by Tony Bulmer
I flashed the camera a smile.
A pause—A long pause.
Then the door swung open slowly. It was easy to see why. The door was a hydraulic blast door, a foot thick at least, complete with a steel-pinioned locking system like you see on bank vaults. As the door swung wider, the music got louder. The interior corridor was blood red, the floor an intense, polished black. Along the walls in dark frames, hung records, hundreds of them, shining gold and platinum. So this was the dark beating heart of Anyang entertainment… As I marveled at the trophies of a gangster rap empire, a dark figure loomed in front of me. The guy was big like an untamed grizzly. He was wearing a black on black polo shirt and garish Bermuda shorts with white socks pulled taught to the knee, on his feet he wore plastic pool sandals emblazoned with Nike swooshes. Not exactly the most stylish cat in the history of pop, but what the hell do I know? These days dork is the new hip.
‘This way,’ muttered the grizzly, his eye contact was weak and submissive, like his bad day had just gotten worse with my arrival. He led me onwards into a dark maze of corridors. We passed many doors and interior windows that revealed recording equipment, millions of dollars of recording equipment. The place was more than a dark cavern, it was a music makers dream come true.
Finally, the grizzly led me through a maple door and there he was, sitting at a giant multi-track mixing desk, Myron Chimola. He had the kind of face that was unforgettable, half of it ploughed over with horrendous disfiguring scars, the other half buried beneath a black scrawl of swirling gangland script. Chimola was young—I guessed early thirties—but it was hard to tell with his mangled face. He was fit though, his arms, taught and sinuous, like a boxer. He wore a yellow Lakers vest, that was five sizes too big for him and oversized gangster pants that hung wide and low.
Chimola swiveled his giant black directors chair to face me and said, ‘Danny Costello, I hear you are working for that sell-out motherfucker Sly Barrington, what brings you down to Long Beach?’
I smiled, said, ‘Myron right?’
‘Most people call me Chubby.’
‘You ain’t Chubby though.’
‘I was when I was a kid, the name stuck, what do you do? So, Danny Costello—babysitter to the stars, what brings you down the hood, you lost or something brother?’
‘I am looking for Shaqi-J, thought you might know where he was?’
‘Not on this record label homes, you want to speak to Shaqui then Sly Barrington is your man. Since he got in with Barrington, brother Shaqui never looked back, he done worked his way up in to a whole new echelon of company, that never comes south of Venice Boulevard, you believe a guy like that?’
‘How about you Chubby, you ever take it up to the Westside?’
‘Time to time I do. Keeping in touch with my people. Ain’t no crime in that Costello.’
‘Depends on which end of the sniper scope you are on.’
Myron Chimola threw me implacable stare, then broke a wide tombstone and gold smile. He pointed a finger that hung heavy with a large knuckle-duster ring and said, ‘I like that, that’s funny. You asking me if I took a pop at the big man, well I don’t blame you for asking—it being your job and all, but there are a couple of things you need to know Costello. First, I did five years in the United States Marine Corps. If I had taken a shot at that puss-ball Barrington I would have blown his head open like a motherfucking pumpkin. Second, if I am going to kill a motherfucker I like to work it close-quarters. I like to see the pain and the fear in a motherfucker’s eyes, otherwise there ain’t no point killing them.’
I gave him a deadpan look, said nothing.
‘So, here you are Costello, running into my hood, like a motherfucking girl scout, to ask if me and my homeboy Shaqui-J are involved in popping that prick Barrington—you expecting me to be pleased about that?’
‘You are going to be less pleased when the cops get here, this business is twitching noses at the highest level. I am guessing it is only a matter of time before they pay you a visit.’
‘Well thanks for the heads up Costello, but those freaks come visit so often I am thinking of charging them rent. As for Barrington you figured we got history huh?’
‘I know you got history, you want to tell me about it?’
Chimola turned his scarred face towards me, ‘How do you think I got to look so handsome Costello?’
The ugly striations on Myron Chimola’s face made him look like he had been mauled by a savage beast, it was a look that repelled and fascinated. The scrawl of gangland script on the intact side of his face served only to enhance the horror of his countenance.
‘That is quite a look you got going Myron.’
