by Dick Lochte
He left the house. At the Caddy, he removed the BXP from its case. Hefted it. It was way heavier than the Sig Sauer, probably carrying a full load. He checked, removing the magazine.
He was about to reload the sub-machine gun when he had second thoughts. He ejected the round in the chamber and then removed the shells from the magazine before snapping it back into place.
He’d considered using the Caddy, but he didn’t like the idea of leaving Angela’s car at the scene of a murder. Holding the BXP in his left hand, he closed the trunk. Then he wiped the trunk where he’d touched it, picked up his two-suiter and headed for the Mustang.
He put his luggage in its trunk, then opened the driver’s door and slid on to the car’s bucket seat behind the wheel. He leaned forward and placed the BXP on the passenger-side floor mat. Then he felt around under his seat and was happy to discover a small gap where the soft leatherette seat cover had pulled away from its metal clamp. He dug a finger in and opened the gap wider.
He checked the time. Brox would be calling in thirty-three minutes.
By then, with luck, he’d be within shooting distance of the Russian.
FORTY-TWO
He actually made it in twenty-nine minutes.
He was parked, sitting in the Mustang on Ferraro Street in Hollywood, staring at a vacant street and listening to The Sinatra Hour on an FM jazz station, when Brox’s call came through.
The phone’s ring tone was an odd little tune but also a familiar one. Da-dada-da-daaa-daaa, da-dada-da-daaa-daaa-da.
He turned off the radio, silencing Sinatra’s transcendent version of ‘Polka-dots and Moonbeams,’ to better concentrate on the ring tone when it sounded again. Da-dada-da-daa-daa. ‘A whooee-duh-whooee.’ This time he was able not only to name the tune, Blues in the Night, but remember its personal significance. One of his earliest memories was of his mother crooning that song to him every night until he went to sleep.
It had been an oddly misogynistic maternal choice, he thought, a song about a mother warning her son that women were two-faced, troublesome creatures ‘. . . who’ll leave you to sing the blues in the night.’
He wondered if Brox was trying to tell him something.
Time to find out.
He clicked the talk button on the phone and brought it to his ear. ‘Brox?’ he asked.
‘Who else were you expecting, Mister Mason?’ The accented voice was dry and unemotional.
‘I don’t know. It’s not my phone.’
‘You have the coin?’
‘Are my friends OK?’
‘One second.’
‘Hi.’ All Mace needed was the one syllable to recognize Angela’s voice. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘We’re all fine. I—’
‘Enough,’ Brox said. ‘Mr Mason, are you familiar with Chandler Park in Hollywood?’
Mace had driven past it not ten minutes before. On Santa Monica Boulevard, between Fairfax and LaBrea, a small neighborhood park featuring benches and a couple of tennis courts and a life-size bronze statue of its namesake, a meek-looking novelist in a suit and tie, wearing round glasses and a pipe in his mouth. He had a book under one arm and a cat cradled in the other. The sculptor had given his subject a raised eyebrow and a slight scowl, as if he were looking at something of which he didn’t quite approve.
Mace always had the impression the statue was looking at him.
‘I’m familiar with the park,’ he told Brox.
‘Good. Can you be there in half an hour?’
‘I’m up on Mulholland Drive,’ Mace lied. ‘Let’s say forty-five minutes to play safe. Where exactly do we meet in the park?’
‘We don’t,’ Brox said. ‘In forty-five minutes, I will call again with further instructions.’
He ended the connection.
Mace tossed the cellular phone on to the passenger seat. He didn’t plan on using it again.
He wouldn’t have expected their meeting to take place in the park. Or anywhere else beyond Brox’s total control. The Russian wanted to make him jump through several hoops, softening him up, before luring him to a final destination. He was banking everything on that destination being on the other side of the freshly painted seven-foot wall to his left.
The old Brigston Film Studio.
He’d remembered Honest Abe telling him that a guy he knew had bought the studio to make porno films. Then there was Wylie’s comment about seeing Timmie before, along with the corrupted titles of Elvis Presley songs and movies that no longer seemed to be the nonsensical ravings of a dying man.
