Exposure

by Alan Russell

  “When did you get back?”

  “An hour ago.”

  “You working now?” Graham asked.

  “Yeah, I’m doing Pottygate. I keep trying to sneak into this woman’s shitter to snap some photos. Problem is that it always seems to be occupied. I should have just dressed in drag.”

  Ran was hairy and squat. His face and hands were thick and imposing, his beard invariably heavy.

  “I don’t even want to conjure up that image.”

  “I’d look like my grandmother, ’cept she has a thicker mustache. Wait a second. The coast just got clear.”

  Ran apparently dropped his cell phone into his pocket, letting Graham listen in to his movements. A door opened, and a few seconds later Graham could hear the familiar sounds of a camera and flash working in sync. But then the sounds stopped.

  “Excuse me,” Graham heard him say.

  A very indignant woman’s voice asked, “What are you doing in here?”

  “We’re going to be redecorating the women’s cra—bathroom, ma’am,” Ran said. “I needed to get a few shots. I’ll just get out of your way.”

  He really was in a women’s bathroom. Graham started laughing. The image of Ran, whose idea of color sense began and ended with his collection of garish aloha shirts, trying to pass himself off as an interior designer gave Graham his first good laugh in days.

  “Shut up,” said Ran, coming back on the line. “I don’t want security following the trail of your laughter.”

  “Did you ever think about carrying a plumber’s helper and putting up a sign on the door?”

  “I didn’t think the place was going to be Grand Central Station.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Scene of the crime. Westwood. They had this chichi screening of Quentin’s new film here last night.”

  “And something happened in the ladies’ room?”

  “Yeah. It was a real hot ticket event. The studio only allowed their muckety-mucks to attend. The premiere won’t happen for another two weeks, and apparently Quentin’s still working on the final cut. Anyway, the film clocks in at just under three hours. When the lights go up, there’s this mad dash for the bathrooms, which results in a major logjam at the ladies’ facilities. Now we know damn few things in this world are democratic, but toilets come close. First come, first served. But not in Hollywood. Bambi Spellman, wife of Jack Spellman, the studio head that’s distributing Quentin’s film, makes a point of walking to the front of the line without so much as an ‘excuse me.’ Apparently this isn’t the first time she’s made such a power play either. Bambi and potty politics are old friends. We’re talking some considerable egos she’s stepping on when she walks to the front of the line, but because Jack’s the studio power broker, no one dared to say anything out loud.”

  “Oh, if those stalls could only talk.”

  “Exactly. The ladies are lined up to bad-mouth her—off the record of course.”

  “Getting a picture of an empty bathroom isn’t exactly gripping photography.”

  “Oh, I got a few shots of Bambi in a la-di-da kind of pose. And one of her so-called friends supplied me with a picture of Bambi showing off her bare ass. Apparently she was demonstrating the results of a new trainer and diet at a party in Newport Beach.”

  “I don’t want to detain you from your Pulitzer. The reason I called is that I need a favor.”

  “Name it.”

  “I’m hoping I can crash at your place tonight.”

  “No problem. What’s wrong with yours?”

  Graham wasn’t sure what, if anything, he should tell Ran. “It’s being fumigated.”

  “They got one of those tents up?”

  “No.”

  “Termites or vermin?”

  “Rats.”

  “I got a friend who’s got an exterminating company. He tips me off when he’s doing any big-name house. I dress up in overalls and act like a hired killer of bugs. I’ve gotten a few good shots that way.”

  Lon Chaney, the Man of a Thousand Faces, had nothing on Ran.

  “You’d be surprised at how many rats there are in this town.”

  “No,” said Graham, “I wouldn’t.”

  Ran lived in a Santa Monica house just three blocks up from the Strand. He couldn’t afford the place, but Jackie, his live-in for the last three years, could. Jackie was a stylist who set up photographic and commercial shoots for some of the biggest advertising accounts in Los Angeles. She was basically a producer, even if none of her work ever ran more than sixty seconds. Jackie arranged locations, props, actors, and scripts. Even photographers. Lately, she had been pushing Ran hard to leave “gutter photography” and join her in the business. She detested his work, and anything to do with it—including Graham. If he hadn’t been afraid of Smith tracking him down through his credit card, he would have taken a hotel room.

  Ran slapped him hard on the back with one arm and waved him in with the other. Graham only caught one glimpse of Jackie as she escaped into the bedroom, shaking her head and rolling her eyes.

  “Jackie’s had a long day,” Ran said, looking away. He knew the words sounded lame, but they were the best he could offer.

  “I hope you’re not in the doghouse on my account.”

  “No more than usual. Want your usual bourbon rocks?”

  Graham nodded. Just that morning he had sworn off booze forever, but a hair of the dog that bit him might help his headache. As Ran went off to get the drinks, Graham felt his old cell phone vibrating. He stared at the readout and saw the words “Number Is Restricted.” That warning had been coming up all night. Since the caller wasn’t willing to be identified, Graham wasn’t willing to talk. His gut told him Smith was on the line. If his suspicions were correct, he didn’t want to speak to him, at least not until he knew more. It was possible US intelligence was working with Mossad. From what Graham had heard, they had a history of being in bed together.

