PRAISE FOR THE NINA ZERO NOVELS
Burning Garbo
“Zero’s is such a sad, funny, companionable voice, and Eversz’s L.A. is a noir-lover’s neon dream…. What’s most compelling in Burning Garbo is the way character, whether remaining constant or changing, both drives the story and is itself a kind of metabolizing, breathing organism … Eversz’s other main character, of course, is the city of Los Angeles, about which nobody writing today is as sweetly lethal.”
—The Washington Post
“With plenty of celebrity satire and an ending that confounds expectations, this is a rollicking ride.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Eversz has a superb sense of place that’s perfectly matched by his plotting and characterization in a book with action and psychological depth. Burning Garbo is rich, rewarding crime fiction by an author who should be much better known.”
—Detroit Free Press
“Good supporting characters, realistic depictions of Southern California and Arizona and bump-to-jump fast plotting. A fun read.”
—Austin American-Statesman
“Eversz is good, wickedly good.”
—About.com
“(Nina Zero) comes across as the pissed-off, trouble-prone love child of Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe and Joan Jett. Or is it Chrissie Hynde? Or, maybe, Courtney Love? Well, whoever her mother is, Nina can probably kick your ass. At least, verbally.”
—January Magazine
“Celebrities, cameras, guns, death by wildfire and toothless big dogs. Who could ask for more?”
—Arizona Daily Star
“The action is nonstop, the Los Angeles images spot on, and the mood evocative of the noir classics that defined the early great L.A. crime novels.”
—BookPage
“Eversz keeps delivering deft noir touches and explosive action throughout this latest entry in the tough-girl Nina Zero series.”
—Booklist
“Zero is a fine character, someone who has definitely had the cards stacked against her in life, but who never gives up the good fight…. A fun read.”
—San Jose Mercury News
Killing Paparazzi
“A wonderful fictional voice … Eversz’s considerable talent infuses this terrific thriller with tension and feeling, and will leave readers wanting more of Nina Zero.”
—The Washington Post Book World
“[A] street-smart, razor-sharp combination of crime fiction and Southern California social commentary.”
—Los Angeles Times
“Zero is a convincing ex-con … Eversz, who can plot up a storm, makes sure there’s a chuckle or at least a grin on almost every page.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Nina Zero is a delicious invention …”
—St. Petersburg Times
Shooting Elvis
“A feverishly hip satire of the Hollywood zeitgeist … With his slick style and cheeky cynicism, Eversz is already an expert at setting heads to spinning.”
—The New York Times
Whip smart … An exciting and daringly original book.”
—The Boston Globe
ALSO BY ROBERT EVERSZ
Gypsy Hearts
Shooting Elvis—A Nina Zero Novel
Killing Paparazzi—A Nina Zero Novel
Digging James Dean—A Nina Zero Novel
SIMON & SCHUSTER PAPERBACKS
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2003 by Robert Eversz
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
First Simon & Schuster paperback edition 2005
SIMON & SCHUSTER PAPERBACKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-800-456-6798 or [email protected]
Designed by Jan Pisciotta
Manufactured in the United States of America
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Eversz, Robert.
Burning Garbo : a Nina Zero novel / Robert Eversz.
p. cm.
1. Zero, Nina (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Los Angeles (Calif.)—Fiction. 3. Women photographers—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3555.V39B87 2003
813′.54—dc21 2003052807
ISBN 0-7432-5013-3
eISBN-13: 978-0-743-25356-7
ISBN-13: 978-0-743-25013-9
0-7432-5014-1 (Pbk)
For Al Hart, in appreciation of his faithful, wise, and literate counsel
We began to congregate on street corners
at night, Santa Monica and La Brea,
to erect searchlights
and marquees announcing premieres
for which there were no films.
We looked upward
as if what had been taken from us
were somehow etched in starlight above
their sacred city. We began
to chant, demanding their return—
to learn, for once, the meaning
of their desperate, flagrant love.
