by Ian Bull
“You were supposed to go to the Oscars with Rikki this Sunday,” Paul says.
“And instead I’m going to talk with the LAPD,” I reply.
“That’s why I’m here. I’ve arranged everything. Detective Menodoza has agreed to take your statement at the agency tomorrow morning at eight a.m. Special Agent Taylor from the FBI will be there as well. Dorothy will have a breakfast buffet ready. You’ll sit between Saul Berlin and me, and David will sit at the head of the table.”
David Griffin founded the Griffin Agency, and is one of the most powerful agents in Hollywood. He could charm an army into surrendering. Saul Berlin is head counsel and a cross between Gandhi and Tony Soprano. He makes you feel at peace while twisting your arm.
“But I don’t want to involve the agency right now,” I say.
Paul puts his hands up as if to stop me. “It’s fine, Julia. No one wants a media circus,” he explains, in a kind but patronizing tone. “Saul will help you answer their questions, Mendoza will take your statement to the District Attorney, and then I’ll sneak you into a quiet police station for fingerprinting and your photo.” He says the last line like we’re just dashing into the dry cleaner to pick up a dress.
“You mean mugshot. I’m being arrested, right?”
“Technically, yes, but on the down low. Less drama.”
“Less drama is good,” Trishelle says, trying to be helpful.
“Drama is coming, though,” Paul warns. “The DA will probably press assault and battery charges and set an arraignment for next week. Le Clerq will make sure that’s a media event, which is why you must move to Step Two as soon as possible.”
“What’s Step Two?” I ask.
“We invite Le Clerq and his lawyer to the agency, where David and Saul will help you negotiate an agreement and settle out of court. Then, Le Clerq will drop the charges. We should do that soon, within forty-eight hours.”
“How expensive a problem is he?”
“It’s hard to say,” Paul says, shrugging.
“Give me a ballpark number.”
“Three hundred thousand if you settle now. Unless he’s truly disabled. Then it’ll be a lot more. And the longer we wait to settle, the bigger the chance the news will get out.”
Major Glenn Ward emerges from the hallway and raises his finger. “If money solves the problem, and you have money, then you don’t have a problem.”
“That’s profound, Rain Man, thank you for that.”
“Paul, stop it,” I say.
“Le Clerq is a distraction, and so is the LAPD,” Glenn says. “It’s the FBI you should be worried about. That’s the question and answer session you should really prepare for.”
“What’s he talking about?” Paul says.
“Something you’re not qualified to handle, Slick,” Glenn says.
Paul rises to his feet. “Then prepare me, Urkel. Explain who the fuck you are.”
Trishelle leans over and whispers, “We have a dick swinging contest.”
My legs lose their feeling as I hyperventilate. My brain fills with white noise.
“Don’t panic,” Trishelle whispers, touching my arm. “You can do this.”
I remember Rikki’s letter: We all have shit in our lives, Julia. Deal with it. Her voice brings me back and my eyes focus. “I have a different plan for tomorrow.”
Paul scowls. “Julia, think of what’s important.”
I try to speak. “There’s something you should know—”
Glenn sticks his hand up and interrupts me. “Bad idea, Julia. Don’t tell him.”
I rise off the couch and poke them both in the chest. “I have a lot more ideas you alpha males will think are bad, so you better sit down and listen up!”
Their heads jerk back and they freeze, until Trishelle gestures for them to sit. I wait for them to settle into the cushions before looking at Paul. “Steven Quintana is still alive.”
He tilts his head like a puppy hearing a strange noise. “He wasn’t killed Saturday?”
“No, and they were trying to kill Steven, not Rikki, because of a conspiracy he uncovered. That’s why the FBI wants to talk to me. Glenn, tell him what you found on Steven’s computer.”
Glenn pouts, but cooperates. He pulls Steven’s computer from his backpack and places it on the coffee table. “He’s been tracking an international Internet broadcast in which people will fight each other to the death and viewers will bet on it. The investors figured out Steven was tracking them, and they tried to kill him. Rikki was just in the way.”
