The Movie Makers

by Gary Phillips

  “We could lead Rakosian like a lamb to slaughter,” he’d say after she’d brought him up to date. He would, of course, be stating the obvious. The gangster was, after all, the con artist’s wet dream, a mark itching to part with his money.

  “And be on the run from him too,” she would note. She would be relaxing in her apartment, the top floor of a month-to-month rented duplex in the Fairfax District. Feet up, maybe snacking on blueberries and strawberries, the antioxidant mix.

  Sam would dangle, “But he’s ripe for the plucking.”

  “Isn’t there some kind of superstition about switching up the mark in the middle of the action?”

  “If there is,” he’d say, “I never heard it.”

  “No matter which way we jump, Reed is still the key,” she’d add, munching away. “He’s got to buy in.”

  “You’re right,” he would admit.

  Rachel emerged from her daydreaming, sunlight through the window warm and invigorating on her taut form. She bent her head, trying to work a kink out of her neck but she wasn’t having much success.

  Two nights later at the Hermanos Bac eatery in a strip mall on Sunset at Alexandria in East Hollywood, Steve “Stevie” Draoshni sat at the horseshoe counter enjoying his fusion burrito with innards including fried catfish, pickled daikon and fries with an IPA beer in a highball glass. Near him a balding man in horn-rimmed glasses, short sleeve shirt and loose tie sat as a stool became available. Behind and above the counter on an elevated flatscreen, a basketball game played mutely and Draoshni, a Clippers’ fan since he was a kid, was glad his team was up in the fourth quarter.

  “Think they can go all the way this year?” the man in glasses said. He was also having a beer. In a bottle.

  “If they stay healthy,” Draoshni said.

  “You a betting man?”

  The larger, younger individual looked over at him as a Doberman might deign to regale a dachshund. “You ain’t from around here. How would I collect?”

  “I might be around for more than a minute, Mr. Draoshni.”

  “I know you from somewhere?”

  The man pushed his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose as he placed a plastic Samsonite briefcase like something found at a thrift store on the bar. It even had a pebble-like finish.

  “Man, you’re a little early for the Do-Dah parade,” Draoshni chuckled.

  The man opened the hinged lid of the briefcase and turned it so the enforcer could see inside.

  The other man stopped the glass on its way to his mouth. He leaned in slightly to take a closer look. It was if what he saw in there was pulsing at him in neon. He then stared at the man in glasses.

  Reed Bennek topped the last rise on his way to the apex of Mount Hollywood which afforded a panoramic view of the L.A. basin. Today was a good air day by local standards—only the lightest of a brown haze filtered the view. Other joggers were heading in his direction while another set of them descended along one of the other trails, hands on hips as they walked back to their origin point at the Griffith Observatory or lower.

  But as his rising and falling feet gobbled up those last few yards, Bennek put a hand to his chest. It felt like a rhino had just rammed him. His breathing became ragged and there was a tightening inside his head. Nausea roiled his stomach and bending over, his heart was thudding in his throat. He straightened up, and looking around, was momentarily disoriented as if he’d awaken right here in the open and no memory of how he got here. Several people stared at him, a cross between concern for him and worry he might be a danger to others. He walked about to try and restore his psychological equilibrium. He plucked his smartphone from his armband and tapped a programmed number.

  “Yes, Reed, how can I be of service today?” Sam as Clay Morrison said.

  “I just had a damn panic attack, Clay.” He was breathing hard.

  “I’m listening,” came the earnest voice.

  “Can we facetime?”

  “Of course.”

  They initiated the visual/audio communication. Bennek was descending along the dirt path and came to a rise of rocks several paces off the path. He sat on these to talk.

  “Why do you think this anxiety gripped you, Reed? You find yourself betwixt and between?”

  “My mom talks like that. But you got it, Clay. I think I know how I want to proceed but there’s an obstacle in my way.”

  “Psychological?”

