Dead Famous (Danny Costello)

by Tony Bulmer

  ‘Corpse number four?’

  ‘You will love this: Saquina Johnson’s Probation officer, met with a particularly grizzly fate on Sunset Boulevard the other night. Someone bush-wacked him in the parking lot of a Strip Club, shot him full of Thiopental, then attached his body to the back of a pick up truck that towed him to his death.’

  ‘Messy, why would someone kill the girls probation officer?’

  ‘The evidence suggested a crazed fan scenario—retribution for some perceived slight that resulted in the object of their adoration being taken away from them.’

  ‘Makes sense, but the narco connection says no.’

  ‘Exactly. The person, or persons who killed Martin and Blandell had another motive.’

  ‘You pull the CCTV footage at the Peninsula?’

  ‘Sure we did. We found nothing to raise pulses there, usual room service comings and goings as you would expect—we checked the staff already—all of them are clean, then we got Barrington, his daughter and the family Lawyer, along with a collection of music industry types, none of whom have got a time of death connection to the deceased.’

  ‘Mind if I check the recordings?’

  Cheyenne Wallis nodded grimly, ‘It can be arranged, our main focus is Saquina Johnson’s funeral however.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Have you heard of Myron Chimola?’

  ‘Southside gangster, from out of Long Beach, he had a run in with the Barrington party the other night, my team dealt with it.’

  Cheyenne Wallis nodded. ‘Chimola isn’t the forgive and forget type Danny, you better watch your back.’

  ‘I got that covered.’

  ‘I hope so, because Chimola has history with the Barrington crew, they are gangland rivals from way back, and people who get caught in between them often end up dead.’

  ‘You think this Chimola character will try and pull something at the funeral?’

  ‘We got all hands on it Danny. We don’t like gangs in this city. The Commissioner has a mandate. The Los Angeles Police Department is coming down hard and heavy on this one, and anyone who gets in the way is heading for trouble.’

  I smiled, nodded sagely. ‘Trouble is my business,’ I said, ‘always has been.’

  Dead Famous 29

  The day of the funeral, a slow melting marine layer came rolling in from the ocean. The sea mist felt smooth and mysterious. The air was heavy sheened with mist, as I launched into my pre-breakfast run up the Santa Monica shoreline from Venice beach. Running at the waters edge my hair slicked back, flowing wet against my skull. I worked north, sprinting intervals, picking up the pace, as I headed beyond Santa Monica pier to the Palisades. There were few people out, all of them early risers like me, running the pastel tinged gantlet of the Venice shoreline.

  By the time I ran back, hitting the breakwater on Via Marina for my work out with Yong Su Yin, a soft-fringed sun was beginning its slow ascent through the morning sky with assurances from the hyperventilating senorita on channel eleven that it was going to be a hot one. Far as I was concerned every day was a hot one, no matter what the weather, call me Mr. Positive, you will be glad you did.

  Naturally, I had my plays for the Saquina Johnson funeral worked out ahead of time. If my heads up meeting with Cheyenne Wallis had been anything to go by, there would be every chance that the entire event would be swamped by a heavy booted presence from the bull harness brigade at LAPD, and that could pose problems. Cops like to get in the way, it makes them feel important, but when you are working a personal protection gig, there is nothing worse than a beat cop in a smart uniform to compromise the operation. Flat-footed cop bluster is too blunt-edged to stop a serious assassin, and once you got a uniform riding point on your VIP, you got yourself a homing beacon for every pro-hitter in the neighborhood.

  Department Interference on the Forest Lawns job was a given, no matter how much City Attorney Wallis talked nice about cooperation. I figured edicts from the Commissioner’s office would compromise the job from the get go. If I knew Jardine, he would muscle in on the action to make the department look like upfront leaders.

  And that would never do.

  I had plans of course, smart, fast moving plans that would cut Commissioner Jardine and his blue beat divisionals so far out of the loop it would make their heads spin.

  Preparation was the key as always. I ran liaison with LAPD’s Metropolitan division, told them I was going to play things low-key, come in fast, leave unexpectedly. They demanded a faxed itinerary. I knew that was coming, a demand so old school you could stick a suit of armor on it. But I cooperated anyway—leaving instructions with my office to supply the details of the Barrington family’s movements to the LAPD at the very last minute, to avoid wide dissemination. You never know how potential enemies will discover your plans. I figured broadcasting the knowledge ahead of time would be asking for trouble.

