Dead West

by Matt Goldman

  11

  The valets worked like a synchronized swim team. First the eye patch’s Mercedes G550 followed by a Tesla followed by Bunion Brit’s Audi Q5. Our valet got out of the car and held open the door. I started toward it.

  “I’m driving,” said Brit.

  “You’re in a boot cast.”

  “I’m a great left-foot driver. I practiced for a month before the surgery. And out-of-towners don’t know how to drive in L.A. You fuck up everything. I’m driving.”

  Brit could’ve been right about that, so I headed toward the passenger side. She drove well, although every stoplight, lane change, and left turn catalyzed a chain of profanity so long that the chains ran together to form their own language.

  The eye patch drove hard and fast as if he was late to an appointment.

  Brit said, “Fucking Eastern Europeans. They think Wilshire Boulevard is the Indy 500. So do the Persians and Israelis. And the Italians. But get behind an Asian and you might as well be walking.”

  “Huh,” I said, “I expected people in Hollywood to be more politically correct.”

  “Only in our work. In real life we’re a bunch of assholes like everyone else.”

  I said, “Get right behind him. But just for a few seconds.” Brit checked her mirrors then jerked the Audi out of our lane and hit the gas. I said, “Don’t slip behind him until you can do it smoothly.”

  “Don’t tell me how to drive.”

  “I’m not telling you how to drive. I’m telling you how to tail. It’s one less thing we’ll have to discuss at our coffee in the morning. That is, if we’re done with our pre-meeting.”

  “Our pre-meeting hasn’t even started yet. What are you doing?”

  “Getting his plate.”

  “So are we done with this guy?”

  “Not yet. Let’s see where he’s going.”

  Brit dropped back and let a car slip in between us. The Mercedes moved into the right lane and turned right on Wilton. She said, “He’s headed north. If he turns left on Third, we’d better warn Ebben.”

  “We’re close to his neighborhood?”

  “Very.”

  I called Jameson. He answered on the second ring. “Where the hell are you? I was thinking about getting worried.”

  “Stay on the phone and turn out all the lights in the house.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “The eye patch might be headed your way. We’re tailing him right now.”

  Brit said, “He’s turning onto Third.”

  Jameson said, “Who’s that?”

  “It’s Brit. She works with Ebben.”

  “Nils Shapiro,” said Jameson, “I’m disappointed in you. You’re a betrothed man.”

  Brit swatted me with her right hand and said, “Don’t tell him I work with Ebben. Tell him I’m a writer who has a project with Ebben.”

  “Jameson, get those lights turned off and get in the basement.” Brit laughed. “What?”

  “Houses in California don’t have basements.”

  “No basements? A house without a basement is like a trailer with no wheels. Just turn out the lights, Jameson, stay on the phone, and keep away from the windows. Is Ebben with you?”

  “Yep. All the lights on the main floor are off. We’re headed upstairs.”

  Brit said, “The bald guy is taking a right on Van Ness.”

  I said, “That means nothing to me.”

  “He’s turning into Ebben’s neighborhood.”

  We followed the Mercedes up a long block, an extra-wide street lined with large homes. I said, “Jameson. You upstairs?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let me know what room you’re in. In case I have to call the police.”

  I heard Jameson ask Ebben what room they were in. Ebben said they were in his office.

  “Hold on,” said Bunion Brit. “He should have turned on First. If he crosses Beverly, he’s not going to Ebben’s.”

  “Hold tight, Jameson.”

  We stopped at a light. Beverly Boulevard. Cars whipped by as if they were on a freeway. I asked what the dark space was on our left. Brit said it was the park in Hancock Park. The park was small, the size of three or four house lots, and it was surrounded by a high, wrought-iron fence, gated and locked with a chain.

  I said, “They don’t let people in the parks here?”

  “Not at night. They’d be full of homeless and drug dealers.”

  The light turned green. The Mercedes crossed Beverly, and so did we.

  I said, “Jameson, I don’t think he’s headed your way. Wait a few minutes, and I’ll give you the okay to turn the lights back on.”

