Dead Famous (Danny Costello)

by Tony Bulmer

  Meanwhile, LAPD’s Special Weapons and Tactics unit, closed down the area, to ensure that the sniper had flown his nest. The cops used sound analysis and laser range-finding technology, to reverse engineer the shooters position. Turned out the sniper had made his play from the top of multi-level parking facility, well over a thousand yards out; which was lucky for us, any closer and he would have done more than raise pulses.

  I stood and surveyed the carnage, as the Forest Lawns mortician’s levered Saquina Johnson’s body back into its casket. Hearing a whimpering noise coming from inside the grave. I walked over, and looked down into the hole. Inside Shaquil Johnson was still cowering, like a frightened child. I looked down at him with pity. ‘The shootings over, you can come out now.’

  Shaquil Johnson trembled, and scooched down further into the corner of the filthy hole. I knelt down, held out my hand, ‘You want to come out of there?’ Slowly, ever so slowly, he rose to his feet, backing away from me as he did so. Wordlessly, he peered over the top of the grave, staring at me with distrust, like I was trying to play an elaborate trick.

  I gave him a look of pity, and watched as a group of his friends who had summoned up the nerve to return, fished him out the grave and dusted their hero off.

  So much for Shaqi-J, and his reputation as a ghetto-rap bad ass.

  I had more important matters to attend to, not least of those, was the attempted assassination of my client by a pro-hitter with a penchant for heavy-caliber weaponry. I figured the Commissioner would at the very least be sympathetic. I was wrong, very wrong.

  Not only that, Commissioner Jardine was spitting mad. I found out how mad when the Emperor and his team of top-level LAPD facilitators rolled into what must have been the biggest crime scene perimeter in State history. The entire cemetery sealed off by a heavily armed crew of, SWAT team specialists. I stood amidst the ruins of the attack, marveling, as aftermath wranglers examined every single blade of grass in a thousand yard radius, incase further armed insurgents should be laying in wait.

  As Jardine rolled up, I saw signs of a man who was running at the very outer limit of his PR capabilities. Shrewd fashion choices were not an immediate problem though. Jardine looked immaculate, in a commando-style tactics uniform, fetchingly accessorized with a military-grade flack vest. It gave him a heroic quality that would no doubt look good on television. Naturally, I gave him a cheery greeting, but he didn’t look happy, far from it.

  ‘What kind of dog shit mess is this Costello?’ snarled Jardine. ‘I thought I told you to play things low key.’

  ‘You know me Charles, always delighted to cooperate with the department, unfortunately there are criminal elements within the city who are as not as willing to oblige as me.’

  ‘The mayor will not be happy,’ hissed Jardine.

  ‘The way I hear it the Mayor is very rarely happy, unless he is gorging on other peoples money, and even then it is a close run thing.’

  ‘This situation could not be any more inconvenient, Costello, I expect you to work with me on this.’

  I gave Commissioner Jardine my most earnest look, ‘Shoulder to shoulder as ever Charles, and I would like to thank you for having your people tape over the holes in my vehicles, but that really isn’t necessary—I am on very good terms with the body shop—their best customer you might say.’

  ‘Those vehicles will need to be examined for forensic evidence.’

  ‘They are full of fifty caliber bullet holes Charles, not exactly the kind of thing you can dust for latents is it?’

  ‘There are no bullet holes, just so as you know Costello.’

  ‘Three, maybe four hundred witnesses will say different.’

  ‘People make mistakes, especially in a moment of panic, way I hear it Costello one of your hair trigger operators revved his engine and the vehicle backfired.

  ‘Your people already found the snipers nest Jardine, they told me all about it. They didn’t know what kind of gun it was, but from the description I would say it is a Barrett M82, a high-end military piece designed for taking out enemy vehicles. The guy who pulled this job was professional, no doubt about it.’

  ‘My people spoke out of turn Costello, this whole unpleasant business was a panic, caused by the highly charged nature of the days events—unsurprising that a sudden loud noise would cause such upset, given the fraught and emotionally charged circumstances.’

