Kerri wasn’t sure exactly which losers Britany meant, or why she was really calling. And she certainly couldn’t disagree. “So, what’s up, Brit? Are you workin’?”
“That’s why I’m calling! I got a role in a new movie—really intense family drama, right? And I was talking to the producer—he’s Saudi Arabian, the son of some sheikh or something, and he’s getting into the movie game. So I mentioned you as the director, and he flipped!”
Director? Kerri shook her head, resisting the temptation.
But she wound up saying, “Gee, Brit, I dunno. I’m really on the outs in Hollywood. Are you sure you want your new movie to go down in flames like our last one?”
“Won’t happen,” Britany said, “I promise. Kerri, what happened to our movie was tragic—a nightmare. You can’t let that be your artistic epitaph, can you?”
“My—? Brit, I’m going to focus on other things, you know?”
A pause lingered, during which Kerri could almost hear Britany smiling. “Kids are great! So let’s make this movie before you and Harden get down to those other things.”
Kerri broke out in an uncomfortable chuckle. “It’s not about that,” Kerri said.
“No, it’s not. It’s about you wiping out all those stupid rumors. You know how it is, Kerri. You’re only as good as your last project, right? So why not just do one more great one—your directorial debut at last. Then, y’know, you can decide what you want to do then. But at least you’ll leave them on a high note. And then everybody will forget all the…um, the rest of it.”
Kerri thought about it, about everything she and Harden had been through and everything that awaited them. She didn’t want to go back to the life she knew before Harden, or even before that day, with Hollywood and its hypocrite, two-faced liars, cruel paparazzi, fickle fans, fake friends.
Maybe everybody was right about me, she had to admit to herself. Maybe I lost track of fantasy and reality, and movie tropes and the real facts of life. Well, I’ve got my head on straight now, and I’m off to bigger and better things.
“No, Brit, I don’t think so. Thanks anyway.”
“Oh, that’s… I understand. It’s a real loss; you’re so talented. But I guess I understand if your husband doesn’t want you to do this kind of thing anymore. I just thought it might be fun, and, you know, healthy in a lot of ways—closure and all.”
“Britany, I haven’t even asked him yet, but I’m sure he’d support me doing it.”
“Great then.”
“No, Brit, that’s not what I’m saying. I just mean if I don’t do it, it won’t be because of Harden. It’s my choice.”
“Exactly, that’s what I’m saying. Nobody orders you around, right?”
“No, I mean…no, of course not.”
“Excellent! So come to my house; I’m meeting with the guy right now!”
“Right now?” Kerri looked down at her casual attire, no makeup on. “Gee, Brit, I dunno.”
“Ker, now is when we’re meeting. He’s going back to Saudi Arabia and who knows when he’ll be around again? I tell him you’re too busy grocery shopping—”
“Okay, Brit, okay, um, just give me about thirty minutes to get there.”
“Great. And hey, bring Harden too. I’m sure he’ll want to be here—help you decide what you wanna do.”
Kerri sighed and shook her head. “Brit, I don’t need Harden babysitting me. I make my own decisions.”
“Right, Ker, exactly.”
“Anyway, he’s at the office. This’ll give us something to talk about over dinner.”
Chapter 18
Kerri tried not to let herself get too excited. Take it easy, Ker, you know how disappointing these meetings can be. The guy may just want to meet an Oscar-winning actress.
But Kerri’s skeptical self was ready: Yeah, right, He’s from Saudi Arabia, he probably wants to buy an Oscar-winning actress!
A frightened tremble ran up the crevice of her spine.
Oh no, Kerri, let’s not get into all that again! No more wild conspiracy theories.
But the notion kept rearing its ugly head. Maybe somebody really was shooting at me on that mountainside. Could it be…an Arab sex-slave ring?
Kerri broke out laughing at herself, turning off of the freeway and heading into the flats of Burbank, where Britany’s fee from her doomed movie debut, The Billionaire Auction Block, gave her money enough to settle down and pursue her career.
