Blood is Pretty

by Steven Paul Leiva

  “Have you recently been approached by anyone unaware of how enviable you are?”

  “A man with a foreign accent tried to—initiate a discussion. ”

  “And you told him… ?”

  “I told him to fuck off. ”

  “Well, a genius may not necessarily be smart. If he tries another initiation, would you cooperate with me and be more pleasant to him?”

  “No. ”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not convince that you’re not a rapist. ”

  “If we don’t get these people, you will come to harm. As will others. ”

  “I cannot come to harm. ”

  “Why?”

  “Because the 21st Century is going to be my century. ”

  I took a large swallow of coffee, took a moment to enjoy it, and then I said, “Young master Skinner, you suffer from the greatest folly of youth. You think you’re immortal. Unfortunately you now have adversaries that disagree. I can help you. ”

  “Why?”

  “Because I choose to do so. ”

  “I guess, to be polite, I should express appreciation for your concern, but politeness takes time, and I have very little to spare. I am so close to perfection, I must get back to it. ” He stood up and gestured towards the glasses and CD-Rs. “May I have my property back?”

  The Captain looked at me. I shook my head. He turned to Skinner and repeated the action. “Evidence in a murder case. But I can give you a receipt. ”

  “No, never mind. I trust you. Thanks for picking up the check. ”

  I stopped him before he could walk out. “Just two more questions. ”

  He turned with a sigh. “Yes?”

  “Do you know any Hollywood trivia?”

  “It’s a hobby I shared with Dave and Craig. ”

  “I’ve been trying to remember for days. The apartment building on Rossmore that Mae West lived in, was it the Ravenswood, or the El Royalee?”

  He started to open his mouth, then stopped. He chuckled. “Well, on rare occasions my genius fails me. I can’t remember. You had a second question?”

  “Yes. Which one were you? Huey, Dewey, or Louie?”

  The ice blue eyes dulled. They stopped their darting. A small sadness crept in. Jim Skinner turned and left.

  *

  We had another cup of coffee. The Captain put in a call to his contact at Immigration. There was no record of a Zhelyu Batsarov having entered the country. So he was here illegally and under cover. We gave the Captain a description and he said he would put out an APB, but we knew it would prove useless. He said he would try to keep some men detailed to Skinner, but with the manpower problems of the LAPD, it would not be easy. And he hated to call in the Pasadena Police on something so full of conjecture.

  As we were traveling home on the 134, just outside of Pasadena, just into Eagle Rock, a sound that might have been a sonic boom interrupted our conversation.

  “What? Is the Space Shuttle landing at Edwards?” Roee responded casually.

  “No,” I said, “The shuttle always causes a double boom. ” Out of instinct I checked my rear view mirrors. The cause of the boom, or rather its effect, was plainly rising high into the slate gray sky in the form of a black tunnel cloud. The height it was reaching indicated an immense explosion. “Turn on KPCC. ”

  Roee did so. A fine example of “Classic American Music,” as KPCC bills its fare, was on the air.

  Choo choo, choo choo, ch’boogie!

  Woo woo, ooh ooh, ch’boogie!

  Choo choo, choo choo, ch’boogie!

  Take me right back to the track, Jack!

  “Hey we’ve got to interrupt the music here to report that that big boom you just heard, if you live anywhere here in the San Gabriel Valley, seems to have come from Caltech, which is practically right next door to us here at Pasadena City College, so you know we’ve been pretty shook up here. Nonetheless, we’re going to get all the information we can on it. Needless to say, it certainly sounded like an explosion and our General Manager reports a black cloud rising from the Caltech campus. Now this follows right on the heels of the sniper incident that we reported before going to the last song. We don’t know if the two are related, but… ”

  Roee turned the radio off.

  “Well—I guess the 21st Century will just have to do without Mr. Skinner,” I said as the freeway curved us up towards Glendale and I lost sight of the black cloud in my rear view mirror.

  Chapter 11

  Science Kills

  “What a fuckin’ mess!” the Captain declared over the phone.

