The Big Bamboo (26 page)

“I’m bored,” said Ally.

“I want to go party,” said Coleman.

“We’re
all
getting cabin fever,” said Serge. “I want to go out as much as you. But leaving this room again is now out of the question. You saw what happened.”

“What are we going to do?” asked Coleman.

“We need a rainy-day activity to occupy our minds.” Serge reached in one of Ally’s shopping bags.

“Hey!” yelled Ally. “Those are my panty hose.”

“Take one for the team,” said Serge, ripping the hose in half. He opened his suitcase and pulled out the digital camcorder.

“What are you doing?” asked Coleman.

“What do nuclear families usually do on vacation?”

“Get stoned?”

Serge dragged three chairs across the room and placed them in front of the balcony doors. “Make home movies of their trip.”

“That’s your stupidest idea yet,” said Ally.

“Has the goodwill from our sex ended already?” asked Serge. “
Men’s Journal
says I got at least twelve more hours before we have to go back on war footing.”

Coleman was rooting around the mini-fridge again. “But how do we film our trip if we can’t leave the room?”

“It won’t be a traditional vacation movie.” Serge yanked a white sheet off the bed and laid part of it across the dresser. He began writing with a fat Magic Marker. “In fact, it won’t be a vacation movie at all because I hate them. Alleged friends invite you for dinner, then over dessert it’s the Uncle Ferg Show, driving a Winnebago through Vermont. I usually call in a bomb threat.”

The door to the hallway opened. Serge retrieved Ally. “Don’t start that again.”

“I’m out of water…”

Serge finished writing on the bedsheet and began fastening the top edge to the curtain rod in front of the balcony. “We’re going to film a pilot. Then cross our fingers.”

“A pilot?” said Coleman. “We don’t stand a chance.”

Serge finished hanging the backdrop sheet behind the chairs and handed Coleman half of Ally’s panty hose. “I’d have agreed with you before cable, but now it’s wide open. If the networks don’t pick us up, we can’t miss in syndication.”

Serge set his camcorder on the dresser and aimed it at the chairs. He hit record. A red light came on.

“We’re rolling!”

HOLLYWOOD—In a phenomenon that is equal parts Elvis sighting and the Patti Hearst case, shanghaied starlet Ally Street has reportedly been spotted numerous times all over Los Angeles in the company of two suspected kidnappers.

Police spokesmen said the reports have yet to be verified, but they’ve issued a plea for the abductors or anyone else with information to call a special anonymous tip line, 1-800-GOT-ALLY?

The alleged sightings have been clustered in the West Hollywood area, but range as far away as Encino and Yorba Linda. Some eyewitnesses reported Ms. Street being shepherded around at gunpoint, while others said she appeared to be traveling voluntarily and was free to leave at any time. All described the starlet as upbeat.

“At first I wasn’t sure it was her,” said Arnie Snead of Brisbane. “But then I recognized the actress disguise and put two and two together.”

“It was definitely Ally,” said Claire Milken of Oshkosh. “I knew it the moment I saw her coming out of Just Ionizers.”

Adding intrigue is one unconfirmed incident in which Ally is believed to have driven the getaway car while one of her presumed kidnappers fired on celebrity photographers during a midday chase through Bel Air. Reactions to the incident were mixed: Defenders insist that Ally must be suffering from the so-called Stockholm Syndrome, while an E! telephone poll registered high support for the shooting.

In a related development, boy-band heartthrob Jason Geddy, who almost dated Ms. Street, is facing a hail of criticism for nearly seeing someone else during the actress’s hostage ordeal. The hunky singer was swarmed by the entertainment press when spotted leaving a trendy Laguna Beach clinic, where he wasn’t allowed to visit cover-girl waif Elle Faux, who was resting comfortably and taking IV after falling below eighty pounds again.

Geddy refused comment as he rushed from the facility and hopped into his newly restored DeLorean. However, heartthrob publicist Ruben Slice issued an official statement quoting his client: “That business with the shooting is not the same Ally I almost asked out. She’s someone else now. It’s time to move on.”

A naked lightbulb came on inside a props closet.