I look at my hotshot agent. “This is a lot more serious than an assault and battery. Helping me could wreck your career. You still want to help?” I ask.
Paul runs his hands through his hair and exhales hard. “What do you need?”
“Call Detective Mendoza and Agent Taylor and suggest the North Hollywood Police Station for tomorrow,” I say. “That’s a quiet place to give a statement and get a mugshot.”
“You want to do this without any counsel present?” Paul asks.
“You’re a lawyer, aren’t you?”
“I passed the Bar, but never practiced. My dad is still pissed that I became an agent.”
“You’ll be fine. We’ll bring them breakfast,” I say, then look at Glenn. “And I will also bring them Steven’s computer.”
“But I’m not done with it,” Glenn says.
“And they won’t take it until they get a search warrant, which will take at least a day. I know that from when I played an FBI agent in a biopic on Martha Stewart. By offering it, I will be cooperating, and it will buy more time for Paul’s next task.”
“Which is?” he asks, looking worried. I almost pull out his cute pocket square and mop his sweaty forehead.
“Whoever is producing this trash must be in the business, probably in reality TV. There are only a few dozen people with enough experience to pull this off. That means someone somewhere in town knows about it. I want you to come up with a short list of names.”
Paul rubs his hands together. “I’ll talk to Mike Kopplin in non-scripted. He knows every player at every production company and the shows they’ve done.”
“Check the studios and networks, too,” I say. “Enough executives lose their jobs that someone may have jumped to the dark side.”
“You got it,” Paul says.
I turn back to Major Ward. “I want you to find Le Clerq and tail him. I didn’t kick him hard enough to cripple him. A paparazzo can make a lot of money during Oscar week, and if he’s not really injured, he’ll be working. Buy yourself a camera and I’ll pay you for it. Photos of him in action will shoot holes in his claim. Then I won’t have to settle.”
“Got it.”
Five minutes ago, both men were ready to strangle each other. Now they’re leaning in, their elbows on their knees, hanging on my words. It feels strange, but I like it.
“Help Steven and make Le Clerq go away. Those are our jobs, and we don’t have much time, so let’s get ’er done.” I say, and stand up. I shake hands with each of them, then step back so they must shake hands with each other. They exhale, their dicks back in their pants.
Paul shakes his head, smiling. “I had no idea that you have the gene.”
“The gene for what?”
“Producing. You were amazing just then.”
“Thanks,” I say. I also want to scream that I’m stressed to the gills and all I really want is to get Steven back. But a good producer also keeps her stress hidden, so I hold my tongue.
“I’ll show you men out. Julia needs sleep. It’s a big day tomorrow,” Trishelle says, as she walks them to the door.
Thank God my only friend in the world is with me right now.
Chapter 18
* * *
Steven Quintana
Day 6: Thursday Night
Chinatown, San Francisco
After his set, Walter puts on his jacket and we exit onto California Street. A cold wet fog envelopes us, so thick we can barely see
the lights on the downtown skyscrapers. “We better hurry. Uncle Han watches Kimmel and then hits the sack, and it’s never good to wake him up.”
We walk down steep California Street, make a left on Stockton past the swanky Ritz Carlton Hotel, and take the stairs down into the Stockton Street Tunnel and into Chinatown. A maze of Muni, telephone, and electrical wires run above our heads.
“No matter how much Google and Twitter money flows into San Francisco and jacks up rents, Chinatown is still a ghetto,” Walter complains, shaking his head. “Look around. All these apartment buildings hold six times as many people as housing one block away. And it’s prime real estate in the middle of the city. Airbnb is the only real threat to this low-cost housing.”
Laundry hangs up high on lines stretched between buildings, and pots of herbs and red geraniums grow on dozens of windowsills, a little bit of green in the crowded city.
