by R. J. Kaiser
“Dear God,” she muttered. She was white as a sheet.
Cars meanwhile had stopped in the street, their occupants gawking. Other cars behind them, ignorant of what had happened, began honking. Amid the bedlam, Mac picked up Stella’s purse, which had fallen on the sidewalk. Among some of the items that had spilled out were her car keys. He grabbed them, quickly put the other things in her bag, unlocked the door, shoved her inside, went around to the driver’s side, got in and, after starting the engine, pulled out of the parking space.
Stella didn’t say anything until they’d driven a block. “What happened?”
“I don’t know, Stella. I don’t know.”
Saturday, August 26, 2000
Bel Air
Mac watched the sun come up from his bed, taking heart in the fact that he’d survived the night. He still didn’t know what to make of the man who’d tried to kill them. He’d gotten a good enough look to determine it was a man driving, but little more. Young, dark, Hispanic probably. That was it. If there was anything that stood out in his mind, it was that gun pointed at them. What might have happened had he not looked up before the guy fired?
By the time he got her home, Stella had sufficiently come to her senses that she’d questioned why he hadn’t called the police. Mac wasn’t sure, except that he wanted as little to do with them as possible, especially with Stella involved and the note on both their minds. Maybe that was a mistake, though. Someone could have jotted down Stella’s license-plate number. When the victims fled a crime scene, you knew something screwy was going on. He probably should have stayed until the cops arrived— or at least phoned them from Stella’s place.
She hadn’t argued the point, probably wanting to get the ordeal over with as much as he. She had wanted him to stay the night, though, using every weapon in her arsenal, from tears to subtle threats. “I don’t know if I’ll get through the night alone,” she’d beseeched him. “Please stay, Mac.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“But what about you? They could be waiting at your car.”
Mac was not eager to prove her wrong on the point, but he wasn’t going to spend the night with Stella, even in her guest room. Still, he couldn’t be insensitive to her needs. He could ill afford her losing it and flipping out on him. “I’ll be fine,” he told her. “It may not have been aimed at us personally. It could have been a random act of violence.”
“No, Mac, you know better than that.”
He hadn’t stayed around to debate the point. He’d given Stella a pep talk, called a cab, retrieved his car and driven home without incident. To the best of his knowledge he hadn’t even been followed.
Once home, he’d closed the blinds and shutters, feeling like he was in Vietnam all over again, hunkered down in his bunker and waiting for the nightly barrage of mortar rounds and artillery shells. His life, it seemed, was going from bad to worse. And he didn’t know why.
In the safety of his bed, Mac had tried to figure out who and why. The first possibility that came to mind was some sort of connection to the note. A campaign of intimidation? If he was right, his suspicions about the cop, Jaime Caldron, were wrong. A cop, even a desperate cop, would be unlikely to resort to such extreme measures.
The other possibility was that it had nothing to do with the note. Neither Bri nor Manuela Ordon˜ez were very happy with him and could have hired the gunman. Of the two, Manuela was the more likely candidate, considering she already had a criminal record, though the passions of love made everyone unpredictable. There was also a chance that it was a simple random act of violence, as he’d suggested to Stella. Two well-dressed people getting into an expensive car…if you were crazed on drugs or something, why not take a shot at them?
Mac hadn’t explored with Stella the possibility that it had nothing to do with him, but rather that she was the target. But knowing her, she’d have volunteered the theory, if that was likely—God knows, she’d come up with every other possible excuse to show how vulnerable and needy she was. So really, it was anybody’s guess as to why they’d been targeted. His gut, though, told him there was some connection to the note.
The phone on the bedside table rang. Mac picked up the receiver.
“Are you all right?” It was Stella.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“I’m sorry if I woke you, but I didn’t sleep a wink, worrying. I had visions of…” Her voice trailed off.
“I was awake. Didn’t sleep very well myself.” He hesitated. “Stella…”
“Yes?”
