by Stuart Woods
“No shit. You got a suspect?”
“Nothing official.”
“What does that mean?”
“No one’s under arrest.”
“And unofficially?”
“There’s a guy looks good for it. Some movie producer.”
“Oh, that can be messy.”
“No kidding.”
“Well, it makes my job academic, but I guess I gotta do it. When he was arraigned on the B and E, who bailed him out?”
“Damned if I know. You’d have to go over to the court.”
“Oh, you don’t wanna do that,” another detective put in. “The court officer just loves giving cops a hard time.”
“That’s right. You’re better off talking to Ruth.”
“Who?”
* * *
Ruth was a property clerk at the police lockup who could have passed for the warden of a women’s prison. Instead, she rode herd over items taken from arrested suspects and held until they were released. She also was the main source for all gossip relating to the department, including but not limited to the performance of their jobs and who was seeing whom on the side.
Ruth seemed insulted by Teddy’s question. Why didn’t he ask her a hard one? Who bailed out who was common knowledge.
“Ricky Fitz,” she said promptly. “Mob lawyer. Handles a bunch of the players.”
“Who’d you say?”
“Ricky Fitz. That’s what everyone calls him. Name’s Richard Fitzgerald. If he’s involved, the client’s connected.”
“Connected to who?”
“Any number of small-time crime bosses.”
“Which ones?”
Ruth shook her head. “I ain’t naming names. That’s how I got this job. Desk sergeant before me named names. Mobsters don’t like being named.”
* * *
The sign on the door read: SIMMONS, ATWATER, PROSKY & FITZGERALD.
Teddy went in and asked the secretary at the reception desk for Richard Fitzgerald.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but he wants to see me.”
“How do you know?”
“Because there are some clients he doesn’t want to piss off.”
The secretary blanched, got up from her desk, and disappeared into an inner office. She was back moments later.
“Mr. Fitzgerald may be able to see you. Could I have your name?”
“My name is not relevant to the current situation. My position is.”
“What’s your position?”
“I’m standing in his outer office with a gun in my shoulder holster.”
The secretary blinked. “Follow me, please.”
Teddy followed her into the inner office, where a rather slick-looking attorney sat behind a desk.
“Mr. Fitzgerald, this is the gentleman I told you about. He doesn’t wish to give his name.”
Fitzgerald waved him away. “I don’t deal with anonymous clients.”
“Do you deal with dead ones?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You dealt with Chaz Bowen. He’s your client. He’s dead.”
“What’s that got to do with you?”
“You mind asking your secretary to step out? I hate to have witnesses.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Don’t be silly. We’re just talking here. But attorney-client privilege does not apply in the presence of a third person.”
“You want to hire me?”
“No.”
Teddy stared him down. The attorney flushed and said, “That will be all” to his secretary. She was smiling slightly as she went out.
“Now then,” Fitzgerald said. “What’s this all about?”
“You like being attorney for the mob, don’t you? Well, I have bad news for you. I’m not a cop. I’m under no legal obligation to show your clients the courtesy they deserve. I don’t have to honor attorney-client privilege. I don’t have to read people Miranda. So, this can go one of two ways. You tell me what I need to know, I leave your office, and no one will ever know that we had a conversation.
“Or, you can tell me to go to hell, and I’m going to go and get the information I need from another source. But I will be very careful to leave everyone with the impression that my sole source was you.”
Teddy let that sink in for a moment. “So, when you find yourself with a contract on your head, you can console yourself with the fact that it’s totally undeserved, and not the result of anything you did.
“Now then, start coming up with names.”
22
Donnie Martel shot a thirty-seven on the back nine of Van Nuys. Never mind that he’d shot a forty-one on the front nine—he still had a round of seventy-eight, the first time he’d ever broken eighty on any course.
Donnie had a few drinks at the nineteenth hole, replaying the great shots in his mind, before driving home. He pulled into the underground garage, took the elevator up to his floor, and unlocked the door to his apartment.
There was a man sitting on the couch holding a gun.
Donnie blinked, uncomprehendingly.
He wouldn’t have understood even if he’d been sober.
Teddy hadn’t made himself up to be anyone in particular. His face didn’t match any driver’s license, passport, credential, or other ID. The only criteria had been that he not look anything like either Mark Weldon or Billy Barnett.
He’d also gone for mean. He wanted to be the scariest son of a bitch Donnie could ever imagine walking in on. Alcohol had dulled the effect somewhat; still, Teddy was thoroughly intimidating.
“Hi, Donnie,” Teddy said. “I’ve got good news and bad news. You and I are going to have a little chat, and I’m going to ask you some questions.
“The good news is I’m not going to kill you if you don’t tell me what I want to know.”
Teddy flipped open a razor-sharp, stiletto-pointed gravity knife. His thin-lipped smile was positively chilling. “The bad news is you’ll wish I had.”
* * *
Gino Patelli. The name meant nothing to Teddy.
So, a man he didn’t know wanted him dead. Not an earth-shattering event for Teddy. He probably didn’t know half the men who wanted him dead.
Teddy whipped out his cell phone and googled Gino Patelli, with surprisingly few results. Most references were recent, within the last few years. Without a Wikipedia page, it took a while to sort out why.
Gradually Teddy pieced together the information.
Gino Patelli was the ne’er-do-well playboy son of Vinnie Patelli, a low-level mob enforcer gunned down in an ancient turf war. Gino’s mother, Rosa, had died in childbirth, so the death of his father left him orphaned. Rosa’s brother, Carlo Gigante, took the boy in under his wing and taught him the family business. When Carlo wound up dead at the bottom of a cliff overlooking the ocean, Gino, having suddenly inherited his uncle’s empire, stepped in and proceeded to rule it with an iron hand.
That all made sense to Teddy. While he had not killed Carlo Gigante, there was certainly reason to think that he had. Teddy had set into motion the events that led to his death; the fact that he did not actually commit the deed hardly absolved him from the responsibility.
The circumstantial evidence was compelling. Carlo Gigante had sent goons to kill Billy Barnett’s wife. Teddy had accosted Carlo in an L.A. nightclub, beat up his bodyguards, and threatened to kill him. Carlo Gigante had subsequently wound up dead. Gino Patelli would have no problem doing the math.
Teddy looked up Gino’s address and drove out there. What he saw was not encouraging. A stone mansion like a giant fortress set back from the road behind an iron gate. A fence topped with barbed wire and no doubt electrified. Grounds protected by floodlights and probably dogs.
Teddy sighed.
&
nbsp; He could kill Gino Patelli, but it would not be easy. It would require planning and execution. Above all, it would require time.
Teddy was about to shoot a feature film, a long and painstaking process, which required him to be somewhere else and to be someone else.
Mark Weldon was a bad guy in the movie, a stone-cold killer, but for all that he was a pussycat compared to Teddy Fay. Mark Weldon could not go on a killing spree in the middle of a movie shoot.
Teddy chuckled.
It was probably even in his contract.
23
Gino Patelli was frustrated. “Where the hell is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you know?”
“I’ve got two men in separate cars staking out the studio,” Sylvester said. “Barnett hasn’t entered the lot since they’ve been on the job.”
“But he’s working there?”
“He’s producing a movie.”
“Then how can he not be there?”
“I have no idea. I tried calling his office and just got the runaround. He’s supposedly on a location scout, but I can’t find out where, what he’s scouting, or when he’ll be back. His secretary can’t be pinned down, and is delightfully vague. Mr. Barnett can’t be reached, can she take a message? Whatever I want to talk to him about, she’ll take it down and pass it on the next time he calls in.”
“Shit. But he’s got a movie going now?”
“That’s right. Gearing up to film.”
“Then he’s gotta be around. After the run-in with Marco, he must be taking precautions. He’s found some way to get on and off the studio grounds without going through the main gate. He’s there, but he’s primed his secretary to say he isn’t.”
Sylvester nodded. “That could be.”
Gino raised his finger. “We need someone inside.”
* * *
Sylvester went down to the night court where the early-morning arrests were being processed. He waited through an endless string of drunks and hookers until he finally found what he wanted. A young man in his early twenties, groggy and disheveled from a night in jail but still handsome enough with curly dark hair and a pleasant face.
“Who do we have here?” the judge said.
“Dylan Foster,” the prosecutor said. “Possession of a controlled substance.”
Dylan had been arrested holding half a gram of cocaine. He pled nolo contendere and was sentenced to a fine of five hundred dollars or ten days in jail.
Dylan didn’t have five hundred dollars, and was on his way back to the lockup when Sylvester stepped up and paid the fine.
* * *
Dylan was nervous, and rightfully so. He had no idea who this strange man was or why he’d bailed him out. He had half a mind not to go with him. But the prospect of sitting in jail for ten days tipped the scale. And the man was thin and cadaverous, didn’t look that tough. Dylan figured he could always get away.
Dylan allowed himself to be led outside to a waiting car. The driver hopped out and opened the door to the back seat. Dylan glanced around, saw no way out, and climbed in. The thin man climbed in beside him. The driver got in and the car took off.
Dylan was afraid to ask where they were going. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
The car drove out of town and pulled into the gates of what turned out to be an imposing-looking mansion. The gaunt man ushered him up the steps and through the door.
Two burly men approached Dylan. The gaunt man shook his head. “No need. He just came from lockup.”
“Orders,” one said. He took hold of Dylan and patted him down.
When the search found nothing, Dylan was marched down a wood-paneled hall.
They reached a door where another burly man patted him down, before stepping aside to let them in.
* * *
Gino Patelli looked up from his desk. “What have we got here?”
“This is Dylan. Found him in night court.”
“Oh?”
