by Dick Lochte
These had been replaced by posters from the new owner’s production company, mainly porno permutations of Elvis Presley films. Kid Gal-I-Had, Wild Sex in the Country, Roust-a-butt, King C-hole. Each poster featured an assortment of naked ladies clinging to a shirtless, and, in one instance, also pantless, Timmie, who was billed as ‘The Supersized Elvis. When his pelvis swings the girls all sing.’
At another time, Mace might have been amused. But not now. Especially after noting the director of the movies. Simon S. Symon.
Mace took a deep breath, raised both weapons, kicked open the door to the office and stormed in.
The small, pale man in a tight, gray business suit who sat behind the desk was unmoved by his entrance. He was leaning back in his chair, his head titled slightly so that his pale blue eyes seemed to be observing a corner of the ceiling. The bullet that tore a hole in his forehead had made a messy exit, splashing blood and gray matter over his chair and a section of the wall and giving his luxurious mane of brown hair an odd upsweep at the back.
‘And who the fuck are you?’ Mace asked the corpse.
He didn’t expect an answer. But he got one.
‘That would be the late Maxil Brox, Mason,’ a familiar voice said behind him. ‘A gent who wasn’t quite as smart as he thought he was.’
He turned to see Corrigan lying in a heap on the carpet. ‘Gimme a hand, would ya?’ he asked. ‘In this position my arthritic knees are as useless as feathers on a fox.’
Mace tucked his handgun away and rested the BXP on the desk. He grabbed Corrigan’s arm and helped him to his feet, wondering if the CIA agent really had arthritis or was using that to get him to disarm.
‘Thanks, Mason,’ the stocky man said, pressing a spot under his white hair and wincing. He looked at the weapon resting on the desk. ‘Is that mine?’
‘Not anymore,’ Mace said, picking up the sub-machine gun. ‘What happened here?’
‘The Brit plugged Brox and whacked me on the noggin. Thought he’d put out my lights, but he underestimated the thickness of my skull.’
‘Why the violence?’
‘I’m not sure exactly. Brox’s boys woke me up a short time ago and led me over here. Brox said you were bringing him the coin and he wanted my advice on putting a deal together with the right distributor.’
‘You told me you didn’t want to deal with him.’
‘I didn’t. But I was willing to lie a little to get out of here in one piece. I didn’t get the chance.’
‘Why not?’
‘Seems the Russkie had a silent partner who got wind of our meeting and didn’t like being excluded. So she sent the Brit to put a hole in brother Brox’s head.’
‘She?’
‘Yeah,’ Corrigan said. ‘I hate to be the one to break it to ya, Mason, but the love of your life isn’t the sweet, young innocent we all thought she was.’
FORTY-FOUR
‘You’re saying Angela Lowell was partnered with Brox and had him killed?’
‘That’s my understanding,’ Corrigan said.
Mace circled the desk without turning his back to Corrigan.
‘She, ah, inherited Tiny Daniels’ position in his deal with Brox,’ Corrigan continued. ‘But she let the coin get away from her. And that’s when Brox decided to take a hand. You listenin’?’
‘Sure,’ Mace said. He used the barrel of the gun to edge the blinds an inch or so from a window, giving him a clear view of the backlot and the garage where he’d left Sweets. The Bentley was gone. That surprised him. It also gave him hope that the crew hadn’t been too concerned about the black man’s absence and had gone on their errand with him still unconscious and undiscovered in the trunk.
That scenario meant he had a little more time to find Paulie . . . and Angela.
Corrigan flopped on a leather couch against the far wall and let out a long sigh. ‘So, brother Mason, I imagine you’re smart enough not to be carrying the coin in your pocket.’ When Mace didn’t reply, he added, ‘But I bet you can lay your hands on it anytime you want. That’s why you and I have to have a mutually rewarding cha . . . What the hell are you doin’?’
Mace didn’t bother to answer because it was clear what he was doing. He’d reached into the corpse’s inner coat pocket and withdrawn a well-used leather wallet that was packed with cards and a few bills.
