Hollywood is an All Volunteer Army

by Steven Paul Leiva

  As I walked into the kitchen I momentarily regretted my actions. There were piles of dirty pots, pans, crystal and china. Pat3 had his coat on. The lights in the restaurant proper were out.

  “The front’s all locked up. You know how to lock the back and turn on the alarm.” Pat3 started to leave, then stopped. “Say, should I be asking to see your Green Card?”

  “You’re almost as funny as your grandfather in Hail of Bullets.”

  “Ah, yeah, I liked that one. Well, good night, Fixx. Enjoy your weird hobby.”

  It wasn’t a hobby. It was a simple technique. Occupy the body—free the mind.

  Work had practically been a religion to my father. All kinds, but especially menial labor. It was not so much the labor as the laborer he worshipped, “The poor bent backs of the poor,” as he liked to say. He was, of course, a romantic. Unfortunately his romance extended to participating in the labor to feel closer to the laborers. He would go out every summer and work on work crews; join assembly lines; dig deep in mines—and wash dishes at local greasy spoons. The fact that he was an academic and wrote a major work on the American Working Man, never quite forgave him, in my mind, for dragging me along on many of his forays into the workaday world. He was, in his mind, giving me “lessons no school could teach you.” Which was fine, but the bumps, bruises, calluses, strained muscles, aching back, pounding head and withering soul all hurt just the same. There was nothing I could do about the physical pains, but my soul I protected with my mind. I found that repetitious manual labor, taking up only the mechanically inclined areas of the brain, left free the more abstract loving gray glob to roam over thoughts, puzzles, problems, dreams, fantasies and plans. I found manual labor to be oddly meditative. This is assuming, of course, that you had something interesting to meditate on. Although a comfortable chair, a stimulating drink, and interesting music is usually my preference when I wish to meditate, there are times when only a return to the days of my father-controlled youth will suffice. This was obviously one of those times.

  My current love of luxury, it should not be surprising to note, probably stems from those days as well.

  I set the CD boom box down and plugged it in. I took out a CD, some works by David Diamond, a Twentieth Century American symphonist, sort of a Copland without the chaps. I turned the volume up high and started his Symphony No. 1. The orchestra with bell began pounding out in a broad romantic sweep engulfing the room of stainless steel sinks, copper kettles, and filthy china. I started the water running hot. I breathed in the steam. I was free with the soap. Suds dominated. I threw my hands into the clean infernal. The water burnt like hell. I loved it. I took a deep breath and started cleaning off the residue muck of expensive tastes, being very careful to get each plate perfectly clean as Diamond transported me to a place far beyond this wet and soapy battleground.

  I saw the future—or at least a reasonable facsimile given the facts. I started to change it. Doing this to get that. Arranging this to avoid that. It became a whole for me. If I dropped a pebble in at this end I could see where the ripple landed at that end. I gathered my pebbles. I mapped out where I would drop them. Control of the ripples, that’s what I was after.

  Three hours later, just after five AM, I was done. The kitchen looked great. I took a moment to be pleased, to be satisfied in a good night’s work. Besides Diamond, the Duke had kept me company, with Gershwin and Porter chiming in at the end, once the majority of my thinking was done. I gathered up the boom box and the CDs and left the building, securing it with its alarm. I put the boom box and CDs in the Porsche, grabbed my cell phone, and went for a walk on the beach. It was cold and damp and dark, but I did not care, I had on a heavy long coat. I found a convenient spot up against the cliff wall and sat down on the sand. I set my watch alarm. I would deep breathe myself into a special sleep for one hour.

  *

  When I woke up it was the start of dawn. I gave myself a moment to sit and watch the waves, which were silver in the gray light, and listen to the joyful cries of seagulls, happy, it seemed, that another day of feeding had arrived. Then I picked up the cell phone and called Roee.

  “Talk.”

  “It’s me.”

  “I figured. Norton usually takes Sunday off.”

