Montecito Heights

by Colin Campbell

  There was a third rule that applied to all conflicts: divide and conquer. Grant needed to split the guys up and tackle them one at a time. He rephrased that in his head. Question them one at a time. To that end, he examined his surroundings while staying on the opposite side of the road, away from the two guys with square heads and no necks.

  Hollywood Boulevard was still busy. Dusk was robbing the sky of the last vestiges of daylight, and the colored lights of night were already coming on. The street was crowded with shoppers and tourists, but a subtle change was taking place. Any semblance of conservatism was evaporating as the weird and wonderful took over. There was more colored hair on display than at a Star Trek convention. Piercings and tattoos were the norm. Plastic breasts and miniskirts flooded the streets, and not all of them were female.

  Grant scanned the intersection. The Metro station was on the opposite corner. Slow-moving traffic kept the crowds off the road. It would be a nightmare to drive around here; one of the reasons Grant liked using public transport. Navigating a strange city was one problem he could live without. The slow-moving traffic did something else. It blocked the big black car from coming across this side of the road. That dictated which direction Grant would take. If they wanted to follow him, they’d have to do it on foot.

  There was a commotion in the crowd up ahead. A whole slew of heads turned in unison to the right along Highland. Grant noticed that the light coming from around the corner was brighter than the average street lamps. It was brilliant white light that could only mean one thing: somebody was filming on location. Whatever they were shooting, it had certainly got the crowd’s attention.

  Grant gauged angles and distances to the intersection, then glanced over his shoulder at the buildings along his side of the road. There was a narrow break in the building line leading to a parking lot round back of the El Capitan Theatre. The brilliant white light spilled around the back of the buildings from the parking lot. Whatever they were filming on Highland, this was a shortcut to get around behind it.

  The crowd was growing at the intersection. There were people milling about the sidewalk all around him. Normally having so many people around would be a problem—witnesses to whatever he decided to do. Tonight he thought they might be a benefit. Witnesses worked both ways. Nobody was going to shoot him in the middle of this lot. It was time to make his move.

  He locked eyes with the two guys in the black car and stared at them. Once he knew he’d got their attention, he turned sharply and darted down the alley, into the parking lot. He smiled as he heard the car doors slam behind him. Then he rounded the corner into the light.

  Grant’s first thought was oh no, not again. At the far side of the parking lot, a pair of armed robbers were coming out of a single-story building mocked up to be a branch of the Bank of America. Cop cars screeched to a halt with their light bars splashing red and blue light across the scene. Uniforms dived out of the cars and leveled their guns at the robbers. Then somebody with a megaphone shouted above the car engines and the generator noise.

  “Cut. Let’s go again.”

  The parking lot was empty of parked cars, but one corner was crammed with Location Services trucks and mobile changing rooms. There was a catering truck with the serving hatch open along one side and a portable platform with steps for the diners. Nobody was eating at the moment. Everybody was busy capturing the fiction before them.

  Grant was amazed at how much effort went into such a simple scene. It would be easier to commit a real bank robbery than make one up. There were several enormous lights with diffusers to take the sharpness off. Coils of electric cable snaked across the ground. On either side of the fake bank, two complicated structures fed water to a row of sprinklers across the top. It was raining in paradise. The tarmac was wet, reflecting the streetlights and flashing red and blue. The sky still had enough light in it to give a blue sheen to the action. The magic hour. Grant had heard of it. It was different to the magic hour at a crime scene, when evidence could be found or lost. In the movie industry it was that period when daylight became sunset and the wonderful images that could produce. He wondered what time of day it was supposed to be. The Bank of America didn’t open at night.

  A circle of technicians and actors surrounded the heart of the action. Some of the actors were dressed as LAPD cops but wore just the shirts and hats. Below the waist they wore faded jeans or tracksuit bottoms. Grant thought they’d made a continuity error until they got in the cars for a second take. Stunt drivers. They wouldn’t be seen in the shot except from the waist up. A miniature railroad track ran along the sidewalk with a complicated trolley-mounted camera rig. Grant noticed at least two other handheld cameras, no doubt for coverage from different angles. The guy with the megaphone ordered everyone to their starting positions.