He put the car in drive and toured the lot’s outer perimeter. He made note of the bright red metal gate blocking the vehicle entrance and, a few feet away, a door of the same color for pedestrian use. He also noted the adjacent blocks, obviously zoned for commercial use and occupied primarily by rows of warehouses interrupted by an automotive repair garage here or a junkyard there.
He wound up back on Ferraro, parking in pretty much the same place where he’d started.
The sidewalk there was so bucked it probably discouraged foot traffic and the tall, faded and mottled yellow building that took up almost half the block across the street showed zero signs of human activity.
He looked at his watch. Thirty-nine minutes before the Russian would be calling. Thirty-nine minutes for him to get over the wall, check out the situation there and do whatever had to be done.
He’d never been a fan of elaborate planning. He was too impulsive. He preferred the fast, unexpected move. Sometimes it worked for him. Sometime not. But plans didn’t always work out either.
He was suddenly struck by the not unreasonable fear that he wasn’t fooling Brox, that, to the contrary, the Russian knew exactly where he was. Hadn’t he read somewhere that there was a way of tracking people via their cellular phones?
He grabbed the phone and clicked it off. Much too late, of course, if Brox had been zeroing in on it. In a flash of anger, he tried to break the phone in two. He was only able to crack the plastic case and bend its inner workings a little.
‘Fuck you,’ he yelled into the now certifiably dead phone. ‘Whatever you’ve got, bring it on.’
He lowered the passenger window and threw the damaged phone into the street. He raised the window and leaned back, taking deep breaths that were supposed to calm him. Eventually his heart stopped trying to beat its way out of his chest.
There were a few small things in his favor. He figured he could count on Corrigan, assuming that the CIA agent was in any position to help.
And he was vaguely familiar with the studio. Or rather, with what the studio had once been like.
He’d spent a little time on the lot about fifteen years before, when its then owner, Henry Gordon Brigston, decided to close the place down. Brigston had been an active B-movie and TV producer-director, who’d bought the property when he was in the chips. But ageism closed out his creative career and the slowdown in independent film production had turned the lot into a financial albatross.
He’d thrown a music, food, and booze-filled farewell party that Mace and Paulie had crashed, hoping to score starlets, which had not been that difficult. Mace and a big redhead, both several margaritas down, had staggered into what they’d thought was an empty bungalow but was, in fact, Brigston’s office. They’d followed the sound of a movie to a small screening room, where his host was hiding out with a group of his cronies, watching a film.
The redhead, seeing it was old and in black and white, had tried to pull Mace away. But he was fascinated by the images on the screen. He took a seat in the theater’s back row and didn’t even notice that the redhead had gone. When the lights went on, Brigston, a bit surprised to find him there, introduced himself and asked if he’d liked the movie. ‘Very much, what I saw of it,’ Mace had replied. ‘You made a great film.’
Brigston grinned and began laughing, as did several of his friends. ‘Son,’ he said, ‘that was the nicest compliment anybody’s ever paid me. The movie was made by a director almo
st as good as I was. His name was John Ford.’ He then introduced Mace to the others, among them ‘two reprobates you probably recognize,’ an almost unrecognizable, aged Robert Mitchum, wearing huge dark-rimmed glasses, and a character actor named Anthony Caruso.
Brigston led them all into what appeared to be a sort of board room where a bar had been set up. He urged Mace to ‘stick around and sip a few and listen to some of the biggest liars Hollywood has ever produced.’
So Paulie had wound up in a threesome at their beach apartment, which was fine with him, while Mace had a–wakened alone at dawn the next morning, lying on a couch in Brigston’s office. Hung over, and possibly still a bit drunk, he’d staggered out of the bungalow to find himself facing four large sound stages, each marked with a giant identifying number. Out of curiosity, or maybe just to clear his head, he’d spent the next several hours strolling around the lot, walking through deserted sound stages and trying to keep out of the way of the clean-up crew that Brigston had hired to remove the party’s detritus.
