by Tony Bulmer
Scrolling through the endless celebrity carnage, I suspected that Roxy was enjoying the notoriety. Twenty-two years old, and rich beyond comprehension, she was pushing hard to find out just how far she could go, and it seemed like no one—not even her father was doing anything but cheer her on from the sidelines. One thing was clear, I stood any chance of reining this young woman in, to the point where she couldn’t damage her daddies IPO deal, I was going to have to either kidnap her—or go see corporate, to get her credit cards clipped, either way, Roxy Barrington was not going to be a happy bunny.
If you want anything tangible done in the corporate world, you go see an accountant. But Accountants will always seek the advice of a lawyer, if they have to do anything more ambitious than opening an Excel-spread-sheet. So I figured that the easiest way to nip the Roxy Barrington situation in the bud, was to seek out Sly Barrington‘s nefarious mouthpiece Al Weinman and pump him for tips on the girl’s whereabouts. There was no way the girl’s crazy assed life was getting by corporate, not with a control freak like Weinman on board. Shark tank Al was king of the bottom line and he would be riding the destination of every corporate cent if I knew him—and that meant there was no better man to go to, in my search for West Hollywood’s most dangerous socialite.
After I dropped off Inez and the bullet proof Escalade at CCP’s parking garage in Marina Del Ray, I headed for Weinman’s corporate lair in Beverly Hills—the domain of the uber-lawyer. I took my Vintage Dodge pick up, with the flame red paint job—the kind of ride that feels so good, you know it has to be wrong.
Tying down a big league corporate poobah like Weinman is never easy, so I rang ahead. I got rebuttals from his secretary, a young man with a supercilious Ivy-league tone, that I didn’t much care for—he said his name was Alphonse Jennings. I made nice, on the off chance that the PhD hair-shirt would be able to squeeze me into his bosses hectic agenda anyway. After an extended round of cajoling the charmingly charmless Alphonse finally agreed to shoehorn a pre-lunch meet and greet, in a tight-five widow, just shy of twelve-forty-five. The location for this much in demand audience: The Boulevard Brasserie, in Beverly Hills. I thanked young Alphonse for his time, and informed him he would be able to enjoy Facebook friend status with CCP in the very near future. I took the wordless pause on the end of the phone line, as thanks for this generous accolade.
As a monkey suited facilitator guided me to the reserved section table at The Boulevard Brasserie I would like to say Al Weinman was pleased to see me, but he wasn’t—and I liked that even more. Weinman has a look that oozes aloofness. The dude is in a class of his own—least he thinks he is—you can tell just by listening to him: a real talker. As we sat there making polite, I asked him where I could catch up with Roxy Barrington.
Weinman looked at me, a phony lawyer smile twisting across his face, ‘Hotels Mr. Costello—although Ms Barrington officially resides at her father’s address, the current climate between them has caused her to decamp.’ When he oozed out the word climate a pained expression crossed Weinman’s face. Mr. sensitive.
‘That’s cute, kicked out the manse so she goes hidey-holing on expenses.’ I retorted.
‘I wish I could tell you more Mr. Costello, but Ms Barrington is on probation—you will understand that this means there are certain constraints on her activities, If I were to tell you exactly where she was, I might implicate myself in all kinds of—unpleasantness with our friends in the probation service, and as I am sure you will understand, I am anxious to avoid such an possibility.’
‘Blow it out your ass Weinman, just tell me where the kid is at and have done with it.
Well the Peninsula has been a favorite destination, but given the unfortunate series of events, I am led to believe that L’Ermitage might be a more likely hangout of late,’ Weinman paused, gave me an oily look.
‘You are a real card Weinman. The Barrington kid—she have anything to do with what went down at the Peninsula?’
‘I am surprised you would even ask that question Mr. Costello.’
I smiled, leaned in close, said, ‘Here’s the kicker Weinman, I see a rat—I club it flat. You telling me that daddy’s little princess—a rap-sheet-stoner, has been staying at the same hotel where room service is ferrying corpses out of with the laundry. It gets a guy suspicious, know what I am saying?’
‘You would be well advised to keep your suspicions to yourself Mr. Costello.’
