by Stuart Woods
Viveca couldn’t have been more nervous. Only the presence of her Hollywood friends and her boyfriend, Bruce, were helping her hold it together. Or at least put up the appearance.
On the television, the presenter said, “The nominations for Best Screenplay are . . .”
The announcement was met by boos, hisses, and catcalls.
Viveca’s best friend, Cheryl, threw a napkin at the screen. “How many damn categories are there?” she said, and everyone laughed.
“Don’t worry, honey,” Bruce said. “I know you’re going to be nominated.”
Viveca put up her hand tolerantly, urging her boyfriend to be quiet. Bruce was a handsome young man with rippled muscles and a charming smile, and had been her high school sweetheart. But he was not good at picking up on social cues. Bruce had been wounded in Iraq and had come home with a Purple Heart, a Medal of Honor, and the resultant post-traumatic stress disorder. For the most part he had a pleasant nature, but as far as his girlfriend was concerned, he was ready to fly to her defense at the slightest provocation.
The screenwriting nominations gave way to Best Director.
“Did anybody act in these movies?” Cheryl said, and everybody laughed.
As if he heard her, the presenter said, “And the nominees for Best Supporting Actress are . . .”
“Supporting!” Cheryl wailed. “Kill me now!”
Finally they got to Best Actress. Three names were read, none of them Viveca’s. Fourth time was the charm.
“Viveca Rothschild, for Paris Fling.”
The entourage burst into roars of approval.
“Quiet, quiet!” Viveca said. “One more to go!”
The room was instantly hushed, with everyone thinking the same thing.
Viveca murmured it under her breath: “Not Meryl Streep! Not Meryl Streep!”
“And Tessa Tweed, for Desperation at Dawn,” the presenter said, and the room collectively sighed in relief.
Viveca had dodged that one last bullet.
An Oscar was within her grasp.
4
Chaz Bowen eyed the attorney suspiciously. He had no reason to. The attorney, Richard Fitzgerald, was a slick shyster who represented a number of mobsters and crime bosses in the Los Angeles area. Which was exactly the type of lawyer Chaz needed, only Chaz was too dumb to know it.
Chaz was a sullen man, with hostile eyes, who suspected no one liked him. He was not entirely wrong on that count.
“Who the hell are you?”
“I’m your attorney, Mr. Bowen. I’m here to get you out.”
“Well, you took your time getting here,” Chaz snarled.
“You made the mistake of getting arrested in the middle of the night. The system works slower then.”
“Can I go home?”
“What’d you tell the cops?”
“Told ’em I wanted a lawyer.”
“Anything else?”
“Hell, no.”
“You didn’t try to give them a reason why you were trying to break into a Hollywood producer’s house?”
“Couldn’t think of one. Can you?”
“So what happened?”
“How the hell should I know? A simple break-in and a fucking SWAT team shows up. What the hell is that all about?”
* * *
Fitzgerald went out and hunted up Jason Rollins, the assistant district attorney assigned to the case.
“Hey, Jason. Wanna play Let’s Make a Deal?”
“Ricky Fitz. How the hell are you?”
“Pissed, that’s how. I was up at the crack of dawn to come down here just to bail a guy out.”
“What’s the case?”
“Chaz Bowen.”
“Oh, that one. Slam dunk. Caught in the act with burglar tools and a gun. Breaking into a Hollywood producer’s house, for Christ’s sake.”
“Was he arrested in the house?”
“He was apprehended while trying to get in the window.”
“So you can’t charge him with breaking and entering. He didn’t enter.”
“I can charge him with attempted burglary.”
“You’ll never get a conviction.”
“Give me a break. You’re going to cop a plea and you know it. You can’t put that guy in front of a jury. If he answers questions, he’s guilty. If he refuses to answer questions, he’s guilty. The minute he steps into court, he’s guilty.”
“My client doesn’t want to serve time.”
“Then he shouldn’t have gotten arrested.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Shall we pretend he didn’t?”
“Unfortunately he’s been booked.”
“You can always drop the charges.”
“With so much evidence? My boss would want to know why. His-lawyer-told-me-to is a very poor answer.”
“I gotta get him out.”
The ADA shook his head. “You cop a plea, he’s doing time. I can’t give you a deal where he doesn’t.”
“How about time served?”
“A half an hour? Come on, Ricky, the charge isn’t going away. The only way he’s gets out is on bail.”
“How much?”
* * *
Donnie Martel snatched up the phone. “Yeah?”
“Donnie. Rick Fitzgerald. You sent me to bail out Chaz.”
“Did you do it?”
“Sure thing.”
“How much?”
“Hundred thousand.”
“That much?”
“The guy had a gun on him, Donnie. He’s lucky he’s out at all.”
“Did he talk?”
“If he had, he’d have talked himself into a cell. The guy’s a moron, Donnie. Shutting up is the only bright thing he’s ever done.”
“Are you kidding me? The guy’s an expert locksmith.”
“That is the type of thing I don’t want to know, Donnie.”
“Why didn’t he talk?”