Now, sitting behind the wheel of the Mustang, he tried to recall everything he’d seen. Finally, he’d had enough of that.
Well, what the hell? It’s an omelet situation. Time to break eggs.
FORTY-THREE
Spying no activity on the street, Mace left the Mustang carrying the sub-machine gun.
The wall was about a foot thick, its top flat enough to hold the handgun and the BXP while he managed to hoist himself up and over.
His memory had convinced him that he’d be hidden behind a wooden building that had once served as a stable when black-and-white westerns filled much of television’s prime time. Brigston had converted it into a garage.
It seemed that it was still being used for that purpose. He heard water splashing and a man humming a tune.
He lifted his weapons from the wall soundlessly and moved to the edge of the building. Beyond it, the lot seemed pretty much as he remembered, with the exception of wear and tear and some added construction vehicles – trucks, concrete mixers, backhoes, all idle. He scanned the area just long enough to convince himself that he and the humming man were the only creatures stirring.
He crept forward.
Sweets was standing with his back to Mace, looking very LA in baggy surf shorts and flip-flops, with a music player strapped to his upper right bicep and ear buds filling his head with sound. He was hosing off the Bentley with his left hand while extending his right arm with its electronic toy and plastered wrist away from the spray.
Mace tucked the Sig Sauer under his belt and ran forward, swinging the empty sub-machine gun against the back of the black man’s head. He had to hit Sweets once more, while the suddenly freed hose snaked this way and that soaking his black trousers and tennis shoes. He cut off the water and looked out over the lot.
Satisfied that there was no one to observe him, he opened the Bentley’s trunk, and, with some effort, lifted Sweets and tossed him in, getting wetter in the process. It took him no time at all to find a roll of duct tape on a shelf in the garage. He used Drier’s knife to cut three strips and made sure Sweets wouldn’t be getting out of the trunk or yelling. He wasn’t in the least concerned with what the binding might do to the man’s mending wrist.
He looked out over the lot and wondered if the construction machinery had been idled permanently. More likely, Brox had arranged for the crew to take an unplanned holiday. Mace’s watch told him he had twenty-two minutes before the Russian made his phone call. He didn’t know what the man would do when it went unanswered, but he didn’t want to find out.
Better to take the bastard down now. But where, oh where, might he be?
Mace stared at Brigston’s bungalow office sitting just past the construction toys, at the beginning of the backlot, facing the studio’s four sound stages. Viewed from the rear, with its windows blocked by lowered blinds, it showed no sign of occupancy.
But it was the logical place for a self-important asshole to establish temporary headquarters.
It did not seem prudent to take the most direct route to the bungalow, since that would include crossing a wide expanse of open lot. To his right were a series of street facades constructed decades ago to substitute for on-location filming. They were creaky and their trompe l’oeiel effects were being severely undercut by peeling and sun-cracked paint. But they offered cover.
First up was the lot’s western street, a relic that had probably been placed in that location to be near the working stable. It was breaking apart. The wooden rail in front had pulled loose from the rough-hewn post and the planks that had formed the walkway. A saloon sign and swinging doors had been placed in a pile waiting to be carted away.
But there was enough of the two-foot-thick facade left to hide Mace as he worked his way past its unpainted and rotting – but apparently well-constructed – foundation.
Next up was a peeling and partially deconstructed block of big city brownstones, circa 1940. Some of the stoops were missing and the real glass windows had broken long ago. Mace hopped over the braces that were keeping the whole thing standing and tried not to pick up any splinters.
He paused at the far end of the big city block. He was facing the right side of the bungalow. Six windows, four covered by blinds. The blinds were drawn up on the two windows near the front of the building and Mace could see into an apparently unoccupied room. But there was . . . something. A hum, coming from the direction of the bungalow. Very much a hum. He was surprised he hadn’t heard it before.
An air conditioner.
Good. It meant that somebody was in the bungalow. And chances were they wouldn’t hear his approach unless he kicked something. Like a gong.
