Rachel forced herself against my body and wrapped her arms around me. I thought that she’d start crying again, like she had the night before, but she didn’t. She just kept murmuring I can’t-I-can’t-I-can’t. I held her, not because I’m sensitive or romantic, but because I couldn’t think of anything else to do.
Chapter Thirty-four
I thought Chaladian might call on Sunday, but he didn’t. He called on Monday. Everyone called on Monday. Monday was telephone day. I got Rachel to work around 8:15, and the only productive things I did after that were courtesy of Verizon 4G.
First came Proxy, at 9:23.
“We have a go on the Wellstein option. Now all you have to do is make it happen.”
“And the million-dollar thing is out?”
“Definite no on Chaladian’s pitch.”
“Thank God.”
“Thank God if you want to,” Proxy said. “But if I were you, I’d thank me.”
I made it to 11:45 a.m. before I got the call I’d really been hoping for—the one from Jeff Wells.
“I told him and the shit just hit the fan. Levitt went full postal.”
“Did you tell him the truth?”
“Up to a point. He’ll be calling you for sure.”
“I’ll be ready. Is there a company line ready?”
“Yeah. Search didn’t happen. Absolutely did not happen. Nothing to see here, folks. Move along.”
“Is that Levitt’s bright idea?”
“If it works it is. Otherwise, not so much.”
“I’ll look forward to his call.”
Chaladian rang through a little after one, just as I was finishing lunch. I answered with my last name, as usual.
“So, Davidovich. You have an answer for me yet?”
“Yep. The bad news is that they’re taking a pass on your offer. Trans/Oxana will keep the million bucks and muddle through the Trowbridge trial as best it can.”
“Eh, what bullshit. They want us to bargain like a couple of towel-hat rug merchants.”
“‘Towel-hat’? Seriously?”
“Slang term for ‘Arab.’”
“Yeah, I know. I just haven’t heard anyone use it since I got back from Iraq.”
“Okay, okay, enough sociology. What’s the counteroffer?”
“No counteroffer. Trans/Oxana isn’t interested in your information about the problems with the evidence against Trowbridge. Hartford is taking a pass on your generous offer. Thanks for thinking of us, and good luck in your future endeavors.”
“Trans/Oxana disappoints me. But you said that was the bad news. Is there good news?”
“Maybe. I understand you fronted for some investors who had a bad experience on Trowbridge’s last movie. You’ve been trying to get the money back in nickels and dimes and it’s slow going.”
“Maybe you understand some things that aren’t so.”
“Maybe I do. Humor me, though. Pretend for a minute that it’s true. How would you like to get that money back—not quickly, but guaranteed?”
“I’m listening.”
“Two catches. First, Trans/Oxana has to work the deal out. Second, you’re out of the Kent Trowbridge business. You get the money when we’re off the risk on the Trowbridge policy.”
“Translation: you want me to guarantee Trowbridge’s performance without getting paid anything except what I’m already owed.”
“I didn’t say that.” I switched the phone to my other ear and leaned my kitchen chair back. “If Trowbridge turns into a sniveling pile of puss and can’t work anymore because somebody is mean to him in jail, that’s not your problem. We pay off on the policy and you get your money. The only way you don’t get your money is if you’re the one who sinks him.”
Long, long pause. I kept my mouth shut. Finally he came out with a question.
“How could you guarantee the payment?”
“That’s some lawyer’s problem. Back-to-back letters of credit with a Hong Kong bank or some crap like that, probably. There must be some country that doesn’t have warrants out on you.”
He cackled at that. A long, jagged, staccato laugh. When he spoke, his tone was almost jovial.
“Tell you what. Throw in my Katrina and it’s a deal.”
“I can’t deliver Thompson. Don’t know where she is, and I wouldn’t have the balls to go after her if I did.”
“Very disappointing. But you might actually be telling the truth. When will you know whether you can get this deal worked out?”
“By close of business tomorrow.”
“All right. One more thing: my pistol. I want it back.”
“Let me ask you something, Mr. Ten Percent. What are you smoking and where can I get some? You think I make it a habit to hang onto hot guns that have probably been used in murders? If you want that gun, call the Omaha Police Department and ask politely.”
“You bullshit me, then. You told me you would leave the gun if I waited ten minutes.”
“Yeah, I was kidding about that. I don’t like to lie, but sometimes it’s an operational necessity. Like shooting prisoners.”
“At least we speak the same language. We will talk tomorrow.”
I barely had time to catch my breath before the next call came in. It was from a west coast number that I didn’t recognize.
“Davidovich.”
“Mr. Davidovich?” Female voice, polite but insistent.
“Yes.”
“Jay Davidovich?”
“Yes.” I hissed the word. “For the third time, this is Jay Davidovich. What do you want?”
“Please hold for Mr. Levitt.”
I came that close to throwing my phone across the room.
“Hello. This is Davidovich, right?”
“Yes. What’s on your mind?”
“Davidovich, I’m going to ask you a question. I want a yes or no answer, and I want the truth. Did Jeff Wells allow cocaine to be planted in Trowbridge’s suite in Omaha?”