  ‘Anyone ever shot at you Charles?’

  ‘Hell, yes, I was in the Army during Dessert Storm, served my country with pride.’

  ‘In that case, you will know that the Mayors pals in Washington sell fifty caliber sniper rifles to all comers, for the price of a second hand car.’

  Jardine looked grim faced. ‘No wonder the president kicked you out of the Secret Service Costello, that kind of pinko-liberal talk does nothing but give this fine country of ours a bad name.’

  ‘You telling me I don’t know when I have been bush-wacked with a fifty-caliber?’

  ‘I am telling you that events here today are the subject of a police investigation Costello, and if you are wise, you will keep your mouth shut whilst the true nature of those events is revealed.’

  ‘You going to tell the media that crock of horseshit Commissioner? If so, you are a braver man than I thought, because once they find out you are lying they will nail you to the wall of your own ambition, and that is going to be an ugly looking sight for your friends in Washington.’

  ‘What would a man like you know about friends in Washington Costello.’

  ‘I know they got long memories Charles. You might want to think about that when you are making your little play. Now, if you don’t mind, can I have my helicopter back?’

  ‘If I get word you have been shooting your mouth off to the press about what happened here today, I will cut off the hand of friendship that this Department has been so graciously offering you Costello.’

  When the Commissioner of Los Angeles Police Department tells you he is going to cut his own hand off, you just gotta sit up and take notice, haven’t you?

  Dead Famous 31

  ‘I should have killed that Chimola punk when I had a chance, blasted his ugly face all over the goddamn floor,’ spittle flecked out of Sly Barrington’s mouth. He flung his big hands around violently, emphasizing the point, like he was wringing vengeance out of Myron Chimola’s freshly murdered corpse.

  ‘You can’t prove he had a hand in this,’ snapped Roxy Barrington, sitting forwards in her seat, as the limousine powered away from the carnage at the Forest Lawns Ceremony.

  Inez said nothing. She peered into traffic, her Glock hanging ready, incase of pursuit. Until they were back in the safety of the Barrington compound, anything could happen, the shots at the cemetery could have been a diversionary tactic, designed to force an error, break down CCP’s well-planned defensive structure in preparation for a secondary strike. Riding the freeway in the escape car, they were vulnerable. Inez coiled ready, figuring the angles. They would come fast, on motorbikes, ride alongside in the heavy traffic, and hose down the escape car with close range gunfire. Perhaps they would tack a limpet mine to the roof and drive off at high speed, while a shrapnel filled compression blast, and white-hot flames engulfed everything in their wake. The LA traffic moved slow. Inez felt her heart pound faster, wishing to hell she was somewhere, anywhere else—knowing that sometimes when you are backed into a tight spot, events take precedence over preparedness.

  Al Weinman looked pale, crammed in tight on the bench seat, between Roxy Barrington and the outside pillar. Inez figured he knew that he would be the first to die if they got ambushed on the road. She watched him finger the collar of his shirt, twisting in his seat to alleviate the cramped conditions, not managing to find the right spot to settle.

  Weinman said, ‘We have got to think big picture Sly, we ’ve come too far to let petty rivalry with the Southside crew taint the deal of a life time.’

  Sly Barrington said, ‘You talking money at a time like thi
s? You mouthpiece prick, you think money means a damn thing, when that ghetto-assed Southside punk Chimola is disrespecting me? Where do you think my reputation will be if I let that kind of thing go unpunished?’

  ‘The Slycorp deal is worth billons. If we go to war with Chimola we will frighten the Wall Street people for sure.’

  ‘We are already at war fool—did you see nothing today?’

  ‘I say we go heavy down to Long Beach make the motherfucker hurt,’ Interjected Kid Dolla.

  ‘No one is hurting anyone on my watch,’ snapped Joe from up front.

  Kid Dolla said, ‘You are the fucking help brother, why don’t you shut the fuck up, till you got the juice to play with the big-league.’