He studied the bungalow for a few more seconds, then switched his attention to the numbered buildings. He imagined Timmie snoring away on his soft bed in Sound Stage Three, the one he’d mentioned on the recording. As long as Mace was fantasizing, he hoped Thomas might be asleep in there, too. Out of the way.
Seeing nothing more to discourage a visit to the bungalow, Mace was about to head for it when the sound of a gunshot trumped the air conditioner.
Mace ducked, but the shot had had nothing to do with him. It had taken place inside the bungalow.
He stood up, staring at the building. He saw some movement beyond the uncovered windows.
The front door opened and two men exited.
Mace took a backward step behind the facade, but was still able to see them standing in front of the bungalow, one offering the other a cigarette. Both were hiding behind designer sunglasses, but even without the glasses, it would have taken Mace a few seconds to realize who they were. A clean-shaven Gulik was wearing khaki shorts and a T-shirt that read, ‘Keeping It Real’. His partner, Klebek, had on a pink, collared pullover and lemon-colored shorts. Both wore sandals. They didn’t look at all Russian. They looked like two beefy locals who’d been planning to get in a little beach or poolside time but had been sidetracked.
Actually, Mace thought, they looked pretty much like the two males in the threesome porno he’d glimpsed at Simon Symon’s apartment.
‘. . . prepared for this bullshit.’ Gulik was obviously unhappy. Also obviously speaking without a hint of an accent. He inhaled deeply on his cigarette.
‘I tell you, dude, it was the fucking coldest thing I’ve ever seen,’ Klebek said.
‘OK, so the guy was behaving like an asshole,’ Gulik said. ‘But still . . . Jesus!’
‘The lesson is: you definitely don’t want to piss these guys off,’ Klebek said.
‘I think the lesson is: we get the fuck out of here,’ Gulik said.
‘Without getting paid?’
Gulik’s reply was interrupted by Thomas leaving the bungalow. ‘If you gentlemen are finished blackening your lungs,’ he said, ‘let’s collect my brother and take a little drive, shall we?’ He started walking in the direction of the sound stages.
Klebek looked at Gulik, evidently willing to follow his lead.
Gul
ik took another pull on his cigarette.
Thomas whirled on them and said, nastily, ‘Hell-o. Was I unclear? Did I not keep my words down to two syllables? Perhaps I was impolite? I do apologize. Would you come with me, please? Or should I . . . ?’ He patted the bulge under his tailored coat.
Gulik tossed his half-smoked cigarette away and Klebek did the same. Both men followed Thomas.
Mace watched them walk toward the sound stages. He wondered who’d just been shot. A guy who’d been behaving like an asshole. He knew someone who fit that description. He hoped he was wrong.
He’d find out soon enough. The grunts were all accounted for. It would take them a few minutes to get Timmie and head for the car. There they would discover Sweets’ absence, maybe hear him banging around in the trunk if he had woken up by then. They’d kill another couple of minutes setting him free and trying to figure out what had happened to him.
At that point, Mace would be in the bungalow, in charge, holding a gun to Brox’s head.
He saw Thomas pause at the door to Sound Stage Three, allowing the others to enter first. Then following them in.
As soon as the door closed behind Thomas, Mace was on his feet, running full out to the bungalow. He did not hesitate. Brox might hear him, but he’d assume it was one of the others returning.
He opened the door and, sub-machine gun in hand, stepped into a hall that ran the length of the building. The air conditioner was doing too good a job. The interior of the bungalow was freezing. That should have told him something, but his thoughts were focused on the Russian.
To his left was a room that might have served as a reception area. It was empty. The door to his immediate right was closed. That was where Brigston’s conference room had been. At the far end of the hall, past rows of framed movie posters, were two other closed doors. As he recalled, the one to the right led to the screening room. Brigston’s office had been to his left.
That’s where he was headed. But the posters slowed him down a bit.
Fifteen years ago, they had been for serious small budget efforts like War Bride, which had won an Oscar for cinematography, and goofy exploitation flicks like Cowboys from Mars and Dracula’s Dentist.