“Is there any chance this is directed at you?”
It took a moment for her to reply. “You’re asking if it was me they were trying to kill?”
“Is anybody mad at you?”
“Well, I was an hour late for my last hair appointment, which didn’t win me any friends at the salon.”
“It’s a serious question.”
“No, Mac, I don’t have an enemy in the world that I’m aware of. Not a serious one, anyway. What about you?”
“Nobody likely to want to kill me, I don’t think. But that was before I got the note and had a couple of bullets fired my way.”
“Our way.”
“Yes, our way.”
There was a poignant pause and then Stella said, “This is our problem, Mac. We’re in this together.”
There was something about the way she said it that struck a chord. Maybe it was the feeling that she was somehow glad the attack had happened. He recalled the earnestness with which she’d implored him to stay with her. She’d had a bit too much to drink, true, but she’d also grabbed the opportunity zealously, which made him wonder. That didn’t mean she was behind the incident, of course. Stella had a strong opportunistic streak. But she was also capable of the grand gesture. “And not for the first time,” he said in response to her remark.
“What are we going to do?”
“We can’t involve the police, obviously, at least not with respect to the note. Maybe I’ll hire an investigator.”
“Is that wise?”
“What else can I do?”
That was what was so difficult about the situation. They really were between a rock and a hard place. And Mac had a hunch that the writer of the note was well aware of that. He or she could pretty well do anything with impunity. And Stella was right. They were in this together.
“Be careful,” he told her. “And, if anything strange happens, let me know right away.”
“What can you do about it?” she asked.
Mac realized she had a point.
West Los Angeles
Percy Gaylord had taken a calculated risk in coming to America—having gone so far as to borrow two thousand pounds from his mum to make the trip—but he was certain he was onto the story of the century. At least the story of the century in Delhi. Dharam Awasthi of the Times had told him that if delivered the inside scoop of the Venita Kumar/Ramda Bol affair, he’d not only pay him seventy thousand pounds, he’d have him canonized by the pope in Rome. Percy had gotten off the plane in Los Angeles with a chunk of his mother’s retirement money in his pocket and no idea how to find Venita Kumar.
The manager of the motel on Santa Monica Boulevard where he’d set up residence, one Mrs. Irene Schlitz, had told him the Yellow Pages was as good a way to find a private detective as any. By “letting his fingers do the walking”—a curious catchphrase indeed—Percy had engaged the services of a gentleman by the name of Boots Conroy to locate Venita and her entourage.
Boots, a man of considerable girth and a full crop of graying hair, arrived at the motel as Percy was making his morning tea, blasphemous though it was to call the concoction “tea” when made with a bag on a string from water heated in a coffeemaker and combined with a powdered creamer derived largely from coconut oil. Only through the marvel of language was it tea.
Boots, carrying a manila envelope, was too large for the single, rather flimsy armchair in Percy’s room, so he sat on the bed, sinking the corner halfway
to the floor. Percy offered Boots tea, which the mountainous man declined.
“Well, my good man,” Percy said, “what have you for me, then?”
“I’ve got the lady’s current address, the name of her companion and the name and address of her boyfriend.”
“Boyfriend, did you say?”
“That’s right.” Boots fished a large soiled handkerchief from his pocket and mopped the beads of perspiration from his brow.
“By what definition is he her boyfriend?”
“Last night he stayed over. Whether they fucked or not I can’t tell you. Wasn’t in the bedroom.”
“I see.”
“If you want the particulars, Mr. Gaylord, I’ll need the rest of the money.” He indicated the envelope. “I also got a couple of photos.”
Percy’s brows rose. “Indeed.” He went to the dresser where he kept his wallet in a drawer. “Five hundred, is it?”
“Yeah, that’s right. You already paid five hundred and the balance is five. Which is a deal, by the way. This took me half a day longer than I expected, and I had to pay the clerk at the rental agency a hundred for the names of the occupants.”