  Grant turned left once he reached the parking lot and headed toward the nearest group of technicians. He heard pounding footsteps behind him. Good.

  The parking lot was clear of pedestrians. The only people here were cast and crew. Nearer the sidewalks of Highland it was a different matter. The road had been blocked off, but beyond the barriers the rubberneck brigade was gathering in force. A thin blue line of uniformed cops kept them at bay. Off-duty cops getting a little overtime. Grant steered clear of them and headed toward the lighting technicians and camera crew. The footsteps behind him slowed down. He threw a glance over his shoulder to confirm the big guys had followed him. They had.

  Having the distraction of the location shoot was a bonus. Grant stood amid the outer circle of staff and hangers-on. There was still enough daylight for him not to be in the shadows, but so close to the brightly lit location he seemed to fade into the background. Except for his orange windcheater. Spillage from the arc lights picked it out like a red rag to a bull. Beavis and Butthead couldn’t miss it. That was the idea. Grant wanted them to know where he was until it was time for them not to know.

  Height and confidence got Grant past the outer cordon. He was now among the chosen few allowed close to the filming. Nobody asked who he was because he behaved like he belonged there. If Robin Citrin had her way, this would be his second home, only with fewer cameras. He watched the bank robbers come charging onto the street a second time. Patrol cars skidded to a halt. Armed police leveled their weapons. It all looked pretty realistic. No doubt one of the crew standing beside the camera was a police consultant, the guy who made sure the cops behaved like real cops and that operational procedures were followed. As long as it suited the story. Grant had seen enough movies where fiction was more important than reality.

  He looked over his shoulder and saw the big guys standing on the fringes of the outer circle. They were tall and broad and built like tanks. It was the first time he’d got a good look at them outside of sitting in the car. He realized stereotyping them as wearing black suits had been wrong. The car was black. The shirts these two were wearing were not. Brightly colored Hawaiian monstrosities stood out even more than Grant’s orange jacket. How could he have missed that? He thought back to this afternoon, when he’d had the itchy feeling up the back of his neck. He’d checked for a tail, but the tourists had all been wearing colorful shirts. Grant chided himself for not being more careful. The two Hawaiians exchanged a few words, heads together, then separated. One drifted toward Highland, the other around the outer ring toward the catering vehicles.

  Divide and conquer. Good.

  Grant moved deeper into the inner circle. Once he’d breached the outer ring, everybody assumed he had a right to be there even if nobody knew who he was. The only time they’d get worried would be if he took out a camera and started snapping away. He kept his hands loose at his sides and stepped into the spill from one of the lights. His jacket blazed, the orange almost too bright to look at. He waited a couple of seconds, then shifted sideways behind the aluminum reflector and quickly took his jacket off. He hung it over the corner of a light stand, then ducked into the crowd of
watching crew.

  The Hawaiian who had gone toward the catering truck breached the cordon first. He had collected a plate of pizza slices from the serving hatch and simply walked right through. Deep-set eyes scoped the shadowy figures standing behind the lights. They locked onto the orange jacket and moved to one side, keeping it in sight while pretending to eat.

  Grant checked for the other guy. He was nowhere to be seen. Probably all the way over at the other side of the location making sure Grant didn’t slip away. Grant had no intention of slipping away. With economical movements he stepped up behind the Hawaiian and stamped down on the back of his right leg with one foot. Just behind the knee. The Hawaiian’s leg folded and he went down, hard. Grant took the plate before it dropped and knelt beside the big fella, who didn’t look so big now. He set the plate on the ground, reached between the guy’s legs, and grabbed his balls in a vicelike grip. Then he squeezed.

  The big guy moaned.

  Grant leaned close so he didn’t have to shout above the generators. “Thought you’d go for ham and pineapple. That’s a Hawaiian, isn’t it?”

