"You know you're gonna make it big."
"Like the song says, 'Three chords and a million miles.' Well, I'm on my way and nothing's gonna stop me."
Chili said, "Remember Joe Perry saying don't let 'em take the fun out of it?"
Linda said, "You're gonna tell me not to take myself too seriously, aren't you?"
She was way ahead of him.
ELAINE CAME into the bedroom with a scotch in each hand, gave one to Chili, put hers on the night table, took off her kimono—all she had on—and got back into bed with him.
Chili told her she was spoiling him rotten. Elaine moved the ashtray from the table to the space between them, got her cigarettes from the drawer and lit one. She said, "If you feel that way, kiddo, then we're spoiling each other. What we've been doing here is turning out to be the best sexual intercourse I've ever had in my fucking life."
Chili had his drink pressed into the sheet, holding it between his thighs while he lit his cigar, saying between puffs, "Hey . . . we got each other's number. . . . We're in sync. I can feel you—like when Linda was talking about the set she wanted to play, I could feel you knew what was going on."
"You didn't want her to play 'Odessa.' Why not?"
"See? You noticed that."
"Then you backed down."
"I didn't want Linda to feature the song. Audiences hear her version, then the record comes out and it's different. I shouldn't have brought it up."
"You had Curtis redo it."
"Last night, I told him to go ahead. This is on the advice of Nick Car, the expert. Curtis tells me it's already done. He said he knew I'd get him to do it sooner or later. Curtis and a couple of his friends, studio guys, took 'Odessa' apart and then using a computer—don't ask me how—filtered in different sounds, bits of music, one of those Irish drums you saw in Riverdance. They dub in Linda's voice, at times like she's accompanying herself, other times like an echo. There're faint strains of brass in it and I don't know what else. Curtis played the mix for me and it's a knockout, a lot more dramatic. It's wistful, it's sad, but heavier, more like a dirge, with this beat, this booming sound that runs through it."
"And you're afraid," Elaine said, "Linda will have a fit when she hears it."
"They'll be on tour by the time it's released. I had to decide, keep Linda happy for the time being or let her listen to it. But I also have to keep it real, think like a record company and do the remix."
"If that's how it works," Elaine said, "then she'll have to get used to it. It's the same in our business. A director delivers his picture. Let's say he also wrote it—he's gonna take credit for the picture anyway. He delivers his cut, the studio tests it and they tell the director it got a so-so reaction; it needs to be fixed. The director, if he's stupid, says, 'I quit.' If he's arrogant and takes himself seriously he says, 'Fuck 'em,' meaning the test audience. 'What do they know?' The studio tells him, 'We go along with what Kurosawa said, "The essence of film is showing people what they want to see." We make money or we don't make movies.' So what does the director with normal intelligence do?"
"He recuts the picture," Chili said, "reshoots a scene, fools with the score . . . I forgot what the point is we're talking about."
"She quits," Elaine said, "or she abides by the fact and accepts the remix."
"Yeah," sounding a little surprised. "That's all."
"No, it isn't." Elaine put her drink down and looked him in the eye. "You're manipulating. If it's a simple matter of does she accept the remix or not, you'd tell her about it. You'd say, 'I just want you to listen to it.' And then you play it for her."
"I thought of that, but decided it wasn't the way to do it."
"No, you wanted her on tour, getting a good taste of the business, playing to crowds that show their appreciation, their love—she's a very attractive girl—and she can feel it, she's controlling an audience and she believes she's already a star. And then she hears the record."
Chili said, "That's good, Elaine. That's very good, you see that. At the Forum, she announces the new name for the band, Linda Moon. It got her ego stirred up."
"So she hears the song on the road, performing," Elaine said, "not in a recording studio, just the two of you standing there listening. You're looking down with a very serious expression . . ."
