He’s right about being past his dreamboat prime. His forehead is like a rutted dirt road. The rest of his face is oddly sunken. The cheekbones are flattened like there’s plastic under the flesh. His lips are slightly crooked.
I say, “Is that because of a car accident?”
“You know it. Seat belts were for sissies back then, except one day the Mustang decides to wrap itself around a tree and my face is hamburger.”
“That must have been hard for an actor.”
He waves a dismissive hand at me.
“They put me back together the best they could, but I was never the same. These days, of course, surgeons work miracles.” He laughs a rasping smoker’s laugh. “Like some of the critics said back then, I was ahead of my time.” He laughs again and holds out his hand. “You have my two hundred?”
I put two bills in his hand and he looks them over before putting them in his pocket.
The white walls of the apartment are lined with posters of his old movies. Photos of his palling around with celebrities from the sixties and seventies. Some kind of award plaque too far away for me to read. Next to that is a plastic toy Academy Award with his name on it.
“What do you think?” he says. “Not bad for a farm kid from El Paso.”
His sunken face and the sun-faded memories are pretty sad, so I say, “It’s impressive.”
But Gentry isn’t dumb. He says, “No. You think it’s shit. I can tell. Let me ask you something, Johnny Handsome. How many movies did you star in? Me? Twenty.”
I don’t mind if he gets mad at me. I just don’t want him to throw me out.
“No, really. It’s interesting.”
“Fuck you. Why don’t you take your attitude and that face and crawl back to the freak show?”
I look at him hard.
“I paid you up front, so we’re going to talk. And be honest, you didn’t star in all those movies. You were a bit player who didn’t get decent billing until the last four or five.”
He purses his lips and the angles of his face go even more out of whack.
“That’s four or five more than you, Clark Gable.”
“You’re right. I’ve never been in a movie and I never met a celebrity in my life. But you have and that’s why I paid you two hundred dollars. So, let’s talk about Chris Stein.”
He picks up a pack of Marlboros from a little table by his chair, tears the filter off one, and lights up.
“What do you want to know?”
“You were friends for a long time.”
He puffs out a stream of smoke and in the sunlight, he disappears for a few seconds.
“We were. Met soon after we each came to L.A. We were roommates for a while too, only we didn’t let many people know because back then two good-looking guys together in a shitty little apartment, people might think we were fags.”
This guy gets more charming by the second.
“So, what happened? You were both about to hit the big time.”
“The accident,” he says. “And coke. I couldn’t leave the stuff alone. Got a bad rep. Between my face and the drugs, the doors slammed shut. And boom. That was that.”
Gentry gestures to the Academy Award with his cigarette.
He says, “Chris gave me that, you know. He knew I was a better actor than him. I think he also felt bad because he gave me that last line of coke right before the accident.”
A rising star and a ruined career. That sounds like a pretty good motive for murder.
“You must have held that against him.”
Gentry looks surprised.
“Chris? No. It was my own damn fault. After the mess, Chris helped me out when he could. You know. Money and other things.”
“What kind of things?”
“Calm down. I’m getting to it.”
He smokes for a couple of minutes, shuffling through memories, and many good ones I bet. Finally, he straightens his shoulders.
“Even when I couldn’t work anymore, I still loved coke. But I didn’t have any money. Chris introduced me to people who helped out.”
He holds up a Marlboro with yellow nicotine-stained fingers.
I say, “You started dealing?”
He nods.
“See, I still had my Hollywood connections back then. And in the right light, I wasn’t so bad looking. Better than you ever were.”
“Forget about me. Tell me about your connections.”
“Goddamn Chris stayed handsome ’til the day he died. Even when he was on the skids like me. Back then though, he was into the private party scene, if you know what I mean.”
“No. I don’t.” I’m pretty sure I do, but I want to hear him say it.
He shakes his head. Exasperated.