—GERALD COSTANZO, from “Dinosaurs of the Hollywood Delta”
On the morning of my thirtieth birthday I scaled the hills above the Malibu estate of a movie star who hadn’t been seen in public for the last decade. I hiked in jeans and a T-shirt, my camera equipment packed into a bag on my back. The late-October sun burned over my shoulder and the resinous perfume of coastal sage plumed into the air as I kicked through the brush. I had been trying to get a tabloid-worthy photograph of Angela Doubleday for three days, commissioned by the editor of Scandal Times to coincide with the tenth anniversary of the death of a stalker killed in her arms.
Midway up the hill I paused to plot a course to an outcrop of rock above the estate. The rock, worn sandstone jutting from the chaparral, would serve as the paparazza’s equivalent of a duck blind, concealing me while I waited out the shot. Doubleday was not an easy woman to photograph. Years of self-imposed exile had honed her skills at seclusion. She may have left the house once during the three days I tracked her, ferried to Beverly Hills in the back of a stretch Cadillac driven by a liveried chauffeur. The passenger windows were smoked and the limousine cruised the streets of Beverly Hills without once pulling to the curb. The chauffeur could have been transporting a flock of parrots and I wouldn’t have known the difference.
I hiked to the rock briskly enough to work up a sweat, aware that I’d be sitting for the remainder of the afternoon. Celebrity stake-outs demand hours of idleness and solitude, valuable job skills I acquired at California Institute for Women. I’ve learned to take my exercise when I can. I unpacked the Nikon and glanced through the viewfinder. Cypress trees had been grown at the back of the estate to screen the pool and house from the view of jackrabbits, coyotes, lost hikers, and the occasional enterprising paparazza with a telephoto lens. I crouched beside the rock and attached the longest lens I owned, a five-hundred-millimeter beast the size of a rhinoceros horn. The cypress trees spired yellow-brown against the blue horizon, struck by a drought or blight that had stripped the needles near the trunk. I lined up my shot through a gap in the branches, focusing on a set of French doors that opened to the pool. I waited, a dry Santa Ana wind whipping at the tendrils of my hair. Though I so
metimes had moral qualms about shooting people who didn’t want to be shot, I was happy in my work. Six months earlier, the California Department of Corrections had paroled me four years into a seven-year fall for manslaughter. Nobody in my family spoke to me. I had associates, but no one I’d call up just to say hello. I was good at my job, and in the absence of any sustaining human relationships, that was good enough.
I pulled from my camera bag the Leonard Maltin biography of the woman I’d been hired to shoot and passed the time reading, my eye routinely flicking up to glance through the lens. Angela Doubleday made her first film appearance in a 1970s James Bond movie, playing a Las Vegas showgirl. The role was not coincidental. She had strutted the Vegas stage since the age of eighteen, wearing an elaborately stitched headdress of the Eiffel Tower and little else. A casting director noticed that her figure stuck out a little more here, tucked in a little more there. The two million men who bought the issue of Playboy featuring her that year noticed it, too. In the early 1960s, she might have been molded into a Marilyn Monroe—style sex icon, but by the ’70s women whose figures seemed pumped by an air hose were looked up to only in automobile garages, truck stops, and other shrines to the pneumatic female. She was young enough to pattern herself with the changing times and did. She grew her hair long and straight, dispensed with bra and cosmetics, and rather than emulate the bleached-blond bimbos of the past, she portrayed a spaced-out hippie chick, which in retrospect was still a bimbo, just one redefined by the tastes of a different era.