  “I’m sitting on a beach.”

  “Yes, I can hear the seagulls. Is this beach, by any chance, in the continental United States?”

  “I’m here by the Sailfish.”

  “Oh, and how is Pat3?”

  “Prosperous by the amount of dishes I’ve washed.”

  “Can’t you burn incense and speak mantras like everybody else?”

  “Sorry, but it’s our peculiarities that make us endearing.”

  “And endearing you are, Fixxer. I take it there are marching orders.”

  “Yeah. Let’s put in some phone calls.”

  “Can’t this wait until you get back?”

  “No. I like to talk when I’m ready to talk.”

  “It is fairly early on a Sunday morning.”

  “What are you worried about? It’s not your Sabbath.”

  “Simple common courtesy.”

  “I try never to go in for anything common. Not to mention simple. First call: the Captain.”

  *

  “Fixxer, how are you?”

  The Captain came on the line much more cheerful than I had expected.

  “You sound almost happy to hear from me so early on a Sunday morning.”

  “Why not? You didn’t wake me up. I’m up, showered, and just waiting for a pal to pick me up for some early morning golf. Eighteen holes; breakfast at the Country Club. It’s how I like to spend my Sundays.”

  “Well, I need but a few moments of your time.”

  “In regard to what?”

  “Bea Cherbourg.”

  “I knew you couldn’t stay away.”

  “Indeed. You willing to help?”

  “You make the calls and I’ll make the shots.”

  “Good. First I’d like you to check out something for me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Find out when the state started assigning Park Rangers to Hearst Castle. As opposed to just the normal tour guides. Then see if there is anything unusual about the people who have been hired to fill the positions. Do a background check on them. Don’t just take what’s in their state files. You’ll be looking for things either hidden from or ignored by the state.”

  “What’s up with Hearst Castle?”

  “I’ll have to explain that later, but I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ll find that these Rangers have backgrounds somewhat less than admirable.”

  “When I get the goods what do you want me to do? Have them arrested?”

  “No. At least not yet. What I want you to do is look for a weak link. I want you to find one of the Rangers—outside of a guy possibly named George, Roee will supply a picture—find one of the Rangers with a past awful enough so that we can exploit it and force him onto our payroll.”

  “Okay. What else?”

  “Just be available to take some time off. I also have some rather detailed instructions, but I’ll give them to you tomorrow.”

  “Right.”

  “Things may get a bit—elaborate. I’ll be happy to add a bonus for this one, if you would like.”

  “Hey! Didn’t I offer to help? Just for helping’s sake. Don’t ever assume my word’s not my bond.”

  “You have my admiration for that.”

  “Yeah, I know, but can I frame it and put it on the wall?”

  “How’s Mrs. Captain?”

  “Grumbling like the golf widow she is, but otherwise doing fine.”

  “Good. We’ll be talking.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  *

  The next call was to Petey.

  “So you wanted to spend a couple of days in California?” I greeted him.

  “Sure! Love to! When?!”

  “Soon, but first, that new and improved satellite
of yours…?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can you hook into it from a laptop?”

  “Tricky!”

  “$25,000.”

  “But then so am I!”

  “Roee will call you back with the details and a list of other supplies and needs.”

  “All right, Fixx! See ya soon!”

  *

  Then we called Maloney in Chino.

  “Roee and I want to come and talk to you about some very specific flying conditions. Any hints you have would be appreciated.”

  *

  Next was Mike.

  “Mike, I’ve got more work for you.”

  “Fine. Whatever. I’m yours.”

  “Contact Roee and have him update you on Henderson and Pinsker. Then, when I tell you, you will meet Henderson and Pinsker at the Hotel Bel-Air. You will endeavor, while you are there, to make yourself conspicuous. Nothing too loud and obnoxious, just something highly visible. Roee will give you the complete scenario. Call him later today through Norton. As always, I will need you to do a very good job, but you’ll do it by being incompetent.”