  Working the liaison gig, I discovered that Commissioner Jardine had assigned B&C units to police the event, along with a mounted presence from the pony club horse-backers in unit E, not that they were needed, for a closed casket burial detail at Forest Lawns—but mounted cops always look better on television. When it comes to looking good on television Commissioner Jardine has a real nose for a rose scented publicity opportunity.

  To my mind, Jardine had his beady little vulture eyes on the wider game. Big money political interests like a man with an eye for a good photo opportunity, and there is nothing like strong-minded policing, with horsemen in smart uniforms, to make an astute, politically ambitious Police Commissioner look good television.

  Zero hour for the Saquina Johnson funeral was 11.30hrs. By 10 30 I had a cortege of limos cruising the through Hollywood, in transit for the cemetery. Motorcycle units from the LAPD were in attendance too, along with a block-to-block escort from the black and white brigade. All major intersections were subject to rolling closures, and we had spy in the sky coverage from at least five news choppers. I had Joe in charge of the mobile unit leading the procession in a point car, followed by a five-limo cortege, along with two back up units in bullet proof follow cars. As the cortege snaked through Hollywood the anticipation began to build. Onlookers crowded the sidewalks to see a little piece of history being made.

  The cemetery approach was fenced off with crowd control barriers, to keep the public at bay. But the public were none too pleased at being penned in, they grumbled and jostled and cat-called anyone they didn’t like the look of. Many held make-shift signs, scrawled hurriedly in magic marker. As the cortege passed, the placard wielding crazies shouted and screamed at the passing cars: Saquina was murdered. Saquina Lives, Saquina we’ll always love youuuu!

  To me, it looked like the Michael Jackson funeral all over again, only this time the crazies meant business. As soon as the mobile unit slowed for the cemetery gates, the crowds broke free, swarming the barriers in a roaring, jostling, melee of zombie apocalypse proportions. LAPD’s mounted units danced and reared, in the chaos of the fast building riot. Riders had their nightsticks out, flailing wildly. If there is one thing that can spoil the PR impact of a police officer on horseback, it is the sight of that officer careering through a screaming crowd swinging hard at any head that comes into range. It was a scenario I had foreseen, that is why I had decided to fly the Barrington party in to Forest lawns in the company Helicopter, a Bell 430 I keep hangered at the airstrip in Santa Monica.

  Flying towards the cemetery, I made a call to Inez. She told me the media were mobbing the gates of the Barrington residence on North Carolwood. Attempts had been made to enter the grounds, but her team had repelled all comers. She told me that news choppers had made flybys, but none of them stuck around. It made sense. The air vultures would be concentrating on the cemetery, knowing that there would a star-studded list of attendees they could focus their telephoto attentions on.

  I flew the chopper high, over the Santa Monica mountains, taking an air-ceiling approach, so I could scope the threat risk from other air traf
fic. I skirted the neighborhood, like I was just another executive pilot making the Westside run into Beverly Hills. When I saw my flight path was clear, I took a steep approach, flying in low over the top of Rod Stewart’s house. The downdraft of my rotor wash ruffled the crooner’s swimming pool. Luckily, there were no civilians in evidence to call in complaints to FAA. One more low altitude slap-on-the-wrist from the Federales, and I will be flying a hang-glider for the foreseeable future.

  I made a textbook landing on Barrington’s lawn, as close to the house as his heavily topiarised landscaping would allow. Shrubs swayed, as the rotors pounded in neutral. I made a ten-count before the patio doors split open, and Inez marshaled out her charges to the waiting chopper. Shaquil Johnson led the way, in a conservative business suit, I almost didn’t recognize him, but his trademark super-bling sunglasses gave him away. Kid Dolla meanwhile, was kitted out in a black-silk pimp suit, that looked sleazy and over stated, hanging from his neck, a gong like pendant that sparkled with jewels. He would certainly grab attention, if not fashion plaudits. Barrington came last, with Inez following close. He dipped down under the rotors, and climbed aboard, his eyes shrouded, in giant wraparound shades, that screened-out all trace of emotion. I guessed, from the way his mouth turned down at the edges, he would rather be doing just about anything, rather than attending a funeral for a former employee—even if she was a platinum selling mega-star who’s warbling hits had helped propel the Slycorp Empire to the glittering pinnacle of the entertainment world.