An hour after I began my vigil an unfamiliar figure breached the French doors behind the pool. The man’s zinc-colored hair marked him on the far side of fifty—or so I thought until I focused on his face. It wasn’t a bad-looking face, the lips full and the nose prominent, like the nose on the bust of a Roman senator, but the skin at his cheekbones pulled with the tautness of youth, and a single, manly crease marked his brow. Save for that crease, his face looked as smooth as a swept sidewalk. That alone was not proof of anything, not since L.A.’s seekers of eternal youth discovered Botox, a neurotoxin that when injected into the face paralyzes the muscles and as a side effect erases nearly every wrinkle from the skin. You can’t accurately judge anyone’s age in L.A. anymore, not from the neck up, not unless you put a gun to their head, tell them to wrinkle their brow. Those on Botox can’t.
I dipped the lens to check out his moccasin-style loafers, Gap khakis, and striped polo. He glanced over his shoulder, perhaps at somebody in the house, then stared intently up the hill. I fought the impulse to duck behind the brush. The point of his gaze struck above me, near the crest. I’d staked out enough celebrities to know that movement attracts the eye. I knew enough to sit perfectly still, except for the twitch of my finger on the shutter release. Maybe I was looking at Doubleday’s lover. Maybe he was the pool man. Maybe he’d turn out to be both. Only the collective imagination of Scandal Times would know for sure. The reflection of the pool in the glass shimmered when he slammed the French doors. I waited a few minutes for him to return. He didn’t. I propped the Maltin biography on my knee and turned to the next chapter.
Had Angela Doubleday continued to play a spaced-out hippie she would have finished in a one-bedroom apartment far from the studios and not on a two-acre estate in Malibu. The defining moment in her career came when the director Sidney Lumet cast her in the role of Anna, the voracious young wife in Eugene O’Neill’s Desire Under the Elms. Doubleday played Anna like a cornered lioness. The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences likes nothing more than a surprise turn by one of its stars and gave her the nod for the first of four Academy Award nominations, the last for a low-budget independent production in which she portrayed an aging Las Vegas showgirl battling drug and alcohol addiction.
The stalker attacked on the night she celebrated her nomination. He broke through a security barrier outside Spago in Beverly Hills and slashed a guard with his penknife. The stalker had been following her for two months. Something glinted in his raised hand as he charged forward. Everybody swore it was the knife. An off-duty cop shot him. The stalker grabbed the bodice of Doubleday’s dress as he fell. He weighed no more than 130 pounds and was mortally wounded but gripped her so fiercely they sprawled together to the ground. The bullet had clipped his aorta. He bled to death in seconds. When the guards peeled him away they found a doll in the hand where the knife should have been. The doll was dressed and painted to look like Angela Doubleday. In the note pinned to the doll’s dress he wrote that he intended to give it to her.
I put my eye to the viewfinder again and panned from the house to the sea, where the stiff offshore breeze whipped a flotilla of catamarans and windsurfers beyond the wave break. For a moment the real world vanished. Only the image existed, bright and beautifully distant, the four corners of the viewfinder framing the world into a coherency I found lacking to the naked eye. A crack of brush behind me pulled my face from the camera. A man crashed through the chaparral on the opposite side of the rock, charging down the hill at such speed that when he glimpsed me in passing and tried to stop he skidded ten yards into a clump of sage. I yanked the five-hundred and inserted a fifty-millimeter lens, not thinking much about him at the moment except that he was too close for the telephoto. The man had a wild and winded look, one hand grabbing the sage for balance and the other hidden behind his back as he stared at me, wide-eyed and panting. I didn’t confuse him for a day hiker, not after glancing at his corduroy pants and slick-soled loafers. I lifted the viewfinder and focused on his face. He didn’t look too happy about the camera. A four-day growth stubbled his jaw, which was the style of the moment, combined with black hair gelled back in thick grooves. His eyes were a bright, psychopathic blue. I figured him for a bodyguard, someone hired to keep creeps like me away from Angela Doubleday.
I took the shot.
He released his hold on the sage to climb up to me but the soles of his loafers wouldn’t hold on the hardpan and he slipped to one knee.
I took that shot, too.
