Hollywood is an All Volunteer Army

by Steven Paul Leiva

  Lydia turned to me and said, “Nico, I enjoy being rich.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “It’s not the same as a religion for me.”

  “No, that would be disconcerting.”

  “But I am devoted to it.”

  “How so?”

  “It is the condition of my life that I will protect fiercely.”

  “Understood.”

  “You are not against the Rich, are you?”

  “I would not be ashamed to be called rich myself.”

  “Then you are not for the redistribution of wealth.”

  “Oh, I’m sure at one time or another we are all for the redistribution of wealth. As long as it is not our wealth.”

  “So this little adventure we are on….”

  “Has rewards for both of us. Not the least being the adventure itself.”

  “Something money can’t buy.”

  “That’s right. Chaos is free.”

  Lydia looked out to sea. I followed her gaze. Was she watching the simplicity of her boat bobbing in the bay, or the complexity of an oncoming bank of clouds? Did they hold rain—or would they just pass, magnificent ships of the sky both craft and sail, graceful and haughty? Uncertainty. Certain people relished it.

  She turned to me and I turned to face her. “I have done as you asked. The information is in my files. Also my husband’s bankers are informed, paid, and will cooperate.”

  “And your husband?”

  “I do not need to ask him. He grants me anything I want. He is an ugly little toad of a man, but generous, deeply generous.”

  “Do you, by any chance, love him?”

  “Aaa, he satisfies on—”

  “Alternate Tuesdays. Yes, I know, but that was not my question.”

  She looked out to sea again. A simple smile crossed her face, and she stated, as a simple fact, “He is dear to me.”

  “Will you ever show him that?”

  “Aaa, probably not. He has too much power as it is.” She stood up quickly and started to gather things up. “Nico, the sun is telling us it is time to go.”

  I stood up and began to help her.

  “There is a little bit of cheese left. Do you want it?” she asked.

  “No, thank you. I am quite satiated.”

  She grabbed the chunk of it. “Then let us cast our feta to the wind!” She crumbled the cheese in her hand then tossed it up for a short flight before then rained back down on us. We laughed again.

  “Not quite your usual libation to the Gods,” I said as I brushed some off my shoulders, “but I like it, my sweet Greek.”

  Lydia grabbed me and kissed me. Then I returned the compliment.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sired to Kill

  The next day was a day spent in Kassiópi proper, wandering around in the town, joining the local inhabitants milling in the sun. Lydia was greeted by many with smiles and shouts, she was a star here, but also a well-liked neighbor. “I have been a benefactor to this town,” she said by way of explanation.

  “Did you grow up around here?” I asked.

  “No. Down south in Kávos. I couldn’t spend time there. There I am still Iphigeneia Venizelos. It is a typical story. Nothing to speak of.”

  “I see.”

  “And where are you still somebody not named Fixxer?” She tried to slip it in.

  “Is this a good place for lunch?” I asked, closing the chink.

  It was. Excellent seafood. We sat at an outdoor table overlooking the bay of fishing boats. I discussed the schedule for the next week, and the particular things we would have to be prepared to talk about. Lydia listened carefully and took it all in, very serious, very professional.

  The helicopter arrived that afternoon and took Lydia away. I decided to get one more full day of rest in, then the helicopter would be back to fetch me. I eventually would meet Lydia in Athens, from where we would start our trip to Los Angeles. “Evidence” would be left behind confirming that Elsworth Henderson spent the week in Athens conferring with his client.

  *

  That evening I called Hamo in London.

  “Well, is Robert Pye a rotting corpse, or was he found?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes, he was found—rotten if not rotting. He’s currently a guest of our National Health Service, and a daily feature in our tabloids. He and the woman are being called, ‘The Bank & Bunk Mates.’ As we had hoped, she went looking for him at the house when he did not arrive for work. I guess she thought, or so the tabloids have indicated, that he might have been there with another woman.”

  “You mean, besides his wife?”

  “Yes, she went looking for evidence of Uber-adultery.”

  “Uber-adultery?”

  “That’s what I call it when you cheat on the woman you are cheating on your wife with.”

