Stacy shook her head skeptically. “Wait a minute. I don’t get your connection to all this.”
“I don’t either. As far as I know, the first time I ever met Winslow was this afternoon.”
Piccolo smirked. “Yeah, right. Then why’d he say he owed you ‘big time?’ ”
“I don’t know.”
Stacy said, “Obviously you have met him before. You just don’t remember.”
“I checked my files. Nothing.”
“Was it his voice on the phone?”
“It could have been. I’m not sure.”
“Well, it must’ve been,” Piccolo said. “There’s no sign of a struggle. Building security said Winslow had no visitors today. The suicide note is here. The bones are here. The only thing unaccounted for is the money. That is,” he added derisively, “if Winslow ever got it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t think Winslow ever got the ransom. I think you’ve got the two million bucks stashed away as your own little retirement fund.”
I looked at Stacy. “Is he always this stupid?”
She looked at Piccolo. “Gideon may be a lot of things. Arrogant. Selfish. Stubborn. But he’s not a thief.”
“Thank you. I think.”
“I forgot spiteful, insolent, and heartless.”
“I think he’s got the idea.”
Piccolo crossed to the computer screen, read the suicide note and furrowed his brow. “It doesn’t make sense. Winslow masterminds the Hollywood crime of the century and finagles two million dollars. But instead of taking the money and running, he kills himself.”
“He must’ve panicked when he realized Gideon was on to him,” Stacy said.
“No. He baited Gideon. Stuck his name on the ransom note. Called him. He was asking Gideon to find him. Something’s wrong.”
He was right. It had been bothering me, too. “I’ll tell you something else,” I said. “As far as I can tell, Winslow didn’t need the two million bucks. He makes a fortune producing Payback, plus royalties on his books. He lives in a gorgeous condo. Dates beautiful starlets. If it was me, the only way you’d get me off the balcony would be to give me a push.”
“Exactly,” Stacy said. “Unless he spent every penny he made,” Piccolo said. “Gorgeous condos and beautiful starlets get expensive. He could’ve had a drug problem. Or gambling.”
The cuffs were killing me. “You know, Stacy, I could think a lot better if the circulation wasn’t cut off to my hands.”
Piccolo piped up. “Nobody asked you to think.”
I really hated this guy.
“Uncuff him,” Stacy said.
“No way. He may not have killed Winslow, but we’ve got him on breaking and entering.”
“Not to mention hiding behind a cashmere jacket.”
“Shut up, Gideon,” Stacy snapped. She took a more gentle tone with Piccolo. “Come on, give the guy a break.”
There was a tense moment as Piccolo debated his options then reluctantly released me.
“You’ll have to forgive Piccolo,” Stacy said. “He’s a little jealous.”
“Jealous?” Then it hit me. “Wait a minute. You’re dating this asshole?”
Piccolo smiled. “Ain’t love grand?”
Talk about blindsided. I felt sucker-punched. My head buzzed. I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t know what to say, and when that happens what usually comes out of my big mouth is something stupid and juvenile. True to form, I said to Piccolo, “Hope you like used pussy.”
“I like it fine once I get past the ‘used’ part.”
That did it. I threw a quick combination, right cross followed by a left hook. Both shots smashed into Piccolo’s jaw and he dropped to the carpet, unconscious.
“Ouch,” I said shaking my hands. “That hurt.”
Stacy just sighed. “I’d say you have a few unresolved issues about our relationship.”
“The only thing unresolved is how you could date this prick.”
“He’s not a bad guy once you get to know him.”
“I have no intention of getting to know him.”
“Yeah, well, all things considered, this might be a good time for you to leave.”
“What about Winslow?”
“He’s not your problem anymore. We’ll figure out if it was suicide or murder and proceed accordingly.”
“My client would like his bones back.”
“I’m sure he would, but they’re evidence in an ongoing investigation.”
“And the two million dollars?”
“If we find it, the money will be returned, too.” Piccolo started to stir. “I’d leave while you have a chance, Gideon. He’s going to be pissed.” She handed me my wallet, my gun and my picks. “Go home.”