  “Real hardcore flesh and blood. The kind of bastard who smiles his piranha smile but won’t take no for an answer.”

  “Is this a stalker?”

  “Kind of,” Bennek said, laughing hollowly.

  “Do you emotionally owe this person your time and your intellect?”

  “He thinks so.”

  The man he only knew as Clay Morrison tented his fingers as if summoning his chi. “My job is to help you work through obstacles. What should I know about this person that you aren’t telling me, Reed?”

  “It’s not exactly easy to explain. And really, I can’t and shouldn’t involve you in that way. This is my burden.”

  “But I feel stymied,” his life coach said.

  “You and me both,” Bennek answered.

  Morrison leaned forward some. “Reed, by now you know that, as with all my clients, what we share is privileged information. Discretion, you understand. For it seems if this person could be handled, if I can use that word, then you would be free to choose what’s best for you. Otherwise, why call me if I can’t be of full benefit?”

  “I hear what you’re saying, Clay. It’s—” he gestured, “—complicated, as they say.”

  “I won’t pry more than I have. But I’m here.”

  “And I appreciate that mightily.”

  “How about this?” Clay said. “That place of yours in Orange County. We’re coming up on the weekend. Why don’t you go down there to get away but not really get away. Those exercises we’ve done together, try some of those out. I’ll be around all weekend for feedback, walking you through them, whatever. Give yourself to chance get perspective and as I said, I’m available to offer my thoughts throughout the weekend.”

  “You work hard for your money, Clay,” he said, grinning. “Would you be open to coming down there, if need be? Of course, I’d double your normal rate.”

  “It is but a medium of exchange. What counts is you realizing your objectives. I might have to shift some things around, but I can be there. In fact, why don’t we set a time? Sunday morning seems appropriate as the waves break and the sun heralds a new day.”

  “Sunday at ten, Clay?”

  “Sounds right.”

  Bennek walked into the multi-purpose room of the First Rock of the Nazarene church on Venice. It was sandwiched between an auto body shop and a trophy maker’s storefront. He hadn’t been to a meeting in several weeks, though had talked to his sponsor a couple of times over the phone. But after checking on his computer to make sure this one was still happening at this time on a Friday, he’d decided to drive over. He nodded and said hello to several folks he knew in this community. Like sentries, several stood near the coffee maker as it brewed a fresh pot while three folks stood outside on a rear patch of concrete smoking cigarettes. As the hour approached, the group took their seats on folding chairs and after some usual business of this chapter of GA, the basket was passed for donations to rent the space from the church. The guest speaker, sometimes somebody from another grouping or from within as this one was, spoke about how for his medical services company he had to drive to Reno to attend an industry convention.

  “Can you imagine, Reno?” he said. “Like hiring an alcoholic to guard the whiskey barrels at night all by his lonesome before they get shipped out in the morning.” Several laughed nervously. “But I had this with me,” he said, holding up his brass medallion with twenty on one side and the serenity prayer on the other side. “And I was gonna be goddamned if I didn’t get another with twenty-five on it.”
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  “Yes, yes,” said several in unison, a few clapping as well.

  “And I knew I could make it,” he added.

  After his talk and a round of shares from the gathered, the amount of money collected was announced as well as any other new business. On his way out, Bennek frowned at the sight of Stevie, Rakosian’s right hand man.

  “What, you following me now?” He blurted as the other man rose from where he’d been sitting in the back row.

  “Just giving you a head’s up,” Stevie said. “There might be some changes coming and I don’t give a shit about what he has on your niece. You pay what she owes, we’re good. Fuck this movie shit.” Stevie turned and left on a perplexed look on the actor-producer’s face.

  After the meeting and a light lunch, Reed Bennek drove south along Pacific Coast Highway in his fully restored ragtop 1964-1/2 4-speed Mustang, the top down. The car was among eleven he kept in his garage, ranging from a 1957 two-seat T-Bird with the portholes to the customized Ferrari Daytona Spyder used in the Miami Vice television show.

