Dead Famous (Danny Costello)

by Tony Bulmer

  Remi had couriered over chocolates and flowers to the emergency room, of course he had—but he figured it hadn’t been enough—the corporate prick had sworn he hadn’t blabbed, been most adamant when Remi had gone over to his crib on Wilshire—a sordid little apartment at the wrong end of the Miracle Mile. The little creep had acted scared, a voice so shrill it snapped lights on all over the neighborhood. The little swooner bleated like he was going to wet his fucking pants for Christ’s sake.

  Remi had to pull out the Sig, just to shut the squealing little pant-wetter up. Didn’t shoot him—hadn’t needed to—the scare was enough. Least Remi thought it had been enough. But, it was too late, way too late. The word was out. The jobs dried up and the corporate clientele drifted away. The gig at the studio was never the same again. They treated him different, like he had the plague or something.

  And now, it seemed like everyone was signing up for rehab these days—like sober was the new stoned. Except for the club crowd. They were always stoned, big budget stoned. Those Gackers on the hill just couldn’t get enough. Thankfully he could get the weight. The Venezuelan saw to that—a sweet line in credit until things came good. Trouble was good was taking it’s own sweet time. Medicine was the only thing that could make things better under such circumstances, and medicine cost—even that sweet assed little twink from the pharmacy was losing his cool, saying there was too much risk for too little return, and screen time promises in exchange for pills didn’t quite carry the weight they had, now he was out of favor with the studio crowd. The ingrates. He had seen them right for years.

  So here he was in the closet, with a select clientele that was getting more select by the day. Remi sniffed to himself, lined up another hit to make the feelings go away.

  Things had been going all right until the night of the awards, subsisting on a finely balanced equilibrium, as he liked to put it, when anyone of quality asked—he had watched the show on television—had to, since this years invite had been lost in the post.

  Remi figured it would be the same old same old, but no.

  Watching the fashionable arrivals, he wished he hadn’t.

  Saquina so glamorous, but her balance was off. Remi sucked breath as desperate editors in the control room pulled angles to mitigate the tragedy. But there was no hiding it. The girl was off—way off—staggering up the carpet, like a boulevard stoner.

  The nightmare got worse from there. Hoping it wouldn’t, but it did. Calling her to the stage now, to collect the most prestigious award in show-business, watching dumbfounded, as she slurred and shook and toppled and fell—then writhed—yes, writhed, on the floor on live on television. They cut to break of course, but there was no hiding the desperate horror of what had just happened. Saquina Johnson the biggest star in the world had just overdosed on live television, to an international audience of millions.

  That’s when the fear hit.

  Right away he knew they would come—knew that the connection led back to him. There was a chance they wouldn’t find out of course. A slim, crazy hope that they would lose the trail and forget all about the dope that had killed pop music’s most troubled Diva.

  Remi knew different.

  Barbiturates were rare, Thiopental even rarer. Everyone did benzo’s these days, they were supposed to be safer—less addictive. But danger was still exciting, danger never went out of fashion, Remi knew that first hand. When you went big on gear, new danger was irresistible—the biggest turn on you could imagine—until it all went wrong—until you wound up dead.

  The clock was ticking.

  Only a matter of time until they figured things out.

  He hadn’t retreated into the closet right away. He’d had to get twisted first, think things through—work through the situation logically, until everything made sense.

  Things didn’t make sense though.

  Worse, he didn’t have a plan, only dope and a loaded gun.

  And he was running low on dope.

  The shadows were coming, he could sense them dancing away from his peripheral vision—but they were there—as real as a slow falling dusk.

  Remi felt scared. A gun is no-good when you are scared. No one tells you that. You get yourself a firearm you think your worries are over—if only that were true. Remi sniffled to himself. He had been speed-balling three days straight, least he figured he had it was difficult to know in the closet.

  Again the shadows.

