by Graham Smith
There are two from Alfonse asking me to call him as soon as possible. The email account I’ve set up has two new messages. The first is from Google trying to entice me further into their net. The second is one of the nine threatening legal action if I don’t stop making unfounded allegations.
My Scottish dislike of the sue and counter-sue culture fills me with contempt for this particular lowlife. I scroll through my memory banks to recall his specific perversions. There’s an acidic burn of disgust in my gut when I recall his messages asking to be bound then used by Kira.
Sending him a short message, I instruct him to call me or I will knock on his door and ask his wife if she can answer my questions. Underneath the threat, I list a couple of the things he’d requested Kira to do. That should have him reaching for his phone.
When I look down at my half-finished meal, I realise my appetite has gone. I cover the uneaten food with a napkin and drop a few bills onto the table. It’s best I leave before Terri cross-examines me about my lack of completion. The last time I’d seen her find a half-eaten meal, one of her cooks lost his job and two waitresses had run out in tears. The guilty customer had received a lifetime ban despite being a regular patron.
I call Alfonse when I get back to my car and listen while he updates me on his progress. He’s had a productive morning despite most of his results being negative.
Six of the remaining seven have called to protest their innocence and offer alibis for the time Kira was alleged to have been killed. None had sounded anything but remorseful. All had been eager to clear their names and help us catch her killer.
Where he has made some headway is in identifying the tenth client, an actor from a once popular sitcom. He’s dug into the client’s life and has found out he’s in LA filming. Once again he isn’t the star, but his part is large enough to keep him in work.
Knowing the odds of getting someone as narcissistic as a famous actor to call us are small, Alfonse has booked me on the next flight to LAX.
He promises to forward the confirmation email and hangs up.
I have a half hour to go home, throw a few things together and get myself to the airport.
20
The heat outside LAX hits me like a wrecking ball; unlike the more temperate climate of Casperton, Californian sunshine blisters uncovered skin for kicks.
The rental car is hotter than a blast furnace, so I climb back out after starting the air-con and wait five minutes under the shade of a nearby tree until the temperature inside the car is bearable.
My GPS says the journey from LAX to Hollywood should take around a half hour but the LA traffic has other ideas. I creep fender to fender for two hours until I can turn onto Santa Monica Boulevard.
If I had an iota of local knowledge, I’m sure I’d be able to find an alternative route, but in this strange land of eternal sunshine I’m a slave to the GPS. I crawl past surplus marts, gas stations, a score or more of light industrial areas and various stores offering everything from mattresses to fruit.
I’m not sure what I’d expected of Hollywood, but this normal-looking area holds no special attraction for me.
Speeding up to a mighty ten miles an hour, I follow the GPS until it tells me I’ve reached my destination.
Alfonse has tracked down where the actor is staying and arranged for him to be interviewed by the showbiz reporter for The Scotsman – a paper my grandfather read from cover to cover with a religious fervour. It’s good thinking on his part, as my accent will fit the role he’s assumed for me.
The Sunset Plaza is quite unlike any other hotel I’ve encountered. Ten storeys high, it fills a whole block with a regimented white façade giving it the air of a prison. The fact each window has a small balcony enclosed by metal railings only adds to the prison effect.
I re-evaluate my opinions of the actor’s standing. If his studio bosses have lodged him here, it’s obvious he isn’t their prize asset.
With time to kill before my appointment, I take a walk along the street to get a feel for the area.
When I’m on Hollywood Boulevard the area feels more like I’d expected it to. Cinemas line the sidewalks above the famous stars, and most of the people on the streets are tourists trying to spot actors and actresses. Every minute or two a large car with blacked-out windows will elicit pointed fingers and wild guesses as to its occupants’ identities.
I find a diner where I drink a soda and munch a sandwich while I watch the world go by.