  Ran returned with the drinks. He was drinking red wine—obviously Jackie’s influence. As he was handing Graham his bourbon, Ran suddenly took notice of his face.

  “What the fuck happened to you?”

  “Car wreck. The van was totaled.”

  “Jeez. Anyone else hurt?”

  Graham shook his head and took a long pull of the drink. Once wasn’t enough. He went back to the well.

  “Maybe I should just give you the bottle,” said Ran.

  “Maybe you should.”

  “You’re not telling me everything.”

  “No, I’m not. Get me drunk and maybe I will. In the meantime you can tell me about the Mossad.”

  “Why’s a goyim like you interested in the Mossad?”

  “I’m doing some fishing. I’m curious if James Bond has infiltrated Hollywood.”

  “You mean Chaim Bond? Not that I’ve heard. You know how some Italians say there is no Mafia? It’s the same way some Jews say with a wink that there is no Mossad. There’s never a mention of it in the Israeli budget, and no prime minister ever talks about it.”

  “But it is Israel’s version of the CIA?”

  “The bad boys in the Mossad would be insulted by that comparison. The Mossad’s full name is Ha Mossad, le Modiyn ve le Tafkidim Mayuhadim—the Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations.”

  “Would there be any reason for the Mossad to be in Hollywood?”

  “Anything’s possible. They track their enemies around the world. But this would be way off their usual haunts.”

  “Which are?”

  “They got deep cover going in all the Arab countries, but from what I hear, most of their agents are in Europe. Here in the US, they concentrate on New York City and Washington, DC. I got a second or third cousin who’s in the Institute. That’s what they call it. The guy’s a real prick.”

  “Runs in the famil
y, huh?”

  “Fuck you. Now what’s this all about?”

  “I don’t know yet. Right now I’m just following a rumor.”

  “Watch out that the rumor doesn’t start following you. The Mossad doesn’t fool around.”

  “I’ll tell them I know krav maga.”

  “Yeah. They’ll show you krav maga.”

  Krav maga is Hebrew for “contact combat” and is the preferred form of down and dirty fighting utilized by the Israeli police and military. Graham had gotten his first taste of it when he and Ran had teamed up for a shoot in Venice Beach. They had heard that Adam Levine was trying out new material while disguised as a street performer. To while away the time, Ran had shown Graham some of his martial arts moves on the sand. The rumor about Levine never panned out, but Graham came away from their long weekend of fruitless surveillance with a few deadly combinations. Occasionally he even took some classes at the krav maga martial arts studio in West Hollywood.

  Ran said, “I always thought we should steal the Mossad’s old motto for our own profession.”

  “What is it?”

  “‘By way of deception, thou shalt do war.’ ”

  “It sounds too biblical for the likes of us. We’re closer to ‘Say cheese.’”

  Graham took another drink and found himself chewing ice at the bottom of his glass. Ran got up, then returned with a fresh glass of ice and the threatened bottle of Jim Beam.

  “Tell me about it,” he said, refilling ice and drink.

  Graham turned his head and made sure Jackie was still boycotting him. “I’m not going to tell you the whole thing,” he said. “It would take too long. But I will tell you what happened last night after a shoot.”

  Without mentioning Lanie, he described the late-night drive, and how he had been force-fed vodka. He fudged his source by saying that the two men alluded to being Mossad just before they tried to kill him. Ran listened without interrupting him. When Graham finished, both men were silent for a time.

  “Some story,” Ran finally said.

  “I know it sounds crazy.”

  Ran shook his head. “Not crazy if you were a terrorist. It’s no secret that the Mossad carries out assassinations, what’s euphemistically called the ‘long arm of Israeli justice.’ They literally are given a license to kill by the prime minister. The members of Black September got an up close and personal education on that front.”

  Black September was the organization that massacred members of the Israeli team at the Munich Olympics.

  “The Israelis didn’t mind when the Germans exchanged their seven Black September prisoners for the release of hostages taken in a Lufthansa hijacking,” said Ran. “It gave them a chance to hunt down and assassinate each one of them. And that’s what they did for many years until they killed the seventh and last terrorist.”

  “Never forget.”

  “You better believe it.”

  “What I can’t figure out is why they set up the portable bar for me, making me drink vodka every few minutes.”

  “That’s easy,” said Ran. “Your autopsy would have shown that you didn’t do your drinking all at once. That way it would look like you were doing some binge drinking instead of being force-fed the booze.”

  “Just another alcohol-related death.”

  “You got it. But the Mossad did not do this to you.”

  Ran spoke emphatically, announcing himself as certain beyond any doubt.

  “How do you know that?” Graham asked.

  “Because you would be dead.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-TWO

  Though Graham had been up for two days, sleep didn’t come easily to him. He tossed and turned. Tucked under the mattress were the photos he had taken of Lanie. It was almost as if he could feel her pain even through all the material and fabric that separated him from the pictures.

  Princess and the pea time, he thought. The fable made Graham think about royalty, about Lady Godwin.

