After nearly an hour of olfactory deprivation, Bob’s sense of smell was keen. He sniffed the air and noticed Klaus doing the same. The metaresearcher smiled and said, “Oh yeah, you’ll be hypersensitive for a little while. Never realized the valley had this many smells, did you?”
“I’m only getting one thing right now.” Bob sniffed again and looked at Klaus. “Do you smell…livestock?”
“If by livestock you mean manure, yes.”
“Oh, that’s the basement project,” the meta-researcher sneered. “It’s more like a 4-H club than serious science, if you ask me. We don’t associate much with them.”
“What are they doing?”
“Tell you the truth, I don’t even think they know. They converted the bottom level of the underground garage into a breeding facility and brought in a load of hay and some cows.”
Bob looked at him curiously. “Cows?”
The researcher nodded and said, “Mooooo.”
Chapter Fifty-four
As Leon put on his tux—an Italian one-button notch Loro Piana—he had no way of knowing that what would happen that night at the Academy Awards would make all of Hollywood forget about the deaths of Peter Innish and Ashley Novak. And he certainly didn’t know that something would happen after that to make an even wider audience forget about both events.
What Leon did know was that his local contact had tracked Bob and Klaus to a corporate apartment complex in the west end of the San Fernando Valley. He also knew that Lauren Carneghi was picking him up in twenty minutes and that neither Hell nor high water was going to keep him from attending the Academy Awards. Besides, there was no hurry. It wasn’t as if he planned simply to knock on their doors and gun them down. He would have to spend days or even weeks on surveillance before making a move. There was too much at stake to be hasty.
He stepped into the cool California night under the dark awning in front of the pink hotel, feeling like Humphrey Bogart. A limo waited. The back window gliding down released her voice. “Hello, handsome,” she said. Leon ducked into the back seat where Lauren handed him a crystal tumbler with one cube of ice and two fingers of the whiskey he liked. She was slinky and shimmering in an elegant peach and mauve beaded gown by Ferretti, a simple pearl, gold, and coral necklace, and Christian Louboutin satin bow shoes.
“You look extraordinary,” he said.
Peering over the top of her glass with a devilish glint, she replied, “You ain’t exactly chopped liver.” As the driver pulled out to Sunset Boulevard, Lauren reached over and tweaked the angle of Leon’s bow tie. “So,” she said. “Who do you like for best picture?”
He looked unsure. “What are my choices?”
She laughed, slapping his arm playfully without spilling a drop. “Do you know what some people would pay to go to the Academy Awards?” She shook her head. “And you don’t even know the nominees of the big category. You’re a Philistine.”
“I’m kidding,” Leon said before taking a sip of the whiskey. “I know everybody keeps saying Pole Position is going to sweep, and I really like Please, Mrs. Henry, but my money’s on Drifter’s Escape. The WGA liked it and I think it would have won the Golden Globes except for all the ad money the studio poured into the trades. Plus I have the feeling that the Academy wants to make up for not nominating his last film, which I think they know was a mistake.”
Lauren leaned closer as if to examine something she’d never seen before. “Who are you? Two weeks ago you didn’t know a treatment from an outline and now you know how much the studios are spending on Oscar campaigns.”
“I’m a quick study,” Leon said. “How about you?”
“I’m a pretty quick study too. Please, Mrs. Henry is good, but I like Buckets of Rain for best picture,” she said. “It’s got the sort of scope the Academy tends to go for. Plus it did great on the festival circuit, and it won the SAG award.”
“How about Altar Ego?”
Lauren shook her head. “First of all, comedies never win best picture.”
“What about Annie Hall?”
“Okay, they rarely win. And it’s not that Altar Ego is a bad movie, but the whole twin brother, identity-switch thing is so, I dunno, so Patty Duke. Plus they released it too early in the year. I don’t think it has a chance.”
“It’s a funny story, though,” Leon said. “Great casting and deftly directed. Feel good picture of the year.”
“Listen to you.”
They spent the rest of the drive discussing their predictions for the top categories. They also talked about some of the second act problems Leon was having with his script. Lauren had some ideas Leon thought were interesting, and she said she loved what he’d come up with so far, and she swore Brad Pitt would, too. When they pulled up to the theater, Lauren leaned close to his ear and whispered, “Just think, a year or two from now? You’ll be walking that red carpet with a nomination for best original screenplay.”
And, as he looked out at the paparazzi and the velvet ropes and the bright lights, he allowed himself to believe it might be true.
Chapter Fifty-five
Over the past few weeks the buzz for Pole Position had spiked. Variety and Hollywood Reporter predicted it would take at least six of the top awards out of its eight nominations. So everyone in the auditorium was stunned each time the presenter said, “And the award goes to…” without following it with the words, “Pole Position.”
The crowd gasped louder with each loss as if every voting member in the audience thought they were the only ones who had said they were voting for it but had done otherwise in the privacy of the voting booth. It came as a complete shock to those in the business that, with the exception of Achievement in Sound Editing, Pole Position was shut out of the Academy Awards.