We walk two blocks to the corner of Stockton and Clay Street, to the Hong Chow Benevolent Association Building. Walter pulls keys from his pocket and unlocks the glass doors, then locks them again once we’re inside. The florescent lights make the parquet floor and stucco walls look green. Next to the elevator at the end of the hall is a curled yellow piece of paper taped to the wall with words written in Sharpie: Kong Chow Temple - Top Floor. Walter finds an elevator key on his keyring and turns it in the lock. The door opens and we step inside.
“Will your Uncle Han remember me?” I ask.
“Of course. You got drunk and threw up at the Red Egg baby celebration for my cousin.”
“That was almost twenty years ago. He’s still going to hold a grudge for that?”
“He thinks you’re bad luck.”
The door opens. Wooden statues of Chinese heroes and potted plants line the hallway. Only one light is on as we creep forward. A voice shouts in Cantonese, and Walter answers.
A small but fit Chinese man in his sixties, in black pajama pants, black slippers, and a white, ribbed t-shirt sticks his head through a beaded curtain. Uncle Han sees me, narrows his eyes in recognition and glares, then shouts at Walter, who continues to plead my case. Uncle Han is ripping him a new one, but Walter must be making progress, because Uncle Han disappears and returns wearing a black button-down shirt.
He pulls me through the beaded curtain and points at a wooden box with a slot.
“Make an offering,” Uncle Han says.
“What kind of offering does he want?” I ask Walter.
“Cash,” Walter says. “You’re going to get your fortune told, and based on the results, Uncle Han will let you know whether he can help you get to Hong Kong or not.”
I look at Walter, and then at Uncle Han, who points hard at the wooden box again, his jaw clenched. This feels like a shakedown for vomiting at his daughter’s party two decades ago, but I pull out one hundred bucks cash and toss it into the box. I can see through the slot that the box is full of bills, probably from a few days’ worth of offerings. Uncle Han grabs a rolled-up paper baton with Chinese writing on it and pokes me in the chest.
“Now look to Guan Gong and learn.” He points for me to enter the main room.
Against the back wall, on a high dais, is a wooden statue of a broad-chested warrior with a red, glaring face, holding a halberd in his right hand. In front of his main stage are two rows of high tables covered with bowls of fruit, vases of flowers, and massive metal urns filled with sand and burnt sticks of incense.
“What is this place?” I ask.
Uncle Han understands my question, yet answers in Cantonese, which Walter translates.
“This is the temple to Guan Gong. He was a Chinese general who lived over 2,000 years ago. He was a brilliant strategist. He was loyal and honest, and sought peace before conflict. He stood by his word, and for that, he was put to death. He is the patron saint to travelers, poets, warriors, and police officers—anyone who lives by their own code, on the edges of normal society.”
“Walter, you pray to this guy?”
“I’m a cop and I’m Chinese, so I cover my bases,” Walter says. “If you’re in the military or law enforcement, you stay cool with Lord Guan. And you’re asking Chinese cops to help you, so Uncle Han wants to make sure you’re cool with Lord Guan.”
“Do you believe this stuff?” I ask Uncle Han. The old man smiles and Walter hits me.
“Of course he does! He’s the temple priest, you jackass. Show some respect.”
“What kind of priest?” I never thought of Uncle Han as special.
“Taoist first. Buddhist second. Guan Gong ass-kicker third. So watch your mouth.”
Uncle Han motions for me to open my paper baton. Inside are two dozen sticks of incense and a red candle on a stick. Han speaks in Cantonese to Walter, who translates. “Light your main candle before Lord Guan, then light the incense and place it in the different urns around the room. And think about your questions.”
I move between the high tables, stepping between pillows on the floor. I light my candle off one already burning and stick it in the urn, then gaze up at Guan Gong’s angry red face.
“If he’s so wise, why does he look so mean?” I ask.
“In China, a red face means integrity and loyalty, not anger,” Walter says. “Don’t misjudge. Hurry up and light your incense, and ask your questions to Lord Guan, to Buddha, to God, or to whoever you want. He’s missing Kimmel because of you.”
I wander around the room, lighting incense sticks and placing them in different urns. I think of Julia and ask why I am so obsessed with what happened to us, and why I can’t just walk away like she can. I ask why I’m so angry. I ask if I can do something worthwhile again.