  *

  Finally, I called Lydia.

  “I’m going to need to take your performance from a nomination to a win.”

  “What?” she said in a groggy voice. “I was asleep.”

  “Well, of course you were. Have room service send you up a pot of coffee blend 32A. Usually they only make it for me, but I’ll be happy to share it. Now, what I have in mind for your performance is going to take a little rehearsal.”

  “I never rehearse!”

  “For this performance you will, my sweet Greek, you will.”

  *

  The calls done I looked up to see early morning joggers on the beach. They all looked happy and relatively carefree. They couldn’t have been, of course. No one really is.

  *

  When I got home Roee had a hot breakfast waiting for me. A cubed lamb omelet seasoned with rosemary; his special hash browns made from small new potatoes; homemade sourdough bread, toasted to my standards, butter nicely displayed in a silver bowl, marmalade he had brought back from London filling the volume of a matching silver bowl, and, of course, a pot of very black, very hot coffee. He joined me and I discussed the details of the immediate future and how I would seek to control it to our advantage.

  After breakfast we left for the Hotel Bel-Air, sneaking back into our suite. A room service breakfast had been ordered for us and had been devoured by a couple of loyal employees I have on the hotel staff. We put the cart of leftovers out in the hallway. We then dressed in Henderson and Pinsker casual clothes, well-pressed slacks, pink Izod short sleeve pullovers, loafers with tassels, and called Lydia to invite her out for the day. When she heard our plans, she passed, declaring a day on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills more to her liking.

  We left our room and went into the lobby and received from the concierge directions to Santa Monica and the Museum of Flying. Then we got into our rented Town Car and headed in that direction.

  It was not hard picking out the tail. He was good, but not good enough. We wondered if he was Sara’s boy or Max’s or working for both. It didn’t matter. The information we wanted to impart was being imparted. Henderson and Pinsker were plane buffs. The tail joined us inside the museum, a very slick display of historic aircraft, and was treated to a boy-like enthusiasm rarely seen on the faces of these two usually much more dour legal professionals.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Bad Guys

  The next day we sat at the Hotel Bel-Air waiting for Sara Hutton’s lawyer to call. At around two-thirty she did. A cool efficient woman, she confirmed from us the basics of the deal we were offering, as it had been explained to her by Sara, and set a time on Wednesday for us all to meet her in her office in Century City to discuss the matter in more detail. Up to that time we had spent the day in small talk and going over certain financial arrangements, all of which bored Lydia greatly. She made outrageous faces as we read the mundane chit chat from a script I had prepared, rolling her eyes; dislocating her jaw; sticking her tongue out farther than I would have guessed it could go—if I had ever been asked.

  We knew the rooms were bugged. I had allowed it. It had been done on Saturday, while we were at Sara Hutton’s. A man had bribed a porter to let him into our suite, where he placed a series of bugs. All of which we later found and greatly admired, but kept firmly planted. The porter, of course, belongs to me more than he belongs to the Bel-Air, and would normally have protected the sanctity of my room with his life, or, at least, to the extent of a good, solid beating. But I wanted the room bugged. I wanted Max and Sara to hear the mundane reality of Wall Street lawyers at work and play. I figured it would really confuse them. Especially if they suspected us. Which I suspected they did, but I didn’t know to what extent, and I didn’t know exactly what they suspected, but all that I was now doing was in preparation for the worse in both cases.

  After the call had come in we—Lydia and her two lawyers—left the hotel for an early supper somewhere. As we passed through the lobby Pinsker and Henderson told Lydia all about the neat planes they had seen the day before. She was not impressed.

  We got into the Town Car and quickly shook off the tail. Then we drove home so we could relax and drop the playacting, which, after a while, does grow weary.