  A shot or two usually straightened things out—stopped the fear from washing over him. Not this time. Even in the darkest recesses of the closet, the shadows could reach him—grasping out, with their soulless talons. It was like they had x-ray vision! Reaching out for his hiding place, even though the doors were shut down tight. He had disconnected the phones of course: the line in the office, the cordless in the den, even his precious iphone. He had taken the battery out too, you never could be too careful. When hidden forces were searching for you, they could enter your body through electric cables, light switches, phone lines, sometimes even the carpet—everyone knew that. Remi had removed the carpet as a precaution—rolled it up and thrown it out the kitchen window.

  As the grey shadows reached out, clasping at his very soul, Remi knew that time was running short. He laughed out loud, at the sheer unholy desperation.

  Then an idea.

  Again he, laughed—laughed and roared and whooped and hollered, as he called out for redemption—salvation from Jesus Christ and the Lord God above. He had never taken the trouble before—never even felt it necessary to go to church, but now—now was the time for sure. He waited for a response…

  Nothing.

  Total collapse. Who knew how long—when he awoke he woke to the smell of his own filth, a tawdry, unforgivable stench, that permeated everything.

  Maybe he had passed out. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe his prayers were answered? Remi’s vision blurred, into a slant-eyed approximation of normality, a strange ethereal normality, that some how transcended the bizarre nature of his predicament.

  A white figure, rising up before him: a miracle—surely a miracle? The Lady of Guadeloupe, risen again, with gifts of forgiveness and healing?

  Remi felt a wave of euphoria rush through every part of his being. Forgiven. Forgiven for all his sins! Shaky, hardly able to move, Remi slid forward on his knees, jibbering wetly—his words muddled—almost unintelligible.

  The white figure bending downwards now—reaching-out to anoint his brow.

  Peering up at the figure in white—a dazed sense of recognition rushing out of the white light towards him. A demon! A demon! Remi opened his mouth to scream, but a hard metallic object entered his mouth: a cold bitter taste that brought green bile rushing up from his stomach. Remi’s eyes opened wide, wide, wider, as the final desperate realization of what was happening hit.

  The figure in white pulled the trigger. The Sig-Sauer Remi had bought off Third Street Ronnie for three Franklins and a balloon of China White, did its immaculate work, exploding in his mouth, blasting brains and cranial matter in a wide arc all over the closet wall. The figure bent down, slowly, carefully, replaced the gun between Remi’s still twitching fingers, pressing it tight into his grip, until the convulsions grew weaker, then finally in the silence of death, the figure drew up and left.

  Dead Famous 10

  Working in the close protection business I have met some choice customers in my time, but Sly Barrington took some beating. Cold was not the word. The guy was working a multi billion-dollar IPO deal and he couldn’t be more relaxed. Not only that, his hottest star was laying in the morgue pumped full of dope and he couldn’t be happier—almost like he had planned it that way.

  My plan was simple: drop Inez back at CCP’s office in Marina Del Rey, so she could crew a five-man team for the Barrington residence. Then split over to the harbor to pick up Joe Russell, so we could hunt down Barrington’s daughter for a little tough love protection, with Uncles Dan and Joe. How difficult could it be? Holding some goofball kid unde
r house arrest until her pops collected on the biggest deal in entertainment history? We drove south, five lanes rolling heavy on the 405. Then we headed west, to the Marina I flipped the radio to my favorite station—The Sound on 100.3 those guys play it all, Sixties and Seventies music. Inez wasn’t happy. With her it is pumping dance floor beats or nothing; she is like my daughters Paris and Dakota in that respect, I am not a pumping dance-floor kind of guy, but the women in my life want something—I make sure they get it. All it takes is a look, and a look from Inez could get her just about anything. She flipped stations without asking. The digit counters flipped fast, trawling the airwaves for sound-byte snatches of the city. Suddenly the scanner hit a news channel broadcasting updates from the Oscars. A gravel voiced baritone talking up the big winners. Inez’s index finger hovered over the controls, as the news filtered through, there was only one story that mattered—the death of Saquina Johnson, the pop chart heroine from the wrong side of the tracks, who had checked out of the Hollywood fame game in the most public way possible.