“Sex and dope parties, asshole. By then it was the seventies and everything went. Swapping. Three-ways. Chicks with chicks. Guys with guys. No one cared and no one judged.”
“And Chris was into it?”
“Eyeball deep. Chris liked pussy and cock, so he had a grand old time.”
“And Chris got you into the scene because you were dealing?”
Gentry stabs a finger at me.
“I told you. I was still good-looking. I could have gotten in myself. But, yeah, dealing helped. Chris introduced me to everybody. He was a good guy who didn’t forget his friends.”
“Are you sure no one got jealous?” I say. “Maybe someone got nervous about a good-looking guy like him.”
He disappears in a puff of smoke again.
“Not back in those days. And Chris had a short attention span. He never spent too much time with anyone except for this one special trick.”
“Who was that?”
Gentry shrugs.
“Who knows? It was Chris’s one big secret. Whoever it was, they had a real hold over him. After the drugs knocked him out of the business too, the trick took care of him. Helped out with rent and food money. But never too much. They kept him on a real short leash.”
I’m getting tired of this gossip column stuff. I knew half of this from his file and the rest from the internet. But I can’t tell if Gentry is dumb or just angling for more money. I take out another hundred but don’t give it to him.
“Is there anything else you can tell me?”
His eyebrows arch slightly.
“You mean anything less savory?”
“Sure, let’s try that.”
The laugh again.
“Chris learned to pick locks like a pro. He taught me how to do it too. Not that I did it much. Just picked up an item here and there to keep the lights on. You know.”
“Of course.”
“It’s not like the cocksuckers in this building don’t deserve it.”
He gets up and bangs on the wall for a few seconds.
“Turn down that goddamn music,” he yells. But the country pop keeps coming. He shakes his head at the noise and sits back down.
I say, “Where did Chris learn to pick locks?”
“From his trick.”
“And you have no idea who it was.”
He thinks for a minute.
“If you ask me, it was Jimmy Summers or Claire Hennessey. Ever heard of them? The son and daughter of some big-time producer pricks. A couple of real juvenile delinquents, those kids. But money up the ass.”
I wait for him to say something else. He doesn’t, so I speak up.
“What does ‘forever yours, forever mine’ mean?”
“Is that a line from a movie?”
“That’s what I thought, but I can’t find it anywhere.”
“Well, there you go.”
He goes back to smoking and ignoring me. He has his money. Why not?
“That’s everything you know?”
Through the smoke, he squints at me.
“What is it you’re looking for?”
I think about it for a minute. Successful Hollywood people, hangers-on, and forgotten actors. Sex parties, drugs, and a secret lover. It’s great stuff for a drive-in m
ovie, but I’m not sure what good any of it does for me.
“I really don’t know,” I say.
Gentry beckons me forward and speaks quietly.
“You know, at one of the parties, I saw Elvis eat a peanut butter and banana sandwich off a certain starlet’s tits. Balanced it right on top. For an extra hundred, I’ll tell you who.”
“I’d rather pay you not to tell me.”
He leans back in his chair.
“Suit yourself, but it’s a funny story.”
“I bet. Can you think of anybody who might know more about Chris toward the end? Maybe even the party scene itself?”
“That’ll cost the hundred you’re holding and one more on top.”
I take out a second bill but don’t give him that either.
“Avani Chanchala,” he says. “You heard of her? Famous real estate developer. She was heavy into the scene and she liked Chris a lot. Or at least his cock. But don’t tell her I sent you. She owns the building and might evict me.”
I give him the two bills and a third one besides.
When I say, “Thanks,” he doesn’t say anything back, just sticks the money in his pocket with the rest. I want to be annoyed, but the last thing I see on my way out of the apartment is that plastic Academy Award, and I can’t help but feel sorry for the guy.
That night, Janet gives me an address way the hell up in the Hollywood Hills. It takes nearly an hour of driving around those endlessly winding roads to get there. Then, when I see the place I want to turn the Hog around and head down again.
