by Dan Ames
“Martha Stewart? The domestic goddess?”
“No, Margaret Stewart,” Braggs said.
“Who the hell is that?” Mary slurred.
“She used to be my agent. And Brent’s agent. And Noah’s agent.”
“Lady gets around.”
“In fact, she was everybody’s agent back then. A powerhouse.”
Mary closed her eyes and the first faint stirrings of sleep, like the start of the incoming tide, slowly swept across her forehead.
“I think I'm going to fall asleep,” she said, a sound suspiciously similar to snoring began to come from her mouth. “You can let yourself out-” she started to say, but never finished the sentence.
“She knew everyone,” Braggs said. “But most of all, she knew where all the skeletons were. That's more valuable than anything for sale on Rodeo Drive, that's for sure.”
Mary fell asleep then, an image of the old man she’d shot as a skeleton, dancing around in the dark.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Her eyes grated open, like stone doors in an Egyptian tomb. Mary stared at the ceiling for several minutes, rewinding the film of last night, watching it in reverse order. She didn’t like what she saw.
Mary pushed back the blankets and sat up. Her head hurt and her stomach ached. She walked out to the kitchen and made coffee, then stood with her head hanging down while it brewed. Extra cream and extra sugar went in to bolster her recovery. She sat at the kitchen table and a little yellow note caught her attention.
10 a.m. Margaret Stewart.
It was signed Whitney Braggs. And there was an address scribbled next to Margaret Stewart’s name. Mary looked at the clock.
She had forty-five minutes to shower, dress, and get out to Beverly Hills.
Great.
Mary started for the shower and slipped off her robe, then froze.
She had on her pink pajamas. She thought for a moment, and then a horrifying thought nearly drove her to her knees.
Had she put them on herself?
Or had Braggs?
Suddenly, her head hurt even worse.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Margaret Stewart’s face was so taut from plastic surgery that Mary worried it would snap and fly across the office like a Frisbee. She had the urge to go over and plunk out a rhythm on it like a tribal drum. Didn’t the woman have a constant headache?
“That was quite a group,” Ms. Stewart said. Mary guessed the woman’s age to be seventy-ish, and thought the voice matched the skin: tight and unforgiving. Mary glanced around the office. Black leather, polished chrome, black-and-white photography. Typical power agent office.
“Yes, dysfunction in large numbers.” Mary said. “Always the hallmark of a good time.”
They’d already done the necessary introductions and had started in on the history of Brent Cooper and his gang.
“They certainly took the party with them,” Ms. Stewart said. “And it was always a big party.”
“In what way? Drugs? Gambling? Monkeys in lingerie?” Mary asked.
“Lingerie, yes. Monkeys no. At least, no monkeys at the parties I went to. I'm sure at some point, animals were involved.”
“Anything criminal going on?” Mary said. “Anything that would make someone come back later and start killing people?”
Margaret Stewart shrugged her shoulders, then nodded at Braggs. “Why don’t you ask him? He was there.”
Braggs shook his head. “Not like you,” he said. “I had gigs, flew around, didn’t see those guys and gals for months at a time. You were there constantly.”
“Besides,” Mary chimed in. “You probably knew everyone. And you most likely knew them better than he did. Braggs here, from what he tells me, just hung out and partied. He was probably busy de-flowering the female population of Beverly Hills.”
“It would be arrogant of me to agree with you, but I must confess that’s a fairly accurate statement,” Braggs said.
“I’m thinking they confided more in you,” Mary said to Ms. Stewart. “You know, crying to the agent about all of their problems and issues. That’s the stuff we need to know about.”
“That’s very perceptive, Ms. Cooper,” Margaret said. “But I was their agent not their babysitter and I did not perform confessions. They didn’t tell me everything because if they had problems, they certainly didn’t want anyone to know about them, especially their agent.”
“Yes, I’m sure all actors and actresses prevent their agent from witnessing their neuroses firsthand,” Mary said. “Come on, Margaret. This is L.A. Agents know where all the bodies are buried. Or at least who put the bodies where. And they’re good bodies because it’s L.A. and everyone works out.”
“Here’s what I meant,” Margaret Stewart said. “I just said they didn’t come and blab all of their war stories to me. Yeah, I heard some stories. Some were true, most of them were probably not.”
“Why don’t you tell us about the ones that were probably true? If there actually were any.”
The older woman pushed back from her desk and crossed her legs. She let out a long breath.
“That was a long time ago,” she said. “Let’s see. There was a core group. Brent Cooper was definitely one of the ringleaders. God he was a smartass. Arrogant, pushy, and a vicious mouth. You remind me of him,” she said to Mary.
“That’s one compliment I never get tired of hearing,” Mary said.
“Let’s see, there was also Harvey Mitchell,” Margaret said. “He was a star even back then. God, I had to turn away so much work for him. Even modeling agencies wanted a piece of him.”
“Harvey Mitchell?” Mary asked. “The host of The Night Talker?”
“The one and only,” Braggs said.