After ten minutes I feel the need to shower and it isn’t the diner or the Californian heat making me feel this way. It is the whole falseness of the area. Tourists are being heckled by ambitious touts attempting to sell them trinkets and behind-the-scenes tours. Yet nothing here is real, everything is an illusion.
Hollywood is a place that deals with, and lives in fantasy and escapism. Yet the magic has escaped the conjuror’s influence to permeate itself into the fabric of the buildings and streets. If you close your eyes and listen you can hear the broken dreams of wannabe actors, scriptwriters and directors screaming their angst at the injustice of it all.
It is no place for me and the sooner I’m back on a plane to Casperton the happier I’ll be.
21
I approach the reception desk of the Sunset Plaza, and ask which suite the actor occupies. The interior of the hotel is all muted tones and soft furnishings in an effort to dispel the prison-like exterior. It doesn’t work.
A receptionist with bleached hair and implants that cause her blouse to gape crinkles her nose when she hears me ask for the actor.
Whatever dreams she has about forging a career in acting are sure to be added to the millions of voices I’d heard screaming earlier. If she can’t hide distaste for one customer from another, she’ll never make it in this most critical of towns.
‘Mr Weeper is on the tenth floor in the Rose Suite.’ She points me towards the elevator with a fixed smile. Her eyes tell a different story, wishing me luck in my endeavour.
I join a group of chattering executives in the elevator. It’s all I can do not to punch any of them for their inane corporate language.
Alfonse knows the disregard I have for celebrity and TV, so he’s emailed a picture and a short biography of the actor to me so I’ll at least address the right person in the room.
Striding along the corridor, I find the door to the Rose Suite obscured by a muscle-bound bodyguard with thick arms and a wedding cake neck.
When I tell him my business he grunts and knocks on the door. ‘The dude from the press is here.’
A thin woman opens the door. She’s wearing stress like an overcoat. It doesn’t suit her. Her eyes are beady, an air of annoyance and mistrust hang over her, turning every movement or gesture of the hand that isn’t pressing a phone to her ear into sharp, animated flicks.
I smile and introduce myself, laying on as much charm as possible. ‘Jake Boulder, from The Scotsman. Thank you for arranging this interview with Mr Weeper – I’ve been a fan for years.’
By now I’ve entered the room far enough to see Weeper standing on the balcony looking down. His room faces the centre of the hotel and when I join him I can see a group of young women sunbathing by a pool.
Such is his arrogance he doesn’t bother looking round before he speaks. ‘I’d do them all with the same boner.’
I clear my throat and wait for the next pearl of wisdom. One sentence has just outlined why a famous actor has to use hookers. This guy is a prime example of what Glaswegians call a bawbag.
He turns, right hand reaching for the bottle of beer on the table. I take his hand in mine and shake it with a repeat of my earlier introduction.
He winces at my grip, unaware of the effort it has taken not to crush every bone in his hand. ‘Oh yeah. The reporter.’
He stands an even six foot, but his thinning hair, forgettable face and expanding waistline suggest his best days are behind him.
He looks around until his eyes land on the stress head. ‘Mindy, bring a couple of beers wi
ll ya?’
I pull out my phone and fiddle with it as if I’m using it as a Dictaphone.
Mindy deposits a beer in front of each of us. ‘I’m off to collect those scripts. Back soon.’
I wait until she is out of earshot and lean forward. ‘I’m nothing to do with The Scotsman. I’m here investigating the death of someone you hired from Fantasy Courtesans. Girl by the name of Candice.’
‘You can go fu –’
My fist colliding with his jaw finishes his sentence. ‘We can do this the easy way or we can do it the hard way. It’s your choice.’
He launches his bottle towards my head, but I’ve stopped enough bar fights to know better than to get hit by a flying bottle. I hear it crash behind me as I step forward and give him a dig in the ribs.
This is getting out of hand far quicker than anticipated. I’m just glad Mindy is out of the way. I don’t hit women and her presence would have become a definite nuisance, although for her the stress of the fight may well be enough to finish the task working for Weeper has started.