  “Did you just make that up?”

  “No, actually, I coined the term in 1981 during a period of unfortunate self-analysis. You must understand, Fixxer, I was younger then and full of excess energy.”

  “Since dissipated, I trust.”

  “Long gone, I’m afraid. Only enough juice left for proper morals. Anyway she found him cute as a bug curled up on the bathroom floor snoring away. When she couldn’t wake him she panicked and called in the emergency people. Of course, after that, there was nothing to hide behind.”

  “And as to the mysterious disease?”

  “Well, that’s getting a little play, yes, but it’s just not as sexy as sex, you see.”

  “Well, what is? Any press connection with Pye’s ailment and a similar one suffered by a minor motion picture executive in Hollywood, California?”

  “Not a word, but I’m keeping my eye on that.”

  “And George?”

  “Well….”

  There was a disquieting pause.

  “Hamo? Talk to me.”

  “George has disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “Off the face of the Earth, I’m afraid. Sorry, Fixxer, I had assumed he would be easy to keep track of. Several of these American thugs working here, bit of an expat community they’ve got for themselves. They’re not hard to keep tabs on, but no one has seen him, actually, no one even knows of him. I think he was new to the area. I think Pye had been his only employer, probably imported George, not wanting a connection with the local thugs, bad for his image and all that. I guess George is back home in America.”

  “America’s a big place.”

  “Yes, sorry about that.”

  “Well, I would have loved to have kept him in our viewfinder, but…. How about the briefcases?”

  “Done. They’ll be waiting for you at Heathrow. The cameras are digital and fitted inside the shell of the cases, the batteries also. The whole thing is camouflaged against prying eyes and x-rays.”

  “The lens?”

  “Micro, of course, looks out of one of the twin holes on the lock where the key goes in.”

  “And the transmitter?”

  “It’s one whole side of the case, also camouflaged.”

  “All right. Fine.”

  “As to the last thing you requested….”

  “Yes?”

  “Sorry. Drew a blank. Couldn’t find this Gilgamesh Paul anywhere. Don’t know if he ever made it over to this side of the Atlantic.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Been on the hunt long?”

  “Long enough.”

  “Maybe there are times when one should just give it up.”

  “You sound like Roee.”

  “Well, Fixxer, an obsession—”

  “It is not an obsession.”

  “Okay. Sorry.”

  “Your efforts are appreciated, nonetheless, Hamo. Thanks for everything.”

  “My pleasure, Fixxer. Always has been, you know. Always will be.”

  *

  I spent the next day in various forms of sleep. Normal lazy napping in the sun, of course, but also some deep relaxation sleep I use as the u
ltimate restorative. It bothered the hell out of Helen. I think she thought something mystical was going on.

  I woke up early the next morning. Helen prepared a hot breakfast and took one last look at my head and face. She spat satisfaction in her healing, and, I must admit, very little trace of my banking problems was evident. The helicopter came and Helen walked me up to the roof, carrying my bags at her insistence. I said good-bye in the little Greek I had managed to pick up. Suddenly she burst into tears, grabbed me and started wailing. I had no way to assure her that my leaving was not quite the tragedy she was making it out to be, so I shed a few tears myself—a natural talent I have—and lamented enough to make her feel good. She continued to wave from the roof of the villa for a good long time as the helicopter ascended and Corfu dropped away.

  *

  I met up with Lydia in Athens and we took the ten AM flight to London in order to catch Virgin Atlantic flight 007 to Los Angeles. At Heathrow I retrieved the briefcases from baggage claim using the claim tickets Hamo had jet-packed to Lydia. I made her carry one, which she was not happy about. I picked up some copies of the tabloids that still featured stories about “The Bank & Bunk Mates” for the amusement of Roee, and we boarded the plane.