Percy took five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills from his wallet and handed them to Boots, who folded them in half with his pudgy fingers and slipped them into the breast pocket of his somewhat threadbare jacket.
“Thanks,” he said with a grunt. He opened the clasp of the envelope and took out a slip of paper, which he handed to Percy.
Percy examined the paper. “Amal Kory? Amal Kory is with Venita?”
“Yeah, older gray-headed guy, dark-skinned, short, dresses real snappy.”
“There must be some mistake. Amal Kory is off on a retreat in Jammu and has been for some time. Besides, Amal Kory is rather tall and dresses plainly.”
“I don’t know about that, pal. All I can say is what was on the lease form. I also got a picture. See for yourself.”
Boots pushed his fingers into the envelope and withdrew a glossy enlargement, which he handed to Percy. It was a telephoto shot of Venita and a man matching the description Boots had given. They appeared to be coming out of a restaurant or a shop. It was not the Amal Kory—the famous film director—that Percy knew by the photos he’d seen in the press.
“The rental agent described Kory as being just like the guy in the picture.”
“I have no doubt,” Percy said. “But the information comes as a surprise, to put it mildly.” He studied the paper. “And this Troy Hampton in Van Nuys, he’s the boyfriend?”
“Right. Young guy. I’d say early twenties. Didn’t get any pictures of him. Actor, but must not have done much because he drives an old Mazda and shares a modest apartment with another kid. But his old man is a very wealthy businessman.”
“Indeed.”
“That’s the story, then,” Boots said. “Is there anything else?”
“No, this has been most helpful, Mr. Conroy.”
“Well, if anything else comes up, you’ve got my card.”
“Yes, thank you.”
Boots got up from the bed, mopping his brow again as he waddled toward the door. He shook Percy’s hand before stepping outside. “See you, then.”
“Cheerio!”
Boots grinned and left. Percy closed the door and looked down at the paper in his hand. It seemed like Venita was up to something, all right. Whatever it was, she apparently felt she needed the cachet of a notable director. Amal Kory being incommunicado made him a logical choice. Percy Gaylord was pleased. He smelled desperation. That was good. Desperation in a subject made for an easier kill.
Bel Air
By early afternoon Mac had had it. He had to get out of his bunker. The world might be an unsafe place, but he couldn’t spend his life with the covers pulled up over his head. Nor could he stand around waiting to see what would happen next. Engaging a detective was a step he could take immediately. Art was working on it, but the first of the week, when Art said he’d have candidates ready, was too long to wait. To Mac, it seemed an eternity.
He decided to get a status report. When he called Art’s place, all he got was his machine. He tried Conti’s cell phone and got Art on the golf course.
“I don’t mean to make a habit of intruding in your private life,” Mac told him, “but something’s come up, an urgent personal matter, and I need an investigator. What’s the status of your search?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m seeing the lady tonight, boss.”
“When do you have her scheduled to see me?”
“I was going to discuss it with her this evening. I thought maybe early in the week.”
“I don’t suppose she works Sundays.”
“I doubt it, Mac.”
“Ask her if she could see her way to come by for a consultation, anyway, would you? Anytime tomorrow that’s convenient for her. Offer her triple her normal rate for a full day.”
“Sounds like it is urgent.”
“I need some professional advice.”
“I’ll do my best to set it up, boss.”
“Either of you can give me a call in the morning.”
“You got it.”
“Thanks, Art.”
“Oh, boss. By the way, I had to can Manuela.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, she didn’t show up to work, and I had to call her to find out what was going on. When she finally showed up she got real belligerent. I gave her every chance, but she basically told me to go fuck myself. It was obvious she wanted to get fired.”
“She must have been upset because of the incident at my place.”
“Eh, she’s just a hothead. I gave her flack and she didn’t like it. She’d rather cuss me out than apologize. Believe me, I’ve seen it before.”
“She didn’t mention me?”