Where we’ve arrived is one of those overdesigned glass-walls-and-a-pool L.A. houses that sticks fifty feet out over the canyon below, supported by nothing but a couple of steel beams. Ridiculous, defiant architecture. Who spends a few million dollars on a house that’s guaranteed to collapse into a pile of kindling one day? Adrenaline junkies, I guess. Which makes a stupid kind of sense, because that’s who we’re here to see.
The front door is unlocked, so we go in. Janet shows me around, points out the view, the expensive Architectural Digest furniture, the art on the walls. I’m thinking, This is all going to look very pretty on fire one day, but I smile and keep my mouth shut. After the grand tour upstairs, they take my hand and lead me down a steep flight of stairs into a basement cut into the granite hillside.
There are maybe twenty people downstairs. They all give me the once-over when we come in. But they aren’t what interests me. What gets my attention are the smells and the one lone Gloomy Gus in the corner. The Zero Lodge has its own trash wizard. It’s the stink of his potions that grabbed my attention. Trash wizards are civilians with no real hoodoo power who taught themselves some tricks from old books and maybe a few hexes they bribed from a dumb Sub Rosa kid. Trash wizards are generally harmless, except this one has a Black Sun wheel on the wall behind him. The Black Sun is ancient, hard-core hoodoo that supposedly gives mystics power over the physical world. Nazis love Black Sun garbage, but this bunch doesn’t look political. They’re dummies just out for a good time, and I bet the junkyard Merlin is right there with them.
On the wall to the left of Merlin is what looks like hunting trophies mounted on plaques. Skulls of some hellbeasts and even a few Lurkers. I’m getting a bad feeling about what these creeps are really into.
Janet is holding my arm and feels me get tense.
“What’s wrong?”
I nod in the direction of Merlin.
“The trash wizard in the corner and the dead stuff on the walls. Either someone here paid a lot of money for that stuff or you shouldn’t be around these kinds of kicks.”
Janet squeezes my arm.
“Relax. It’s just some heads. It’s like you said, Dan and Juliette probably just bought them. I mean, do you even know if they’re real?”
“I guess not.”
“Then don’t take everything so seriously.”
They kiss me on the cheek.
“Okay.”
The rumpus room walls are bare stone scraped smooth. On a set of shelves in the corner are what look like excursion supplies. Blindfolds. Barbed wire. Bolt cutters. Medical kits. A few guns. Next to all of that is an impressively well-stocked bar. Recessed lights in the ceiling give the room a soft glow, but there are candelabras all over the place, like it’s a TV séance show. For ten bucks a minute you can talk to your dead grandma or George Washington. I’m thinking of leaving again when a familiar face comes at me from out of the crowd.
“Hi, Stark. What are you doing here?” says Manimal Mike.
I look at the cast on his arm.
“Hi, Mike. It’s good to see you in one piece.”
It’s his right arm that’s injured, so he puts out his left to shake, but I already have my right hand out, so it’s all an awkward mess. The silliness of the moment cuts through my mood.
Manimal Mike is a Tick-Tock Man. A craftsman who builds intricate mechanical familiars for rich Sub Rosa. I have a feeling his broken arm is costing him a lot of money in lost work.
Mike points a finger of his broken mitt at me.
“You’re not thinking of joining the Lodge, are you?”
“We’ll see. I’m not sold yet.”
“I think Kenny put him in a bad mood,” says Janet.
Mike looks over at the trash wizard.
“Kenny? He’s all right. I mean, he can’t do fancy magic like you, but he can pull off some cool tricks.”
I fake-smile.
“Neat.”
Janet elbows me gently in the ribs.
“The Lodge is the best,” says Mike. He looks at the woman by his side. “Isn’t that right, honey?”
She puts out her hand.
“Hi. I’m Maria Simon and I’m here with this goon.”
Mike practically glows with happiness.
