbed the camera and pointed the gun. “Step back.” Serge did. The man brought the tiny LCD screen to his face for a closer look. “That’s the car, all right, and…Whoa. Nice footwork on the pedals.” He turned the camera off. “Okay, that definitely wasn’t your backup. But it still doesn’t mean you’re Serge.”

Serge reached in his pocket.

“Freeze!”

“I’m just getting a piece of paper.” He pulled out the first page of the letter and handed it over. The man’s expression evolved as his eyes moved down the paper. He reached the bottom and looked up. “Oh, my God! You really are Serge! I can’t believe I almost shot you!”

The motel room door opened. Two more men marched Coleman inside at gunpoint.

“I don’t know how they got the drop on me,” said Coleman. “They were invisible, like they had some kind of cloaking device.”

“We walked right up to him,” said the man with the gun. “He was in the car smoking a joint under the dashboard.”

“Serge,” said the one with the dreadlocks, “I’m awfully sorry.” He picked up the room’s phone. “I’ll straighten this out. We’ll meet again tomorrow at noon. And this time there won’t be any surprises.”

“Where?”

“Pat and Lorraine’s.”

“Pat and Lorraine’s!” said Serge. “I’ve always wanted to eat there! I hear they have great coffee.”

The man smiled. “The last thing you need is another cup of coffee.”

Guards checked IDs. Golf carts zipped between sets.

Upstairs in the administration building, copies of the
Hollywood Tattletale
lay on both brothers’ desks, folded over to the latest Potemkin article.

“He’s lost it,” said Ian.

“We have to shut him down,” said Mel.

“But how?”

Shouting in the lobby: “What do you think you’re doing? You can’t just barge—”

The door flew open. Mel closed a drawer and sighed. “Nobody knocks anymore.”

In stormed a female theatrical agent with clenched fists. “You motherfuckers!”

“I tried to stop her,” said Betty.

“You raped her!” yelled the woman.

“Uh, Betty,” said Ian. “You can go.”

The door closed.

“Now just calm down,” said Mel.

The woman breathed fire. She had a tangerine scarf and a vague resemblance to Penny Marshall, but lighter hair. “You won’t get away with this! I’ll have you arrested!”

“Take it easy,” said Mel. “Let’s talk about this.”

“
Rape
is such an overused word,” said Ian.

The woman grabbed an abstract sculpture off a pedestal near the door. Ian ducked. It hit the wall, shattering into countless abstract pieces.

“You’re obviously upset,” said Mel.

“You think
this
is upset? You have no idea!”

“Back up,” said Ian. “Who got raped?”

“You know damn well who!”

The brothers looked confused. It was sincere. There were so many.

“That baby shower for the stage parents up on Wonderland!” yelled the agent. “Ally Street!”

“Ohhhh,” said Ian. “
Her.
”

“I think we can clear this up,” said Mel. “Just a big misunderstanding.”

“Nothing happened,” said Ian.

“And it was consensual,” said Mel.

“Ally came on to us. She was really drunk.”

“We helped her into bed before she could fall down the stairs and hurt herself.”

“Bullshit!” said the woman. “You put something in her drink. I’ve heard the stories about you two!”

“How about this,” said Ian. “We give her a part. She’ll even get a few lines, a nice credit for her résumé. We’re still not admitting anything, but we have a lot of respect for you.”

“Your name’s big in this town,” said Mel.

“What is it again?” said Ian.

“Gersh!” she snapped. “Tori Gersh!”

“That’s right.” Mel turned to his brother. “I always told you I liked Tori. Very reasonable person to deal with.”

“We could have a big future,” said Ian. “Why don’t you head on up to legal.” He grabbed his phone. “I’ll call ahead and have them start typing the contract.”

“Is that how you want to play?” said Tori. “Fine! Here’s the deal. Not a small little part with a few lines. A leading role.”

The brothers laughed.

“We can’t do that,” said Ian. “What’s she ever been in?”

“Be sensible,” said Mel. “A small speaking part is the going rate for this kind of thing. Ask around.”

“Not this time,” said Tori. She reached into her purse and threw something. A pile of Polaroid photos scattered across Mel’s desk: the brothers, naked, unconscious in a variety of compromising positions. Accessories, too.

Mel became queasy. “Where’d you get these?”

“Ally wasn’t as smashed as you thought,” said Tori. “You blew it and didn’t put enough in her drink. She woke up first. Not too bad with a camera, eh?”

“Look at this one,” Ian told his brother. “I’d never do that. It’s obviously posed!”

“And this one,” said Mel. “Why would I do
that
?”

“She staged these pictures!” said Ian.

“Took advantage of us while we were passed out!” said Mel.

“What’s it going to be?” said Tori. “Leading role or copies of those start turning up in newsrooms?”

The brothers bit their lips. “Okay, okay,” Ian finally said. “Don’t go and do anything crazy.”

“Say it!” yelled Tori.

They cringed.

“Say it!”

Mel forced his mouth to form the words: “…A…leading…role.”

Ian picked up the phone. “Legal’s on fourth. I’ll make the call.”

Tori hoisted a purse strap over her shoulder. “Nice doing business with you.”

“Don’t be a stranger,” said Ian.

Tori went out and Betty came in. “Line three.”

“Who is it?” asked Ian.

“Wouldn’t say. Sounded Japanese. And mad.”

“Damn,” said Mel. “Tell him we’re not here.”

“We better take it,” said Ian. “He’ll just show up again in person and it’ll be a lot worse.”

“Betty, put him through,” said Mel. He reached for the receiver. “Mr. Yokamura, what a pleasant—…I can’t understand—…You’re yelling too loud…You saw the article on Potemkin?…I was just picking up the phone to call about that. Another false report. This town’s full of liars…No, we’ve got everything completely under control…”

A rented Chrysler Sebring headed north on Eagle Rock Boulevard. Serge counted addresses out loud. “Forty-five hundred…forty-six hundred…There it is! Forty-seven twenty!”

“Where?”

“The corner of Ridgeview. That big sign with the mariachi chicken special after eleven…”

“Pat and Lorraine’s?”

Serge parked on the street. Coleman chugged the rest of his Schlitz and stepped onto the sidewalk. “Looks dumpy.”