Honestly though, Kerri had to admit, a second Hollywood comeback? Haven’t I outgrown all this? What do I need with months on some movie set—all those headaches? Why disrupt my life now when things are just settling down? For more money, which I don’t really need, and for greater notoriety, which I don’t really want.
But there was something else about her career that Kerri didn’t talk about much, and she knew it sounded corny to others, and it sounded corny to her when others said it, but it was still true: Film can be great, it’s the great modern art form. It delivers the truths of life in ways both magical and mysterious, dramatic and comedic. In a lot of ways they’re the best of art, and they are the best of life, and who wouldn’t want to contribute to that?
Kerri turned right onto West Oak Street and slowed down, residential bungalows lined up in a perfect row down the street.
Art, yeah right. I’ve got the best man in the world and the opportunity to make real progress in society, fight Big Pharma in ways that really matter. What good is another lame movie gonna do?
Kerri climbed out of her car and looked at Britany’s little house—on overpriced Spanish villa. Well, I’m here, so I’ll take the meeting anyway; I owe Britany that much. But I already know what my answer’s going to be.
This won’t take long.
Kerri ignored her nervousness as she walked up to the front door and knocked. The door swung open and Britany stood on the other side with a wide smile, eyes bright. She shrieked, “Ker!” and gave her a girlish hug. Kerri stepped in and Britany closed the door behind her. She locked it, which struck Kerri a little odd, and it was only then that it occurred to her that there was no big stretch limo out front, as a rich Saudi film producer might have.
Kerri stepped through entryway toward the living room, passing the kitchen, Britany lingering behind her.
The two men hit her hard from the side, rushing her and smashing her against the wall, and knocking the air out of her lungs. One grabbed her arms, wrenching them behind her back so hard she thought her shoulders were going to dislocate. He pulled Kerri off the wall to face the other man now standing in front of her, in a red tracksuit and mirrored sunglasses. He pressed a strap of duct tape on Kerri’s mouth, pushing it hard against her lips and cheeks, a frightened gasp racing up her nostrils along with their thick, stale cologne.
The man behind her pushed her back against the wall, face-first, holding her wrists together. Kerri knew what was coming next and she struggled with all her might to pull her arms free. But she had no leverage and could only feel what was happening behind her. They finally held her wrists together—the cold plastic of the zip-tie closing around her flesh, pinning her arms behind her. That thin plastic tie clicked into place, too tight, already promising a loss of circulation.
If she lived that long.
One man forced Kerri against the wall, one hand on her arm and the other on her back, while the other corralled her legs. Kerri tried to kick behind her, cocking her calves sharply upward to deliver an uppercut to the man’s face. But he was too close, so her feet stopped short against his arms as he pinned her calves together and lashed another plastic zip-tie around her ankles. With a run of little clicks, the plastic loop closed in around her, immobilizing Kerri almost entirely.
In the corner of her eye, Kerri caught site of Britany standing not far from the front door, watching with what seemed like a smile.
Britany? What…what’s happening here?
Without instruction, the two men picked Kerri up, one with his arms under hers, the other ca
rrying her bound ankles tucked under one arm. Kerri bucked, the nauseating feeling of being carried and empty air beneath her, could not compete with the raw certainty that she’d been right, that she’d been the target of some murderous conspiracy.
And now Kerri was about to die, or worse, or most likely, both.
Chapter 19
Harden was just stepping out of a meeting with his board of directors when his smartphone rang. He recognized the name on the screen, but it wasn’t one he was expecting to see. He didn’t even know George Hume had his private line.
“Harden,” George said when Harden picked up, “It’s George Hume—”
“Yeah, George, it’s been a long time. What can I do for you?”
“We have to talk, Harden, now, right away!”
“There’s obviously some urgency, George. You called me on my private line. Speak your piece.”
“Not here, not on the phone; mine’s bugged. I think my whole office is.”
“So come here.”
“It’s probably bugged too.”
“My office?” Harden glanced around his office; everything seemed perfectly in place. But of course Harden knew that was no sign of anything one way or another. Harden had heard a lot of fanciful theories from his wife, but to hear more from the relative stranger gave him pause.