The Night Talker was a long-standing hit for NBC. Not quite the Tonight Show, but still a very powerful ratings earner. Harvey Mitchell was the silver-haired host. Interviewing stars, doing skits, and having a great time doing it. Making boodles of cash, too.
“There were so many of them,” Margaret Stewart said. “They floated in and out. Look, why don’t I just do this? When Mr. Braggs called me, I went into my archives and pulled my files for everyone I could think of. Including Noah Baxter’s. Obviously, there’s no longer anything sensitive in them. Half of the people are dead or disappeared.”
She gestured at a chair near a filing cabinet. There was a box full of faded yellow folders, thick with papers inside.
“Like I mentioned before,” Margaret said. “People came, people went. Men, women, kids, animals. Everything that could have possibly gone on among prosperous entertainment people in Los Angeles during those days definitely went on.” The woman glanced at her phone then continued. “So you can guess most of what was occurring on a daily, and nightly, basis. Why don’t you just look through all that, and then if you have any questions, call me. It’s not like I have time to sit here and tell you about every last thing, plus, at my age, I’d probably get most of it wrong. So just take the stuff, look it over and call me if you have any more questions. Okay?”
Braggs walked over and picked up the box.
Mary stood. “Thank you Ms. Stewart. I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that I most likely am going to call you again. I always have questions to ask. It’s one of my character traits that makes me irresistible to both sexes.”
“Brent Cooper. Reincarnated,” the older woman said and turned back to her computer as if they’d already left.
“Ouch,” Mary said on her way out.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Mary ditched Braggs as soon as possible.
“Don’t you want to go through that stuff together?” he’d asked, looking at the files.
“I think we’ve gone through enough together, don’t you?” Mary said.
“Not really,” he said. “But everyone’s certainly entitled to their opinion, no matter how wrong that opinion may be.”
“Before I go,” he said. “The rest of your clients are here. You remember the consortium of Brent�
��s old gang that together sent me to hire you?”
“Well, they’re all here and would like to get together with you. You know, go over the case and how they can help you catch the killer. I know it’s short notice, but does tonight work?”
“I’ve always got time for senior citizens,” Mary said. It would be a good chance for her to dig for more information anyway.
“Don’t look so excited, Mary. They're actually a fun bunch.”
“Laugh a minute, I'm sure, Whitney.”
Braggs smiled, his white teeth gleaming in the late Hollywood sun.
“I understand,” he said. “I’m cramping your style. Too much too soon, I take it?”
“That would presuppose I have a style, Braggs.”
“Oh you’ve got style. Plenty of it.”
“Are you hitting on me?”
“Absolutely not,” he said, holding his hands wide, a gesture of pure innocence. “That would be scandalous. A man my age making improper advances on a deceased colleague’s lovely, sexy niece? One who is clearly entertaining the idea of benefiting from an older man’s heard-earned experience in the bedroom? No.”
“The only thing I’m experiencing right now is revulsion mixed with a small amount of nausea.”
“Understood, Mary. Understood. However, I’m not hitting on you, despite the wonderful curve of your–”
“I am armed, Braggs.”
Braggs snapped his mouth shut, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
Mary walked away, wondering if some old ladies somewhere were supplying Braggs with Viagra. If not, she should set him up with the Golden Girls at Brent’s place. They’d tear him apart.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Margaret Stewart hadn’t been lying. At least not about the files. They were old. As old as the Hollywood Hills that had spawned the careers of these actors, comedians, and writers. She set the stack of files down on her desk next to her computer and fired up the machine.
Mary clicked on the iPod that ran her office sound system, and chose an album by Brandi Carlile, an immensely talented singer songwriter from Seattle who Mary had seen in concert. An incredible voice.
She launched her Internet browser, then followed that with her People Search software. It was a proprietary program developed by a friend of Mary’s, a software developer at a large corporation who had been fired for trying to improve the company’s product. It’s never a wise move to be so good in corporate America that you threaten your boss’s livelihood. Mary had helped out on his case and in return he had pirated software, improved it, and given it to her as a gift.
Now, Mary began alphabetizing the files. After fifteen minutes, she had all seventy-five files in order by last name.
With that, she launched into the job at hand. Namely, using her software to find, locate, and hopefully eliminate as many people as she could from the pile. The good thing was, one of the forms required by Margaret Stewart had included a section for personal information, and a line for the client’s social security number. That eliminated any problems with two Michael Williamses.
The pictures, the head shots, made Mary pause. God, they had all looked so young and happy. And real. She smiled at the credits. Television shows that she’d never heard of. Comedy reviews, clubs and movies she’d never heard of. It had been a different world back then.
The first conclusion Mary reached was that Uncle Brent’s crew didn’t have great longevity. Of the first ten files, seven were dead. Not surprising, though. Depending on how old they were when they made the L.A. attempt, and what year they launched, the majority of the folks were somewhere between sixty and eighty. Despite L.A.’s current reputation for health conscious individuals, back then they all smoked and drank like fish. Cancer had gotten lots of them, most likely.