‘Look you say? Took me a long while to deal with that look, let me tell you Costello, and Sly motherfucking Barrington is the man responsible. So, you ask me about history, that is the kind shit we are talking about.’
I furrowed my brow, ‘That kind of history must make a guy sore,’
Myron Chimola sneered, his eyes burning with a crazy, derisive look that held a legion of shallow buried secrets most regular folks would shrink from. ‘I don’t know what you heard about me Costello, most of it was probably true—but I have come a long way since me and Sly were banging the hood together. Me and Sly—we were like brothers, but that motherfucker took things away from me that ain’t never coming back. That’s just the way the world is. Case you haven’t noticed I am running a multi-million dollar game here Costello, I got more green than I can use. Sly Barrington is so far in the past for me, he ain’t even worth worrying about. Every once in a while we bash heads like the other night at Club Zoo, but that ain’t no big deal—I got the chance I would pop him too, ain’t nothing going to change about that it’s just who I am.’
I noticed Chimola’s southpaw hand had disappeared out of sight over the other side of his chair. I nodded thoughtfully, not believing a damn word I was hearing.
‘What the hell did Barrington do to your face?’
‘He did me the kind of favor money can’t buy, blasted me some street-cred with a double-aught gauge. Hit me while I was sitting in the car with my girl. Lucky for me that motherfucker never was much of a shot. He hit the car door just beneath the window the blast took half my face off.
I frowned, ‘What happened to the girl?’
‘Six-feet under. I got me a new one.’
‘Most people would have a problem with that.’
‘What, you think I am going to do? Sit around crying like a bitch, because some motherfucker shot me in the face? Trust me Costello, Barrington was more cut up about that day than I fucking was.’
The world was starting to spin. The putrid revelations from Myron Chimola were almost too much to bear, ‘Who was the girl,’ I asked gruffly.
Myron Chimola laughed out loud, a delighted look spreading wide across his ugly face, ‘You mean you don’t know? You are working for Sly Barrington and you don’t know? Chimola turned, looked at the Grizzly who was looming up behind me, He snickered high-pitched and girlish, laughing along with his boss.
‘You believe this guy,’ asked Chimola, ‘Working for the big man Barrington, and he doesn’t know who shot his precious fucking baby momma.’ Chimola’s tombstone teeth beamed wide with pleasure, as the horrible understanding hit home. Sly Barrington had shot his daughter’s mother.
Dead Famous 39
As I split out of Anyang’s offices, I realized that I had been crazy to think Myron Chimola would be of any use. The guy was sleazy and Machiavellian. His story about Barrington shooting Roxy’s mother was designed to divide and conquer. Even if it was true, it offered no insights as to the whereabouts of Shaqui-J, or the attack on the Saquina Johnson funeral.
Out front of Anyang, the south bay night had drawn in around us. The old man in the chair was now huffing on a liquor store stogie. He let out a guttural cackle when he saw me, and shouted, ‘Here he is, walking out the front door—cats-a-flyin’—Ol’ Chubby must love you sonny, people who visits us
ually come out the back way, all dressed in a rubber overcoat,’ again the guttural cackle, and a wide yellow smile. I could smell the booze and body odor from five yards out. I flipped the old timer a salute.
The crowd of gangbangers out front of Anyang had multiplied exponentially since my arrival. They gathered around the Dodge, admiring it with disbelieving looks, like cavemen who had discovered a flying saucer. The crowd loafed and goofed and sucked reefer, scrutinizing my approach with predatory eyes. The shaven headed youths in wife-beater singlets had been joined by a larger contingent of inked up compatriots. A grumbling chorus of disapproval met my appearance. One kid spat on the pavement, then another. Charming.
The thing about gang members is they are highly territorial and pathologically resistant to the influence of outsiders, they view all strangers as victims, or enemies. The culture of the gang is a primal and highly simplistic world of intractable rules and knuckle dragging allegiance to the clan ethic. The only way to deal with a gang encounter is to follow the precepts of the Tao, let bad energy flow around you like the boiling waters of a stream. The other way to handle such a situation is to deal with the encounter on an empathetic level. Gangs, like packs of wild animals can scent weakness; but I had nothing to fear, the herd were simply marking their territory, like feral dogs. Now they were sniffing me out, to see if I was a threat. As I walked amongst the crowd, the gangbangers made derisive comments, a couple of the top dogs showed off guns, hanging out of their waistbands like 9mm status symbols. Guns don’t frighten me. If you are packing heat, you got a reason, and that reason is usually fear or weakness.