  Joe eased around in the front seat, His giant bench press arm folding over the seat back, ‘You got some lip on you sonny, kind of mouth I might take issue with, I wasn’t so sweet natured.’

  Kid Dolla scrunched his face, ‘You don’t scare me none tough guy, I hit up bigger men than you, watched them squirm like bitches in the street.’

  Joe cracked a smile, his dark eyes eating into the kid. ‘Next ramp, he barked at the driver.’ The escape car swerved through traffic to a chorus of blaring horns, cutting down onto the surface streets, with building speed.

  The Kid melted backwards in to his seat, like he was going to dribble down into the carpet. Figuring maybe, just maybe, the big Ox up front was going to run the car off the freeway into a bad neighborhood. Who knew what could happen there?

  Roxy Barrington said, ‘How many more deaths daddy until this thing is over.’

  Sly Barrington stared ahead. ‘Shut it down child, I got words to say to you, later…’ the tone was cruel and menacing, like a backhand slap to the face.

  Roxy Barrington stared daggers, said, ‘Maybe there won’t be a later, maybe you will get shot in the street, die like you always wanted.’

  Sly Barrington said, ‘There’s no one got the juice to pull that baby, so don’t worry your pretty little self. I am going to live forever, probably outlast you at any rate, with the street-junkie antics you been pulling recently. A million dollars in rehab visits and you still can’t get your sorry-assed life together, what you playing at girl?’

  Roxy Barrington shot her father a look of hate, said nothing.

  ‘Uh-huh, as I figured, ’ sneered Barrington. ‘When it comes down to the hard truth you ain’t got a damn thing to say. You’re just like your damn mother, playing your ass around town like nothing else matters. Meanwhile, in the real world, I am running myself a motherfucking Empire, what you say to that party girl?’

  ‘Enjoy it while you can.’

  ‘What the hell you mean by that you smart mouthed little whore?’ Sly Barrington raised his hand, like he was going to strike out, then paused, let the hand sink back down to his lap, where it remained, twitching with agitation.

  Roxy Barrington shrank away from her father, her eyes burning with cold-blooded hate.

  Sly Barrington said, ‘You had your chance to get involved Roxy, but you figured you were too good for the business world didn’t you? Running around with your trust fund friends, like money didn’t matter a damn. Where the hell did that get you? They’re laughing at you honey, those so-called friends of yours, selling their stories to People magazine, like you are some kind of sideshow freak. Well I got news for you, there are changes ahead, big changes. We are bringing the IPO deal forward. Slycorp will go public before the end of the week. You got until then to decide whose side you are on Roxy—either clean up your act, or figure out who is going to pay off your bullshit expenses, because it sure as hell isn’t going to be me.’

  As the escape car arrived at the Barrington residence, on North Carolwood Drive, the Press were waiting: a jostling horde, shouting and whooping, banging on the sides of the car, doing anything they could think of to try and attract attention, so they could catch a big-bucks picture of the worlds most sought after family. As they slowed for the gates, a white-light barrage of camera flash hammered into the car. Inez turned away from the dazzle, wondering how it must be to live like this the whole time, trapped under the cold intrusive glare of the paparazzi lens—every minute of your world subject to cold, judgmental analysis. Surely freedom was more valuable than either money or fame; if this was the terrible cost, a person could be driven to the very edge of madness—or beyond by this kind of harassment. Inez shuddered. If Barrington was bringing the IPO deal forward, she would be rid of him and the zoo that surrounded him even sooner than she had hoped.

  Dead Famous 32

  No way they could stay at old man Barrington’s place. After the funeral shooting, the girl refused point blank. The girl wanted him to take her back to the hotel, but another night at the Hotel was more than Joe could bear, another night on an antique hotel couch with his high priced charge plotting an escape—to hell with that. After the sniper attack, the game had changed big time, public places were no longer safe.