‘Sounds like we got something in common then Weinman.’
‘Weinman looked horrified—What on earth do you mean Mr. Costello?’
‘I got a high tolerance for most things Weinman, but felony conspiracy ain’t one of them.’ I tried to mitigate the snarl in my voice but it came out anyway.
Weinman shifted on his barstool. ‘A million dollar retainer may mean nothing to you Mr. Costello but I am sure your reputation for discretion is priceless—especially in a community as inward looking as the one we have in Beverly Hills.’
‘I sat back, smiled—gave it an anger management ten, ‘Are you trying to blackmail me?’ I purred softly.
‘Such an ugly word Mr. Costello, let us just say your discretion will be greatly appreciated in all matters relating to Mr. Barrington’s daughter, particularly in the current financial climate.’
I tried for another ten, didn’t even make it to five, ‘I should break your neck right now you little cockroach.’
‘Not advisable Mr. Costello, I bruise and sue very easily indeed.’
‘Assuming anyone finds your corpse,’ I joshed lightly.
Weinman wasn’t laughing.
‘I suggest you find the girl as you have been tasked Mr. Costello. Keep her out of trouble, do what ever you deem necessary to mitigate her influence on the Slycorp deal—perhaps you could take her for a nice cruise on that pretty little boat Mr. Russell has moored at the Marina?’
‘What the hell do you know about that Weinstein?’
‘Your charming ex-wife Mr. Costello, she doesn’t have much of an opinion of you but she is a real talker,’ Weinman said nastily.
‘Why don’t you share that little conflict of interest with the next the professional ethics committee at the ABA Weinman?’
‘Amusing, Mr. Costello, that a jailhouse lawyer such as your self would even consider such a ludicrous gambit. You will quickly find—should you seek counsel—that my work for Slycorp strictly consultative—legally in keeping with my position as a board member and therefore within the guidelines of the American Bar Association. So you see Mr. Costello, you will do as you are told and if you don’t, you will be ready to accept the consequences of that decision.’
I gave Weinman a steady look, picturing what that smirking face would look like in the crosshairs of a forty-caliber night scope.
Dead Famous 13
Hector Blandell liked the action between Western and Normandie. The girls on the Boulevard would do anything down there. He wanted to call them sluts, but he knew he shouldn’t. Knowing he shouldn’t just made him want to do it more. Sluts…. How naughty he was. What would the women in the office think? The round faced homely women, with pictures of their pets and families stuck all over their workstations. Work was so dreary, so routine. Hector liked very many of his colleagues, but at the same time he understood their plight: the overstuffed supervisors and rat-wheel timeservers, burning their lives for a government paycheck. It was all so work-a-day dreary—predictable. Meanwhile, Hector afforded himself credit. Since mother had died, his life had taken an upward swing. If only they knew—those work-a-day colleagues he acknowledged every day, with nervous smiles in the corridors, those people he exchanged pleasantries with in the coffee room, If only they knew—the thought both appalled and excited him. The women in the office weren’t sluts: they were timeserving bureaucrats—bologna faced number crunchers who did things by the book—always by the book. That had been his problem for too long now. Playing things by the book made him yearn for something more. Something dangerous.
At first he had enjoyed his interests on the Internet, in the privacy of his own home. But the Internet was so impersonal, an addiction that quickly lost its appeal for anything other than emergencies. The Boulevard was real—dangerous—so much more to play for than the cold, hard virtual world of passwords and PIN-Numbers. The bright lights, the girls flaunting themselves, dirty little junkies and runaways who would do anything for money. The Boulevard was so much more immediate, real, exciting.
Sitting in his late model Kia, a sensible car for men who knew their place in the world, Hector Blandell rode East, through the throbbing neon hustle, the sidewalks pulsing with a thousand realities: A million anonymous souls mixing their lives with the sob-story losers, the hawkers and scammers, that is the way it was on The Boulevard: the filth moved anonymous down here. Filth was everywhere, melding seamlessly with the twilight cityscape, mixing incongruously with the work-a-day citizenry.