"No, you're absolutely right." Chili laid the cigar in the ashtray and raised his hands, free to use them if he wanted to. "And you know where it's gonna happen? At a radio station in San Diego. Nick Car's working on it with the program director. The band's playing that night at a place called The Belly Up. So Linda's on this disc jockey's show to talk about it. He asks if she's heard their record yet, on the air. No, she hasn't. The dj says he just got it in, he'll play it for her. And he does."
Elaine said, "You're there too."
"I have to be."
"Or you wouldn't get her reaction. In front of a guy who plays records and he'll tell her it's a winner, he loves it. Unless the guy's a complete lout. So you put her on the spot and she reacts, one way or another."
Chili had the cigar clamped in his jaw. "It's a scene, isn't it? It could even be the pivotal scene in the movie."
"Or in the girl's life," Elaine said.
"That's what it's about, her life, her career. Does she make it or not? This could be a big moment."
"What if you don't like what happens?"
"Then we do it the old-fashioned way, let the screenwriter think of something. Scooter, the same guy who wrote Get Leo."
Elaine put out her cigarette. She said, "Why don't you save the cigar and I'll give you a mint."
"So you can have another cigarette, after?"
"Tell you the truth," Elaine said, "I'm smoking more now since I quit. But I don't think it's hurting me."
23
* * *
RAJI HAD SAID TO ELLIOT that Tuesday night, "Don't you need to keep track of the man as much as I do? You want him slipping off and you don't know where he's at? You do one day, I do the next, on and off. You start."
Wednesday, Elliot called Raji from the car. "Man, I'm dead. I had to drive around the whole night while he was at Elaine's house, the studio woman."
"What'd you drive around for? You suppose to sit and watch the house."
"In Beverly Hills, you crazy? Man, there no cars on the street at night. You sit there, they come along, want to know what you doing."
"So you drove around."
"Here and there, have a cup of coffee, come back every hour or so to check if his car's still in the drive. Ten o'clock in the morning, a little after, I'm going up the circle on Mountain Drive, he's coming down. It was close. I follow him to the Four Seasons on Doheny. I see the valets know him, Chili Palmer, act like they're glad to see him. They take the car and he goes in the hotel. What I did then was get the number. I called and asked for Mr. Palmer. He answered and I hung up. So he's there."
"What room?"
"I called him back. I go, 'Is this five-thirty-eight?' He says no and hangs up the phone."
"You get the room number or not?"
"I just told you, he didn't tell me."
"You know there different ways to get it."
"Like how?"
"What'd you do then?"
"I parked across the street. His car never came out. One o'clock I call him. The operator says he left word not to be disturbed; leave a message if I want. So I'm thinking, the man's sleeping. Spends the night with Elaine, comes back to his room to take a nap?"
Raji said, "You know what you could've done? Go up and down the halls over there looking for a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on a door."
"What is it, twelve floors? Maids looking at me going by? Next, figure how many people don't want to be disturbed. Listen, three o'clock he come out and drove to Silver Lake, to the record company. That's where he is now."
"Where you?"
"At a friend's house in West Hollywood."
"Then who's watching Chili Palmer?"
"I guess you are."
&
nbsp; "How do I get the car then?"
"You have this idea," Elliot said, "but forgot to plan how it works, huh?"
WEDNESDAY NIGHT, Raji on the job: followed the man from Silver Lake all the way across Sunset to Mountain Drive, up around it to Loma Vista and the house where the studio woman lived. Raji went to his own home, Miss Saigon waiting for him—off Wednesdays from the titty bar near the airport. The next morning, nine o'clock, he called Chili Palmer at the hotel. Called him twice again before he answered, going on ten-thirty. Raji said, "This is the Beverly Hills Flower Shop. We have a delivery, but the person sending it forgot your room number. What was it again, eight something?" The man said to leave it with the concierge, and hung up. In the afternoon he had Miss Saigon drive out to Silver Lake to see if his old Mercedes was at NTL Records. She phoned him to say she was lost.
This surveillance shit wasn't as easy as it looked.