As I reached for the door of my truck, I realized that the old man had risen out of his chair and moved through the crowd behind me.
‘I got to thank you for the fifty sonny, but you ever come down the Beach again it’s going to cost you a lot more, you dig?’
The crazy eyes were up close now, the stench of booze and body odor almost overwhelming.
I raised an eyebrow; let the comment flow past, and bubble off into the neon lit distance. ‘You stay out of my way pops, I will stay out of yours,’
The old man broke a yellow smile, his eyes glinting in the streetlight, ‘I hear you talking sonny, but I don’ hear you listening.’ A crowd of ugly faces strained closer awaiting a response.
I gave him a narrow look, said nothing.
He looked right back at me.
His face looked familiar, his mannerisms too. The connections hit home—a family resemblance. Now it was my turn to smile. ‘Just working the family business, huh, pops?’
The old man’s eyes widened with triumph, like he had made his point.
The Beach don’ like you sonny, don’ like your west side friends neither. You got sense, you will keep it out of the hood and the hood will keep it out of you.’
I nodded, flipped him an easy salute, ‘See you around pops—just keep the boy out of trouble, you hear?’
The old man laughed loud, like he had done before but now the laughter echoed, dark and portentous. No telling the scenes of horror such laughter had accompanied.
I climbed into the Dodge and fired it up. The throaty V8 grumbled into life, and I fired some revs, reversing out slow across the forecourt, through the gathering crowd and into the street beyond. Slipping the truck into gear, I realized that my mouth was dry—real dry. I gulped the dregs of an iced tea I had sitting in the drivers side cup holder—it tasted warm and bitter, I swallowed it down anyway, but the aftertaste lingered, warm and unpleasant. I flipped the radio to my favorite album rock station. The sound of the seventies flooded the cab, as I powered down the boulevard for the freeway.
Dead Famous 40
Sitting in the passenger seat of her Mercedes, Roxy Barrington allowed the movement of her legs to raise the hem of her skirt to the point of no return.
‘Time to go sailing,’ said Joe gruffly.
Roxy ran her fingers over her taught leg, by way of emphasis, her pumped muscles flexing, reflecting the moonlight as she moved closer to Joe, and ran her fingers across his chest.
Joe felt every neuron in his body go into overload, the girl smelt expensive, the innocent aroma of cinnamon and lilies, with toasty top notes of lust and tobacco burning out of her every pore. Joe said, ‘I ain’t going to fuck you princess, just so as you know.’
‘How quaint of you Mr. Russell. You are obviously a man of principle, so I suppose I will have to take you at your word.’ The girl staring at him now, pouting, her dark spider web lashes blinking out a sexual semaphore.
The sound of bistro noises from across the water, mixed in with the windblown rattle of rigging from a thousand yachts, moving in unison to the flow of the tide.
Roxy Barrington said, ‘I assumed this whole scenario was an elaborate way of getting me alone, so you could take advantage of me in a sexual way, I suppose you realize that means we are in for a thoroughly dreary evening.’ The girl’s tone was nasty and ironic.
Joe didn’t like the implications. The chick was a poisonous little troublemaker, out to get a rise, no question about it. He paused. Savored the venom, allowing time for the comments to dissipate in the soft blowing breeze.
Then he said, ‘I realize you must be disappointed when you get a turn down sweetheart, I am guessing that doesn’t happen too often. But here’s the good news: we are going on a boat trip, now get out the car.’
‘A fucking boat trip, at this time of night? I thought you were joking about that shit.’
‘No joke sweetheart, who knows, you might even enjoy yourself. Give you a new interest in life, rather than trailing around every sleaze-bag joint in town, guzzling dope with your douche-bag friends.’
‘You don’t know anything about my friends you meathead, so don’t pretend you do.’
Joe smiled, said, ‘I don’t care, there is a difference.’
Roxy Barrington pouted, and tossed her hair. ‘There is no fucking way I am getting on your boat Joe Russell, so you can forget about that, you might as well just drive me back to my hotel, before I start screaming for help.’