“No.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Absolutely positive. Guy named Stan Chaladian tried to, and convinced the cops it was there, but his plan for getting the bait in the water didn’t work. ”
“What plan?”
“One of the maids, probably. Wouldn’t cost much to get one to play along.”
“Is Stan Chaladian that two-bit gonif punk who tried to put the squeeze on Kent over Venus Infers?”
“I’m guessing yes. Lost money on your boy’s last flick and hasn’t gotten over it. And just so we’re crystal clear on this, he didn’t get cocaine into the suite but he did get Omaha cops into it. So this ‘absolutely did not happen’ stuff Wells wants me to peddle if any scribblers call is amateur-hour bullshit.”
“Oh, I see. On top of your rent-a-thug duties, you handle PR on the side.”
“This isn’t PR, it’s walking-around-without-your-head-up-your-ass common sense. The cops got a warrant, they came to the suite, and they searched the suite. There’s no way you stonewall that.”
“So what’s your brilliant suggestion?”
“‘The cops got a warrant, they came to the suite, they searched the suite in a thorough and professional manner—and they didn’t find anything because there was nothing to find.’”
He hung up. I shrugged. In that entire conversation, I’d only said three words that mattered: “No” and “Absolutely positive.” The question was whether they mattered enough to generate one more phone call.
They did. It came at 4:24 p.m.
“Davidovich.”
“Mr. Davidovich, this is Sydney Wellstein. I owe you an apology.”
“Accepted.”
“My son tells me you stood up for him when that twenty-four carat sonofa
bitch Levitt, who by the way sometimes makes me ashamed to be a Jew, was about to castrate him.”
“I appreciate his saying that.”
“You called me last week because there was something you wanted to talk to me about. You have now earned that conversation.”
I told him why I’d called then, and why I wanted to talk to him now.
“For reasons that you’ll find hard to understand, Mr. Davidovich, this isn’t an easy thing for me to say. But we might be able to do business. Unfortunately, I need to have a face-to-face conversation about the details. My mobility is limited, so I’ll have to ask you to come to me.”
“How about Wednesday afternoon?”
“I’ll see you then.”
He ended the call. I sat there, looking at my phone as I felt the juice. YESSS! I was pumped. Moving pieces around an electronic chessboard with my phone gave me a kind of not-bad rush. And the very best part was telling Chaladian I didn’t have his Russian peashooter anymore. Being able to lie like that is a gift.
Chapter Thirty-five
Wednesday afternoon. Two-room unit in a low-rise office strip on the northern edge of the San Diego sprawl. Wellstein had a mop of black and silver hair over a narrow, angular face that tapered in bulldog folds toward his chin. On the paneled wall behind him I saw two pictures, both framed eight-by-tens. The black-and-white photo showed a dark-haired young Wellstein in tennis whites at the peak of a serve: feet just off the ground, leaning forward a little as his old-fashioned wooden racket smashed the ball. The color picture showed a middle-aged Wellstein in a group of maybe a dozen people, some with faces that I vaguely recognized. One of the people was holding an Oscar statuette. Wellstein was the fourth face to her right.
“Financing movies is lousy with dirty money. Drug money, cartel money, Cosa Nostra money, you name it.” Sydney Wellstein’s Ocean Pacific pullover shirt sagged on his frame. “You got a mass-market flick with A-list talent and a nine-figure budget—fine. You can do conventional financing on that. But if you want to make some crap with unknown talent framing a C-lister—or, even worse, some Serious Cinema vehicle like Venus Infers—and you need to raise a couple-million bucks for it, odds are half the money started out as cash stuffed in garbage bags.”
“Yeah, Jeff told me a little about how it works.”
“So I’m a big boy, I know the score.” Wellstein had his hands clasped on the desk in front of him as he spoke to me in a raspy, listen-up-and-you-might-learn-something-kid tone that reminded me of New York City. “But so did the people I raised the money from. No one was kidding anyone. There were no guarantees. Kent Trowbridge or no Kent Trowbridge, everyone knew the movie might tank.”
“But Chaladian came after you anyway.”
“Came after me in total bastard mode. If he’d tried it with someone like Korvette he’d probably be dead. Or not. Can’t be certain. Hard to tell who’s mobbed up in town these days. Not like the seventies. Not such a mystery then, believe me. You could do a pretty good reality series on low-talent hustlers who crossed the wrong people and died young from say, ’fifty to ’eighty.”
“But you didn’t have any muscle behind you.”
“Didn’t have a studio, didn’t have an agency, standing out there stark naked. So I humored Chaladian. Threw him some spare change now and then. Treated it like a cost of doing business. You know, like a trade show in New York, you hafta give some swag to the unions. Same thing.”
“He told me he hates to be strung along.”
“Like I give a fuck what he hates.” A pale, angry white showed under Wellstein’s tan. “Small time chisler. But he crossed a line.”
“When he went after Jeff.”
“That’s right. Jeff didn’t tell me when Chaladian came to him. I found out after the fact.” He paused and looked longingly at a spot on his desk where I guessed an ashtray had rested for many years. “Which is bullshit.”
“Right.”