He studied the driver’s license under the glassine window, the small color photo of its owner indicating that he didn’t look any more rosy-cheeked when he was alive. He shook out the cards on to the desktop, separated them with the gun barrel. Apparently satisfied, he used the tail of his shirt to wipe his prints from the wallet and tossed it on to the desk, too.
Then he looked at Corrigan who was wincing in embarrassment, probably feigned. ‘OK,’ the stocky man said. ‘So the guy wasn’t really Brox.’
‘Horace Pender. That’s the name on his driver’s license, on his SAG card, on his AFTRA card. He was an actor who lived in goddamned Pasadena. What the fuck’s going on, Corrigan?’
‘I haven’t quite figured out the big picture. I knew this mutt was a ringer. I actually saw the Russkie once in Prague. A bruiser, meaty, bald as a baboon’s ass. I know for a fact he was financing Daniels’ play for the coin. I’m only guessing, but I think the dame was worried she didn’t have the, ah, gravitas to reclaim the coin and close the deal on her own.’
‘Why not use the real Brox?’
‘He may have been too cautious to risk a trip here to the States where he is persona non grata. Or la Lowell may have been afraid to tell him all was not well.
‘In any case, she hired a stand-in who, as it turned out, wasn’t up to the job. Wasn’t hungry enough, or crooked enough or smart enough. He didn’t figure the money was worth getting involved in murder and he wanted out. And . . . that’s what he got.’
Mace frowned. ‘If that’s the truth, what are you doing here?’
‘They brought me here to have my brain picked by a guy I was supposed to think was Brox. I, ah, confronted him, told him I knew he was a fake. It shook him, so I pushed it. I asked if he knew he was mixed up in an international conspiracy and that people had been murdered and . . . he started shaking like a leaf.
‘The other two blokes may have been hard cases but they were a little shook themselves. I don’t think they’d been given all the facts. Anyway, the little guy mentioned something about going to the cops. He’d barely got the words out when the Brit danced in and, without a “by your leave”, plugged him. Then he slugged me. He thought I was down for the count, like I said. I imagine he’ll be showing up shortly to drag my ass back to keep your pal Lacotta company.’
‘Lacotta still alive?’
‘Last I saw. They’re hoping to trade him for the coin.’
Mace hoped that wasn’t a lie.
‘Before we get interrupted,’ Corrigan said, ‘let’s take this discussion to another room. That stiff is making me a little queasy.’ He made the finger-to-the lips quiet gesture. Then he tapped his ear.
Mace nodded that he understood the charade. ‘Sure,’ he said, picking up the BXP.
In the hall, he moved toward the screening room, but Corrigan thought it was too cold in there and they wound up in the conference room.
‘Let’s get down to business, Mason,’ Corrigan said when they’d taken seats across the table from one another.
Mace stared at him.
Corrigan had waited much too long to clue Mace in about the bug in the other room. So he was now, officially, a part of the problem. And the conference room, which was no less chilly than the rest of the bungalow, had to be just as wired at the one in which they’d left the dead man.
Mace supposed that Corrigan may have been brought to the bungalow to be quizzed by ‘Brox’. And it was probable that he saw through the substitution. But after that, nothing in his story was certain, except that Pender did something to incur the wrath of his employer. And, with the ersatz Brox out of the picture, and Mace on the way, the improvis
ation had begun.
Goodbye fake villain Brox, hello fake friend Corrigan.
The other thing about the improv was the fact that it had been put into play so quickly. It meant that they’d known Mace was only minutes away. They’d been tracking him, thanks to the damned cellular phone.
What galled him even more was that they were assuming him to be too thickheaded to realize he was being overheard by probably more listeners than the Sinatra Hour.
‘What’s your plan?’ he asked Corrigan, resting the empty sub-machine gun on the table.
‘Like I said, the present deal is a straight exchange, the coin for Lacotta’s life. I think we can get that sweetened a bit.’
Mace cocked his head and asked, ‘What kind of deal would you have made for Drier?’
The question hit Corrigan like a punch. He flinched, blinked and was momentarily silent. Finally, he said, ‘I . . . wasn’t given that option.’
‘I guess you two were pretty close.’
‘He was my partner for nearly twenty years, for God’s sake. I . . . he was closer to me than family. Thrown away, discarded like a . . .’ Corrigan clamped his mouth shut and stared at the table as if searching for a message in its wood grain.