The surprise winner was Altar Ego, a wildly popular identity-switch-romantic-comedy featuring twin brothers, one of whom was a priest, the other a self-centered ad executive. They showed a clip from the film, the scene where the priest has just returned from Africa with an unknown illness. He was talking to his twin.
“If I knew what it was,” the priest said, “I wouldn’t need to see a doctor to find out.”
“You’d still be asking for money though, for medicine or surgery or something.”
“I’ll pay you back.”
“How? You took a vow of poverty!”
The crowd roared with laughter. In the end, ad exec loans insurance card to brother. Brother dies leaving a $400,000 hospital bill. Ad exec is forced to put on the priest outfit, after which he falls for a woman pretending to be a nun, after which he has a spiritual awakening that resonated with movie goers to the tune of $235 million in domestic box office. Altar Ego went on to win Best Film, Best Director, Best Actor and Actress, and best adapted screenplay, based on the original novel.
Most of the audience was so stunned by this turn of events that they forgot about Peter Innish and Ashley Novak. But they were reminded during the brief eulogy the producer felt obliged to include at the last minute because there hadn’t been time to re-edit the annual In Memoriam film montage. The actor who played one of the gay race car drivers in Pole Position gave the eulogy for Peter Innish. He wrapped up by saying, “He died far too soon.”
At which point Lauren leaned over to Leon and said, “Hell, he died about two weeks too late. If he’d died sooner, he might have won Best Director out of sympathy.”
Chapter Fifty-six
The A-list after-parties are held in a stretch of West Hollywood known as Oscar Alley. Several venues in close proximity. Opulent tents pitched to expand capacity for extravagance. High security, celebrity chefs, and more stars than the sky.
Leon and Lauren would attend a party held in one of these sprawling tents, 80 feet by 160, its interior dressed to convey Hollywood dreams. Tables draped with white Ultrasuede, el
aborate ice sculpture and waterfall centerpieces, and a special effects projection that transformed the ceiling into the aurora borealis with planets and stars drifting overhead so convincingly you’d think you were lost in space.
The tent was pitched by a professional crew from Hollywood EvenTents. That afternoon, as the electrical system was installed, a man from the company arrived. He had a dozen white metal containers, each the size of a hat box. He attached these with a wire to the one-inch carbon steel tent stakes, explaining to the curious security guard that they were electronic monitoring devices to let them know if any of the stakes were tampered with or were otherwise losing stability during the event. An hour later, under the big top, the same man was installing several other devices in the tent’s overhead framing when the security guard approached and said, “Hey, what’s that?”
The man climbed down from the ladder and showed him. “Automatic aerosol dispensers.” He pushed a button, sending a fine mist drifting toward the guard. “One of the sponsors wants their fragrance in the air during the event.”
The guard sniffed the air. “That’s nice. What is it?”
The man opened the container. “Something called Rapture by François.”
***
Eight hours later, Leon found himself taking it all in, conscious of maintaining nonchalance. He considered himself worldly, not easily impressed. He’d been to lavish parties in the capitals of Europe. He’d rubbed shoulders with royalty, international sports stars, and political leaders—he’d even killed a few—but none of that prepared him for Hollywood.
It wasn’t the insane crush of screaming fans and the paparazzi shouting the names of the celebrities as they made their way up the red carpet into the tent. A loud and tacky exhibition of idol worship, unexpected in its ferocity, perhaps, but without any emotional impact. What took Leon by surprise was the curious and powerful force that true movie stars emitted like radiation. The effect was weirdly intoxicating. The high difficult to resist.
The true meaning of presence and magnetism hit Leon when someone bumped him from behind and he turned to find himself face-to-face with Lauren Bacall.
Lauren Carneghi, who had stopped to air-kiss a director she was courting, missed the exchange with Ms. Bacall. But a moment later, as they ordered drinks, Leon recalled the moment for her. He said, “She looked me over as if I was something she might purchase. Then she said, ‘My, but you’re a handsome devil.’ In that voice of hers. Then she narrowed her eyes and said, ‘From now on, watch where you’re going.’”
“What did you say?”
Leon’s face went blank. “I don’t remember. I don’t know if I said anything. I was—”
“You were star-struck,” Lauren said, smirking.
“That voice,” Leon said, with a dreamy look about him. “I mean, it was her. Talking to me.”
“You’ll get over it.”
A jazz quartet on the round stage in the middle of the tent was playing “I’ll Remember April.” Clint Eastwood was nearby, nodding his approval. Leon escorted Lauren through the crowd, past Jack Nicholson, Angelica Houston, Will Smith, and Jennifer Aniston, all of whom seemed to notice Leon, as if they sensed something about him, as if he had a presence too. Or at least that’s what Leon led himself to believe.
A moment later Lauren got a mischievous look in her eyes and she said, “Let me ask you a professional question.” She looked around the tent, then ducked her head toward him and whispered, “Would this be a good place to kill someone?”