She then dove into the files, working as quickly as possible. It took her just under two hours to eliminate everyone she could. By the time she was done, she was left with a very manageable keeper pile. Twenty-six living, five unaccounted for. After all the illnesses, the car wrecks, the suicides, these twenty-six had made it through. She silently congratulated them. The five who were unaccounted for, well, she would make up her mind about them later.
The twenty-six living would be relatively simple. She would have to track them down, interview them if possible, and cross them off the list until theoretically, she got the pool down to a chosen few and then she would have to take it from there.
It was the five unaccounted for that would be the bigger challenge. They had completely fallen off the grid, as the law enforcement community liked to call it. Or, just as likely, had taken themselves off the grid. Running from the law. Running from loan sharks. Hiding from ex-wives and alimony payments. She already pictured a couple of the guys bagging groceries in Florida under assumed names.
More people abandoned their identities than most realized. The process really wasn’t that difficult. The fact that most people thought it was difficult was why more didn’t do it.
There was a definite appeal to tossing out your current station in life, and starting an entirely new one.
She couldn’t blame them if that’s what they’d done.
At some point, hadn’t everyone fantasized about disappearing and starting over somewhere new? Just wiping the slate clean? The ultimate do-over?
Mary couldn’t speak for everyone.
But she knew she’d considered it.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Mary drove back to her place and was at her door when she heard him.
“Hey, hold up!”
She turned and saw the new good-looking neighbor trot down the hall toward her. What was his name again, she thought? Chris. Chris McAllister.
“Sorry,” he said when he finally reached her. “But I wanted to ask you a question.” He hesitated. “Actually, I’d like to get your opinion.”
“Yes, I think global warming is actually happening. Soon we’ll be underwater. Might be an improvement for L.A.”
He laughed, displaying that easy confidence she had noticed and liked, before.
“You know, I happen to agree, but I actually wanted your opinion on something else?”
“Hey, you want ‘em, opinions I got.”
“It’s actually my apartment. I can’t decide where to hang two paintings. I needed a different perspective.”
“Ah, so when you bring your lady friends here they’ll feel at home? Sort of some inside information?”
“Exactly. I want you to spy on your gender for me. Come back and tell me everything.”
Mary chuckled and then her mind flashed back to the shooting at the gallery where the mermaid/dolphin had been destroyed.
“You know,” she said. “Art and I don’t have a great history together.”
“Oh, come on,” he said. “It’ll only take a minute.”
“All right, I’ll tell my manservant Jacques to keep the lobster warm.”
He laughed, and for a brief moment Mary realized it was a laugh she could get used to.
Chris McAllister opened the door and Mary followed him in, checking out his ass as she went. Nice. It was firm and taut. She wanted to bounce a quarter off the damn thing, or maybe something else. Something more personal.
“Sorry for the mess,” he said.
Mary looked around. Mess? Her place hadn’t been this neat and clean since she’d moved in.
“Yeah, what a dump,” she said. “Sheesh. If you think this is bad, come over and make a mess of my place. It’ll be a huge improvement.”
It was a nice place. He’d bought completely contemporary furnishings. Sleek tables. Fifties style lamps. But not over the top. Not self-conscious. She had to admit, it was just good taste. Hip good taste.
“Before I present the dilemma,” he said. “Can I offer the judge a beverage? Wine? Martini? Beer?”
“Do you have any grain alcohol?” she said. “200 proof?”
“Sorry,” he said. “Just polished that off last night.”
“I
n that case, I’m good for now.” Her head still ached from the Jack Daniels. She was looking forward to going to bed.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” he said. “As you can see, my overall style is eclectic, but I’ve got two pieces of art here.”
He led her to the living room where two large canvases sat. One was definitely in the impressionistic camp. Heavy brushstrokes.
The other was like a Giclee print. It was an electric guitar.
“Hmm,” Mary said.
“What?”
“Well, I like both,” she said.
“Oh come on,” Chris answered. “My impression of you was that you don’t pull any punches. What do I look like? A pansy? I can handle the truth.” He raised his eyebrows and did a reasonably good impression of Jack Nicholson from A Few Good Men. “You need me on that wall…”
“Does anyone actually use the word pansy anymore?” Mary said.
“Only pansies.”
They both laughed.
“Okay, I’ll be honest,” Mary said. “Which is something I haven’t been in a long time. In fact, the last time I was honest I actually strained an abdominal muscle.”
“Okay.”
“The guitar print fits better, but the impressionistic painting is a better piece of art. It’s really good. Even though it doesn’t fit, wouldn’t you want to go with the better art?”
She turned to look at her neighbor. He wasn’t even looking at the art. He was looking at her.
“I agree with you,” he said. “The funny thing is, that one-” he said, pointing to the guitar painting. “That one cost me a ton. And that one,” he said, pointing to the impressionistic piece. “That one I got for twenty bucks at an estate sale.”
“I didn’t figure you for a bargain hunter.”
“Oh, yeah?” he said. “What did you figure me for?”
“I figured you for some sort of circus performer.”
“Good guess. But I’m actually a chef.”