George said, “I’m downstairs in the parking garage. Come down. I’ll explain everything.”
“The parking garage?” Harden couldn’t help but flash on what had happened to Kerri in an identical environment, able to recognize a modus operandi or repeated method of operation. But he also knew Kerri’s so-called kidnapping attempt had probably been a mis-read at best. Anyway, he silently huffed, nobody’s gonna try to kidnap me!
George said, “It’s about Kerri, Harden; I’m really worried about her.”
“What about Kerri?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be some kind of fucking genius or something? Not…on…the… phone!” George ended the call and Harden grabbed his wallet and keys.
What’s she gotten herself into now? Last time she wound up crashing into a crowd of skiers at the bottom of the hill. Here in Los Angeles? Car crash? Did she take a header off Mulholland like that drugged-out ex-husband of hers?
Could she have been right about Big Pharma? Could she have been right about some billionaire cabal? But she’s no longer a threat to either one; why would they hit her now? It just doesn’t add up.
Harden stepped out of the elevator into the parking lot, glancing around. A familiar figure waved to him from about twenty yards; George Hume, looking around nervously and waving Harden toward him.
Harden took the twenty yards with great strides, getting faster and more impatient. Before he arrived, he said, “George, what the hell is going on?”
George held his hand out, palm flat as he scanned the garage around them. When Harden arrived with eyes fixed on George, the man turned and said, “Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh, quiet. Walk with me.”
Harden had little choice but to follow. “Why?”
“So they can’t read our lips.”
“They? They who?” Harden grabbed George and spun the man to face him. “Damnit, George, who?”
“Us.”
The little clicks leaked up unseen; a burst of electric pain shot through Harden’s gut and raced through his body instantaneously. His legs dropped out from under him, blood sizzling in his veins, arms numb. He landed on his side, head hitting the concrete hard. Harden looked up to see George standing above him, holding a small black stun gun and smiling. Harden tried to reach up to assault the treacherous traitor, but it was no use. His arm fell back, his heart and lungs barely able to function.
George drew one foot back and let it pause for a terrible moment, before bringing it swooping forward to strike Harden in the forehead. The pain shot through him, but it didn’t last as Harden’s brain shut down and his world went black.
Kerri was seated on a couch in Britany’s living room, arms zip-tied behind her, duct tape sealing her lips, combined with her growing terror and making it almost impossible to breathe. She looked at the man in the red tracksuit, glaring at her with a wanton grin, leaning against the big entertainment center hutch. He was looking over her bound body the way so many men had done when she was a popular scream queen so many years before. She’d taken a private satisfaction in being a sex object in a way she couldn’t deny.
But she didn’t feel that way anymore.
Have I earned this? Is this what I deserve? This has happened before, hasn’t it? That fetish model in the nineteen-twenties that was raped and killed, then her photographer went mad? And that TV actress who played a superheroine sidekick in the seventies and was stalked by some would-be villain so badly she had to retire?
This guy in the tracksuit is the one who chased me in the parking garage, I know it! But what does he have to do with Britany? Did she sell me out to some sex murderer? But…why? Because I ruined her movie debut? I gave her the job in the first place; she was an unknown. I gave her a career!
That’s fucking Show Business!
Her ankles bound, blood already gathering around her plastic bonds, Kerri knew all she could do was speculate, or wait to have it explained to her if they even bothered. Her only hope was for Harden to burst in and rescue her.
He’ll come for me; I know he will. These punks won’t stand a chance against him. He’ll just make a phone call like he did before, and they’ll have to kill themselves. These fools don’t know what they’re up against.
Then again, neither do I.
Kerri glanced at the sliding glass door at the back of the living room—a small backyard beyond and concrete surrounding a modest swimming pool. Britany walked up to her with a nasty grin. She almost looked like a different person, chewing gum and snapping it loudly. She stood in front of Kerri, one hand on her hip. “So,” she said in a voice Kerri didn’t recognize, sloped in an East Coast whine, “you still ain’t got no idea what’s goin’ on, do ya, hon?”