* * *
THURSDAY NIGHT, Elliot on the job: followed the man to Elaine's house, turned around and went to stay with his friend in West Hollywood, the one he had roomed with at Kulani Correctional. His name was Andy and he liked to play the part of a bimbo in forties noir films. Elliot would walk in and Andy would say, "Hi, you big lug." Or he'd say, "Hi, stranger. New in town?" Or, "Hi, sailor. You just blow in?" Andy sometimes liked to be Little Orphan Annie, too, because he had bushy red hair, and Elliot would have to put on the turban Andy made for him and be Punjab, her rich daddy's sidekick who showed Annie a good time. Elliot liked it best when Andy wasn't pretending and they could be themselves. Andy choreographed music videos, did some work with backup singers, funky stuff, and was helping Elliot with his screen test routine. He'd stand there with Elliot behind him, say, "Five, six, seven, eight, . . ." and Elliot would follow his moves. The act was an idea Elliot had been playing with off and on—never breathing a word of it to Raji—since the time he worked as a roadie and set up shows. Well, now it was definitely on or somebody was dead.
Friday morning Chili Palmer's car wasn't in Elaine's driveway. Elliot drove down to the hotel, waited across the street a while and then called, asking for Mr. Palmer. The operator told him Mr. Palmer wasn't answering. Elliot asked was it 'cause he didn't want to be disturbed. The operator said no, he wasn't answering. Elliot called Raji and told him he believed the man had disappeared.
RAJI PHONED NICK CAR and asked Robin when she answered if she had Linda Moon's tour schedule, the first week. He could see Robin the Untouchable sitting at her desk, Robin also wearing a headset to keep up with Nick. Nicky.
She said, "They've played Toes. They've played the Foothill in Long Beach, Ice House in Palm Springs. They're at the Coach House in San Juan Capistrano tonight, the Belly Up in San Diego tomorrow night, . . . Sunday afternoon the LaPlaya near Del Mar; it's a nude beach."
"Want to go with me, check it out?"
Robin said, "You know what people who go to nude beaches look like?"
"Tell me."
"People who shouldn't go to nude beaches."
"Is Chili Palmer joining the tour?"
"I wasn't told."
"Ask Nick for me."
About a minute went by. Now he heard Nick saying, "Tell him if he goes near Chili Palmer I'll see that he suffers excruciating pain and will never fucking walk again in his life."
And then Robin's voice: "Nick said to tell you that if you go near Chili Palmer he'll have your legs broken."
"Why couldn't he say it like that?"
"He reads, but the wrong books."
"See," Raji said, "if I'm not to go near him, then he must be down there. You know what I'm saying?"
"Yeah, Nick should've said no, he's not there. So, are you going?"
Raji shook his head. "I just wanted to know was he in town or not."
HE HAD TOLD the man flowers were coming and the man said leave them with the concierge. That was yesterday. The man might've noticed he never got those flowers, it didn't matter. What Raji thought of now was a way to use the flowers idea again—not just to get the room number, but to get inside the room and look around. He called Miss Saigon and told the little Asian chick to get ready, he was picking her up.
The way it worked, they stopped by a florist and chose a 50-dollar arrangement to go to Mr. Chili Palmer the movie producer staying at the Four Seasons. Raji said to the flower woman, "It has to be delivered before five o'clock, when Mr. Palmer returns from the studio. Understand? So he walks in his room and there it is." Raji told the flower woman the timing was important, it was like a private joke. He gave her a ten-spot for the delivery man along with a note he was to give the hotel people that said, important. must be put in room before five!! Could the flower woman handle it? She said she didn't see why not. But they had better get on it since it was almost four.
Four-thirty, Raji dropped Miss Saigon off at the hotel, her instructions: "Hang inside the entrance and look at your watch every now and then. They'll be security people around, easy to spot. Don't pay no attention to them. They won't take you for a hooker or anything, you look nice." She did, had on a white dress, the skirt not too short, and held her purse in both hands like she'd just come up from Orange County. All she had to do was watch for the florist delivery man to come in. He gives the floral arrangement to the people at the concierge desk, they give it to the bellboy and Miss Saigon follows him up to wherever he goes, hanging back, and checks out the number of the room he goes in. Minh Linh said, "What good will that do you, knowing the room?" Raji told her not to worry her cute head about it.