“Actually, I was the one that brought you up.”
“Did she think that was why she was fired?”
“No, not at all. It was for being irresponsible and insubordinate. She knew she was in the wrong and didn’t apologize, didn’t even ask for another chance. Her time had come, boss. End of story.”
“You don’t think there’s any reason to be concerned?”
“You mean will she sue us? I would be really surprised.”
“All right. Let’s hope it ends there.”
“Trust me, it will.”
“I’ll look forward to hearing from you or…what’s her name, by the way?”
“Jade Morro.”
“She’s good, is she?”
“From what I hear, the best.”
“Great, I could use somebody with real expertise.”
“Leave it to me.”
Mac felt better knowing something was being done. But it still didn’t make sitting around the house a pleasant prospect. He tried reading and watching golf on TV, but he found himself unable to concentrate. Finally, he decided he had to get out of the house. In the middle of the afternoon he grabbed his wallet and car keys and went for a drive up the coast. He kept an eye on his rearview mirror, but saw nothing suspicious.
It was a warm, hazy day, with not much breeze. Putting all the windows down, Mac drove along the Coast Highway as fast as traffic would allow. When he reached Oxnard, he turned around and headed back. On the way, he stopped in Malibu to walk on the beach. It was pretty crowded. The surf was apparently good, because there were dozens of surfers out on the water and even more girls in bikinis watching them.
Mac had on long pants, a polo shirt, athletic shoes and sunglasses—not typical beach attire, but not so extreme as to make people stare, either. It always struck him as odd how lonely a guy could feel in a crowd. Maybe it was the families that got to him. When Troy was little, they took him to the beach a few times, but it was mostly at Mac’s insistence. Stella was not an outdoors person and she avoided the sun.
Actually, there was very little they’d done as a family. Stella and Troy were busy with their Hollywood thing and Mac had made his company his life, m
ostly because there wasn’t anything else. Sometimes he thought of those early days after he’d first arrived in California, a Midwestern kid freshly back from Vietnam, with dreams of making something of himself, but little more.
He was a rich bastard now, a bit more worldly-wise maybe, but when he thought about it, he hadn’t really changed all that much, just the circumstances in which he lived. The sad fact was, because of Aubrey and Stella, he couldn’t be himself. That kid who’d pulled the movie starlet back from the brink became her puppet, and he was a man living for a woman he no longer loved. He was a prisoner of her need, just as she was a prisoner of his benevolence. But the events of the past few days had intensified things considerably. He’d been living with guilt and frustration for years, but now danger had been added to the mix. A danger he didn’t fully understand.
On his way home Mac stopped in Santa Monica to have dinner. Many of Bri Lovejoy’s favorite places were in the shopping district on Main, down by Ocean Park. He chose one of them, Florenza, maybe half hoping he would see her. Today his loneliness felt especially acute. Any port in a storm? Bri would hate him for the thought, but he dared not feel more.
He had a plate of pasta and a salad. He didn’t see Bri. For her sake, he was glad.
While having his coffee, Mac pondered the puzzling events that had brought him to this point. It had been years since he’d given this much thought to Glamour Puss. Aubrey was haunting him.
As he contemplated returning home, it occurred to him that Brentwood wasn’t all that much out of the way. Mac hadn’t been back to the house where it had all begun since the day Stella moved out. There’d never been a reason to return, but with all the mysterious goings-on of late, he felt the place calling to him. It was almost as if he needed to confront Aubrey.
So, that’s what he decided to do.
West Hollywood
“You look bad, girlfriend,” Ruthie Gibbons said in her best ghettoese. “Really bad!”
“I feel like a two-bit hooker.”
“No, you is hot, hot, hot!”
Jade Morro stood in front of the mirror on the outside of the bathroom door. She was in a strapless gold cocktail dress that came to midthigh. It was so tight, it appeared to be painted on. “I look like I’m asking for sex.”