‘Another tabloid story huh, you are a real little media whore, anyone ever tell you that Roxy? Aren’t you worried about your reputation—and what people will say?’
‘People are pigs Mr. Russell, they can say what they like, it makes no difference to me, but how nice of you to think about my reputation. You are obviously forgetting my reputation is all bad already, and there is almost nothing that can make it any worse, so tell me Mr. Russell, what do I have to lose?’
‘You ever been fishing?’ asked Joe Russell gruffly.
The girl raised her eyes to the stars, ‘If you drive me back to my hotel right now, I will call up a couple of my girlfriends—do you prefer blondes or brunettes?’
Joe stared at her, said nothing.
‘Am I getting you hard yet? Because trust me, I will hook you up with the most fabulous night of your life, we can share a hot-tub, drink champagne, let things develop organically—’
‘Sounds tempting, real tempting. But it ain’t going to happen princess, so get out of the car, because times a wasting.’
‘You got any booze on this boat of yours?’
‘You really pushing the boundaries tonight huh,’ said Joe. He walked round to the passenger side, popped the door and held out his hand.’
The girl gave Joe a contemptuous look. ‘Do you always do everything that Danny Costello tells you to? Are you his little bitch, or something?’
‘Owch! That’s real hurtful talk there hot-stuff. Do you get all cranky when you are sober? If so, you got more problems than I thought.’
Roxy Barrington pulled a face, sat in the car not moving. She snapped down the sun-visor vanity mirror and stared at her perfect features. She examined her face up close, tut-tutting, as Joe stood, holding the door wide. She unzipped her purse, rummaging briefly before pulling out a lipstick. She applied the glistening balm, with slow deliberate strokes.
‘Real cute,’ said Joe
, ‘But you won’t have to worry about that where we are going, so get out the car now, before I haul you over my shoulder, and carry you aboard.’
‘The girl threw him a sullen look.’ Joe reached down, grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her to her feet, with one deft stroke. The girl wriggled and complained, then suddenly thrust her body lustily against him.
‘You like to play rough?’ she asked huskily. You want to fuck me here against the side of the car where everyone can see. Would that turn you on?’ She thrust her crotch hard against Joe’s thigh, ‘I am not wearing underwear you know that don’t you? I have seen you ogling my body, I know you want me, so why hold back?’
‘The girl real close now, folding her long arms around his neck; the spider web lashes flickering; her wide, dark, lustful eyes consuming him. Joe eased his grip on her wrist, as she closed up against him, her perfume enveloping, as her fresh painted lips closed on his.
Joe clinched her around the waist, took her kiss full on the lips, felt her tongue in his mouth. Her kiss was hot, sweet and addictive. She wrapped tighter, drawing him in, laying back, against the side of the Mercedes. Joe followed her lead. The world abandoned to chaos, all sense of restraint gone, as every lustful neuron in his body flipped into overdrive.
Dead Famous 41
Sly Barrington sat in his walnut paneled office, overlooking the terrace. Santos had told him to close the blinds, but fuck that. Why have a billion dollar view, if you are going to close it out behind plantation shutters? Barrington liked his city view, if you turned the dimmers just right, you could drink it in all night—the lights of Los Angeles, spreading wide to the Pacific. A hundred-million people in the city below, every one of them working, saving, wishing they were here on top of the hill, looking down on the world, why would you hide that—why would you close that out?
Barrington pressed a touch-screen remote on his desk consul, and the picture windows drifted apart, with smooth rolling compliance. The night air was soft and warm, blowing in from the distant ocean. Night—it was his favorite time of day, a time when nothing could hold back the power of the universe. Sly Barrington stood at the window and reveled in the scene, looking down on the vast jeweled city spreading wide before him—his own personal treasure chest—so close you could reach out, caress every golden detail. Barrington breathed in the scene, as it glowed and undulated before him. All of this belonged to him—all of it. He rocked back on his heels, sucked in the soothing taste of fine Cuban tobacco and pondered the forthcoming IPO deal. As he did so, a faint knock on the door of the study gave him pause. A second knock, louder this time, and Kid Dolla slunk into the room.