  The moan formed into words. “I’m not Hawaiian, motherfucker.”

  Grant tilted his head and scrutinized the flowery shirt. “The shirt is.”

  “You think Hawaii’s the only place that has yellow shirts?”

  Now that he thought about it, Grant reckoned the guy didn’t have the Hawaiian look. Not Samoan either. He looked more Hispanic or South American. Enough of the small talk. He squeezed again, harder this time. “Short of you being gay and taking a fancy to me, why are you following me?”

  The big guy smiled through the pain. “I’m gay. Have taken fancy to you.”

  Grant squeezed as hard as he could. “Why?”

  The fallen heavy contained the scream of agony but couldn’t control the whimper that escaped his lips. His eyes were watering. His face was red. But he was still smiling. He locked eyes with Grant but waited a moment to give weight to his words. “Keep a tag on you.”

  “Why?”

  “So you don’t leave, we don’t know about it.”

  “Why?”

  The big guy smiled and appeared to have conquered his pain. “You sound like my son, always asking why? Only not in English.”

  Grant released the squashed bollocks and wiped his hand on his jeans. It didn’t look like this guy was going to answer his question. That was slightly worrying, but Grant was more concerned about how much the guy’s boss knew about his business in LA. He picked up a slice of pizza and dropped it on the heavy’s chest. “Don’t eat it all at once.”

  Grant got halfway up, resting on one knee.

  The big guy shuffled up into a sitting position. The pizza fell to the ground. He was smiling again. “He come for you himself. We make sure he no miss you.”

  “Who’s he?”

  The guy chuckled. “You think he forgot? He want talk to you. About Snake Pass.”

  “Dominguez?”

  Grant was still swallowing that piece of information when he noticed the guy’s eyes flick a glance up over Grant’s shoulder. He spun round too late as the other guy came barging through the crowd.

  Breathing exercises are one thing. Instant reactions are quite another. The fourth rule for surviving a confrontation is to act fast and don’t think too much. Grant acted on instinct. It was why he’d survived so long. Everything happened in a few short seconds but felt like it lasted an age.

  The other Hawaiian who wasn’t Hawaiian was a charging bull. Seeing his friend on the ground enraged him. When anger takes over, clear thought goes out the window. The big guy’s only thought was to get Grant. He lowered his head and beetled his brow and charged straight for him. He leaned all his weight into the charge. That was his first mistake.

  Grant stayed down on one knee and picked up the plate. American football players have blockers and shoulder pads. With English rugby, it’s all about positioning and timing. A good tackle takes away your opponent’s legs. The opposition can’t run without legs. Distraction is key. Grant flicked the plate upwards, sending pizza slices flying into the big guy’s face. Not a dangerous prospect but enough to make him blink as he swiped a hand across his eyes.

  A low tackle on an onrushing player the size of this guy can cause as much damage to you as the opposition. Grant needed to avoid taking damage. While the pizza distracted the charging bull, Grant got up and stepped over the first guy, who was still sitting up with his arms propping from behind. Grant kicked the arms away. He wasn’t expecting that. The other guy wasn’t either. His forward momentum ran him straight into the tangled body of his friend, and he suddenly found himself trying to change direction at full speed. That was his second mistake.

  Grant darted to one side and snatched the orange jacket from the lighting frame. He flapped it like a bullfighter’s cape and dumped it over the big guy’s head. Blinded and disorientated, he lost his balance. As he went flying past, Grant grabbed his right wrist and yanked the arm outwards and down. The big guy had no choice. He either threw himself over into a forward roll or his arm would snap like a twig. He threw himself forward.

  As he went sailing over his prone colleague, Grant stamped on the first guy’s balls to disable him. The second guy landed on his back with a crash that shook the ground. Two of the pretending cops who weren’t in the current scene looked on in shock. The guns in their holsters were replicas, but the equipment on their belts was real. Grant tugged a set of handcuffs from the nearest, and before the big guy had stopped rolling he had snapped one bracelet on his wrist and the other around the lighting stanchion. The second fake cop tried to step out of the way, but Grant took his cuffs too and shackled the first guy to the second.