I lift his cell from the table and toss it onto the bed as the bodyguard enters the room. ‘Is everything okay, Mr Weeper? I heard a crash.’
‘No, it’s not okay, Bobby. This jerk-off has just assaulted me.’ The words come out in gasps due to the damage I’ve done to his ribs.
Bobby’s eyes narrow as he looks at me. ‘Time to go, buddy.’
I don’t move.
When he comes forward I raise my hands and get ready to kick his kneecap but he isn’t as dumb as Mr Steroids. Hollywood types must have trained bodyguards. He keeps his hands level with his chest and waits for me to make the first move.
I feint a left jab and throw a right cross which he deflects with a meaty forearm. With my side exposed, he swings a left at my ribs but I roll inside his swing and reverse an elbow into his gut. I try to repeat the action, but his arms encircle me, preventing me from getting any power into the blow.
I’ve been held like this many times and know the best way out of it isn’t to wrestle or to try a reverse headbutt – any fighter worth their salt knows to keep their head well back.
I raise my right leg to waist level and swing it backwards with my heel aimed for his shin. If it lands, my kick is hard enough to break his leg.
It misses, but the momentum of the kick has shifted our equilibrium and we topple forward. I’m ready for this and twist so he falls onto his back with me on top of him. The jarring impact on the floor is enough to loosen his grip, giving me the chance to escape his clutches.
I get to my feet first, but only by a fraction of a second.
He comes at me. His professionalism is replaced with cold anger. He isn’t doing his job anymore, he’s intent on kicking my ass for having the gall to inflict pain on him.
I fend off his punches with my forearms, but I know I can’t do so for long. He’s a big guy punching like a boxer. It is only a matter of time before one of those blows slips through my guard or my arms become too heavy to lift. I’ve already suffered a couple of glancing blows that would have knocked me cold if they’d connected as intended.
It’s time for me to go back on the offensive. When his next barrage of blows end, I strike forward with my own, aiming punches at head, kidneys and ribs until he is so expectant of a punch coming, he doesn’t see the knee I lift into his groin.
Give Bobby his due, he doesn’t go down. He can’t however stop the natural impulse to grab the wounded area. I take a hard shot at his exposed chin, knocking him out.
I’m gasping as I roll him into the recovery position. He’s been a worthy opponent who’s tested me more than anyone I’ve fought for months.
Weeper is sitting on the balcony, one hand on his ribs and a look of incomprehension on his face.
‘When that jackass wakes up, I’m gonna fire his ass.’
His response is typical of the cosseted. Bobby has just taken a beating trying to protect him and Weeper wants to play the big shot by threatening the man’s livelihood.
‘Shut up.’ I glare at him until all traces of bravado have vanished. ‘I’m gonna ask some questions and you’re gonna answer them. If I think you’re lying, I’ll hurt you. If I think you’re holding out, I’ll hurt you bad. Understand?’
What little fight he possesses drains away at my threats.
‘You hired Candice from Fantasy Courtesans on a couple of occasions for parties you threw. Tell me what happened at these parties.’
‘It was just me and a bunch of friends. Once in a while we’d get a bunch of hookers together and have a big old party. The parties would happen at my place – I’m not married and don’t have a girlfriend.’
What a surprise. Even though you’re rich and famous, no girl wants to be seen with you.
‘Why did you fly hookers in from out of town? Surely there must be plenty here in LA.’
He looks at me as if I have two heads. If he does it again he’ll be lucky to have one.
‘Nobody famous uses LA hookers. Half of them tip off the press and the other half are followed by paparazzi. If I hire an LA hooker, I may as well call the LA Times and tell them myself.’
‘So why hire Candice a number of times? I’d have thought you would have got different girls every time.’
‘We took turns organising the entertainment, but Candice was special. She had no limits and would do anything we wanted except one thing.’ I gesture for him to continue before I knock the wistful look off his face. ‘She wouldn’t allow us to film her.’