Hector felt safe, protected in his air-conditioned capsule; he was aloof from this street corner world. But there was danger too. The area was thick with police officers from the Los Angeles Police Department. Hector had observed them on his many sorties. He had dealt with many of their victims too, in his role as a County Probation Officer. Vice squad snakes coiling ready for the unwary. He was wise to the honey-pot scam though—cops dressed as hookers—it just didn’t make sense, an endless game—making the move on the usual suspects—out-of-towners, tourists and lonely businessmen trawling the street with their unquenchable desires and endless cash till dollars.
Blandell was smart—no vice cop mark. It would take much more than an overfed beat cop in a mini skirt to snare him… Cops were so old and ugly—got their dress sense from a mail order hooker catalog—no attention to detail. They hogged street-corner spots looking clean, well fed. Where was the appeal in that? Clean and well fed—the idea was so preposterous to Hector, he laughed out loud. He liked girls young and sleazy—like Roxy Barrington.
Blandell cruised curbside, keeping it above 25, so he could see the action without getting busted. Cruising the neon street amped his excitement so high, he could feel his heart pumping out his chest. When he hit Normandie, he flipped a turn, cruised back down the other side of the street. Adrenaline pumping so hard now he almost wanted to vomit.
He saw familiar faces—but disposability was his watchword, second time around was never the same. No, tonight would be a special treat, something he reserved for the midweek dip. He headed to the place he had been frequenting for sometime now: Club Stacked, at the bad end of Sunset, a real locals place, tucked away in a black neon lit building, not far from the Hollywood Freeway overpass. The Boulevard entrance was nothing more than a doorway tucked in tight between a Tattoo parlor and a Head shop that sold supplies to neighborhood stoners. Blandell pulled round back of the building, headed into the parking lot. They ran a valet service, weekends, when things got busy, but they were blocks from the tourist drag down here—it was easy parking weekdays and free too. Blandell liked free. He liked Club Stacked—it was a real club—offered all nude dancing, not like those tourist clip joints where the girls burned you for drinks and didn’t even get undressed. The thing he liked best about Club Stacked however was Tina—he knew it wasn’t her real name, but that didn’t matter. Tina looked like Roxy Barrington, cold, athletic, young and sleazy. Tina let him call her Roxy when they were grinding in the back room. As Blandell walked in Club Stacked, The place smelt of decay, mixed with a choking blend of incense that was supposed to be alluring. It couldn’t hide the pitiless stench of stale sweat and desperation. That didn’t matter in the back room though, when Tina led him in back, holding him by his tie, like it was a work place dog lead, Hector Blandell was more aroused than he had ever been. She sat him in the corner booth, always the corner booth, surrounded by mirrors and the fast pulsing lights pumping heavy to an alien beat—never a tune he could recognize just a constant anonymous throb, pummeling his every sense, as the incense swirled and Tina gyrated in heels, her fabulous shimmering pelvis swinging closer ever-closer, until he could bear it no more.
Afterwards, he tipped Tina more than he could afford, like he always did, feeling it was his duty as her protector. Course she smiled, licked her lips as always, told him in that fabulous purring voice that they would have to get together sometime—but they never did, and tonight was no different. Blandell finished his fruit juice cocktail, drained it down to the Maraschino cherry and headed out the club. He walked quickly past the glitter-dust walls and the dark-light bathrooms. Other girls in scanty micro outfits congregated at the bar, talking nice to blue-collar customers. A furtive glimpse told Blandell that the barflies were of a rough sort best avoided. He slid out the exit door into the alleyway. As he emerged the heat of the night engulfed him. The alleyway was dark. It stank of urine. Blandell felt the overwhelming need to vomit. He staggered towards the parking lot, his only thought of escape. He leaned on the wall retching, holding in his silk tie, so he didn’t get puke on it.
That’s when it hit him, a jolt so powerful he lost control of his every faculty. Spinning downwards, the dark asphalt impacted hard. Immeasurable pain whipped through him once, twice, three-times. Writhing in agony, He glimpsed a ghostly shadow standing above him. Blue sparks arced towards him. Laying there, in the urine soaked darkness Hector Blandell lapsed into a trauma filled paralysis, neither conscious, or unconscious. A horrible sensation came over him—like he was being cocooned in a thick, sticky web, by a giant insectoid predator. His eyes glazed back with shock, gargling powerlessly, as a thick trail of saliva and vomit oozed across his cheek. He tried to plead for his life, but the power of speech evaded him. The thick web binding his mouth now, his eyes bulged with panic—a cold all encompassing fear surged through him. He was dreaming, surely he was dreaming—he would wake up any minute at home, safe in the comfort of the bed, where he had slept since childhood. But this was no dream. This was real, a living nightmare more shocking than anything he had thought possible.