“This is a disaster!” shouted Mel. “It’s on every channel.”

“The police are zeroing in!” said Ian. “We’re going to jail!”

“Will you two relax?” said Tori.

“What the hell were they doing leaving the hideout in the first place?” said Mel. “You told us they were pros!”

“They are,” said Tori. “I just got off the phone. They said they barely left the room for a second, and the press made up all that other stuff.”

“I don’t trust these guys,” said Ian.

“They gave me their word,” said Tori. “They swore they’d stay put until this is over.”

“I got a bad feeling,” said Mel.

“We were absolutely clear,” said Tori. “Not a toe outside the room.”

“Out of the way!” yelled Serge, sprinting down the sidewalk and crashing into people, purses and shopping bags flying.

“Watch it, asshole!”

“Should never have let you talk me into this,” said Serge.

“I needed more stuff,” said Ally, running alongside.

Serge looked back at the tour group that had been in pursuit since Frederick’s.
“Ally! Don’t give up hope!…”

Serge looked ahead: A second screaming mob stampeded toward them from the other direction.

Serge and Ally hit the brakes. Nowhere to go. Both groups about to sandwich them.

Coleman whipped around the corner in a rented Chrysler. They dove in. A phone rang.

“Hello?” said Serge. “…Oh, hi, Tori…I was just about to—…Of course we’re in the room right now. Where else would we be?…You’ve been calling all morning before you tried my cell?…I must have been on the Internet…”

The crowds chased the car down the street. Coleman ran a yellow and lost them. He eased up to a red light at Wilshire.

“…The police came by again?” said Serge. “Well, they’re paid to do that…Naturally they suspect you. A lot of these are inside jobs…”

A Yugo pulled up in the next lane, people hanging out windows with pens and autograph books; Ally signing and handing them back.
“You’re the greatest!”

“…No, that’s the television you hear…” said Serge. “…You explained that in your last call…Right, the room. Don’t leave it. Couldn’t be simpler…”

An Acura pulled up on the other side of the Chrysler, fans taking pictures.
“Ally! You’re my hero!”

“…You don’t have to keep repeating yourself,” said Serge. “You have my personal guarantee: We’re in like Flynn…Later…” He hung up.

The light turned green. Coleman patched out and left everyone at the line. “What was that phone call?”

“I wasn’t paying attention…Turn here.”

“Where are we going?”

Serge checked his star map. “Ed McMahon’s.”

“That’s right. We never did get to see his place.”

“I love Ed’s place,” said Serge. “One of the few celebrity homes where you’re actually allowed to go up and knock on the door.”

“Why’s that?” asked Coleman.

“Because
he
does it. The sweepstakes van he drives around. Normally I’d respect his privacy, but that’s a clear sign he’s lonely…Turn here.”

“Serge, I think people don’t mind because he’s giving away money.”

Serge looked at Coleman a moment. “You think that makes a difference?”

“Definitely. If I’m vacuuming and have to answer the door, you better make it worth my while.”

“Since when do you vacuum?”

“I’m talking about Ed. Must get a lot of foot traffic because of his popularity. Probably vacuuming right now.”

“I want to do what’s right,” said Serge. “You’re sure about this prize thing?”

“Pretty sure.”

Serge opened his wallet. “I got eighteen dollars. What do you have?”

“Maybe ten.”

“Slow down,” said Serge. “That’s his house right there.”

Coleman came to a stop at the end of the driveway. “Looks like a jungle. I can’t even see the building.”

“Shoot. He’s not home.”

“How do you know?”

“The prize van’s gone.”

Coleman got ready to drive away. Serge grabbed his shoulder.

“What is it?” asked Coleman.

Serge was staring in the passenger-side mirror. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. “I think I’ve seen that car before.”

Coleman looked in his own side mirror. “Which one?”

“That Crown Vic parked a block back. Two guys in dark suits.”

“Lots of people have been following us,” said Coleman. “Probably want autographs.”

“One way to find out. Switch seats.”

They climbed over each other.

A block back, two jowled men watched the Chrysler pull away from Ed McMahon’s place. The driver lowered his binoculars and started up the Crown Vic.