  That is, Roee and I dropped the playacting. Lydia, I’m afraid, had to put in some more hours as I made her rehearse a small but vital part of her upcoming performance that I was convinced she would be called upon to play. There wasn’t a lot to memorize, indeed there were no lines at all, but the acting had to be saturated with verisimilitude. When she had satisfied my exacting demands, I told her she could quit and I poured her a large brandy. She drank it down somewhat crudely, forfeiting the delights of savoring for the joy of buzz.

  “Ah!” she said with pleasure. Then she looked hard at me. “Nico, do you have any peanuts?”

  I had no idea if I did or not. I turned to call Roee, but he was already entering the library with a bowl of the requested edible.

  “Ah, bless you my child,” Lydia said as she grabbed a handful. “So, now what?”

  “I’m expecting a visitor, who you are welcome to meet as he may become very important to you. I believe he will be willing to stay for dinner, assuming, Roee, that you are grilling swordfish.”

  “I am. It’s his favorite.”

  “And who is this visitor?”

  “The Captain.”

  “Captain who?”

  “Just, the Captain.”

  “Oh. Like you are just the Fixxer.”

  “Yes, somewhat. He’s my main—uh, contact—in local law enforcement. I find him useful on occasion.”

  “He’s a policeman you have bribed,” Lydia stated, reading through my euphemism.

  “Are you shocked?”

  “Please, I do not shock easily.”

  “Let’s hope so. For we’re betting on that, aren’t we?”

  *

  The Captain arrived at six o’clock and was happy to accept our invitation to dinner, although he said Mrs. Captain would probably be upset, but he would deal with that later. Besides, he preferred her meatloaf cold and in a sandwich with plenty of ketchup. He was quite taken by Lydia, who, I’m sure, he found exotic. The Captain is like many American cops of his age: a Marine out of uniform, somewhat uncomfortable with changes in the country, and usually empathetic only with things Anglo-Saxon, even if they themselves are not. The Captain, I should add for clarification, is. Six foot two, naturally thin, but just now taking on the bulk of middle age, with light brown hair that was probably blonde when he was a child, cut in the typical police-military style, the Captain is a man absolutely sold on the stated mandate of Law Enforcement. He is also a man who damn well knows that administration, bureaucracy and the subtle-to-blatant intolerant bent of many who are attracted to police work, muddies the waters of that mandate. He also thinks the pay stinks—and that he, personall
y, is worth much more. An attitude I exploited with my original offer of secret employment. Which, I suppose, makes him a corrupt cop, except in this: I employed him not so much because I knew he could be bought, but because I knew he had a charmingly childlike love of Justice, a concept not often made concrete in the officialdom of Law Enforcement. This “good” quality about him is more useful to me and more malleable than any other quality he may have lacking in the standard norms of integrity.

  After the introduction to Lydia and the pouring of drinks—the Captain and Lydia bonded over a blended malt whisky—we sat comfortably in the library as I gave the Captain a short overview of the pertinent past events, then sketched in my basic plan to bring Sara Hutton and Maxwellton James down, detailing Lydia’s role in the proceedings. The Captain was impressed. Not the least by what Lydia had volunteered to do.

  “But look,” the Captain said, “I feel it’s only right to warn you that, given what I’ve found out today, this thing is not free from danger. People involved in this have some violent records.”

  “Hey, it’s drama! Real drama! Meat, not vegetables. I love it. Couldn’t keep me away,” Lydia declared with straight back, high head and up lifted—pride.

  “Captain, you have to understand,” I said, “this is the, ‘True Story’ the film will be based on.”

  “What?”

  “It’s probably too Hollywood to explain. Why don’t you go on with your report?”

  “Well, I’ve had a hell of a day. Ran into some real local roadblocks on this Ranger situation at Hearst Castle, but I managed to get to the right people and get the info out of them. Ten years in Internal Affairs gives you a real knack for interviewing civil servants. They got a real prominent sweat button you can push. Anyway, the story expanded into a Federal connection. So, through Roee, I tapped into Petey so we could follow that up, which wasn’t easy either, but I think we eventually tracked down the story. It’s pretty amazing. Here’s what we think happened: