by Stuart Woods
They clinked glasses.
Tessa took a sip.
A cell phone camera clicked.
45
Ben Bacchetti was livid. “How did this happen?” he said. He waved the newspaper aloft and pointed at the picture. It showed Tessa Tweed at the Oscar party laughing and hoisting a martini. The headline of the article read: TIPSY TWEED?
“How does this even happen?” Ben said. “This is from the party. This was taken last night. Did you even see a camera there?”
“It’s from a cell phone photo,” Teddy said.
“That’s very clear.”
“It’s been enhanced.”
“You mean photoshopped? Someone mocked it up?”
“It’s not mocked up. It’s a real photograph. I know when it was taken.”
“When?”
“Last night when I went to the bar. Tessa came over. I got her a drink and handed it to her. We toasted the Oscars. That’s what you see there.”
“Do you think someone was planted at the party to take that picture?”
“Or happened to be there and saw a chance to make some extra cash.”
“Yeah, but look at this,” Ben said, pointing to the newspaper. “It’s like the guy wrote the article and then shot a photo to go with it.”
“No one set the photo up. If the host had caught them, that would be their last invitation anywhere.”
“I suppose,” Ben conceded.
“So what do you want to do?”
“This reporter who wrote the story,” Ben said. “It’s the same one who wrote the others. This Josh Hargrove. I want to have a little talk with him.”
“No, you don’t,” Teddy said.
“The hell I don’t.”
“This is a small story. It isn’t true, but that’s the least of it. It’s boring. Tessa Tweed had a drink at a party? Ho-hum. But if you fly off the handle and attack this reporter, it’s a huge story. It’s big and it’s fun and it’s news. That’s why the paparazzi hound celebrities. If they can get them to react, they’ve got something. If they can’t, they don’t.”
“Well, something needs to be done,” Ben said. “This can’t go on forever.”
“I know.”
“So what do you suggest?”
“Let me talk to him,” Teddy said.
46
Teddy called Josh Hargrove at the Culver City Chronicle, and wasn’t surprised to find the reporter wasn’t there. Hargrove was a stringer and worked out of his apartment.
Teddy called him at home. “Josh Hargrove? You write for the Chronicle, right? I got a hot tip for you.”
“Oh?”
“I know, I know, everyone’s giving you tips. Most of them are crap. I’m the real deal. I’ll give you a tip, and if you don’t want it, you don’t use it, no hard feelings. If you write it, you give me what you think’s fair, and we got a working relationship.”
“What’s the tip?”
“It’s hard for you to pay me over the phone, no? Let’s meet.”
“Fine.” Josh gave Teddy an address in an old building that had been renovated since the war.
When he arrived, Teddy rode up in the refurbished elevator to apartment 14F.
Josh let him in but didn’t invite him to sit down.
“What’s the tip?”
“Tessa Tweed was drinking at an Oscar party.”
Hargrove frowned. “That’s in the paper.”
“Yes, it is. Who gave you that tip?”
“None of your business. You got a tip for me or not?”
“Yes, I do. Stop writing about Tessa Tweed.”
Hargrove scowled. “I’m going to ask you to leave.”
“When?”
“What?”
“When are you going to ask me?”
“I’m asking you now,” Josh cried in exasperation.
“Yeah, but you’re so wishy-washy about it. Afraid to make a definitive statement. But let’s assume you asked me to leave. I’m not going to. So, who gave you the story?”
“I can’t reveal my sources.”
“Of course you can. We’ve already established you have no ethics. We’re not in a courtroom. There’s nothing legal about this. It’s just you and me. And I’m asking you to tell me who gave you the story. And you’re going to do it because you’re a coward, and you always take the coward’s way out.”
“Now, see here.”
“Oh, don’t make up any more bullshit. You’re not writing these stories because you want to. You’re writing them because you have to. Someone scared you, and you’re more scared of them than you are of me. We need to flip that.”
Teddy looked out one of the living room windows. It was the old-fashioned type, with a rickety wood frame and many panes of glass.
Teddy marched to the window and threw it open.
He grabbed the reporter by the scruff of his neck and the seat of his pants and gave him the bum’s rush straight at the window as if he were going to throw him out.
Teddy stopped just in time. He smiled at the man and said, “Just kidding.”
Before Josh could react, Teddy reached down, grabbed him by the legs, flipped him up, and hung him out the window.
Josh screamed in terror.
Teddy waited for him to subside, then said calmly, “Want me to pull you up?”
“Yes!”
“I thought so,” Teddy said. He smiled. “Who gave you the story?”
47
Manny’s office was a second-floor walk-up over a coffee shop. Teddy banged on the door, but there was no answer. It was just as well. He was due back on the set to work with Peter and he wouldn’t have had time to give the gentleman the attention he deserved.
Teddy drove back to the location, which was still the bank. He parked the production car on the street, tossed the keys to one of the PAs, and slipped into Mark Weldon’s trailer when no one was looking. Five minutes later Mark Weldon emerged and headed for the set.
He was shooting a scene with Viveca. She’d been shooting all morning with Tessa and probably could have used a break, but Viveca was a real trouper in that regard. When it was time to get down to work, she was always ready.
So was Teddy. The two of them nailed their scene in one take, and Viveca was done for the day.
* * *
Viveca went back to her trailer to change. Before she could, Peter Barrington knocked and poked his head in the door.
“Hi. I know you want to get home, but could you spare a moment?”
“Of course.”
“Good. I just wanted to talk to you while they move the camera.”
“Is there a problem?”
“Not at all, I couldn’t ask for anything better in your performance. You and Tessa are wonderful together.”
“It’s nice of you to give me lines.”
“I’m not being nice. I’m trying to make the best picture possible. You guys are helping me do that, and believe me, it’s great.”
Viveca laughed. “Well, let’s not go overboard. So far all we’ve done is walk into a bank.”
“Yes. A simple action scene that somehow managed to say it all. Anyway, I was just on the horn with Ben Bacchetti, and he has managed to work it out with all concerned. So, if we can just work it out with you and your agent, we’re all set.”
“Work what out?”
“Well, we originally intended the credits to be: Tessa Tweed in Trial by Fire. When you came on we made you the first credit after the title, so it went: Tessa Tweed in Trial by Fire, with Viveca Rothschild.”
“Which was very nice of you, but Mark has a much bigger part. I hate to edge him out in the credits.”
“Believe me, he doesn’t mind. He’s a glorified stuntman basking in success. He couldn’t care less about the credits. He�
�s happy just to be in a movie with you. Anyway, we’re moving him to first credit after the titles.”
She frowned. “You’re bumping me down?”
“Not on your life. If it all works out, we’re billing you above the title: Tessa Tweed and Viveca Rothschild in Trial by Fire, with Mark Weldon.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Not at all.”
“Does Tessa know about that?”
“It was her idea.”
Viveca was stunned. She felt a flash of guilt about trying to tear Tessa down, but reminded herself that her feelings were separate from her professional aims. The Oscar competition was always cutthroat. It had nothing to do with Tessa as a person. It was all the Hollywood game.
And yet . . . Viveca was beginning to wonder if she believed her own bullshit anymore.
48
Manny was in the barbershop when the phone rang. He got barber shaved only occasionally, when he had a little money, and thanks to the Tessa Tweed stories he was flush.
When the phone rang, Manny was lying back in the chair, his face covered with shaving cream, the barber poised over him with a straight razor.
“Aw, hell,” Manny said.
“You gonna get that?” the barber said.
“Let it go to voicemail.”
Manny waited until he was on his way out the door before checking his voicemail.
The message was from Josh Hargrove, who sounded hysterical. Manny couldn’t make sense of what he’d said. He quickly dialed Josh’s number.
“Jesus Christ, where were you? I couldn’t reach you.”
“You got me now. What is it?”
“The shit’s hit the fan. There was a guy here, in my apartment, asking about the Tessa Tweed story. Some producer or other. I gave him your name.”
“You gave him my name?” Manny said ominously.
“He held me upside down out the fucking window. He was going to kill me, Manny. I swear to God, the guy is unhinged.”
“So you gave him my name?”
“That’s why I called to warn you. This guy is nuts. I couldn’t hold out on him, and you won’t be able to either. If I were you, I’d get out of town.”
“Good thing you’re not me.”
“What?”
“Asshole.”
Manny slipped the phone back in his pocket and walked around the corner to his office. He unlocked the door and plopped down behind his desk.
Manny kept a bottle in his desk drawer. It had started as a joke, a clichéd prop for his gossip-columnist image, but it soon turned into what it was: a bottle of booze in a desk drawer to ease the end of the day.
It wasn’t the end of the day, but it needed easing. Manny took out the bottle, poured himself a shot, and tossed it down.
All right. A producer was coming to shake him down. That wasn’t so bad, no matter what Josh Hargrove said. That coward had likely caved when the guy had given him a mean look.
Manny wondered if the producer would try to pay him off, and how much. It was a fleeting thought. He couldn’t sell out Viveca without losing a steady stream of income.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t turn a profit. It was all a matter of how you looked at things.
Manny picked up the phone and called Viveca.
“Hello, Manny.”
“Are you on the set?”
“No, I wrapped early. I’m on my way home.”
“Are you alone?”
“Aside from the driver.”
“Can he hear you?”
“The glass is up. He can’t hear a thing. Why?”
“Josh called. From the Chronicle.”
“Speaking of Josh, we should ease back on that, I think.”
“Yeah, yeah, not the point. He said a guy came to find out who gave him the Tessa Tweed story.”
“Did he mention my name?”
“He doesn’t know your name. I never gave it to him.”
“All right, then—”
“It’s not all right. Josh gave him my name.”
“Why the hell did he do that?”
“He says the guy threatened him. I think he paid him off. The guy’s not some goon, he’s a producer, for Pete’s sake.”
Viveca sucked in her breath. “Billy Barnett?”
“That’s the one.”
“Well, shit.”
“What is it?”
“He’s producing the picture I’m filming now.”
“Well, don’t worry about it. I’m not going to give you up. No matter how much money he offers, I won’t let you down.”
49
Bruce knew at once that something was wrong. He was sometimes slow on the uptake socially, but he’d been with Viveca so long he was sensitive to her moods. “What is it?” he said.
Viveca didn’t want to talk about it, particularly not with Bruce. But he wouldn’t let things go. He hated the idea that people were talking above his head.
“Nothing, really. Manny called.”
“What did he want?”
“Money, actually.”
“What?”
“You know he’s been doing those stories for me?”
“To help you win the Oscar.”
“That’s right. He got a reporter to write some stories about Tessa Tweed. A producer from our movie’s been trying to find out where the story came from. The reporter didn’t know it was me, but he gave up Manny.”
“Did Manny give you up?”
“Not yet, but I’m afraid he will. Manny swears he’ll keep his mouth shut, and wants more money for the trouble.”
“The producer hasn’t talked to him yet?”
“No, he hasn’t, but he will. I’m afraid Manny will crack and I’ll be exposed. The worst part of it is that, aside from wanting to beat Tessa out of the Oscar, I really like her. I don’t want her to find out I did this. I couldn’t bear it. How could I go on working with her? It’s just a big mess.”
“Manny won’t give you up.”
“He’s not a saint, he’s a gossip columnist. He’d sell out his own mother.”
“You’re all keyed up. Have a drink, sit in the hot tub. Veg out and watch a movie.” Bruce hesitated. “I was going to run some errands, but I won’t if you don’t want to be alone.”
Viveca was delighted to be rid of him. She was pouring herself a drink when he went out the door.
Bruce didn’t have errands to run. He got in the car, asked Siri for Manny Rosen’s address, and took off for downtown L.A.
50
Manny opened the door on a safety chain. He wanted to judge just how angry this producer was before he let him in.
Only it wasn’t the producer. It was someone he knew, Viveca’s boyfriend. What was he doing here?
Maybe delivering money, a bonus for him keeping quiet under duress. He had known Viveca was clever enough to take the hint.
Manny took off the chain and let the young man in.
“You’re Viveca’s boyfriend.”
“Bruce.”
“Right. Bruce. I’m Manny. I think we met at one time or other. So what brings you here?”
“Viveca says there’s trouble.”
“Nothing serious, someone asking about a story and she doesn’t want her name mentioned. I assure you it won’t be. Just as I assured her.”
“She’s still worried.”
“So she sent me some money? It wasn’t necessary, but she’s made her point. Whatever someone offers me, she’ll go higher. I know that, and she knows I know that. But I’m happy for the reminder. It’s a show of good faith.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”
Bruce wandered over to Manny’s desk. It was bare save for a telephone, a bottle of booze, a pen, a pad of paper, a letter opener, and some mail.
Bruce turned back and leaned against the side of the desk, his eyes on Manny.
Manny was getting a little exasperated with the kid. He remembered hearing he was a little slow. “So, you got something for me or not?”
“Oh, I got something for you,” Bruce said.
He picked up the letter opener and, with the brutal efficiency learned in the army, plunged it into the gossip columnist’s heart.
51
When Teddy finished shooting for the day, he went back to his trailer and transformed into Billy Barnett. He borrowed a production car and drove out to Manny Rosen’s office. He parked in front, went up the stairs, and saw that the gossip columnist’s door was slightly ajar. Teddy knocked, but there was no response. Teddy stood to the side of the door and cautiously pushed it open. When he still heard nothing from inside, he peeked through the door.
A man was lying facedown on the desk. Teddy went over and checked for a pulse and didn’t find one, though he hadn’t expected to. Further inspection revealed the man—who Teddy assumed must be Manny—had a letter opener in his heart.
Teddy sighed in disgust. Manny was going to be a poor source of information unless he’d left some clues behind, perhaps in the form of a note or memo.
Teddy removed a handkerchief from his pocket so he could examine the scene without leaving fingerprints. First he emptied the man’s pockets. According to his driver’s license, the man was, indeed, Manny Rosen, but he had nothing helpful on his person. Nor was there anything helpful on top of his desk.
Teddy eased the desk drawers open, but found nothing of interest except an address book. He set it on the desk and flipped through it, checking the names and phone numbers.
The door flew open and three cops burst into the room, guns drawn.
“All right! Hold it right there!”
52
Stone Barrington and Dino Bacchetti were enjoying dinner at Patroon, their frequent restaurant of choice ever since Elaine’s had closed. Stone was enjoying osso buco, Dino rack of lamb.