  I maintained the presence of Elsworth Henderson throughout the flight, which very much annoyed Lydia. A stiff, humorless east coast lawyer whose vision was attuned mainly to numbers that crunched and added up, who was precise in his movements, neat in his habits, and whose contractual mind had managed to allow just enough room for love of family and a passion for golf, was not her ideal traveling companion. She tried her best to break me, like an American tourist trying to get a smile from a guard at St. James Palace, but to no avail. Finally, using the ruse of grabbing for a magazine, she groped me. Elsworth, quite rightly, enumerated the sexual harassment laws in America and asked her, in a quiet whisper, to keep her filthy little Greek hands to herself. Lydia exploded in laughter, startling passengers, attendants and, most likely, the pilot, for, I swear, the plane took a dip. She opened the magazine vowing to get back at me. In my last whisper, I told her I looked forward to it.

  We arrived at LAX just after three. Roee as Pinsker in his Brooks Brothers suit was there to greet us with the limo. We took it to the Hotel Bel-Air where Pinsker had been staying for the last week and where we now checked in. Pinsker and Henderson shared a garden suite; Lydia had one to herself. We unpacked, showered, then left for a planned dinner out on the town, but, of course, Roee and I took Lydia home so that we could speak in more private surroundings.

  “Newsstand Mike is waiting for us,” Roee announced on the way. “He has a report.”

  “We couldn’t have met him somewhere else? Was it wise to have him at home?”

  “Fixxer, you made him part of the team. I trust him. I restricted his access to certain rooms, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Plus he got a bit roughed up on the assignment. I felt he was owed a little care.”

  “How bad?”

  “A dislocated shoulder and a cracked rib. I’ve got him resting comfortably. He’ll be okay. Norton sent over Dr. Stone.”

  “What about his report?”

  “You’ll find it more than interesting,” Roee said as the limo pulled into our building on Wilshire.

  *

  “Fixxer, I didn’t want to stay here, Roee made me,” was the greeting we got from Mike as we entered. He moved stiffly and his arm was in a sling. “I could have done fine at my apartment. I didn’t want to impose.”

  “Mike, Roee has a proclivity for charity, among other dangerous traits. By allowing him to indulge in it you are simply extending him a kindness, for which I thank you. How much of my booze have you drunk?”

  “Uh—well, Roee said—”

  “You were welcome to it, Mike. A dislocated shoulder and a cracked rib calls for a few drinks,” I said.

  “Oh, thanks, Fixx. You have a really well-stocked bar.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. Roee tells me our wine cellar—if one can have a wine cellar on the fifteenth floor—is quite a marvel as well, but I wouldn’t know about that. I am not a refined drinker. Now, Mike, just a note: If you ever reveal to anyone the location of my home, I will gut you like a fish. Is that clear?”

  Such a slippery slope I had put Mike on. There’s a small pleasure in it.

  “Yeah, Fixx, of course. You know me.”

  “Yes, Mike, yes I do. Now I would like you to meet Lydia Corfu.”

  The recognition in Mike’s eyes was immediate. “Oh, Lydia Corfu! Sired to Kill, right?”

  “That’s right. You have seen it?” Lydia inquired, a small smile crossing her lips.

  “Of course.”

  “When?”

  “It was during the early days of cable before they could get really good movies. I mean, well, actually, it was okay.”

  “Thank you. I thought so.” Lydia became somewhat chilly.

  “In fact, I’ve seen all your movies. I’ve always thought, that with just a little bit better stories—”

  “I wrote the stories,” Lydia said with her words now encased in ice.

  “Doesn’t change my criticism,” Mike said. “If you can show me the reviews and the box office to change my mind, I’ll consider it.”

  “He’s an insulting little man,” Lydia complained to me.

  “Well, Mike loves movies,” was the only explanation I could offer.

  “And what about my acting?” I admired Lydia’s courage.

  “Well, you know, I mean, you don’t have to study with Stella Adler to convincingly kick men in the groin.”

  “Something I still know how to do,” Lydia made clear.

  “Ah.” Mike looked up at her with soulful eyes. “You wouldn’t reach that low, would you?”

  “Americans!” Lydia said, explaining it all to herself.

  “The wonders of chemistry,” I said to Roee. “You never know when the bringing together of two seemingly harmless substances will lead to something volatile.”

  “I am not harmless!” Lydia declared.