  The very second Inez locked down the door, I launched the Helicopter upwards, gaining height quickly. The atmosphere in the cabin was subdued, as we headed high over the haze-shrouded city, making the short hop over the Hollywood Hills towards Forest Lawns. As we swung high over the peak at Runyon Park, I could see them outlined in the distance: a ring of hovering news copters, circling the drop zone. I swung a wide circuit, towards Griffith Park, in order to divert attention from my true intentions, before coming in fast over the Disney lot, to the north of the Ventura Freeway. As we swung in over the cemetery entrance, the melee at the gates was in full swing: thousands of crazed Saquina fans, fighting to gain entry to the ceremony, by whatever means they could. I made a close pass over the court of liberty with its statue of George Washington standing guard, and headed in, for a tight landing out front of the memorial home. As I touched down, the Helicopter sent a glittering backdraft swirling across the lawn. The timing was precise—as I climbed out the helicopter—the cortege pulled into the drive alongside us, flanked by their police escort. My people dismounted from the follow cars and fanned out, in a defensive formation.

  Our arrival brought a flood of guest list attendees out of the funeral home, I peered through the crowd, saw Joe with Roxy Barrington, so close it looked like they were on a date. Closer inspection told me otherwise though. He had the girl in a pince-grip elbow hold that meant she couldn’t get away, even if she wanted to.

  My people gathered around, closing a protective perimeter around our party. The path to the grave was, covered in millions of pink rose petals, I am guessing they were laid out as a final gesture to beauty taken before it’s time, but as the petals rotted in the high rising heat of the day, the only thing I could think about was pointless death. Consumed by doubt and self-loathing, Saquina Johnson had clearly been a very different person than that portrayed by her very public persona of glamour and success. She had led a double life of drugs, degradation, and personal conflict, that had clearly driven her to the very edge of sanity, and now, as the hypocrites who had marshaled her ruined life closed in around her grave, I could feel sadness envelop me. There were many famous faces in the congregation, stars of stage & screen, big name celebrities and others who had served with quiet anonymity. All listened in silence as the priest cast his final words to the wind, for the life of a woman who had, through her very public and untimely demise, transcended into the realm of the unassailable mega-star.

  Sly Barrington stared ahead impassively, while Kid Dolla fidgeted at his side, every discomfited aspect of his body language betraying a yearning for escape. From the facing side of the casket, Shaquil Johnson stared at me from behind impenetrable sunglasses, a vague sneer crawling across his lips. I watched him with distaste. The guy was a low-rent weasel, a street hustler dressed up in a fancy suit. If he had been any kind of man at all, he would have given Saquina the help she so desperately needed, instead of allowing her pain to run out of control. If he had stepped in, the girl would still be alive.

  As I stared at Shaquil Johnson across the grave, I felt a dangerous electricity rise around me. Every sense in my body strained for signs of impending calamity. Something was wrong. I scanned the periphery of the crowd. Nothing, just the distant chatter of Helicopters, hovering at a respectable distance, Jardine’s guys were everywhere, holding the perimeter down tight. My mouth grew dry, as the eulogy progressed, anxious seconds winding down, as the flower-covered casket of Saquina Johnson hovered above the grave. Then I heard it, a whiplash crack filling the air. I had Barrington down on the ground, before he could even look around. He hit the petal-covered mud, like a side of beef falling out of a butcher’s truck. I landed on top of him, pushed him down into the ground as a sound like an express train came hissing past above our heads.

  ‘Everyone down.’ I roared.

  Another crack. Then another.

  Air roaring past—cut asunder, by a furious burning passage.

  Someone was firing at us with a 50. Caliber sniper-rifle. The only thing that had saved us was that the shooter was trying to hit us from outside the supersonic range of his weapon. Maximum range for a light fifty is three to five thousand feet. As the bullet starts its journey, it travels faster than sound, which means it will kill you before you hear it. But travelling farther, that same bullet is overtaken by the sound of its own discharge. A life-saver for those who know. As soon as the whip crack reports rang out, every one of my people hit cover, Inez included.