  “Deaths?” I asked as I settled back into my chair in the library.

  “Sixteen, including Skinner. Shot by sniper fire or killed in the explosion. ”

  “Lay it out for me. ”

  “At about 3:37 PM two individuals, both male it is assumed, from the roof of the Millikan Library, at ten stories the tallest building on the Caltech campus, began firing high powered rifles. One fired west down onto Bechtel Mall and Wilson Avenue and the structures across the avenue, like the Geological Survey and Financial Aid, the other shot east into the campus along an area of heavy foot traffic heading towards the Athenaeum Faculty Club. The shooting was random, but precise. They were mostly shooting people’s kneecaps off. But Skinner they shot right through the heart. Had a perfect view of his parking space. Got him just as he was getting out of his car. He was the first one shot. Just previous to the shooting, two huge banners were unfurled, one on the west side, one on the east side. Both said the same thing: SCIENCE KILLS. ”

  “A ruse, of course. ”

  “Knowing what we know, of course it was. But as you may have gathered from the news, everybody else is taking it seriously. ”

  “Let’s make sure that remains status quo. It can only help us. ”

  “Agreed. The Pasadena PD SWATs got there quickly, but were powerless as the library towers over everything, and there was no way to get a shot at the snipers. As for helicopters, you probably heard what happen to the KTLA News Chopper. ”

  “Portable surface-to-air missile, I assume. ”

  “Absolutely—most likely a sidewinder. It was just a warning. Smashed the anti-torque rotor. Great fuckin’ pilot, I’ll tell you. Managed to set the chopper down on the athletic field. They proved their point. No police chopper could get close. ”

  “The explosion was centered in Skinner’s lab, of course. ”

  “Yes, in the Bridge Laboratory, on the south side. The building faces the library on the north side. ”

  I was quiet for a moment. So was the Captain. He knew when I was thinking. Finally I said, “Yell out if something doesn’t make sense. Batsarov took a crew of thugs to Caltech with the single purpose of breaking into Skinner’s lab and stealing the Veritas glasses and software. For two reasons: One, they lost the prototypes to me and probably got into pretty serious trouble for that blunder. And two, Skinner couldn’t be bought, which I’m sure York kept telling them would be the case. Also knowing from York what security measures Skinner had—pretty serious ones I assume?”

  “Yeah. We talked to Caltech administration about that. All put in at Skinner’s expense. It was state-of-the-art. ”

  “I’ll bet. And knowing that, they knew they couldn’t be subtle about breaking in. ”

  “So they needed a diversion to get people’s, not to mention the police’s, attention focused away from Skinner’s lab. ”

  “Yes. Some anti-science political snipers are a rather radical diversion, but Bulgarians are fairly melodramatic. Not to mention film executives. They smashed their way into the lab, not caring about alarms, found what they came for—York either told them where it would be, or might even have been dragged along to guide—then they planted the explosives, to be set off by remote control or a timer, doesn’t really matter, then they left the lab, melding into the hysterical crowd. ”

  “Why such a huge bomb?”

  “Make it seem just part and parcel with the sn
ipers’ political action. I’m sure they hope the authorities will assume the location of the bomb was just as random as the sniper fire. The snipers got away?”

  “Yes. ”

  “I’m sure they posed as air conditioning maintenance men to get up there, and geek science students to get away while the explosion became the diversion. ”

  “A diversion to cover up escaping from a diversion. Very slick. ”

  “Yes. Sick slick. ”

  “Why did they kill Skinner? I mean he was obviously targeted. ”

  “It was imperative. They want no challenge to their patent application. Plus, look how neat the plan was. The first shot both kills their intended target and starts the mayhem for their diversion. ”

  “Two birds—one stone. ”

  “Hell of a deadly stone. ”

  “Well the Pasadena PD will do a thorough investigation. ”

  “And we will not get one piece of evidence that will lead to Batsarov. I know the kind of training he’s had. But worse still, there will be no evidence to link Andy Rand. ”

  “So, assuming you are right about Rand, how you going to get him?”