I didn’t like it, but I headed for the door.
“By the way, Gideon,” Stacy said. “I’m reading your book.”
Uh oh. There’s a character in the book. I describe her as ‘tall, a tad over five nine, with lustrous brown hair tied in an unruly bun. She had high cheekbones, a full sensual mouth and brown eyes that bore holes in whatever they looked at.’ I also wrote that she was a total bitch. At the end of the third chapter her ex-husband stabs her thirty-eight times.
“How far are you?”
“Almost to the end of Chapter Two.”
“Just remember that any resemblance the characters have to real persons living or dead is strictly coincidence.”
Party Time
Hollywood’s most beautiful actresses were there. Angelina, Charlize, Keira, Sandra, Zooey, Katie, Cameron, Nicole and Julia. And the guys weren’t so bad either. George, Brad, Leonardo, Taylor, Denzel, Keanu, Jude and Shia. Lady Gaga blared from the speakers. Not her latest CD but the real live Lady Gaga, doing her friend, producer David Hunter, a favor. It was his birthday and Hollywood’s royalty had turned out in force.
Roy enjoyed the view but he’d seen enough. He wasn’t there to stargaze. His reason was much more diabolical. He circled around the outside of the Holmby Hills mansion. Roy always loved Tudor houses. Had hoped to own one if his acting career had ever taken off. Well, now he’d have the money from the ransoms.
As he passed the living room Roy saw Quentin and Steven in a heated discussion by the fireplace.
Reese and Jake were flirting. Scarlett and Ashton were dancing.
As Roy reached the patio he took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and sipped it while thinking about his afternoon at Winslow’s condo.
It had gone perfectly. The look on Winslow’s face when he shoved him over the balcony was priceless. Surprise mixed with reproach. His shocked expression practically screamed, “But you promised!”
You lied to me, you son of a bitch. Led me like a lamb to slaughter. Well, now I’ve fucked you. Big time.
What had Winslow done to Roy? What did the
scribe do that condemned him to that terrifyingly definitive belly flop? The memories were all too fresh for Roy ...
Thunderous applause. Clapping. Stomping. Chanting his name. “ROY! ROY! ROY!”
Not just when he scored touchdowns. Not just when he won basketball games. Even when he acted. Even when he did that dumb role in Oklahoma.
ROY! ROY! ROY!
High school had been a glorious time for Roy Cooper. Hell, his whole childhood was blessed. Cute as a baby, adorable as a little boy, handsome as a teenager. He had it all. President of the student body. Prom King. Voted Most Likely to Succeed. A full football scholarship at Georgia State.
He blew his knee out sophomore year, but by then he was already a BMOC. The teachers loved his brains. The women loved his looks. The men loved his charm. And although his athletic career was over, the acting thing was going great. He was cast as the lead in every major university production, and it was simply understood that one day he would be a big star.
The week after graduation Roy borrowed five grand from his dad and made the move to Hollywood. The dean of the drama department had
a friend working at one of the smaller talent agencies, who after a quick meeting agreed to take him on. The meeting was a real ego trip for Roy. The agent oohed and aahed over him, telling Roy he was the next Tom Cruise. Roy didn’t know then that all agents are full of shit and his was more full of shit than most.
Next, the agent sent Roy to get pictures. Another head trip. The photographer oohed and aahed, telling him he had George Clooney’s chin, Jake Gyllenhaal’s ass and Brad Pitt’s eyes. The photographer also charged Roy 600 bucks for an hour’s work, but Roy’s head was so full of butterscotch he gladly paid.
Two days later Roy walked into his first audition—a guest shot on a new TV drama, Street Life—and got the shock of his life. The room was filled with guys just as good-looking. For the first time in his life, Roy wasn’t the handsomest man in the room.
No problem, he told himself. He’d ace the audition. In college, auditions were a formality. He’d walk in, chat it up with the faculty and the director for twenty minutes, then breeze through the reading and get the role. So, dripping with confidence, Roy walked into the conference room.