Coleman fiddled with the radio. “What are we doing now?”

Serge kept his eyes on the mirror. “Tailing them.”

“But we’re in front.”

“I’ve fooled them into thinking they’re following us.” Serge hit his turn signal. “Nobody expects to be tailed from in front.”

The Chrysler made a left on Sepulveda and pulled up in front of Left Coast Scuba. The trailing sedan parked across the street.

“Stay here,” said Serge. He entered the store and came out fifteen minutes later with a large shopping bag that had the Hollywood sign across a dive flag. He handed it to Coleman and started the car.

Coleman reached inside and pulled a black rubber sleeve out the top of the bag. “Wet suits?”

“My favorite science project was always the field experiment.”

The Chrysler swung around the side of the store and into the service alley.

A man with binoculars spit tobacco into a cup. “Should we follow?”

“Stay put. There’s no way out of that alley.”

The men in the sedan waited. Five minutes. Ten. One looked at the other. “What do you think?”

“Could have made us.” He started the engine. “Ditched the car and fled on foot.”

The men drove around the back of the store and rolled slowly down an alley of broken glass and sludge-filled potholes. The sedan approached the dead end.

“Where could they have gone?”

“Wait…what’s that behind the box compactor?”

“It’s the Chrysler.”

“It’s empty.”

“So they did ditch and run.”

“But where’d they go?”

A pistol cocked.

The men turned.

“Would you mind stepping out of the car?”

An editor on the graveyard shift sat in a dim production room of the local NBC affiliate. He ripped open a brown parcel and pulled out a videocassette.

Moments later, the production room was filled with the entire news staff, crowded around the editor’s chair as he restarted the tape on the main monitor. “You’re not going to believe this…”

No one made a sound until the video ended.

The editor swiveled around to face them. “See what I mean?”

“We have to go on the air right away,” said the news director. “Tell ’em to cut in. I’ll call the police.”

Five A.M. the next morning, a Chrysler Sebring drove north along the rim of the Golden State. Ally was sleeping in the backseat. It started to get light.

“Can you believe these views?” said Serge.

“It’s kind of pretty,” said Coleman.

“I’m always bragging about A1A, but you have to give credit where it’s due.”

The banging and screaming from the trunk resumed.

“I really wish they wouldn’t do that,” said Serge. “It’s such a peaceful time of day.”

“Maybe they’re uncomfortable.”

“Of course they’re uncomfortable,” said Serge. “Not my fault. Detroit cutting corners again, this time trunk space. At a minimum, I want room enough for two bodies.”

“You were able to get two bodies in this thing.”

“But we had to sit on the lid to close it.”

More banging. Ally sat up with tangled hair. “Dammit, they woke me again.”

Coleman fired up his predawn joint. “Those guys are a long way from Alabama.”

“And up to no good. Following us around, trying to get to my friends through me. If they thought that was going to fly,
they know nothing about Serge
! That’s Eli Wallach.”

“But why are we driving way up here? You could have taken care of them back in L.A.”

“Considered it,” said Serge. “But that’s the whole problem with business travel. Always rushing, never any time to enjoy local color.”

“I’m going back to sleep,” said Ally.

The Chrysler entered a small fishing village above Santa Barbara. Steinbeck country. “This is my stop,” said Serge. “They should have everything I need.”

“Then why aren’t we stopping?”

“Have to drive past to the staging area.”

The Chrysler continued another mile until roadside vegetation thickened. Serge pulled off the highway and backed up to the brush. “Coleman, bring the wet suits.”

They went around to the trunk.

“I don’t know why they’re still banging and screaming like that,” said Serge. “They need to save their energy.” He looked up and down the empty road and inserted the key.

The lid popped.

“You’re dead!” shouted one of the hostages. “You are so fucking dead!”

“
I’m
dead,” said Serge. “Look who’s talking.”

“You have no idea who you’re dealing with!”

“Makes us even.” Serge motioned with his pistol. “Get out and start walking…Ally, wake up…Ally!”

A sleepy head. “Wha—?”

“Out of the car. My science project’s starting.”