  When the eye patch turned left on Santa Monica Boulevard, Brit said we were headed west again. I asked her to tell me more about Ebben’s Creative Collective. She said it was a dream come true for artists. Complete creative freedom. Not a lot of money up front, but if the TV show or film succeeded, everyone would share in the profits, which could be substantial. That’s always been theoretically true for writers, actors, and directors, she said, but in Ebben’s collective, everyone meant everyone. Set designers and makeup artists and editors and camera operators and the sound department. Even production assistants and the people who drove the actors to and from set.

  I said, “This must have been tried before.”

  “It has,” said Brit. “But things have changed. Today, distribution isn’t a hurdle. You don’t have to find someone willing to distribute to movie theaters and you don’t have to convince theaters to show the movie.”

  I said, “Because of streaming?”

  “Exactly. Ebben doesn’t care if our movies end up in theaters. I mean, he’ll rent a theater and run a film a few times so we qualify for the Oscars, but he believes the public movie theater experience is dead. And it is for most people over forty. It’s not like he’s going to make a superhero movie. Ebben likes small stories. And even if every art house theater in the country shows a film, that’s nothing compared to digital distribution, which gets it in people’s homes. That’s where the real viewership is. We don’t need suits for funding and we don’t need them for distribution. No one can tell us what to do. Or what not to do.”

  “Who’s us?”

  “Ebben and everyone involved in the Creative Collective’s productions. Like me.”

  “What about Ebben’s agent and manger? Sebastiano and Debra? How do they fit in?”

  Brit remained two cars behind the Mercedes. It was almost midnight, and traffic had eased. We passed a Rolls-Royce and Bentley dealership. The Mercedes moved into the right lane. Brit slipped back to the third car behind the shaved-head and also drifted into the right lane.

  I said, “You’re a natural tail.”

  “Sounds like a pickup line.”

  “It’s not.”

  “You spend a lot of time behind the wheel in this town. You learn how to drive.”

  “Tell me about Sebastiano and Debra.”

  “They get their commissions but that’s it.”

  “What do you mean, that’s it? That’s good, right?”

  “No. Agents want packaging fees and managers usually get executive producer credits and fees and points. Agents and managers get rich off clients like Ebben. But not with The Creative Collective. If Ebben pays himself 100 grand to EP a project, Sebastiano and Debra each get 10 grand. Even if Ebben makes a movie for 10 million and it rakes in 100 million. That’s 90 million of profit. But Sebastiano gets 10,000. Debra gets 10,000. That’s a slap in the face to them.”

  I pointed to a building on my right. “Is that the Troubadour?”

  “Yep.”

  “As in James Taylor, Linda Ronstadt, and The Eagles?”

  “In the early seventies it was quite the place to be. Goddamn that fucker never signals his turns. Looks like we’re headed up Doheny.”

  The Mercedes turned right at the light. The cars in front of us went straight, which put us directly behind the eye patch’s boxy SUV. Brit hung back. We said no
thing for a minute and kept our eyes on the Mercedes. When it looked like it’d turn right on Sunset Boulevard, Brit sped up. We passed more rock-n-roll history: The Roxy and Whisky a Go Go and The Viper Room. A couple blocks later, the Mercedes turned left on Sunset Plaza and sped up into the hills.

  “Okay,” said Brit. “This is a little weird.”

  The road grew narrow and winding. “Let him get a curve or two ahead, and hope we get lucky. But there’s a good chance we’ll lose him.”

  “Hold on. I think I know where he’s going.”

  “Where?”

  The road twisted out of sight every half block. Houses sat so close to the street you could almost reach out the car window and ring a doorbell. I thought, How do they drive these hills when it snows? Then I remembered it doesn’t snow. Ever. Brit turned off her lights and slowed to a crawl.

  I said, “What are you doing?”

  She pulled over to the curb and said, “Look. In front of the green house on the left. The one with carriage lights on the garage.”

  I could see the Mercedes’s silhouette fifty feet ahead. It, too, was pulled over with its lights off. “How’d you spot that?”

  “I had a feeling it might be there.”