  The celebrities dithered, looking around in bewilderment, like they couldn’t understand what was happening.

  ‘Everyone, down on the ground,’ I roared again.

  A horrifying moment of pregnant silence, then the screaming started; people running in all directions, as the chaos of a full-blown panic ensued—the sobriety and dignity of a day of mourning transformed, into a wild and undignified stampede. I pressed Sly Barrington’s head down in the mud. ‘If you want to live, stay down,’ I rasped. He gave me no argument, just sprawled on the filthy ground, spitting curses.

  Peering up to the East I looked for signs of the shooter He was up there, watching through his sniper scope, making minuscule adjustments to his sights, so his next shot would count. The guy was any good we would be dead in seconds, unless we moved and moved fast. It is during such times, that the skills of the personal protection specialist make the difference between life and death. I have seen a lot of bullets in my time, more than a few with my name on them. But I’ve yet to meet the shooter with the skill to take me out.

  Sniping is a specialist skill, you have to allow for many variables, including trajectory, wind speed and target behavior. One vital factor the shooter hadn’t factored into the equation was Cobra Close Protection.

  I was prepared—so was my team.

  Soon as the first bullet flew, we moved into action. The bullet-proof chase cars that had been following the cortege powered through the Forest Lawns cemetery towards us, while the LAPD perimeter detail dithered in confusion. My people moved fast—professional drivers, with long years of military training and Close Protection experience. They quickly formed a protective wall with their vehicles, shutting down the shooters line of sight, while the point car roared in behind them to pull out our VIP charges.

  Another bullet sailed overhead—and another, each shot getting closer than the last. The shooter might be an amateur, but he was learning fast. The next bullet hit the Priests lectern with such a furious impact, it blew a giant football sized hole
in it. 50 cal rounds are not like normal bullets, they punch through brick, concrete, and metal. They vaporize human flesh on contact, while the shooter hides safely, miles from the scene of the carnage.

  I grabbed Barrington by the seat of his pants, half pulled, half-pushed him, forcing him onward to the yawning interior of the escape car. He scrabbled forwards on his hands and knees, as fifty-caliber rounds thundered into the chase cars, gouging giant fist sized holes in the armor plate. With Barrington inside the escape car, the driver pulled away at speed, fishtailing across the verdant hillside, as celebrity mourners ran for their lives.

  Turning to my right, I saw Shaquil Johnson, his sunglasses awry scuttling forward to the edge of the grave on his hands and knees. He hid behind wife’s coffin, a human cockroach heading for safety. He gave the coffin a push, so he could slide down into the safety of the dark trench beneath. As he squeezed into the grave, the casket toppled sideways, cracking open as it went. As a second escape car powered in, I got a clear view of Saquina Johnson’s pale, dead arm spilling out of her funeral casket, in a horrifying open-handed gesture of supplication.

  I moved up to the first shield car, peered over the hood and surveyed the distant horizon. I guessed from the accuracy of the shots the hitter was triggering in from a two-mile distance, maybe more. There were at least a dozen buildings in that range, and hills beyond. Leaving a thousand places to hide and a million escape routes by which he could slip away after. Twenty seconds or more since the first shots, police sirens cut in through the screaming tumult. A distant, almost unintelligible bullhorn appealing for calm, but there was no chance of that. The sniper had missed his mark, but Commissioner Jardine’s dream of a smoothly policed funeral had been killed stone dead.

  Dead Famous 30

  In the aftermath of the Forest Lawns shooting, it seemed to me like the whole reason for the Barrington job had been negated. The plan to keep the Slycorp name free from controversy had been blasted full of fifty caliber holes. My team having blown clear of the attack zone at an early stage, I was asked in strong, but extremely polite terms by LAPD to “stick around”. I figured I would cooperate since Captain Inman, head of the Metro division asked me so nicely. Just to be safe Inman ordered his guys to wrap my chopper in crime scene tape, and threw a guard on it for good measure. A sure sign that Commissioner Jardine himself was heading in for a debrief and finely worded photo opportunity with the assembled ranks of the worlds media.