That stands at odds with everything Kira had done with her other clients and could only mean one thing. She wanted to keep the hooking secret from someone. My guess is her family. Either that or she’d recognised Weeper for the douche bag he is and knew the film would end up in the wrong hands.
‘Did you ever set up cameras without her knowing?’
‘No.’ The answer comes too quick. As if he’s been expecting the question. I don’t trust the sly expression in his eyes so I punch him in the sternum and let him gasp for a while.
When his breath comes back, I wag a finger at him. ‘Try again. And be warned. Next time I hit you, it’ll be your face and you’ll not be able to see a film camera, let alone stand in front of one.’
His eyes widen as comprehension of my threat sinks in. Turning up with a ruined face would halt filming and cost tens of thousands minimum. Hollywood is the kind of town where careers are ended for the slightest mishap unless you are the star of the show.
I guess he is on a sticky wicket with the production company as it is, by the way he babbles his next answer.
‘Okay, okay. I did film her once or twice but not for the reasons you think.’ A smattering of bravado returns. ‘Who needs to film a hooker when you can hire her again?’
‘Get to the point.’ I clench a fist and cock my arm ready to throw it. His new-found bravery deserts him. I don’t want to carry out my threat as once I’ve messed up his face a bit, the only leverage I have is pain and despite him being a bawbag, I don’t want to stoop to outright torture.
‘You’ve got to understand. Parts have been getting thinner on the ground for me. All studios wanted was the latest good-looking kid with straight teeth and a wedge-shaped body. Older, more experienced actors like me aren’t getting the parts we used to.’
‘Your point?’
I know what he is going to say, but I have to hear it from his lips. To get the full confession, I’ll need to take it step by step as I need to know who his targets were.
‘I set up secret cameras in a couple of bedrooms. Then I invited a casting director to a couple of my parties. He didn’t sleep with anyone the first time, but the second time he slept with one of the hookers.’
‘And then you blackmailed him so you’d get parts?’
A nod. He doesn’t even have the grace to look shamefaced. ‘This town is built on secrets. I was just slow on the uptake.’
‘Did Candice find out about the video?’
He lo
oks bewildered. ‘Why would she? The casting director didn’t choose her that night. He hooked up with a black chick with an ass like a hippo. Candice was with one of my friends that night.’
‘Do you remember the names of the other hookers you hired that night and where you got them from?’
‘Nah. Never paid that much attention to be honest. We changed them all the time. Candice was the only one we had on more than one occasion.’
‘Did you ever pull this stunt on anyone else?’
‘No need. I got a part that’ll keep me going for a few years… and when this dries up…’
He doesn’t need to finish for me to get his meaning. The whole journey out here has been a waste of time and money. James Weeper isn’t our killer. He is a sordid little sleazeball who’s happy to prey on others in an industry where only the most ruthless survive.
I stand and hold out my hand. ‘Thanks for your information.’
Like the fool he is he rises to his feet and takes my hand. Jerking him towards me, I plant a full power headbutt onto the bridge of his nose. As he goes down, I release his hand and ram my elbow into his mouth with enough force to smash teeth.
I might not agree with torture, but I’ve never seen anything wrong with dispensing a little justice whenever possible.
When he wakes up tomorrow morning he’ll have a pair of black eyes, a busted nose and a ruined mouth. I’ll have to start reading the entertainment section of the papers to see how his studio deals with him.
22
When I arrive back in Casperton, I fire up the Mustang and head straight for Alfonse’s. The traffic is light as I power into town.
I’m about a hundred yards from his door when my cell rings. Looking at it, I see an unfamiliar number.
‘Boulder.’ There are laws against using cell phones while driving, but there are also laws against speeding.
Chief Watson’s voice assaults my ear. ‘How soon can you get to the station?’
‘What’s up?’
‘There have been developments in the murder cases and I want your take on them.’