He began moving his lips. Mace had seen people do that in silent prayer, but he doubted Corrigan was praying. He had been baiting the man, trying to see what effect, if any, Drier’s death had had on him. Now he was concerned that he’d pushed him too far to be of any use in a showdown.
‘You OK?’ Mace asked.
Corrigan took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts. ‘Sure. Past history.’ He stared at Mace. ‘I assume you’re ready to negotiate?’
‘I’m not here to get frostbite from the air conditioner,’ Mace said.
‘Good. Hand me that weapon and we move to phase two.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Mace said, placing a proprietary hand on the unloaded sub-machine gun.
‘I can assure you, possession of the coin is a greater weapon than any gun.’
‘Tell that to the guy who had the coin before me, Tiny Daniels.’
‘Daniels’ death was a monumental mistake; the kind of stupid, thoughtless act that will not be repeated.’
‘It’s not just Tiny. Look at the poor sap in the next room. Or your pal Drier. ‘
Corrigan had hardened himself. No momentary mental drift this time. Just knotted jaw muscles. ‘That’s not going to happen to you.’
‘That’s right,’ Mace said. ‘Because I’m hanging on to this.’ He pointed the weapon at Corrigan’s chest. ‘I think it’s time now for you to take me where they’re keeping Paulie.’
‘It would be a mistake, Mason. Your girlfriend won’t let ’em kill you. But you step out of this building with a weapon and you’ll lose a kneecap or an elbow.’
He was fairly certain Corrigan was lying about Angela being the villain of the piece. Their location suggested a much more likely candidate. Just after Honest Abe had told him about a ‘friend’ buying Brigston Studio, Jerry Monte had appeared at the coffeehouse. Then, in the game room at the castle, Angela had mentioned Monte’s purchase of a property in Hollywood.
He was convinced that Jerry Monte was behind the whole charade. Monte owned the lot. Monte had put Timmie in his movies. Mace bet the porno he’d seen at Symon’s, featuring the fake Russian tough guys, had been one of Monte’s, too. And, most damning, he’d seen with his own eyes that Monte and Corrigan were poised to cut a deal with the US-approved arms dealer Enrico Acosta. The whole Brox thing had been a distraction.
What Monte and his pals needed was the coin. And he had it.
Mace stood suddenly, keeping the gun aimed at Corrigan’s chest. ‘I’ll tolerate no more bullshit about Angela. Understand?’
Corrigan shook his head. ‘You seem like a pretty smart operator, Mason,’ he said. ‘Don’t let your willie get you killed.’ He slid back his chair and stood slowly. ‘I’ll admit, I may have exaggerated the lady’s status a bit. But please believe me when I say that she’s who we’ll be dealing with.’
Was this more bullshit, Mace wondered, or was he fooling himself with some romantic fantasy? Paulie believed Angela had betrayed him to Tiny Daniels. She’d been at Tiny’s the night of the murders. It was not unthinkable that she’d set the fat man up for . . . Jerry Monte. She was Monte’s girl. Mace was not conceited enough, or self-confident enough where women were concerned, to think that one night could change that. Her affection and profession of love had seemed real, but . . .
Enough! It was time for him to find out where everybody stood.
He handed Corrigan the unloaded sub-machine gun.
Corrigan grinned. ‘Smart lad,’ he said. ‘Let’s go see the lady.’
FORTY-FIVE
As they left the bungalow, Thomas was approaching from the direction of the sound stages. The gun pointed at him was definitely a Spitfire, Mace decided.
‘I’ll carry that for you,’ Thomas said to Corrigan, holding out his free hand for the sub-machine gun.
Corrigan hesitated before giving up the weapon. He evidently wasn’t feeling all that trusting of his associates.
Mace waited for Thomas to misplace his reliance on the BXP and holster the Spitfire. But the Brit opted to keep his hands full and both weapons in play.
‘Shall we, gentlemen?’ he said.
Thomas herded them in the direction of Sound Stage Three. Mace remembered, from fifteen years before, that some of its interior space had been taken up by a courtroom set used in a once-popular lawyer series. When he’d gone on trial a few years later, he’d been surprised by how similar the real courtroom had been to the fake.