“So that’s why we can do business.”
“Good.”
“I know what I sound like. ‘You’re graciously telling us you’ll let us spend a ton of money solving a problem for you and you act like you’re doing us a favor.’ Like I said, I know the score. Nothin’ for nothin’. That’s the way the west was won. You guys are gonna want something out of this. Not sure what. Don’t care, as long as it doesn’t end up with me doing a perp walk. Point is, you’re not helping me out as a public service.”
“That’s true.”
“No reason you should be. But it has to be handled my way.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“No cash. Wire transfers to onshore accounts that check out on Dun and Bradstreet. Receipts. Documentation.”
“You got it.”
“Details, I know, the details will be a bitch. Don’t worry your pretty little head about those. Give your lawyer my phone number. The grown-ups will take care of all that.”
“Fine with me.”
I guess I should have felt insulted by now, but I just couldn’t work myself up to it. Wellstein had peaked four faces from an Oscar. The day was long past when he could talk tough and bully anyone who mattered, so he was tough talking me for old time’s sake. Fine. Knock yourself out, Syd.
“There’s one more thing.” His voice got real, real serious.
I braced myself for the touch, the noodge, the nickel-grab. How much would he want? A hundred thousand? Fifty? Probably enough to give Proxy heartburn, which would complicate my life. Oh, well. Might as well get it over with.
“What’s the one more thing?”
“A gun. A handgun. Something simple.”
Oh, is that all? My body temperature went up a degree or two, and the world suddenly seemed very quiet.
“Could be a problem. There’s something in the employee manual about aiding and abetting. Trans/Oxana frowns on it.”
“Let me explain.” He shifted in his chair, closed rheumy brown eyes with sagging lower sockets and rubbed them with both hands, and then fixed his gaze on me. “I have Lou Gehrig’s disease.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“That’s okay. I’ve had a decent run. Now I’m in the end-game. Fine. So be it. I’m not the world’s best Jew, but if I need consolation I know where to find Psalm one-forty-nine.”
“Where does the gun come in?”
“Best case I’ve got three halfway-decent years before it gets so bad I have to start looking for an exit strategy. Probably more like two. I want those years. Stan Chaladian doesn’t get ten percent of them just because he comes down with seller’s remorse three months from now.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Then let me spell it out. That bastard walks through my door looking for another touch—and it’s fifty-fifty he will—then I’m putting a bullet in the fucker.”
“Seems reasonable.”
“I spent two years in the United States armed forces. I know how to use a gun. But I need one to use. One that can’t be traced to Jeff. That’s why I won’t have him buy it for me. He’s too weak to handle cops.”
“But you figure I can handle cops.”
“You’re damn right I do. I’ve checked you out. You helped deliver nineteen-year-old boys to Abu Ghraib. And I expect you got some dope about improvised explosive devices by doing stuff that ain’t in the field manual. You’ve got that extra layer of moral skin.”
I shrugged noncommittally. He was half right. Maybe sixty percent right if you want to get technical about it.
“So I need you to do this, Mr. Davidovich. ‘No’ on this is a deal breaker.”
My answer did not come from the field manual.
“It just so happens that I have a gun.”
Chapter Thirty-six
“Neat gun.” Proxy bent forward a little so that she cou
ld peer over my right shoulder without getting in the way.
“It is. The Russians actually make pretty good small arms. Cheap, efficient, and functional.”
Curtain-filtered sunlight made its way through the window of my fourth-floor room at the U.S. Grant Hotel in San Diego. Eight-fifteen in the morning, one week after my face-to-face with Wellstein. We’d flown out the afternoon before. I wiped one of the hotel’s towels carefully over both sides and the bottom of the clip Thompson had traded to me for the loaded clip from Chaladian’s pistol. I’d just pushed six nine-millimeter cartridges into it. I saw Proxy’s eyebrows go up when I pulled on skintight plastic sanitary gloves for that chore.
“Do you really think Wellstein is going to shoot Chaladian?”
“No. I’d say the chances of that are almost zero. The idea of the gun is to give him a feeling that he has some way to defend himself, that he’s not totally vulnerable. But ‘almost zero’ ain’t zero. If he does put a bullet in someone, I don’t want my prints on it.”
I snapped the clip cleanly back into the automatic’s handle. Gave the entire weapon one final going-over with the towel. Proxy was right: the Russian piece was a neat little gun.
“Was the flight out here the first time you’ve ever used a company plane?”
“Yep. Thanks for pulling those strings.”
“The alternative was to have you chew a three-day hole in my budget driving across the country.”
“True. There are legal ways to bring a gun along with you on a commercial flight, but they involve paperwork that I’d just as soon avoid.”
After making sure the safety was on, I slipped Chaladian’s gun into a Baggie freezer bag. I put the bag into a generic attaché case that I’d used about three times since Trans/Oxana gave it to me shortly after I signed on. Only after I’d snapped the case shut did I pull the gloves off. I put them aside to throw away in a public wastebasket sometime later in the day. My hands felt sweaty now, so I ducked into the bathroom to wipe them off with a different towel than I’d used on the clip and the gun.
Jail Coach Page 16