  He needed this break to get his head clear, to be sure which way he needed to go. The prognosis from the now second meeting about the Demolisher Road franchise had again not been definitive. The bruhaha around the director’s behavior had gained in intensity as even more allegations had come to light. And though women from the beginning had played significant roles in the movies, shown as drivers and problem solvers and not just the girlfriend bit, there had been a tweeting storm, old accusations given current purchase.

  The big one was the levels of testosterone and outrageous antics these movies reveled in. While there was no direct causal link, the perception dogged them from the beginning that illegal street racing had blipped upward, due to mostly young men wanting to imitate what they’d seen on screen. This only became more acute after the death of McGooghan. And if an innocent was killed, like when a broken loose tire traveling some hundred and twenty miles per hour fatally plowed through people at a bus stop, the blowback was intensified. The analysis was they could go forward, but in a much-altered form. But they also knew that there would be the whipsaw effect, sprouting an outcry from the other side. The films had a solid base of domestic and international fans and too many of them would take to social media to deride this PC move ahead of any lick of footage making it to the neighborhood cineplex.

  The odds favoring doing the gambler script had increased for him but that goddamn Mol was busting his balls about his goddamn gangster epic. Maybe as he’d lately been considering, he should just walk away from all this bullshit and go live in a cabin in Montana. Well, he allowed, wind buffeting his face and sunglasses, it would be a cabin akin to what was termed glamping, camping luxury style with Peruvian blankets, Turkish Kilim pillows, in a Lotus Belle tent handcrafted in Australia. That made him grin as he proceeded to what might be the first leg in a prolonged getaway. One way or the other, he would make his decision this weekend and stay that course.

  The house by Laguna Beach standards was modest, a two-bedroom bungalow constructed during the post-World War II housing boom. It had belonged to an artist who’d partly made his living as a matte painter for the movies. Detailing elaborate backdrops of cityscapes and deserts on large glass panels. Bennek parked in the driveway and entered, carrying two bags of groceries he’d stopped to buy.

  In a hotel room not too many miles away, Sam sat at a desk watching the screen on his laptop which was paneled off in four squares—four different feeds from the eight mini-cams he’d personally installed at the residence. He didn’t plan on using the spectral bit like a spiritualist grifter he’d apprenticed with when he was a teenager. Have the voice of dead loved ones come to him through the walls. He simply wanted to keep watch on his investment and while the main house wasn’t something he could break into; this place had been a cinch. He’d had a feeling this was where Bennek would wind up to make his decision. It was make or break time and Sam’s plan was that he’d show up on Saturday afternoon saying he felt compelled to help guide Bennek to a breakthrough—a breakthrough that involved Bennek putting up the earnest money then reeling him in for another seven million. One of the cams gave him a view from the porch and every now and then, Sam would switch to that just to see if anybody was going to intrude on the mark’s solitude.

  That was how early the next morning, Rachel with him, that they got a kick in the gut as a black Escalade could be seen pulling to the curb in front of the house.

  “Shit,” Sam said.

  “Let’s get to it.” She’d just come out of the shower and unfastened the towel. Sam was so intent on what was happening on his computer, he dully noted her glistening remarkable body. Though he did have to concentrate not to watch her slip on her bra. There were certain lazy mornings when he’d help her get into her lacy underthings. But now was time to put the Cinderella play in motion.

  Using fake badges, they were going to drive over to the house and waving guns around, arrest Rakosian and Draoshni as if they were from the FBI. They’d tell Bennek they were working undercover all the time and get the two hoodlums the hell out of there. Then in a quiet area away from the curious, they’d see about cutting them in on the grift, which could still work. A day or so later, they’d tell them that their partner Porter would present himself as the author of the script. In fact, he was prepped and would glom some of the story of the real writer. In this way, the screenplay would still have legitimacy in Bennek’s eyes. And if on that shady lane the two gangsters didn’t go for the offer, well, Sam and Rachel had concluded, there was the bullet option, one to each head of the recalcitrant men. It wasn’t their usual way, but one set of gangsters pursuing them was already one too many. They couldn’t afford to add Rakosian to the list.