He pushed off the ground, slung a pistol from behind his belt, and told me to give him the camera. He didn’t bother to point the pistol at me, as though I’d drop dead at the mere sight of one. I lowered the Nikon, let him see my face. I have a nice face. Some men find me attractive, particularly ones who don’t expect a woman to look like a Barbie doll, unless it’s one who dresses in black, wears a nose stud, and can do a hundred push-ups in less than three minutes. I’ve done time, and when someone tells me to do something I don’t want to do, I’ve learned how to make my face a hard place to look at. I moved my lips carefully, in case he was slow to understand things. I said, “No.”
He took two nervous steps uphill, afraid of falling. “Look, I don’t have time to fuck around.”
“Then leave,” I said.
He inched up the hill again, dug the heel of his downhill foot into the dirt, and pointed the pistol at me street-punk style, one-handed, the grip parallel to the ground. Instinctively, I raised the viewfinder to my eye, as though the magic prism of the lens would shield me from a bullet. Aggressive bodyguards are one of the hazards of my job. I asked, “What are you going to do, shoot me?”
I watched his finger tighten around the trigger, a movement simultaneous to my own finger pressing against the shutter release. A thought rimmed my mind as we waited for each other to shoot. If he actually did pull the trigger and I caught the flash of the muzzle as the bullet fired I’d rate a Pulitzer Prize in photography, if a posthumous one.
I took the shot.
Fired upslope, the bullet struck the camera at the join between lens and body. The viewfinder slammed into my eye like a good left cross.
I don’t remember going down.
Some time later, smoke burned my nostrils like a dose of salts. I wedged a hand into the crevice of a sandstone boulder and pulled myself vertical. The taste of copper clung to the back of my throat, and memory throbbed with the dull perception that the strand of time had been cut and spliced together with
a scene missing. I’d been concussed often enough to know that balance and nausea would be more of a problem than pain. The skin above my right eye felt numb, and an exploratory finger returned wet with blood. A yard downslope, the Nikon stared blindly at the sky, its back ripped open. The bullet had shattered the optics inside the lens, cracked the mounting ring, and gouged the frame before ricocheting farther up the hill. I tossed what was left of the camera into my bag. The roll of film I’d shot was gone.
A second waft of smoke bit into my nostrils. I groped inside the bag for my water bottle and pushed against the rock, thinking if the bullet had sparked the brush, I could douse the fire while it still smoldered. I waited for the vertigo of standing to subside and turned uphill, the wind on my face, a hot, desert wind, a Santa Ana wind. Whatever damage the bullet had done to me, I couldn’t hold it responsible for the source of the smoke. Less than a hundred yards distant, flames swarmed down the chaparral-packed hillside. I steadied myself against the rock, fearing I hallucinated. Embers soared and dipped on gusts of wind, bright spots of yellow and red against the sky, like kites set afire and loosed from their strings. They descended to the brush in puffs of smoke, jumping the fire with the speed of the wind.
I shouldered my camera bag and strode toward a ridge that sloped down to the Pacific Coast Highway. The fire swept down the adjacent ravine and leapt amid plumes of resinous smoke to ignite the brush along the opposite ridge. Shrieks pierced the roar of fire, first one and then four, five, six in a row, lancing up from the ravine, where spheres of flame shot from the smoldering brush, then sputtered and writhed, igniting the chaparral where they fell. Another two streaked from the flames—jackrabbits bolting too late from their thickets. I climbed a spur of rock to the ridge and ran downhill, each jolting step a hammer blow to my head. The air inside Doubleday’s mansion expanded to blow out the windows with a bright popping sound that turned my head as I ran. The tinder-dry cypresses at the rear of the estate ignited like torches. The average acre of Malibu hillside contains forty tons of chaparral and burns at temperatures up to 2,000 degrees Fahrenheit. Drapes, rugs, and wood combusted like cardboard tossed in a kiln. The house burst into flame before the fire reached its walls.
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