  Inez sank back in her seat letting the big news flow. The talk was of a tragic death, a desperate struggle against substance abuse that had been all but conquered, thanks to the love and support of her superstar husband Shaquil Johnson. Then came plaudits for a legendary career, and the super producer assistance afforded that career, by the legendary Sly Barrington.

  I didn’t like what I was hearing. I knew there was a reality gap in the glib talking world of media news, but having just met both Sly Barrington and the “doting” husband, Shaquil Johnson. I had no doubt that Saquina Johnson’s life and image were completely manufactured. Seemed to me that the “doting” husband who had been breakfasting in billionairesville, couldn’t give a damn about the fate of his recently departed wife, and I knew for damn sure that Sly Barrington, the man who owned the rights to Saquina’s publishing money, couldn’t be happier either. Getting rid of his most troublesome star—would add millions to the value of her back catalog—the girl would probably make more money dead than alive—like Elvis or Michael Jackson.

  Inez snorted with contempt as the announcer continued layering on the heartbreak. ‘You believe this guy?’ she asked, turning to me with disbelief.

  I kept my eyes on the road, ‘Welcome to Hollyweird’ I said grimly.

  ‘So what do you think Costello?’

  ‘I think the girl was in trouble, big trouble, what’s more, if Kozak and Ramirez from Robbery Homicide are looking into this mess, you can bet that Saquina Johnson’s death is not as accidental as our gravel voiced DJ would have us believe.’ The DJ segued into one of Saquina Johnson’s biggest hits—the song was syrupy sad, the kind of number you would slow dance your significant other to—if you were into eighties discotheques. To me the eighties were always too futuristically unobtainable—sure, I pretended to like that decade for a few years, a guy has to date right? But soon as the eighties were safely over, I returned to the greatest musical epochs of the century, the sixties and the seventies—not like the nineties had anything to offer—unless you liked ugly trousers and a throbbing headache.

  We traveled in silence, listening to the ethereal tones of Saquina Johnson fill our freeway journey with minor-key pathos. The lyrics were a rambling tribute to enduring love, the tune so all pervasive you could hear it five times a day: elevator, mall and the endless freeway—Saquina Johnson’s life work was eternal, even as her drug ravaged corpse lay cold in the county morgue.

  As we listened, the gravel voiced baritone cut in mid-tune, with breaking news on the Saquina Johnson saga: A young woman found dead in Saquina’s suite at the Peninsula hotel in Beverly Hills. The body discovered early this morning, in the bathtub.

  A thrill of adrenaline ran through me. I always got this when the game was on. Now it was on for sure.

  ‘You think Barrington knew about the girl at the Peninsula?’ asked Inez.

  I threw her a sidelong glance, kept driving. ‘You hear that sound?’ I asked quietly.

  Inez raised her eyebrow questioningly. ‘What the hell you talking about Costello?’

  ‘That is the sound of Slycorp stock tumbling,’

  Dead Famous 11

  Straddling the ridge line of Bel Air Crest, Al Weinman’s luxurious compound looked west to the ocean, a glittering panorama fringed by the most expensive property in Los Angeles.

  Weinman stood on his expansive patio, watching the sunset, as far below a hundred million lights shimmered in the slow falling dusk. This was Weinman’s favorite time—the time of the predator, a time that brought back memories of his days as a balls-to-the-wall litigator, making plays for a succession of big-barreled Law firms. Addiction to the deal had come quickly to him. While his picayune colleagues had been content to fill their pockets with billable hours handouts. Weinman had been much more ambitious. He had taken the long view, believing that shrewd investment was the key to big money success. Setting up his own firm Weinman and Partners had been only the start.