  Sam looked from Rachel who was putting on a dark blue skirt. He was putting on a starched white shirt. He happened to glance at the laptop’s screen and held up a hand. The view in front and inside the house had no people in it. He switched the view to the patio and the three were out there, standing and talking. From the body language and how his mouth was stretching and his barred teeth, it was evident that Rakosian was yelling at Bennek.

  For his part, the actor looked tense but not scared. But it was Draoshni’s body language that held the watchers’ interest. He was off to one side, arms crossed, looking at his boss with a rather antiseptic gleam to his eyes. Sam zoomed in on him. He and Rachel exchanged a look then put their attention back to the screen.

  “Widen back out,” Rachel said.

  He did do. Now Rakosian was prancing about, literally up on his toes.

  “What the hell?” Sam said.

  It looked like Rakosian was auditioning for Dancing With the Stars. He was trying out various dance moves from the Nae Nae, the Running Man to the soft-shoe. Bennek stared at him transfixed. Steve Draoshni had a smirk on his face. Rakosian stuck his hand in the air, bent over and wiggled his butt then ripped off his shirt and jumped into the pool. Soon an ambulance arrived and took him away.

  Sam said, “What in the hell just happened and are we back on track?”

  Rachel recalled an item surfacing when she was looking into Rakosian. Before he sic’d Chloe on her. She told Sam her theory.

  “Right,” he drawled, taking the pressed shirt off.

  “We’ll see,” was all she said.

  When Sam as Clay Morrison came on Sunday as previously arranged, a circumspect Reed Bennek greeted him.

  “I am unburdened,” he said to Sam as the two had a brunch of lox and bagels on the patio. He didn’t say anything about what had happened yesterday.

  “You seem relaxed and focused,” Sam said.

  “I am, I’ve got the perspective I’ve been looking for, Clay.” He sipped more of his mimosa.

  When the signed interparty agreement was messengered to Rachel’s office, she sent a picture of it to Sam over her phone. The check was deposited less than forty-eight hours later and the two rerouted the funds in untrace
able ways—or so they hoped.

  Porter, who pretended to be a bent IRS examiner, had approached Draoshni in the eatery they knew he frequented. He’d shown him some faked files as if the agency was building an iron-clad tax evasion case against his boss. A case Porter had said could go away for a fee but Rakosian had balked, he’d said. Porter said things were going to get nasty for Rakosian, but should the liquor distributor become incapacitated in some way, he the crooked agent could refocus the IRS’ attention should a cooler head take over the gangster’s rackets. For an ongoing percentage. Partners, as it were, added the bespectacled supposed agent.

  “Stevie used to run an ecstasy college ring,” Rachel had said to Sam as they watched Rakosian cavort onscreen.

  “He slipped him some kind of hallucinogenic cocktail,” Sam ventured.

  “That would be my guess,” she said. “Frying his mind.”

  As to how long Rakosian still-addled condition required him to be a patient in a mental health facility, who knew. Though apparently whatever he had on Bennek’s niece, only he knew. The couple figured to get while the getting was good and be satisfied with the upfront money. While no ABP had been issued for either of them yet but having no further use for the identities they’d constructed to use in the con, the two left L.A. by commercial jet under new aliases. They were on their way to Cleveland. Porter needed them for a con he was working.

  “Check this out,” Sam said, regarding a news item on his smartphone screen. The two sat in first class. He showed her what he’d read.

  She chuckled dryly, shaking her head.

  It was announced in the trades that a producer was shopping a biopic about George McGooghan around, warts and all. That using CGI and other techniques such as footage of him off set, he planned to have the deceased actor in scenes with others in the movie in a kind of recreation of certain points in his life.

  “That’s ghoulish,” Rachel announced.