Again he tried to plead for his life.
But his mouth was bound tight. All he could manage was a series of squeaks so feeble he could barely hear them himself.
The predator had him.
Bound so tight he could barely breathe. A slow sensation of reality returning now, feeling the sharpened bite of the rough ground against his face, as his attacker dragged him to a putrid fate amongst a bank of greasy dumpsters. Sensing the assault was over, he wiggled-feebly, made pitiful bleating noises to signal his total submission.
The ghostly figure stood over him.
He squinted against the power of a distant security light that burned through the darkness, silhouetting the face of his attacker. The attacker stood wordlessly—watching—admiring, then, as sensation began to return, he saw that the figure was holding a thick noosed wire—a steel hawser for gods sake—He twisted feebly, Imagining the bite of the steel noose as it closed in around his neck. He struggled wormlike, as the noose hung ready, but it was no good, the ghostly figure stepped forwards and noosed his ankles. Hector Blandell felt the spreading wetness in his trousers as fear, then relief arced through him. His attacker was swift, well prepared—resistance was futile—but surely if this assault had been meant to be anything more than injurious he would be dead already? Hoping against hope, Hector Blandell lay submissive, as his attacker tightened the steel hawser around his legs. Finally, there was no escape. Powerless, vulnerable, he lay amongst the trash, fear and desperation rolling through him in waves. Already he planned a story to mitigate the humiliation of his discovery. Desperate lies would never be able to explain away his predicament, that much was clear. He was a public servant. A man of responsibility—the humiliation would be inescapable, absolute. As he contemplated this final horrifying twist, he realized that his attacker was not yet finished. The cable around his ankles was drawing tighter, so tight he couldn’t feel his feet. Hector Blandell squirmed in his own filth struggling to see what was happening. When he saw, he wished he hadn’t.
The ghostly figure was bolting the steel hawser to the towing arm of a giant pick-up truck.
Dead Famous 14
I figured right off the bat that it would be a miracle if I could make a connection with Roxy Barrington at L’Ermitage, But I headed down there anyway. The place isn’t exactly party central for the young swinging set. More of a boutique venue for chairman of the board types, looking to play it low-key. Maybe this was why Weinman had fielded the name as a hidey-hole retreat for Beverly Hills’ most dangerous socialite.
Executive protection is a small turning world—a world where, the people who are know. Rocco the Concierge at L’Ermitage was one of my many valued connections—he greeted me as if I had just arrived with a truck full of high-denomination spending cash. I folded out Franklins, and told him it had been too long, even though it had only been a couple of weeks since I had thrown a party of high-rolling clients in his general direction.
I learned pretty quick, that there had been a Barrington sighting as recently as two nights ago. Roxy Barrington had checked into the Presidential suite, with scant luggage, and little had been seen of her since. The Consensus: Ms Barrington has left the building. I folded out more Franklins, enquired how long Ms Barrington was planning to stay. Three weeks with an option, confided Rocco, in a hallowed and deeply confidential tone. ‘Would you care for a drink in the Lounge Mr. Costello, we have a full range of flowering teas?’ The hand of friendship swept elegantly towards the bar area. I smiled, reading an overt subtext and headed through the lobby as directed. People who know me know I am not a barfly kind of guy, but flowering tea? Just show me the way!
Now, the bar area looked like a corporate coffee room, to my untrained eye, but I have never been big into interior design, especially when it comes to nouveau minimalism. A select crowd of pre-dinner guests, and corporate meet facilitators were discussing form to a beat of Zen frequency background tunes. I kind of liked the vibe—but I had to pinch myself, thinking of my daughter Dakota making a barf-face and asking—What are you Dad a hundred years old—with a derisory snarl.