Leon seemed momentarily confused, as though she had asked about something outside his area of expertise. “What? In here?” The look on his face changed as he surveyed the space, looking over the heads of the crowd, considering options, measuring distances, and conjuring circumstances. After a moment he said, “First. Hard to get a gun past security. And harder getting back out after using one.” He nodded toward one of the food stations. “You could take one of those knives, hope to get your target alone but that seems unlikely in here. And messy.”
A passing waiter stopped, offering a tray of hors d’ oeuvres. Lauren took one, Leon didn’t. The waiter moved on. As Lauren lifted the appetizer to her lips, Leon said, “Barbados nuts.”
She covered her mouth to say, “No, I think this is a gougere with potato and herbs.”
“No.” Leon smiled. “You come in with the caterer. You bring Barbados nuts. Very tasty, but their oil inhibits protein synthesis in intestinal wall cells. Kills in fifteen or twenty minutes by which time you’re long gone. Of course the trick is making sure your target eats the right appetizer.”
Lauren wasn’t sure whether to believe him. But then she looked in his eyes and saw that he was telling the truth. Something about this dangerous man appealed to her. She did her best Lauren Bacall as she said, “Well, just so you know, I think you could talk me into putting just about anything into my mouth.”
Chapter Fifty-seven
At midnight, the doors on the white metal boxes silently opened. The bugs, hungry and agitated after so long without a meal, made a tentative move to the outside world, their antennae probing the air for cues to a food source. Inside, the overhead aerosol dispensers released a fine mist of the fragrance. Pssst. The molecules instantly set antennae to twitching and the bugs advanced quickly on the tent, slipping under the flap by the hundreds from every direction, seeking the source.
Leon and Lauren were on the dance floor, about fifty feet from an actor by the name of Lawrence Roberts who was lurking in a shadow against the far wall. He gulped a double vodka hoping to dull the words of his famous, Oscar-winning, father. But they still echoed and stabbed like an ice pick, going on about how Lawrence didn’t have what it took to make it in film, or anywhere else for that matter. And tonight’s failure to win Best Supporting Actor was further proof. From the start, Lawrence had seen the nomination as akin to being hoisted in the air like a pinata—lifted up only so he could be beaten more publicly. And now, five full years after his death, his father was still swinging the stick. Lawrence thought about leaving, finding a bridge and taking the leap. Finally ending it.
While this wasn’t the first time Lawrence had entertained suicidal notions, it was destined to be his last. Because as he was standing there in his pool of self-loathing he felt an odd tickling sensation around his ankle.
And a moment later, the bug bit him.
The venom wasted no time before interrupting his synaptic network. As he stood there, trembling and weeping uncontrollably, not sobbing or, indeed, making any noise whatsoever, just tears flowing uncontrollably down his face, Lawrence’s agent approached and, seeing how utterly distressed his client looked, gave him a hearty pat on the back and said, “Don’t worry, Larry, it’s not the end of the world.”
As foam began to issue from Lawrence’s mouth, the agent offered a cocktail napkin and said, “C’mon, Larry, try to keep it together. You’re not the only one who—”
The sting of the bug’s bite made the agent jerk as if he’d received an electrical shock. He looked down and didn’t know what to make of what he saw; dozens of huge strange-looking insects—the transgenic masked wheel bugs with their muscular mantis-like forearms and the raised dorsal ridges—streaming past his black patent leather Guccis like an army. The tingling sensation he felt around his mouth came with a spastic paralysis that prevented him from speaking. He went into acute respiratory distress at the same time as Lawrence. They collapsed into one another, went to their knees together, then to the ground. From a distance, they looked like maudlin drunks.
Pssst.
Similar scenes began to play out all around the perimeter of the sprawling tent as the spined ambush assassins and masked wheel bugs found their way up pants legs and under designer gowns to perfectly pedicured toes. In a matter of minutes, dozens of people began to exhibit reactions to the envenomation. Laryngeal edema, broncho
spasm, pulmonary edema syndrome, hypoxia and acidosis from intercostal muscle spasm and pain, respiratory arrest, neurologic and autonomic dysfunction from alteration of sodium and calcium ion transport.
Within five minutes there were eighteen dead.
The reason there was no stampede at first was that there was nothing obvious from which to run. There was no fire, no gunshot, no screaming. In other words, no galvanizing cue to trigger flight. The people near the perimeter didn’t understand what was wrong and the people in the rest of the tent didn’t know anything was.
Pssst.
The initial reaction for most upon seeing someone collapse was to back away a respectful distance and hope someone else would do something. This would soon became problematic as it was happening from all directions simultaneously, creating a crush in the center of the tent.
Leon noticed it first. People backing onto the dance floor from three sides, hands over mouths, someone in another part of the tent calling for help. He scanned the room and said, “Something’s wrong.” Being European, Leon had attended enough soccer matches to know that they didn’t want to be caught in the middle of a panicked crowd. So he pulled Lauren off the dance floor, moving toward the perimeter, fighting for a way out.
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