  “Wish I knew, Captain. Thanks for the report. ” I hung up. I thought. I cursed.

  I picked up the phone and punched Roee’s extension.

  “Yes?”

  “Get to the computer. I want to see everything, absolutely everything, on Andy Rand, including all press accounts, pro and con: rumors; hearsay; verbal indiscretions people have made to us regarding him. Then call Norton. Have him arrange a meeting for me with Torvald Engstrand at NewVue. Then make up a big pot of that Jamaican Blue. We have some late night reading to get through. ”

  “Well, that all sounds to be just incredible fun, Fixx, but may I make the outrageous, but I think not irrational, suggestion, that we can put that off until tomorrow. It’s been a rough few days. Sleep beckons me, and I’m sure it has you on its short list. ”

  “Carnage has been committed today, Roee. Death of innocent Homo sapiens. ”

  “Yes, and if by any chance Mr. Rand and Batsarov persist in that direction and finish off the rest of humanity tonight, well, at least it will be good for the snail darter, the spotted owl, and the cute-as-a-button mink. ”

  What could you do, but think about it? “You are, sir, a philosopher of rare depth. ”

  “Thank you. Go to bed. ” The Phone rang. “You are unavailable,” Roee instructed me.

  “See who it is first, please. ”

  There was a pause as Roee dealt with it. Then he came back on. “Norton has Anne Eisley on the line. ”

  “Oh. May I talk to her, Mr. Roee, sir, please?”

  “All right. Then it’s spit spot off to bed with you. ”

  Her voice came on—tones of molten gold. “Thank you for the bath goodies. I am taking advantage of them right now. How did you know Marcel’s was my favorite?”

  “Elementary, my dear wet-one. ”

  “How so?”

  “They’re the best. I assume you settle for nothing less. ”

  “How true. When am I going to see you again?”

  “Do you have more work for me?”

  “No. I’ve got the role. Crane is in the hospital and very grateful for my nursing and my agreement to never speak of the circumstances. I do fittings next week and start filming in three. I’m thrilled and I’m happy. So, I have no work to offer. And, in any case, I was somewhat thinking more about play. You said 48 hours. It’s been 48 hours, nearly. You said take lots of baths. This is my fifth. So I was think—Ow!”

  “Is anything wrong?”

  “Uh, no. Something just—slipped. ”

  “Oh. ”

  “That should teach me. Besides the best, never settle for less than the real thing. Busy tomorrow?”

  “I’m afraid so. My time right now is not really my own. ”

  “That’s very disappointing. I will be in the same situation once we start filming. ”

  “Well, then in this next three weeks I will strive mightily to find, steal or make time to play. But I can promise nothing. Except to make the effort, of course. ”

  “Not the most soothing news, but enough to hold dear. Good night. ”

  “Good night. ”

  She hung up. So did I. Sleep waited. I was looking forward to it being sweet.

  *

  I woke up early the next morning to find all the information on Rand I required in a neat file on my desk in the library. A carafe of Jamaican Blue was being kept warm on a burner and Roee entered with a hearty bowl of steel cut oatmeal. “It’ll stick to your ribs, as the old American phrase goes. Although I’ve yet to figure out the benefit of sticky ribs. ”

  “Keeps your heart in place. ”

  “Really? Never thought of it that way. Much to my credit. ”

  He left. I sipped the hot coffee, letting it excite my tongue and thrill my senses. “Ah—a drug,” my body gratefully said. My body, I feel, has always been somewhat disappointed in my long term and steadfastly square attitude towards drugs. Except for caffeine and alcohol, it has missed out completely on all the less traditional yet well circulated drugs and intoxicants of the era. But to listen to your body is to listen to a poor advisor, one who can lead you into the arms of your enemies. And everyone is your enemy. Until they prove otherwise.

  My reading and thinking took me until noon, interrupted only once when Roee informed me that Norton had scheduled my meeting with Engstrand for 3:30. By that time, I had a pretty clear picture of Andy Rand.