He half expected to see that same pale-wood construction, untouched by time. Instead, he found something quite different. The courtroom had been replaced by two smaller sets. One was a very feminine boudoir, all pink and white satin. The other was a different sort of bedroom; blood-red and black silk. A tall onyx armoire sat with its doors open to a bright-red interior and an assortment of hooks from which dangled various implements employed in bondage games.
Both sets were well lighted. The rest of the vast space was either dark or in shadows.
The bondage room’s king-size bed and shiny black duvet were being tested by Timmie’s massive weight. The giant was stretched out, wearing a plaid shirt and tight Levi’s, à la Elvis in Roustabout. Paulie was sitting on the floor leaning against a bedpost, hands bound behind his back, eyes covered by a sleep mask, mouth silenced by metallic tape. He looked weary and miserable. But alive and, as much as Mace could see, not too badly damaged. He was wearing a spiked dog collar with a chain leash strapped around Timmie’s thick wrist.
Fifteen or twenty feet from the set, Sweets and one of the fake Russians, Klebek, were sitting on director’s chairs, staring at him. Angela, at a slightly lesser distance, was also in a director’s chair, facing a card table, on which she had laid out a game of solitaire and a .45. She was wearing oversized, dark-framed glasses.
Mace continued to scan the area but saw no sign of Jerry Monte’s presence, either physically or electronically, though he supposed an elephant could have been dozing in the darker corners.
He turned again to the three people on chairs. Their moods were varied. The fake Russian seemed apprehensive, taking nervous sips from a cardboard coffee container. Sweets’ narrowed eyes conveyed a homicidal anger, which Mace granted was partially justified. And Angela . . . her magnified eyes seemed alert, but he couldn’t quite read the rest of her face. Resigned? Remorseful? Minus his romanticized spin, maybe just annoyed.
She’d exchanged her party nightwear for something a little more practical – tight black slacks and a white pullover. She turned to Klebek, who was sitting next to her. ‘I’d appreciate it if you would give Mr Mason your chair.’
‘Sure,’ Klebek said, rising so swiftly, he nearly knocked the chair over. Reacting to her outstretched arm, he placed the chair across from her.
Mace took his time approa
ching, eyes focused on Angela.
He moved the chair slightly, so that he wouldn’t have to crane his neck too much to get a glimpse of the action on the bondage set. When he was seated, Angela asked, ‘Ready to get down to business?’
‘Sure,’ he said.
Paulie was squirming, trying to make himself heard through the tape. Mace had to look away. He considered using the handgun, but there were just too many to kill. And Timmie. He could use all his ammunition on him alone and maybe still get pounded to death.
‘Paulie’s not looking so happy,’ he said to Angela. ‘Can’t you get the blindfold and collar off?’
She told Sweets to take care of it. He stood and used his left hand to awkwardly draw a small gun from his pocket, as if he expected Lacotta to give him trouble.
Mace turned to the fake Russian. ‘Where’s your buddy Gulik?’
Klebek lowered his head. Sweets, who was halfway to Paulie turned suddenly and pointed his gun at Mace. He said, ‘Chickenshit got what you deserve, motherfucker.’
When Mace offered no reply, Sweets obeyed the orders he’d been given. Once Paulie’s blinders had been removed, he began blinking, then rolled his eyes around as if he were having a seizure.
Sweets couldn’t remove the collar one-handed and the fake Russian was employed to help him complete that task.
‘That’s my evidence of good will,’ Angela said to Mace. ‘What’s yours?’ She added a whispered plea, ‘Trust me.’
That twisted his head a bit, which, he supposed, could have been its purpose. He decided to react as if he hadn’t heard it. He turned to Corrigan. ‘You gonna cut my deal for me?’
‘I think Mr Corrigan has cut his last deal with me,’ Angela said. ‘A success, considering he’s still breathing. If that’s the deal you want for yourself and Paulie, hand over the coin now.’
‘I don’t have it on me.’
‘We should make sure of that,’ Thomas said.
‘When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it,’ Angela said. She stared at Mace as if trying to read his face. He gave her a blank page. ‘Where is it?’ she asked.