  He didn’t want to get caught up in that mind loop again, so he turned on the light. Usually he kept a book on his nightstand, but in his haste to pack he hadn’t brought any reading material. But he did have one book, he remembered. Lanie’s gift to him.

  The Pilgrim’s Progress wouldn’t have been his first reading choice. The language was arcane, and the book dated, but he still stayed with the pilgrim through the Slough of Despond, the Valley of Humiliation, and the River of Death. When the pilgrim reached Vanity Fair, Graham felt at home. He figured that in his own life he had settled somewhere between the Slough of Despond and Vanity Fair, but the pilgrim didn’t give up as easily. He persevered through By-Path Meadow, the House of the Interpreter, the Palace Beautiful, in the end making it all the way to the Delectable Mountains.

  Graham carefully put the book away. No star had ever given him anything before, if you didn’t count a clenched fist, the finger, or a restraining order. In the throes of pain, Lanie had thought of him.

  Maybe she just wanted to butter me up, thought Graham. She knew he was holding the cards, but she wouldn’t have known that until after he arrived at the Grove to meet with her. By then, the gift was already waiting for him.

  He thought about her suicide attempt, and mulled over what could have driven her to such a desperate act. Over the years, Graham had heard a lot of AA patter. People in show business were always drying out. But one phrase in particular kept playing in his head: “You are as sick as your secret.”

  In this case, the secret wasn’t an alcohol problem. But whatever the secret was, it had made Lanie very, very sick.

  Graham knew all about trying to carry the weight of a debilitating secret.

  You are as sick as your secret.

  Maybe he and Lanie were both terminally ill.

  Estelle Steinberg was taking his calls now, but she wasn’t intent on easing his way. “I need to see Lanie today,” Graham said.

  “Like hell you do,” said Estelle.

  “I want a neutral location.”

  “Then get a one-way ticket to Switzerland.”

  “She can bring me the legal papers.”

  “The lawyers need to draw them up. They’re the ones you need to meet with, not Lanie.”

  “I only talk with lawyers when I have to. This isn’t one of those times.”

  “It is if you want to get paid.”

  “You want Lanie to get screwed?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Lawyers talk even when they’re not paid to talk. Lawyer-client confidentiality? It’s a joke. And even if the attorneys are tight-mouthed, what about their staff? Half my tip-offs come from legal offices. If you want things buttoned up between us, keep the lawyers out of it.”

  “We just hand you unmarked bills, is that it?”

  “Don’t make it like I’m blackmailing you.”

  “Is there another name for it?”

  “You’re the one who wants to buy the pictures.”

  “Mysterious pictures that no one has ever seen.”

  “For Lanie’s sake, I think that’s how it should be. They need to be for her eyes only. And that’s why I want to meet with Lanie alone. These pictures are very”—he struggled for the right word—“private.”

  “Then why the hell did you take them?”

  “That’s my job.”

  “You would have made a good Nazi.”

  Another voice came on the line. “He’s right, Estelle. I don’t want a go-between.”

  “With all respect, Lanie, you don’t know what you are talking about. It takes a snake handler to handle a poisonous snake. That’s what we are dealing with here.”

  “He saved my life,” said Lanie.

  “He didn’t want the Golden Goose to die.”

  “I’ll take over from here.” There was no compromise in Lani
e’s voice. Estelle sighed, then hung up, putting the receiver down decisively, but not with the vehemence that Graham knew she possessed.

  “Are you there, Mr. Wells?”

  “Scales, fangs, and all.”

  “When do you want to meet?”

  “As soon as possible. I’m going to give you a number, and I want you to call me from the road. We’ll make arrangements at that time.”

  “Why can’t we make those arrangements now?”

  “Because I’m not certain your line isn’t tapped.”

  Forty minutes later his cell phone rang. “Where are you?” Graham asked.

  “Just outside of Topanga Beach.”

  “You got your Praetorian Guard with you?”

  “Only Nurse Ratched. Dr. Burke still has me on a short leash.”

  “Is the nurse in her whites or in civvies?”

  “Street clothes.”

  “We’ll be meeting in Santa Monica. Park near the pier. I want you to make a loop around the carousel area. I might or might not join you at that time.”

  “You won’t know me. I’m disguised.”

  Graham laughed. “Let me guess. You’re wearing large dark glasses and either a hat or a shawl, or both.”

  Surprised: “Yes.”

  “Next time just wear a neon sign that says: star. It’s the worst disguise in the world, but every name in the business still wears it. When I catch sight of that kind of outfit I reach for my camera.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “If I don’t join you, a half block south from the pier on Ocean Avenue is a restaurant called Chez Jay. We have a reservation for a quiet table in the back under the name of Bunyan. You can tell the nurse it’s a table for two.”

  Graham was sitting on a bench and had his face in a newspaper when the two of them walked by. Lanie clearly wasn’t used to being out in public. She looked uncertain, tentative, out of place among the other passersby who were enjoying the sights or getting some exercise. The nurse, built like a fireplug, looked as if she could have come out of central casting for a prison matron. Graham studied the sports page until the two of them were some fifty yards off, and even then didn’t look their way. He stretched, craned his neck as if there was a crick in it, and looked all around. Nothing suspicious stood out.