  He decided he would take the girl South, to Marina Del Rey where he berthed his motor yacht the Naja. The endless waters of the Pacific were his territory. No way the graveyard shooter would be able to find them then. Maybe they would cruise down to Baja and back, By that time the Slycorp deal would be old news. The fury of the media would have subsided, and perhaps even sly Barrington himself would see things differently, regarding the future of his errant daughter.

  ‘Your old man is a real piece of work,’ said Joe as they pulled onto North Carolwood at Sunset, their departure micro-timed, so that the setting sun would dazzle the press hounds still congregating at the compound gates.

  Roxy Barrington looked at Joe, said. ‘I got to thank you for backing me up earlier, but don’t think we are ever going to be friends.’

  Joe gave a derisive snort, like he cared a damn anyway. He turned the car south, heading down the winding hill towards Sunset Boulevard. ‘Friends? I guess not, that is something you got to work for princess.’

  Roxy Barrington turned, ‘I don’t know how much my father is paying you, but I will pay you more…’

  Joe turned, smiled. ‘You are a real sweetheart for offering kid, but I got my loyalties to consider’

  ‘I will give you a million dollars if you let me go…Joe, you could do a lot with a million dollars couldn’t you?’

  ‘Tempting, real tempting, but anything happens to your pretty little self while you are supposed to be under my supervision, I don’t think a million will be enough to pay off the lawyers.’

  ‘How much then?’

  ‘End of the week when your Pops has sold out to the Wall Street boys, we say our goodbyes. Until then, we make nice, pretend like we got shared interests. Maybe head down the boardwalk, get ourselves a couple of sticks of cotton candy.’

  Roxy Barrington gave Joe a tight look, said, ‘You are a man of principle obviously, I would like to say I can respect that. But my father and his precious company have ruined more lives than you will ever know Joe, and you are their whore, how does that make you feel?’

  ‘Lives get ruined everyday Princess, get used to it.’

  ‘Meanwhile, you hold me prisoner, so that my precious father can make billions. When he has joined the establishment, like he so desperately wants. Nothing will be able to stop him.’

  ‘You are a regular little fire-cat princess, trouble is you are your own worst enemy, all your bullshit antics, you think anyone gives a damn?’

  Roxy Barrington looked sullen. ‘Try growing up in a bubble—do you have any idea how that feels? Every single thing you do, everywhere you go, everything you say—reported in the media? Even if you it doesn’t happen, they will say it did, any kind of lie you can think of, just to turn a buck. How can you fight back against that—a giant wall of lies surrounding you on every side? I am no angel Joe Russell, I grant you that, but I am not a devil either, all I want is justice and to be left alone to live my life—you can understand that can’t you?’

  ‘I can understand it, sure I can. So why are yo
u killing yourself with drugs?’

  The girl smiled.

  ‘Do I look like I am dying Joe?’

  ‘You look thin, like you could use a good home cooked meal.’

  ‘Last time I had one of those I was eight years old.’

  Joe shot the girl a hard, incredulous look, said, ‘Eight. You are kidding me. You expect I am going to believe that sob story crap?’

  ‘What can I tell you, my father likes restaurants.’

  ‘What about your mom, she must have had a say?’

  ‘My mother was murdered Joe, back when I was very young.’

  Joe swallowed down the news with difficulty. It took him a long while to respond, when he did, his voice was quiet, ‘Hell, I’m sorry to hear that Roxy—no one told me.’

  ‘It’s OK, it was so long ago now it hardly seems real.’ The girl fidgeted, picking at her nails like an uncomfortable truth was flying in through the years to haunt her.

  ‘They find the person who did it?’

  Roxy Barrington smiled sadly, her black spider eyelashes fluttering, as she turned to Joe, ‘No, they never found the killer. My mother was a stripper, a hooker and a drug addict. Some creep shot her dead in a liquor store parking lot in North Hollywood. The cops said it was a drug deal gone wrong. They never found who did it. But they didn’t exactly pull out the stops.’

  ‘I understand why that kind of thing would make a person bitter,’ said Joe.