Maria looks a little young for him. Twenty-three or twenty-four. She’s got a willowy Audrey Hepburn–in–Breakfast at Tiffany’s look. Maybe she’s good for Mike. He’s more cleaned up than usual. No grease stains and his fingernails aren’t crammed with dirt and metal shavings. Plus, he might have put on a few pounds.
She says, “The Lodge isn’t for everyone. Are you the adventurous type?”
I scratch my nose.
“I’d rather be at home doing needlepoint.”
“Stark, you said you’d listen,” says Janet. They take my hand in theirs and say, “Stark’s super adventurous. He’s the one who saved me at the zoo.”
“I should have guessed that was you,” says Mike. “Poor Charlie.”
“Yes. Poor Charlie,” says Maria.
Now I’m annoyed again.
“Everybody keeps saying poor Charlie, but no one says where he went. What happens to the ones who get lost on your little excursions?”
Mike says, “We don’t know. Dan and Juliette handle things like that.”
I stage-whisper, “You don’t think anyone’s buried down here, do you?”
“I hope not.”
“I think it’s better not to know,” says Maria. “I remember years ago when we were all high at the Masque club, Brendan Mullen said, ‘If everyone knew where all the bodies were buried, no one would dance for fear of treading over some poor bastard’s face.’”
The three of them laugh at that.
I don’t.
Janet looks at me. “Some members of the Lodge are police, ambulance drivers, or work in the coroner’s office. And Dan and Juliette know more besides.”
I look back at Janet.
“And you’re okay with them making people just disappear?”
Janet looks like she’s getting tired of my questions.
“Look. It’s not like anyone makes anyone do anything. You’re allowed to skip excursions every now and then.”
“As long as you have a good reason,” says Mike.
I say, “And Dan and Juliette get to decide what’s a good reason.”
“Naturally.”
“Did you take a night off after you broke your arm?”
/>
“In fact I did. Right, baby?”
He gives Maria a big, dumb smile.
She says, “We spent the night at home. He couldn’t even cut his food, so I fed him steak like a baby.”
“You know babies who eat steak? Those sound like some cool kids.”
“Stop it,” says Janet. “You know what she means.”
“I’m just kidding.”
“Of course,” says Maria.
“When do I get to meet the Pope and Mrs. Pope?”
“In about ten seconds, I think.”
“They’re here,” says Janet.
Everybody turns to the stairs as a couple makes a grand entrance.
Dan Perkins is in a silk shirt and pants with the sleeves rolled up. Business casual. He has gray hair and slightly funny eyes. Really, he looks less like a businessman than a gray-haired anthropology professor who’s dipped into the school’s ayahuasca supply one too many times.
Juliette Stray is a bleach-blond Mamie Van Doren knockoff. She kisses cheeks left and right as she moves through the crowd. A big smile masks someone trying to look way too nice for it to be anything but protective coloring—like the pretty stripes on a coral snake. Better keep an eye on her. If things go bad, she’ll be the one who puts the knife in.
While Juliette plays social butterfly, Dan comes right over to me. He looks me up and down as we shake.
“You know, we don’t usually allow outside interference in our excursions,” he says.
I look him over too.
“I don’t remember asking anyone’s permission.”
“And that’s why we asked Janet if you’d like to stop by tonight.”
I turn to Janet.
“This wasn’t your idea? They told you to do it?”
They say, “I was going to ask Dan and Juliette if I could bring you anyway.”
Juliette finally joins us, pecking me on both cheeks.
“It’s true,” she says. “Janet brought you up and we insisted on meeting the hero.”
Dan says, “I understand that you’re interested in joining our little social club.”
“Not really. She’s interested in me joining.”
Damn it.
I look at Janet.
“Sorry. They’re interested in me joining.”
“It’s okay,” Janet says. “You’re trying.”
“Here’s the thing,” says Dan. “We usually have a pretty extensive vetting process.”
Ballistic Kiss Page 13