  Five seconds, tops. Two bad guys restrained and handcuffed.

  Grant retrieved his jacket and slipped it on, aware for the first time that one of the filtered lights was now facing toward him. The orange windcheater stood out in the gloom. A lone Steadicam operator cut through the melee. The crowd of spectators applauded. They had just seen a stuntman perform a difficult combination in one take. Grant let them keep thinking that. He stepped aside with an embarrassed wave, then turned to one of the caterers who had come over to see what the commotion was all about.

  “Sorry about the pizza. I’m sure it’s very tasty.”

  He then spoke to the nearest play-cop. “I’d give it twenty minutes before letting them loose. They’re not going to be happy with you.”

  The assistant director was shouting into his megaphone, but Grant didn’t hang around to hear what he was saying. Cutting through the crowd, he was halfway to the Metro station before anyone realized he was gone.

  ELEVEN

  The red light on the phone was blinking when Grant got back to his hotel room. It looked like an emergency warning light in the dark before he switched the lights on. If it had been a warning, then it had come too late. He’d already got the message. The Dominguez cartel weren’t playing forgive and forget. They were coming for him. It would pay to be more careful for a while until he sorted them out.

  He locked the door behind him and put the plastic bottle of water he’d bought on the bedside cabinet, then picked up the phone. He pressed the second button from the left and listened to the message. Hearing the voice made him smile.

  It was Robin Citrin. “Hi. This is Robin Citrin for Jim Grant.”

  She paused, and Grant could hear traffic in the background. She must have been phoning from her cell. “Know how much you’re worth now?”

  Another pause.

  “That’s Clint Eastwood to Eli Wallach in The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Poncho and everything. Actually, that scene was before he got the poncho.”

  Another pause.

  “What I’m getting at is, your stock just rose again. I don’t know what you were doing with those guys, but it’s all over the news. You’re giving
better coverage than O. J. Simpson.”

  There was a throaty chuckle.

  “Okay. Maybe not that good. Bottom line: the offer went up. Give me a call. We’ll grab a coffee and talk about it. My treat this time. Just call, okay?”

  She put on a phony newsreader’s voice.

  “This is Robin Citrin for LQ Productions, signing off.”

  The phone went dead for a second, then an electronic female voice said, “End of messages.” Grant hung up and looked out the window. Downtown LA stood out against the night sky, all blinking lights and skyscrapers. A siren sounded somewhere in the distance, a regular night sound in any major city around the world but more prevalent in America. A police helicopter scooted across the sky, searchlight blazing. He glanced at his watch. It wasn’t that late, but ringing from his hotel bed would be too provocative.

  Instead, he opened the drawer and touched the velvet stethoscope box. That put everything in perspective. He closed the drawer, went into the bathroom, and turned the shower on. It had been a long, hard day. He got undressed and stepped under the hot spray. Tomorrow should be easier.

  He was wrong.

  TWELVE

  Zed Productions looked more like a 7-Eleven than a porn studio. That was because the plain concrete building at Alamo Court on North Long Beach Boulevard used to be a 7-Eleven. It stood in the corner of a parking lot that serviced Popeye’s Chicken & Biscuits and the Road to Hana Hawaiian BBQ and Fish Grill. Alamo Court was a stubby dirt track that ran around the back of the food mall. Across East Tenth Street, a more upmarket concrete building housed Blockbuster Video, which stocked some of Zed Productions’ softer adult movies.

  Grant took the Metro Blue Line the following morning straight south out of downtown LA to Long Beach. The sun beat down out of a cloudless blue sky. High noon, the hottest part of the day, but he didn’t see any point in visiting a porn studio too early in the morning. Sex stars weren’t exactly early risers. Sex film producers were no doubt the same.