  He was born poor in Nebraska. “Mr. Middle America,” he liked to call himself as one explanation for his golden gut. Went to a state college in Lincoln, shooting for an MBA, bored to tears. Founded a campus film club to bring some light—all of it projected—into his life. He screened the old classics and became a bit of a campus celebrity when he managed to get actors and directors from the by-gone days to make personal appearances. But he soon realized that there was too much past tense in the word “classic. ” He had decided that movies were the business for him, and as movies were a business of the moment, it was people of the moment he needed to attract to the plains of Nebraska. And so he did. Nobody of any real importance, of course—this was, after all, Nebraska—but people important enough to wave it in the little Nebraskan’s face and tell him to call if he “ever came out to the Coast. ”

  He quit school and went to the coast. He is quoted as saying:

  I knew then that the business of distributing intellectual properties would become the leading industry of America. Oil was dead. Steel was dead. The Japanese were poised to wipe our rears with small cars. Aerospace was downsizing. Europe and the Pacific Rim were becoming real competitors in all areas—except filmed entertainment. Only we in America seem to know how to make the common man laugh and cry and gasp at stunning action and mind-boggling effects. If I was going to be in business, I wanted to be in the growth industry of the future.

  Whether this brilliance existed in the foresight of his actions or the hindsight of a victor writing history can best be answered by tracking what he did next. When he came to Hollywood he did not call all those who had said to call. He first got himself a job in the mail room of one of the smaller talent agencies, one of the ones that did not demand an Ivy League diploma in order to become a shit-toting, shit-taking, shit -loving slave. Then he called them, putting in a friendly call, a call not saying, “I want something,” which is a call no one wants to take, but a call saying, “I’m here, I’ve got something, so I’m not desperate, I just wanted to say hi,” which is the kind of call that alerts the person on the other end—he’s a comer; keep an eye on him. This brilliance, more instinctual than intellectual, was definitely the brilliance of foresight.

  He soon jump from the mailroom to a “Desk,” handling the calls, correspondence and appointments for an agent, listening in, not speaking, learning that the Biz was the deal and the deal was the Biz. But also learning that he did not want to be an agent. The onl
y flesh he wanted to peddle, the only career he wanted to look out for, was his own. Now he called again his Nebraska visiting “friends” and soon became the personal assistant to a newly hot producer of volatile temper and loud mouth who mentally, and near physically, abused Rand, constantly screaming at him in front of others, calling him names not often heard on the plains of Nebraska. Rand eventually escaped to one of his other contacts, a young, female producer who had her first hit—a simple-minded independent film about an autistic boy who asks the world’s leaders the simple-minded question, “Why not peace?”—and a first look housekeeping deal at MGM. He became her director of creative affairs. Then he left her for a better offer at a director’s production company, becoming his vice president of production. Then, after two hit films for the director based on screenplays Rand found, he became the president of the company. The director became the “A List” director of the moment, giving Rand a substantial boost of power. He used the power wisely, making friends, targeting enemies, cultivating favors. After the director had an embarrassing flop film Rand had begged him not to make, Rand took his first studio job. He did not fit in well. Studios were now parts of conglomerates with large corporate cultures that tended to diminish all but those at the top. And even then it was like the military: It was the position, not the man that was saluted. You were you because of the company; the company wasn’t the company because of you. Nonetheless he stuck it out, suffered indignities, fought for films and lost, spent hours getting to know and build loyalties with actors and writers not yet proven. When one of them, a good-looking hunk who could do comedy, found himself in a hit sitcom, Rand found him a feature vehicle, shoved it into the hands of the head of the studio, pushed hard to cast this “TV kid,” got the green light, kept the budget minimal, and smiled as all the other studio executives ran for cover because he knew it would be a hit. It was. The other executives had ducked so deep none could find a way to take any of the credit. Rand got it all. The film helped the studio just squeak into the black that year. It won no Oscars. But no one held that against him.