Kerri shook her head.
Britany said, “Unbelievable. Did it mean so little to you; are you that callous, you hautless whooo-wah.” That was when Kerri recognized the accent as being from New Jersey, made popular on The Sopranos.
Britany explained, “I ain’t no Britany Stevens, bitch! My name’s Angela la Blanca. You and your big-shot husband killed my husband, Chaz la Blanca.” Kerri didn’t need the explanation, but Angela leaned forward with a bitter sneer. “Chaz the Cheetah, they called him.”
Kerri knew then what was happening, a saddened sob spilling out of her nose. “Oh, now it rings a bell, huh? Your man had him killed! That left me and our baby alone, without a man, without a father. Did you think you could go and have these things when I couldn’t? Did your man think he could just murder someone and not pay the price? Oh, he’ll pay all right…with interest!”
Kerri tried to speak, her voice muffled behind the tape.
“What, you got somethin’ to say?”
Kerri nodded.
Angela glanced at one of the two men, both in tracksuits but one wearing black. She said, “Carlo.” Carlo, in the black, came up and cocked a nickel-plated handgun with a silencer on the barrel. Carlo sat next to Kerri and wrapped one arm around her neck. He used his free hand to push the silencer into Kerri’s neck, just up under the chin and pointing upward. One pull of that trigger would blow her head clean off and nobody would hear a sound.
Angela asked her, “You gonna be a good girl?” Kerri nodded and Angela tore the tape away. Kerri gasped but didn’t scream, her body rigid, her eyes shifting from Angela in front of her and the gunman on her right.
Kerri said, “They were coming after me; it wasn’t my fault.”
“You owed them money!”
“We paid it.”
“You said you’d pay and you didn’t! That gave us every right!”
Kerri shook her head. “No, no, there was a mix-up with the payment—your husband intervened and stole it, and that m
ade Don, um…”
“Don Paulie?”
“Right, he never got his money and sent your husband back. But we straightened it out, and Don Paulie knew your husband had betrayed him. That’s why your husband had to do what he did, because he betrayed Don Paulie. It wasn’t us! Don Paulie wound up getting his money back, justice was served—”
“Justice? You got some nerve!”
“Or whatever you all consider justice. For us it was just self-defense, and we never actually killed anybody.”
“’Ey, ’ey, you kill a man, you stick by it. That’s just the way it is. You Hollywood types, think you’re so much better than everybody else. You make me sick!”
“Is this Don Paulie’s order?”
“Far as Don Paulie knows, I’m in Florida at my mother’s with my kid. But Carlo and Sal here were friends of my husband’s too. Who knows? After we take care of you and your husband and rob you blind, we’ll probably go have a little meetin’ with Don Paulie ourselves, talk about a-a change of regime.”
“And the skiers on the mountain in Zurich, the photographers—”
“I called some friends back in the Old Country, had ’em take a shot if they could. I wanted you alive, both of you. But I told them if they could take you out alone, they should go for it. That would be a good way to give your sugar daddy a little taste of what I’ve been through, that would be part of debt paid.”
“And you set fire to the set?”
Angela smiled. “Sal’s work, actually. Those red robes, that couldn’t have worked out better.”
“But the kidnapping, the Charger—”
“Oh yeah, Sal almost gotcha, Carlo here was drivin’. Yer a slippery little bitch, I’ll give you that. Not slippery enough, turns out.”
A knock fell on the door; Sal in the red tracksuit pulled a gun and stepped down the hall.
Here he comes, Kerri thought, he’s going to go ballistic. I only hope this goombah doesn’t shoot me while he still can!
But Angela said, “Speak of the devil.” Kerri looked over to see George and Sal carrying Harden into the living room. He was also zip-tied at the ankles, wrists behind him, duct tape over his mouth. But he was lifeless, eyes closed, a bruise already forming on his forehead.
Billionaire Bash: The Complete Steele Series Page 17