  “Does that mean you’re harmful?” I asked, following the logic.

  “Well, no, I meant….” Lydia had obviously not fully considered the antithesis.

  “Shall we go into the library?” I said, coming to the rescue. “I believe Mike has a report for me.”

  *

  We walked into the library, which Mike took little notice of, but Lydia seemed impressed with, especially the fact that the books were in categorical and alphabetical order. She also noticed what few do. For many titles, I have two copies. She wanted to know why.

  “One would be a first edition or a collectable for one reason or another. The other a good reading copy,” I said.

  “How clever,” she said.

  “More practical than clever. Now, if you will all sit.” They all did. “Mike, what happened?”

  “Well, I went up there like you said—it’s a great drive, by the way, I hadn’t realized—uh, anyway, I took the tour which was, uh, fascinating, you know, amazing. Talk about overweening pride! Hearst built this thing over, like, years and years. Did you know it was designed by a girl architect?”

  “Uh, Mike….” Roee darted his eyes to Lydia.

  “Oh, sorry, woman architect.”

  “Bet you she was still a girl,” Lydia said.

  “Uh, yeah, well….”

  Poor Mike.

  “Go on, Mike, but please tell me things that are relevant to your assignment. I can take the tour myself later for the color. Tell me your feelings while on the tour.”

  “You mean, besides envy of the super rich?”

  “Yes, besides that.”

  “Well, you know, it was like going through a museum, a look-but-don’t-touch sort of a thing. The tour guide was good—too good, in fact, when I tried to break away a little bit to take some interesting pictures, she called me right back. It’s very controlled, but then, you know, I guess you would expect that.�
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  “Anything else?”

  “Well—this is where I got that hair at the back of the neck thing you wanted me to pay attention to, turned out to be a damn good indicator,” he said indicating his arm in the sling.

  “And what exactly elevated the filaments?”

  “Well, you know the State Park and Recreation Service runs the place.”

  “Is it big government that frightens you?”

  “No, but those State Park Rangers weren’t really what I would have expected.”

  “Rangers?” Roee questioned. “At a place like Hearst Castle? They couldn’t have been Rangers. Usually in this kind of attraction the State just has tour guides, not Rangers, who are really a police force.”

  “Oh, they had tour guides all right, and ticket sellers and all that, but I’m talking about Rangers. You know, the guys in the Smokey the Bear hats who wear guns and mace and night sticks.”

  “Sounds like Rangers,” Roee said.

  “How many were there?” I asked.

  “Enough. They were sort of peppered all over the place.”

  “What bothered you about them?”

  “Well, I mean, Park Rangers, you’d expect them to be like Boy Scouts grown up, guns or no guns, but these guys seemed more like your neighborhood bullies grown up.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, and this was just a feeling, you see, but it was not just that they were unfriendly. They just were not friendly. You know what I mean? Which was a real contrast with the tour guides without the guns who were friendly, but why should there be a difference? I mean, there’s this State Park I go up to in the Tujunga area, no tour guides, just Rangers, and the Rangers there are, like, real friendly and real helpful. They really seem to care, even if they do wear guns, but these guys, they had a whole different attitude. I mean, that became really clear when I took that other tour to the air museum.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Well, I was taking the tour, snapping a lot of pictures like you asked me. Made myself out to be a real airplane buff. Then I saw this hanger. Not the one with the planes on display but, you know, a working one, I assumed, but it was all closed up, and without there even being any signs up or anything, it just had a feeling of ‘Keep Out’ about it. Well, I figured, that’s exactly what you would really be interested in. So I left the group when the guide was pointing out some boring stuff on the bottom of a plane, and slipped into the hangar, and it was, you know, just an airplane hangar. You saw airplanes in there. Some of them under repair; some of them were being rebuilt, but then I saw this big pile covered by a bunch of canvases and, you know, I got the hair thing again, Fixx, so I went over to it and lifted a corner of the canvas. Now I was never in the service or anything, but we got plenty of magazines about this at the newsstand, and I’m pretty sure it was a huge pile of ammo. Boxes and boxes of it.”