I step out on the balcony. Across the street, I can see into an apartment where four kids crowd around a TV glowing with blue light. In the distance are the white Transamerica Pyramid and the twinkling lights of ships on the bay. I grew up here knowing every street and every alley, yet I haven’t lived here in fifteen years—not since I joined the Army after 9/11. Where do I belong? Here? In Malibu with Julia? Anywhere?
I go back in. Han hands me a bamboo container with a hundred thin bamboo sticks inside, each with a number on it.
“Kneel and ask your questions to Lord Guan and shake the holder,” Walter says. “Whatever stick falls on the floor first is Lord Guan’s answer.”
The red-faced wooden warrior glares down at me. It feels silly to kneel and pray, but no sillier than kneeling before Jesus on the cross. I get on my knees and ask Guan Gong to help me get to Hong Kong so I can find and stop the people responsible for kidnapping Julia and killing Rikki. I close my eyes shake the bamboo container. One long stick emerges and falls out on the floor. I hand it to Han, who peers at it with suspicion, then goes to a set of wooden drawers and pulls out a book with tiny Chinese writing.
This now feels like a con job. I paid a hundred bucks, and now Han is probably consulting a Cantonese phonebook.
“Lord Guan is honest, which sometimes hurts,” Uncle Han says in perfect English. “Are you sure you want to hear it?”
“I am sure,” I answer. I also want to ask why he speaks Cantonese sometimes, Pidgin English other times, and perfect English when he chooses.
“You’re honest and brave, but you’re searching for what to do with your life. When you encounter people who are in control of their lives, you feel inferior,” he says, staring hard at me. “There’s a woman, successful and strong. Yet you’re not brave enough to fix yourself to be with her. She loves you, but she knows you’re broken and has given up on you.”
I look at Walter.
He shrugs. “Sorry, dude. Like I said, this mojo is real.”
Or Walter could have told him my and Julia’s story. Han keeps going. “You have amazing talents. You notice and remember details that no one else sees, which makes you a very valuable scout. You see a situation and instantly understand it. Being a general, Guan Gong admires these skills very much.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“But y
ou are injured. Not just your body, but your brain. I am not talking about your mind, or your soul. I am talking about your actual brain. Do you understand?”
An electrical shiver runs up my spine. My skin goes clammy. “Maybe a little.”
“You only feel alive when you are taking a risk. That’s because your brain got hit hard and moved inside your skull, more than once. You take chances now and put yourself in danger so you can feel alive and connected. But that puts other people in danger. But that’s not really you. That’s your brain not working right. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I say, but offer nothing more. I could admit my PTSD and Traumatic Brain Injury diagnosis. When I was a Ranger, enough shit blew up next to my head that I got whacked harder than an NFL lineman playing without a helmet. It’s one of the reasons I see a shrink at the VA.
Walter stares at me stone-faced, but I know what happened. Julia gossiped about me and my PTSD and TBI diagnosis to Carl, to Major Glenn, to my brother Anthony, and to anyone who would listen. Walter is my oldest childhood friend, and he and Anthony are still close. Anthony probably told Walter to be on the lookout for me to show up. Walter phoned his Uncle Han after his set at the Tonga room and prepped him about me before we even walked down here. Walter and Uncle Han are doing a Chinese version of a fake gypsy reading, but it’s too spot-on, like Julia read them my doctor’s report over the phone.
Then again, maybe that’s what makes Uncle Han a good priest. He hands out the right amount of advice and truth mixed with mumbo jumbo, and the temple gets my hundred bucks.
“Lord Guan says we cannot help you go to Hong Kong,” he says. “It’s too dangerous for you and for anyone who works with you. Instead, you should work on healing your brain.”
I almost argue, but that would just confirm his assessment of me. “Thank you, Uncle Han.” I bow to Guan Gong to be polite, then look at Walter. “I’m going back to the hotel to crash. I need to sleep if we’re going to go fishing in six hours.”