  “Based on?”

  “I know who lives in that green house.”

  “Sebastiano or Debra?”

  Bunion Brit shook her head. “No. Me.”

  12

  Brit said, “Why would that Russian dude go to my house?”

  “Maybe he didn’t follow August and me to the hotel. Maybe he followed you. And he’s still looking for you.”

  “I’m a writer. I’m not involved in anything. What would he want with me?”

  “You owe anyone money?”

  “No. I don’t even have credit card debt.”

  “Romantic entanglements?”

  “None,” said Bunion Brit. “I’ve been seeing someone over a year. I was married in my late twenties. That ended amicably. I haven’t had a jealous boyfriend since eighth grade.”

  “Well. We can sit here and wait until he leaves. Or, we can turn around and spend the night at Ebben’s. I’m sure he has room, and at least you’ll have company.”

  Brit ran it around in her brain and started her Audi. She backed into a driveway then started down the hill.

  * * *

  Ebben assigned bedrooms, I said good night to Jameson, and slept seven solid hours in a four-poster canopy bed fit for a princess. At eight o’clock, I was the only one awake. I stepped outside. No gardeners. No boxy Mercedes SUVs parked on the block. Nothing. I mapped coffee and walked a couple blocks to Larchmont Boulevard where I had my choice of half a dozen coffee places on one adorable block.

  I summoned a Lyft and commanded it to take me to Lexus of Beverly Hills. The service waiting area looked more like a hotel lobby than a car dealership. Half a dozen service advisors stood behind white counters with white computer monitors showing their white teeth. I approached a young man who said, “Good morning, sir. How may I help you?” He spoke with an accent. I couldn’t tell if it was European or African or South American or Middle Eastern, but it sounded like it belonged in Beverly Hills.

  I said, “Hey, I got into a little accident last night, and they towed my car here.”

  “What name would that be under?”

  “Mayer. M-A-Y-E-R. Ebben.”

  “Just one moment.” The man typed on his white keyboard. A white keyboard in an auto service center. I once had a Mac with a white keyboard. It lived in my living room and showed more dirt than a white bulldozer. “Yes, your car came in last night. A mechanic should be able to look at it today.”

  “Great. Is it accessible? I can’t find my wallet and think I might have left it in the car.”

  “One moment. I’ll check.” The young man stepped out from behind the counter and disappeared into the service center. A young woman approached and asked if I’d like anything to drink. Coffee? Water? I said no thank you, and she drifted into the waiting area to ask the next customer, a woman whose hair, skin, and clothing shouted forty while her eyes whispered seventy. She wore yoga pants and a skintight top to highlight swells and curves that did not belong on a woman of seventy. Perhaps she was in the service center to get her personal fluids topped off.

  The young man returned and said, “Sir, the car is accessible. I just need to see some ID to let you have a look inside.”

  I smiled. “That’s why I’m here. I left it in the car.”

  The young man acknowledged our dilemma with a crooked smile and said, “Come on. You look trustworthy to me.”

  He led me into a giant garage that looked like “the garage of the future” in a science fiction movie. The place was too clean. The cars. The floor. The people working on the cars. Ebben’s Lexus sat in the back corner. They hadn’t put it on the lift yet. I opened the driver’s side door, leaned inside, and made a big fuss about searching the floor near the gas and brake pedals. Nothing. Then I crawled in farther and bent over the center console to search the floor of the passenger side. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my wallet, then sat up. I got out of the car. “Found it. Thanks.”

  I walked around to the front of the car and looked at the broken axle. “Man, I haven’t seen it in the light before. Not good.” Then I walked around to the back of the car to see what I’d come to see. The back bumper had no dents, no scratches. It looked factory fresh. Maybe Ebben didn’t get rammed by the SUV. Maybe he just got a tap. Maybe the SUV never existed.

  * * *

  Bunion Brit called to tell me Ebben and Jameson volunteered to drive her to meet me for coffee. She asked where I was. I told her Beverly Hills. Half an hour later, we sat in Joan’s on Third, a chatty-loud place full of white tile and a surplus of good-looking people.