“He couldn’t think of anything to say.”
“Jesus.”
* * *
Donnie slammed down the phone. Donnie Martel was a lower-level crime boss with big aspirations and little to show for it. He was always eager to do jobs for the big boys, the shit jobs that no one wanted to do but everyone needed done. He did a lot of them, and most of them panned out. When they came off without a hitch, they were completely unappreciated. No one ever noticed his efforts until something got fucked up. In Donnie’s case it was always baby steps forward, and a gigantic slide back.
Chaz Bowen was one hell of a slide. The situation couldn’t have been worse. Here he was, doing a job for the one guy on the West Coast he wanted to impress. Gino Patelli was the big boss, the legit boss, the one the others all kowtowed to, the one who was never personally involved in anything.
Donnie couldn’t believe it had all gone wrong. It had been such a simple job. Yes, it was a hit, but it was an easy hit, not like whacking some rival mob boss. It was a movie producer, for God’s sake, Mr. John Q. Public. This wasn’t a complicated scenario, it was supposed to have been just a home invasion gone bad. The stupidest thug in the world should have been able to pull that off.
But no, Donnie had to find one even stupider. So now he had to tell Gino Patelli that the simple assignment the big man had condescended to give him had blown up in his face.
Donnie picked up the phone to make the call. He started punching in the number, but found his hand was shaking. He slammed down the receiver.
Damn.
This would have to be done in person.
5
Gino Patelli’s mansion might have belonged to a movie star. Many of the homes in Bel-Air did. Few belonged to crime bosses. Such clientele were discouraged, but Gino Patelli passed muster on two counts. First, he presented himself as a vintner, and w
hile this pretense fooled no one, it was hard to dispute, since he owned enough vineyards to have stocked every tavern on the West Coast. In fact, he barely produced enough wine for his own table, and couldn’t care about the rest. Still, it gave him bragging rights on the one hand, and a legitimate front on the other.
The other thing that made Gino Patelli hard to ignore was the fact that people were afraid of him. Men who crossed him fell upon hard times. Cause and effect was always hard to prove.
* * *
Donnie Martel rang the buzzer at the iron gates, and identified himself for the camera mounted there. He wasn’t asked his business. He was not getting in unless his business was already known.
After a few moments, the massive gates swung open. Donnie drove up the long, tree-lined drive, and parked in the circle in front of the mansion. He got out and went up to the front door. He could practically feel the X-ray from the scanner checking him for a weapon.
The door was opened by two silent goons who double-checked the scanner and patted him down for a gun. Finding none, they turned him over to a nondescript man in a faded suit with a paisley tie who looked like he couldn’t hurt a fly. Donnie knew better. Sylvester was Gino Patelli’s right-hand man. People who crossed Gino had a habit of disappearing. Sylvester was rumored to be the reason why.
Sylvester walked Donnie down the long, wood-paneled hall to the double-doored office at the end. Another goon patted him down again before opening the door.
Donnie took a breath and followed Sylvester in. The door closed behind him. Donnie had to fight the impulse to look back. He and Sylvester stepped up and stood in front of the large oaken desk.
Gino Patelli was young for a crime boss, particularly one of such prominence. He came into power on the death of his uncle, Carlo Gigante. For Gino it had been a rude awakening. The young Patelli was a ne’er-do-well playboy with a weakness for drinking, gambling, and loose women. His father had died shortly after he was born. His uncle raised him and spoiled him rotten, while teaching him the family business. For young Gino it was the ideal situation. He had all of the experience with none of the responsibility.
With Carlo Gigante’s death, Gino was suddenly thrust into power. He took to it with a vengeance, and soon began bossing everyone around unmercifully. His meanness enhanced his standing. He was a bad man to disappoint.
Donnie shifted from one foot to the other. Gino had not looked up from his desk. Donnie knew better than to open his mouth before he did.
Finally Gino raised his eyes to the unfortunate young man in front of him. “So, your man failed.”
“Chaz was arrested.”
“Why?”
“The window was connected to an alarm.”
“You said your man could disarm an alarm.”
“He did.”
“What happened?”
“There was a backup.”
Gino was not surprised. He hadn’t actually expected Donnie’s man to complete the mission.
Since succeeding his uncle as crime boss, he’d been trying to find Carlo’s murderer. Recently he’d had a breakthrough while watching the Golden Globes, when Desperation at Dawn had won Best Dramatic Picture. Producer Billy Barnett had accepted the award. The name rang a bell. Gino remembered his uncle’s troubles had started when a couple of his men had gotten arrested trying to abduct a producer’s wife. The producer had been Billy Barnett.
Gino couldn’t be sure if this Billy Barnett was just a coincidence or pay dirt. He’d sent Donnie’s man as a test. It was a simple job. Break into the producer’s house and kill him. If he did, Billy Barnett was innocent. But if Barnett lived, it would prove he was far more protected than a mere producer had any need to be.
Gino stared Donnie down. “So, your man didn’t check for a backup system and got himself arrested. What did he tell the cops?”