There were four people sitting around a table. Two were women, both heavy, both the wrong side of fifty, dressed like they shopped at Slobs ’R Us. Next to them was a fat, bald fortysomething- year-old dude with a pockmarked face. He was eating a Snickers bar. They were listening to the guy sitting at the middle of the table. He was younger, early thirties or so, and intense. Skinny, with bushy black hair stuffed into a Panavision baseball cap, he had big black eyes, a bigger nose and a beard. He was clearly a Spielberg wannabe, but a nerd through and through.
People like these had followed Roy around his whole life. Hoping they could touch a little of the magic, hoping they could somehow become part of Roy’s crowd. Losers. Roy knew he had it made.
The Spielberg clone, who Roy assumed was the director, finished talking and took his first look at Roy. “Ah, shit, another pretty boy! Claudia, don’t you know any actors that look like real people?”
“This is how real people look in Hollywood.”
The director stuck out his hand. “Got a résumé, handsome?”
A flustered Roy handed him his résumé and managed a smile identical to the one in the photo.
The director looked at the picture, flipped over the résumé, and scanned the credits. “What the fuck is this?” The director ignored Roy, staring at Claudia. “Nothing but a bunch of college plays. What, am I supposed to give acting lessons?”
“Barney Magnuson at TPA recommended him.”
“Oh, in that case, don’t even bother reading. You got the part.”
Roy’s heart leapt for an instant, actually believing his agent had that kind of clout. Then …
“Come on, Claudia, Barney Magnuson wouldn’t know an actor if he bit his dick off.” He tossed the résumé back to Roy. “Here you go, stud. Come back when you know what the front of a camera looks like.”
Nobody had ever talked to Roy like that. Especially not a geek! Bewildered, Roy just stood there a moment. And in that moment Claudia rose to his defense. “Everyone’s got to start somewhere, Justin. He starred in a ton of college productions; he must have talent. And he’s got a great look. Give the kid a chance.”
Justin turned from Claudia to Roy, raked him with those black eyes. “You know something, kid. Claudia may be right. Hell, folks, we may be about to see an audition that will become part of Hollywood lore. Okay, Olivier, action!”
Roy launched into the scene. He was self-conscious at first, but gained confidence with every line. Soon he was in the flow and by the time he finished he felt he’d nailed it. He looked up to find the director smiling at him. “That was very good.”
“Thank you.”
“But ‘very good’ gets you a bus ride to Nowheresville in this town. You’ve got to be ‘unfuckingbelievably good’ to even have a shot. And even then you need to nurture that talent—take classes, workshops, get on stage. It takes talent, hard work and dedication. And even that’s not enough without a shitload of luck. Look, Ray—”
“Roy.”
“Ray, Roy, who gives a fuck. Let me ask you something, Ray. You’ve always had it pretty easy, haven’t you? Captain of the high school football team? Prom King? BMOC? All that shit?”
“It’s Roy.”
“Right, sorry. Well, those chiseled looks of yours gave you a pass through high school and college, Ray, but not here, not now. This town is full of guys who look just like you. Genetically fortunate beefcakes who’ve had smoke blown up their asses their whole lives and figure they’re the next Matt Damon. There are thousands of you out there. And you know what most of them end up doing for a living? Working in restaurants, waiting on guys like me. Or in dealerships, selling cars to guys like me. Or in real estate, selling homes to guys like me. Guys like me who had nothing going for them in high school and college but brains. Guys like me who guys like you would dis as geeks. Guys like me who now decide whether you’ll eat steak or chicken. So if you’re smart, Ray, you’ll put your perfect ass on the next seat back to Bumfuck, because guys like me love to get even with guys like you.” Justin’s eyes went from Roy, to Claudia. “Next!”
Roy’s reaction to Justin’s humiliation surprised even Roy; he wasn’t angry. He wasn’t defensive. He was relieved.
Roy knew he’d been given a lot of breaks because of his looks. And he knew he couldn’t take any credit; that was just the way he was born. Now, he wasn’t about to turn down a blowjob or two, but at the same time, a sense of insecurity had been sneaking up on him, a longing to be appreciated for something concrete. Something he’d actually accomplished.