  Jameson had left with Ebben to bodyguard him during a series of meetings with broadcast networks. Ebben said something about never being more in need of a bodyguard. I had no idea what he was talking about.

  I saved a table while Brit ordered. She returned carrying a number on a stick and said our coffee and food would be delivered soon. I was about to ask if “the guy she was seeing” would be joining us when a voice said:

  “Sorry I’m late. The 405 was a clusterfuck.” Sebastiano, Ebben’s tall, handsome, dark-skinned agent stood in contrast to the white tile. “Did you order for me?”

  Brit said, “I ordered for everyone.”

  “I bet all the bubbles will have bubbled out of Thom’s Perrier by the time he gets here. Son of a bitch is too cheap to valet.”

  Brit said, “Lay off. You know it has nothing to do with money.”

  Sebastiano looked at me and said, “Thom claims he won’t valet because they always fart in his car. But that’s only because they know he doesn’t tip for shit.”

  I said, “Who’s Thom?”

  “Brit’s boyfriend.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” said Brit. “He’s just the guy I’m seeing. And it’s a new car. He wants to keep it that way.”

  Sebastiano said, “It’s a Subaru Outback,” with a derogatory headshake.

  “Sorry I’m late,” said a woman. I looked up and saw Debra, Ebben’s manager, moving her big-boned body in our direction, her octagonal bright-pink plastic glasses leading the way. “Someone better have died on the 405 to fuck it up like that. I’m not kidding. There’d better be chalk outlines on the fucking pavement.” She looked at Brit. “Did you order for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Almond milk decaf cap?” Brit nodded. “Dry?” Brit nodded.

  Brit, Sebastiano the agent, and Debra the manager continued to discuss what was and wasn’t about to be brought to our number on a stick when I realized Brit and I had never had our pre-meeting, a concept I mocked only yesterday but that now seemed like it would’ve been time well spent. I thought I was having coffee with Brit and her boyfriend or whatever she called him. But now Ebben’s agent and manager were there.

  “Hey, guys.” I looked u
p. Thom Burke wore red Converse All Stars, ripped jeans, a wrinkly yellow Oxford with a navy sweater draped over his shoulders. He looked like an Abercrombie & Fitch model doing an AARP campaign. His black hair had no sheen—it ate light. He said, “Found a meter on the next block. Nils, glad you could make it.”

  I gave Brit a what the hell? look but we were interrupted by a server bringing our food. Conversation began with where everyone ate last night and what they watched on TV and what they thought of it. Both Sebastiano and Debra had seen the “overnights,” which I learned were television ratings from major markets. The “nationals” would come in the afternoon. This mattered because everyone had a friend, client, loved one, or bank account involved in one of the shows that would or would not be renewed. It was as if people back home met for coffee every day to discuss the share price of Target, 3M, Best Buy, Medtronic, and General Mills because a tick up or tick down meant they could buy a new house or file for unemployment.

  I tried to make eye contact with Brit but she avoided me. I’d agreed to this meeting to answer her questions about the day-to-day reality of being a private detective. But this gathering seemed to be about something entirely different, and I had no idea what.

  The conversation turned when Sebastiano and Debra peppered me with questions about my personal life. Was I married? Did I have kids? Have I lived anywhere other than Minnesota? They both gushed about Minneapolis, praising the Guthrie Theater, Prince, the LGBTQ community, Macalester and Carleton Colleges. They had big smiles on their faces and didn’t mention Minnesota’s winter, so I figured I was being buttered up for something. Debra’s the one who divulged what it was.

  “So Nils,” she said, “we can’t tell you how thrilled we are that you’re optioning your story to Ebben. And with Brit attached to write, it’s a team of superstars.”

  I looked at Brit, who did not hang her head in shame. Or look away. Or behave in any decent way whatsoever. She just smiled and said, “I’m so flattered to be a part of this.”

  I said, “Hold on. What are you talking about?”

  They all looked at each other with genuine or manufactured confusion. Then Sebastiano said, “I’m sorry, Nils. We thought Ebben had spoken to you about this.”