Five o'clock Raji was parked across the street. Little Miss Saigon came out of the hotel and got in the car.
"Room ten-twelve. I still don't see . . ."
Raji showed her the burglar pick they had taken off of Joe Loop. "This is how."
It wouldn't be any good where you put a plastic card in the slot and waited for the green light to come on, but this hotel used keys and the pick worked if you knew how to do it. Feel around with the pick till you heard the click and then open the door. It got Raji into the man's suite looking straight ahead through the hall to the 50-dollar flower arrangement, on a round table by the doors to the balcony.
He looked in the closet first, right by the door, saw a couple of dark suits, a blazer, a half dozen light-blue cotton dress shirts all the same, some cleaning hanging in a bag, ties on a hook inside the door, the safe open, nothing in it, a shoehorn with a long leather handle Raji slipped into his inside jacket pocket.
No toothbrush, razor, aftershave—none of those personal items in the bathroom. Raji took the little bottles of shampoo, conditioner and body lotion, the sewing kit, shoe rag and shower cap and dropped them in the side pockets of his jacket.
A bowl of picked-over fruit sat on the big TV set in the living room. Raji helped himself to some grapes, went into the bedroom and opened a couple of drawers. The man wore those skimpy briefs in different colors, dark socks, a few T-shirts, some hankies, no roll of bills shoved in under the clothes. The mini-bar was locked.
In the living room again he drew open the gauzy curtains, opened the door to the balcony and stepped out to the railing. Looking ten floors straight down he saw formal gardens and walks. This was a stylish place to be you were on the road or afraid to sleep at home. He came inside, closed and locked the door again and went over to the desk.
Look at that, the room key laying there. And the message light flashing on the telephone. Raji pushed the button and a voice came on sounding like a nice white lady saying he had two unplayed messages. The voice told him what number to press. He did and now the voice said, "The first message, 10:20 a.m." And another woman's voice came on.
"Hi, it's Elaine. I hope you found the coffee and the note. I forgot to tell you last night about the early meeting and I didn't want to disturb you. Now I find out I may have to run up to Vancouver. I'll let you know."
The nice white lady said that was the end of the message. He could press a number to play it again, press a number to save it, or press a numbe
r to get rid of it. Raji got rid of it. The nice white lady told him here was the second message and the time, 2:35 p.m. Elaine's voice came on again:
"Chil? I'm on my way to Vancouver, on the plane. I'm not looking forward to firing a director, but have no choice. At least it won't break my heart, Alexander Monet turning out to be an over-the-hill asshole. The actors've had enough and the dailies put you to sleep, so . . . Where are you, out to lunch? I wanted to be sure to call before you leave today. I've been trying to get hold of Elliot Wilhelm, but he's never in and doesn't have an answering machine. Would you call him, please, before he decides to destroy my office? Tell him we're setting up the test for next Tuesday. He'd rather hear it from you anyway. I'll be back tomorrow or Sunday. With a fresh pack of cigarettes, kiddo. Bye."
The nice white lady's voice told Raji what to press to hear it again, and he did, wanting to be sure of what he heard.
Elliot was getting his test.
But didn't know it yet.
Or never would.
Chili Palmer was gone already and didn't get his messages, the nice white lady saying the two were unplayed. It meant Elliot wasn't getting the message either. No word about the screen test, like they promised. So fuck 'em. He'd said if they let him down again he'd help take out Chili Palmer. Didn't he? Raji thinking: You said you'd wait, not do it till after the screen test, and he said if they didn't call this time . . . he did, he said, "I will help you."
The nice white lady had told him to press three to get rid of the message.
Raji pressed three.
Done.
On the way out he picked up the room key. Also the flower arrangement and gave it to Miss Saigon in the car, saying, "Hold this for me."
Be Cool Page 20