“Nothing. He didn’t talk, and we bailed him out.”
“That either means he said nothing, or he spilled his guts.”
“Chaz wouldn’t do that.”
“So you say. This man is a loose thread. Remove him.”
6
Donnie Martel was in trouble. He’d realized he was the minute he set foot in Gino Patelli’s office. He just hadn’t realized how bad it would be.
Take out Chaz Bowen? Not a boss on Donnie Martel’s level. He didn’t have the resources. He didn’t have the men. Chaz was the only hit man on his roster. Martel wasn’t one of the big boys who ordered a hit every other week. He was pretty near the bottom of the totem pole, and it was never brought home to him more forcibly than at times like these.
The order had come straight from Gino Patelli’s lips, which made it super important, something he had to put his best man on. Unfortunately, his best man was Chaz Bowen.
Donnie went back to his office, always a mistake coming straight from Gino Patelli’s. The contrast was just too striking.
Donnie’s office was in a section of downtown L.A. that looked like it was just about to be torn down and renovated. He parked on a side street, pushed the downstairs door open, and walked up the steps. His office was on the second floor over a sushi parlor. He’d been there so long he barely noticed the smell of fish.
Sophia was at the front desk reading a gossip magazine. Any other day he wouldn’t have cared. Today it pissed him off.
“Don’t you have work?” he snapped.
“Nothing pressing. I’m going to finish my coffee and tackle the bills.”
Sophia was Donnie’s entire office staff. She functioned as his secretary, receptionist, switchboard operator, typist, file clerk, and bookkeeper. She could also take dictation, but it never happened. He’d have her sit on his lap to do it, and then he’d forget what he wanted to say.
“Any calls?”
“Chaz Bowen. He sounded pissed.”
“I’ll bet. Hold my calls.”
Sophia frowned. “You want me to put them on hold, or—”
“Tell them I’m out of the office.”
Donnie pushed his way into his inner office and closed the door.
Donnie’s desk was a mess of papers, none particularly important. He had a small protection racket on the south side, with half a dozen collectors and a couple of enforcers who were hardly ever needed. After the first visit, clients paid right up.
Donnie sat down at his desk and put his head in his hands. Half of his muscle wasn’t as good as Chaz. The other half was Chaz.
Should he bring in someone from outside? Not likely. That was apt to cause more problems than it solved.
Donnie sighed heavily. He got up, lifted down a picture from the wall, and spun the dial of his safe. It had been a while, and he missed the combination the first time. He concentrated and got it on the second try.
Donnie opened the safe and took out a gun. It was an automatic with a full magazine and a round in the chamber. He took out a silencer and screwed it onto the barrel of the gun just to be sure. It fit.
Donnie locked the safe. He went over to the closet, pushed the coats and jackets aside, and found an old shoulder holster that hadn’t been used in years. He used to wear it to impress people. After a while he realized it didn’t make him look like a crime boss, just a low-level thug.
Donnie stuck the gun in the holster. The barrel was too long with the silencer. He unscrewed the silencer, and slipped it in his jacket pocket. He adjusted his jacket and tie and went out.
7
Chaz Bowen lived in the second-floor apartment of a brownstone in east L.A. Donnie deciphered his name from the scotch-taped name tags peeling away from the buzzers, and rang the bell. There was no answer. He rang it again. Finally the intercom clicked on and a groggy voice growled, “Who the hell is this?”
“Donnie Martel.”
Moments later the door buzzed open. Donnie went up the steps to find Chaz hanging out his apartment
door.
“You want to tell me what the hell happened?” Chaz demanded.
“I don’t know what the hell happened,” Donnie said, and walked in the door.
“You give me an assignment and you don’t know what’s going on? Piece of cake, you said. How hard can it be? Movie producer.” Chaz snorted. “If that guy’s a movie producer I’m a state senator.”
“I’m just as surprised as you are. We’re looking into it.”
“‘Looking into it’? Not good enough. I’m charged with attempted burglary. I can’t afford a conviction. What are you going to do about that?”
“Just keep your mouth shut and you’ll do fine.”
“That’s what the lawyer said. Then I got charged.”
“And released. That’s the important thing. Don’t worry about the charge. It’ll never get to trial. The important thing is you’re out on bail. You keep quiet, we keep you out of prison, that’s the deal. Let’s drink to it. You got any booze?”
“I got some sour mash.”
Donnie repressed a shudder. “Great. Pour me one.”
Chaz went to the cabinet and took out the bottle of whiskey.
Donnie stepped up behind him and shot him in the head.
* * *
Donnie was riding a huge wave of adrenaline. He got out of there fast, stopping only to wipe down any surface he might have touched. He skipped down the stairs, got in his car, and took off. Twenty blocks away his hands were still shaking.
Donnie pulled off by the side of the road, put the car in park, and tried to calm down. He’d done it, that was the main thing. Gino had backed him into a corner, and he’d managed to get out. There was nothing to connect him to the crime.
Except the gun. Small detail. He had to ditch the murder weapon. Where?