“He’s an ‘aspiring actor,’” Sylvester said with mocking condescension. “Pled guilty to possession. I got him out for a five-hundred-dollar fine.”
Gino looked the young man over critically. “You a junkie?”
“No, I did some lines at a party—”
“Don’t care,” Gino interrupted. He frowned, shook his head. “Kid’s a wreck. Clean him up and he might do okay.”
Dylan flinched.
Gino laughed. “Relax, kid. No one wants your body. Here’s the deal. I’m going to get you a job on a movie lot. Not an acting job, probably production assistant, but a chance to make contacts, meet all the people you need to know. That something you’d like to do?”
Dylan paused. “What will you want in return?”
“Be my eyes and ears on the scene. You gotta see what I want to see, hear what I want to hear.” Gino stopped, raised his finger right in Dylan’s face. “There’s only one thing you cannot do. You cannot leave. You cannot say, I’ve got a better gig, I’m moving on. You will not be moving on. If you try, you will be reminded of your obligation in rather dramatic fashion. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. You’re going to get a job at Centurion Studios. It’s a big studio with lots of movies filming, and lots of producers. The only one I’m concerned with is Billy Barnett. I want you to report everything you find out about Billy Barnett. In particular, I want to know when he’s on the lot, and what he’s up to. You got that?”
“Yes, sir. And what do you want with Billy Barnett?”
“None of your fucking business.”
24
Sylvester made some phone calls. Third time was the charm. The owner of an L.A. nightclub knew a guy who knew a guy who was a procurer of young girls for a movie star, and Sylvester was able to cut through the bullshit and pull in a favor. Two hours later he got a callback saying the way had been paved.
Sylvester called Hal Lindstrom, an assistant production manager at Centurion Studios, and said he had a young man who wanted a job.
Bright and early the next morning Dylan presented himself at the main gate.
“Dylan Foster to see Hal Lindstrom.”
The guard consulted a clipboard and nodded. “Go right ahead.”
“Where will I find him?”
“In the production office.”
“Where’s that?”
“Go in the front door and ask anyone.”
Hal Lindstrom turned out to be an older gentleman, bald, with wispy white hair over his ears. “Dylan Foster, eh. They told me you’d be coming in. So, you want to be a production assistant?”
“I really want to be an actor.”
“Of course you do. But that’s not what today is all about. I need production assistants willing to do the job because it’s long, hard hours, and you don’t get overtime. If you think you’re just going to hang out with the actors all day, you won’t last. You’re going to be a gofer. You know what that is? Someone wants something, you gofer it. You got a driver’s license?”
“Yes.”
“Good. You’ll be running errands for all departments. Everyone’s your boss, but it gets filtered through me. Costume department wants you to pick up some cloth, you say, Gotta run it through Hal. That way I know where you are and what you’re doing and you won’t get assigned two things at once. You got a cell phone?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Give me a call. Your number goes on my contact list, so I can call you if I need to. Often I’ll have something else for you to do, and it won’t pay for you to come back here first. Got it?”
“Yes, sir. When will we be on the set?”
Hal made a face. “See, that’s the trouble with PAs. Starstruck. Filming’s just one part of the job. We’ve got four pictures filming right now, but you ain’t goi
ng on them. Unless it’s an emergency, we don’t hire someone and throw them onto an active set in the middle of the shoot. We got a film that just finished casting going into rehearsals. That’s where you’ll start.”
“What film?”
“Trial by Fire. It’s a Peter Barrington film. He’s the writer and director.”
Dylan controlled his reaction. Billy Barnett was Peter Barrington’s producer. This task might be far easier than he’d anticipated.
A young man about Dylan’s age came into the office. He had red hair, glasses, and a somewhat gooney grin.
“Sandy. This is Dylan. He’s starting today, first day as a gofer. Take him around, show him the ropes.”
“Sure thing.”
“What are you up to, Sandy?”
“Taking out a production car. I need to pick up toilet paper for the actor’s trailer.”
“Take Dylan with you. You go with Sandy. He’s been with us a while, knows the business. Production assistant is a very important part of the film crew.”
“Yes, sir,” Dylan said.
“Come on,” Sandy said, waving his arm. “Let’s hit the road.”
25
Dylan lugged a case of beer out of the convenience store and loaded it into the trunk of the production car.
“You gotta be shitting me,” he said, as Sandy pulled the car away from the curb.
“What do you mean?”
“Is that all it is? Our glamorous life in the movies? All beer and toilet paper?”
“Hey,” Sandy said, “a famous actress will be using the toilet paper. A famous actor will be drinking that beer.”
“I doubt if they’ll be drinking it with me. When do we meet these people?”
“Relax. You’re just like everyone else who starts off in the movies. Where’s the glamour? Where’s the glitter? Where’s the prestige?”
“Well, I’m sure it’s not all like this,” Dylan said. “I could be a grocery store delivery boy and probably make more money.”