So after the casting fiasco, Roy dedicated himself to becoming a real actor. He enrolled in classes with Howard Fine and Brian Reise. Took acting workshops at the Odyssey and Matrix theaters. Rented DVDs of great performances by hunky leading men who could also act. Russell Crowe in Gladiator, Clint Eastwood in Unforgiven, Harrison Ford in Air Force One, Mel Gibson in Braveheart—and watched them over and over again.
Roy did get a few acting jobs to pay the bills, guest shots on Nip/Tuck, CSI: Miami, Lost. He even worked as a waiter—six months at Morton’s, four months at The Palm. Restaurants haunted by agents, producers, writers and directors. Restaurants where serving the right customer might lead to an important break.
Then, on a hot August night, Roy served sea bass with garlic-mashed potatoes to this guy wearing a silk luau shirt and earring. The guy was reading a script as he ate, making notes in the margins. Roy started up a conversation and found out that the guy’s name was Barry Winslow. He was a writer-producer, and he’d just sold a pilot script called Ramrod, a PI show set in Honolulu about an ex-Navy SEAL turned detective.
“I was a Navy SEAL before I became an actor,” Roy lied, an accepted practice in Hollywood.
“Really ...” Winslow took a good, long look at Roy, and said, “You’re certainly the right type. Have your agent call my office in the a.m. and we’ll set up an interview.”
Three days later, Roy auditioned. He’d worked for hours on his performance. He thought he’d really gotten inside the character. But what he thought didn’t matter; he had to impress the people in the room.
Roy took a deep breath and began.
RAMROD
Don’t talk to me about sacrifice. I’ve watched the woman I love bleed to death on a scorched desert floor. I’ve stuck a bayonet in the heart of my best friend to protect our country’s secrets. I sent my mother on a doomed flight to Paris—a plane I knew had a bomb on board—for the good of the nation. So don’t talk to me about sacrifice. Sacrifice is my middle name!
Roy’s voice echoed in the conference room as he finished his audition, and after a dramatic pause he looked up from his script at the five people sitting on the couch: Winslow—the director—two casting people and a network executive, Jerry Marshall.
Jerry was about thirty-five, impeccably dressed in a blue Brooks Brothers suit, white shirt and Nicole Mill
er tie. Jerry was plump, with bright red hair, pale blue eyes and a cocksure smile on his lips, implying that he—and only he—knew the secret of life. And in a way he did. The network had the final say in all pilot casting decisions and that made Jerry the 500 pound gorilla.
Every eye in the room was on Jerry, trying to gauge his reaction. God forbid someone would say it was great if Jerry hated it. Therefore, in another Hollywood tradition, no one said anything until the gorilla grunted.
Jerry twirled a pencil between his fingers and said, “Excellent.”
“Great.”
“I loved it.”
“Fabulous.”
“Brilliant.”
Jerry pointed his pencil at Roy. “Barry tells me you really were a Navy SEAL.”
Okay, there’s lying and there’s lying. If someone asks an actor if he can ride a horse, the answer is always yes, even if they’ve never seen a horse. The answer to the questions, ‘can you swim (drive a stick shift, play guitar, dance)?’ is always yes. If the actor gets the part, he goes out and learns how. This Navy SEAL charade was pressing the envelope a bit, but Roy didn’t think it was a good time to announce that he was a fraud. He said, “Yes, sir.”
“Ever kill a man?”
From Jerry’s bloodthirsty tone, Roy knew the answer Jerry wanted to hear and gave it to him. “Yes, sir.”
“Gun, knife, bare hands, how?”
Roy’s mind fast-forwarded through scenes from war movies he’d seen and plucked one out. “I cut the throat of an Iraqi trying to sneak through our lines.”
“Cut his throat,” Jerry said. “Was there a lot of blood?”
Enough already with the blow-by-blow, Roy thought. “It’s not like in the movies,” Roy vamped. “Cutting a man’s throat is like opening a faucet. Blood spurts everywhere. And there’s this horrible gurgling sound.”
“How long did it take for him to die?”
How the fuck should I know? “Thirty-eight seconds.”
Dead and Not So Buried Page 6