  Now it was business, particularly the business of making money that fueled his motors, driving him onwards to ever-greater conquest. Weinman sipped a glass of Pino Noir, a crisp and delicious vintage from his vineyard in Sonoma. He smiled. Things had come so very far since his days at Harvard Law School. Effective management and good corporate governance meant that he no longer concerned himself with the workaday problems of the little people. Success in the corporate world had enabled him to transcend. Private individuals, no matter how wealthy, could never pay as well as corporations. Slycorp for example, a real gem ripe for take over. Weinman savored the prospect of owning such a lucrative business. Slycorp would be useful in so many ways, and the prestige of owning such glamorous corporate entity was almost incalculable. Music and movies were the stuff of dreams, but owning a company that actually controlled such things… He would be richer more famous than any film star or musician. The thought excited him, almost as much as the thought of doing business with Sly Barrington himself.

  Weinman frowned, as his fantasy burned into the dusk like a shooting star.

  Barrington was a problem. He might think he was a billionaire savant, but really he was nothing more than a street corner buffoon made good.

  ‘The girl is here Mr. Weinman,’ Drake the butler, looking somber in a charcoal suit.

  ‘Send her out Drake,’ beamed Weinman, his face shining with delight.

  Drake nodded curtly, his pinched-white face almost ghostly in the light of the shimmering dusk. Weinman, removed a linen handkerchief from his suit pocket and patted down his face, then stuffed the kerchief back into his breast pocket, allowing it to protrude rakishly. Watching now, as Drake disappeared back into the house. Almost holding his breath, he waited for the girl to appear. Danger excited him. Every screaming instinct warning him that this assignation was wrong, yet still he had allowed her inside his most private domain.

  Then he saw her: stunningly curvaceous, outlined in silhouette against the lights of the full-length picture window. He watched her come. She sashayed around the pool towards of him, the sound of her heels metallic on the rich veined marble. He could smell the scent of her perfume carrying towards him on the night air. See the cut of her hair falling softly against her shoulders. As she got nearer she slowed, held out her hand.

  Al Weinman had never seen a woman as beautiful, or as dangerous as this, his pulse amped stratospheric, a pharmaceutical rush washing over him, as he slowly, ever so slowly, took her hand and kissed it. He felt the pressure of a twenty carat diamond against his cheek, thrilling as his eyes drank in the contours of her body, through the tight white dress.

  ‘Miss Barrington, how wonderful to see you again.’

  Roxy Barrington smiled wordlessly, let one of the shoulder straps on her dress fall carelessly to the elbow—then the other.

  Weinman stared, his eyes bulging wide, felt a gasp of breath escape his lips as with a single fluid movement Roxy Barrington let her dress fall down around her feet. Beneath the dress she was nake
d—so completely naked that the words on Weinman’s lips disappeared unspoken into the shimmering violet dusk.

  Dead Famous 12

  When it comes to missing persons, there is not much short of a witness protection order, that can keep you hidden from Cobra Close Protection. That said, Roxy Barrington was a tough girl to catch up with. Thankfully I have experience in these matters I might be retired from the Secret Service but I still got my connections.

  You have friends and family—I will find you. You have a credit card—I will find you. You have a cell phone—I will find you—You have had any dealings with any government department, ever—I will find you, but you knew that didn’t you? There is no hiding from the Costello Corporation. I had done my homework too of course, you want to find out what the modern girl is up to, the interweb is always the first port of call for detectives and social prowlers alike. Social networking is the modern disease, an A to Z resource for snoopers and sleuths alike. Soon as I logged on, I made discoveries fast.

  Roxy Barrington was a popular girl—real popular—the tabloid media loved her. Checking her out on Google, the stories scrolled eternal. Roxy Barrington had a penchant for skimpy outfits and late night shenanigans that much was clear—searching through the schlock, it seemed like she had been involved in tabloid feeding frenzies at every club on the Strip, and a few more besides: drunken fist fights, DUI convictions, Cocaine possession, Automotive mayhem, and sordid sexual liaisons, with a succession of celebrity flings—of both sexes. Roxy Barrington was working her fifteen minutes of fame for all it was worth.