Bloodthirsty

by Marshall Karp

  “Marilyn, my pet, you are far too good for Damian Hedge.”

  “I’m far too good for Terry, but I still sleep with him.”

  “Excuse me, folks.” It was Dennis, our driver. “I don’t think Damian will be at the premiere. We have the contract with his studio, and I’ve been driving him around for the past three or four weeks, but he canceled the limo.”

  “Maybe he heard Marilyn was stalking him,” Terry said.

  “It’s more likely that he hates Barry Gerber’s guts, and he’s standing him up just to screw him over,” Halsey said.

  “Oh God, Halsey,” Marilyn said. “Do you know why Gerber fired him? I would kill to find out.”

  The Barry Gerber–Damian Hedge feud had been one of the hotter topics in La-La Land. It started out as gossip, but the threats of lawsuits and countersuits got it kicked up to the business pages. Frankly, I didn’t give a damn.

  Halsey had filled six glasses with champagne, and his own with Perrier. “I have no desire to discuss why the most obnoxious man in this town isn’t talking to the rudest one,” he said, passing out the glasses. “But I do have a toast to a much more promising business relationship.”

  Big Jim tapped on the divider. “Dennis, slow down. You got designated drinkers back here, and I don’t want them spilling this stuff on the upholstery.”

  The stretch eased to a smooth glide, and Halsey raised his glass. “To Mike and Terry, my new partners in crime. If the gods are smiling tonight, you’ll meet the man who will put up the money to make the movie that will make you rich.”

  Terry raised his glass. “Halsey,” he said, “if you’re right, and this movie sells, you will have single-handedly destroyed the very principle on which I have based my entire adult life.”

  Halsey turned on the Big Toothy Grin. “And what would that be, Detective Biggs?”

  “I’ve been working under the ridiculous assumption that crime doesn’t pay.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  We were in a caravan of limos on Hollywood Boulevard inching our way to the Pantages Theatre.

  “Explain something to me,” Terry said. “They can orchestrate a twelve-minute car chase through the streets of LA, but they can’t figure out how to drop people off at a movie theater without creating a major traffic jam.”

  “It’s all part of the game,” Halsey said. “People drag their asses getting out of their limos so they get more camera time. They know everybody else is behind them, and they’re thinking, let those losers wait.”

  “But you’re the director,” Angel said. “You shouldn’t have to wait.”

  “Everybody sits in traffic,” Halsey said. “Streisand, Scorsese, everybody. Just play the game. They won’t start without us.”

  It took us ten minutes to go three blocks. When we got to the front of the line, two hunks of beef in tuxedos opened the doors and helped unload the precious cargo onto the red carpet. A third gave Dennis instructions on where to park and how to pick up his passengers at the end of the night.

  Big Jim exited the Hummer first, then helped Angel out.

  The mob behind the velvet rope sized them up. One woman actually said, “Who are they?” Half a dozen fans quickly fielded the totally uncool question. “Nobody. They’re nobody.”

  Of course, celebrity stalkers know that Nobodies never arrive alone, so the crowd strained to see which Somebody would finally emerge from the limo. Terry, Marilyn, Diana, and I followed, and I could see that the crowd was getting impatient. I stepped away from the car door, so Halsey could have his moment.

  But Big Jim stepped in front of it, threw his arms up in the air, and yelled, “You are the greatest fans in the world.”

  The man is a six-foot-four, 300-pound people magnet. People started cheering. A few of us Nobodies waved, and the cameras started snapping.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the Trucker Ringmaster bellowed, “the man you’ve all been waiting for, the director of I.C.U., Mr. Halsey Bates.”

  Halsey stepped out and the crowd let out a roar. So you got drunk and killed someone. You make great movies. All is forgiven.

  I could see Terry lapping it all up. I slammed the car door, and Dennis started to drive off when we heard the siren. One of the beefy parkers slapped the side of the Hummer and yelled, “Hold it up; let him pass.” He pulled out a walkie-talkie and said, “I thought LAPD was redirecting all traffic to Sunset.”

  I couldn’t hear the comeback, because the siren got louder and the flashing lights of an ambulance came into view. Then a reporter on the red carpet started yelling at her cameraman, “Freddie, shoot it, shoot it.”

  She shoved me and Diana out of the way so Freddie could get a better shot of the ambulance as it passed.

  But it didn’t pass.

  It came to a screeching stop right in front of the Pantages. The front doors opened and two big-titted blondes in skimpy nurses’ outfits jumped out, ran around to the back, and flung open the rear doors.

  Out stepped Damian Hedge. The fans started yowling, reporters started shoving, and the LA cops who thought they could coast through the evening began shoving back.

  Damian was wearing a white tux and had a stethoscope around his neck. One of the blonde nurses bent forward so he could listen to her colossal chest. Apparently the stethoscope didn’t work. He tapped it, hit it against his palm, and finally shrugged and tossed it into the crowd. Then he buried his ear into her cleavage and pronounced her extremely healthy. The crowd ate it up.

  Halsey shook his head. “Big stupid douchebag ham.”

  “And he didn’t have to wait in traffic,” Terry added.

  By now the crowd was chanting, “Day-mi-an, Day-mi-an,” and the big stupid douchebag ham walked past us into a sea of cameras and microphones.

  “Let’s not wait for sloppy seconds,” Halsey said. We headed inside.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Pantages Theatre is a piece of Hollywood history. Even without a movie, it’s worth the price of admission. It’s art deco heaven, with ornate ceilings, massive chandeliers, and thousands of thick, plush, red velvet seats.

  The ushers were all wearing green hospital scrubs with a red I.C.U. logo on the back. One escorted Big Jim and the women to the mezzanine level. Halsey, Terry and I were walked down the aisle to a section marked Reserved.

  We barely sat down when a man with a Bluetooth headset in his ear appeared and knelt down beside Halsey’s aisle seat. He was about thirty-five, but it was a weary thirty-five, and the lines around his eyes told me he had either spent too much time in the sun or in the line of fire.

  I could make out the Waspy good looks that must have served him well at Yale or Dartmouth, but his cheeks were doughy, his jaw was sagging, and his sweat glands were working overtime. The theater was cool, but his face was glistening and his tuxedo shirt had wilted. He looked like a GQ cover boy gone to seed.

  “Hey, Tyler,” Halsey said. “Fellas, this is Tyler Baker-Broome, the man who runs Barry’s life. T.B., I’d like you to meet—”

  T.B. didn’t want to meet anybody. “We have a problem,” he said.

  “I know. I saw Damian make his grand entrance. I’ll bet Barry is livid. Where is he? I want him to meet Mike and Terry.”

  “He’s not here,” Baker-Broome said. “That’s the problem.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know where he is,” Baker-Broome said, lowering his voice into a nasty whisper. “I only know where he isn’t.”

  “Did he walk out because of Damian?”

  “He didn’t walk out because of anything. He never showed up. I spoke to him this morning. He was fine. I called him again at noon. No answer, so I left a message. I called him again at one. Since then I’ve been calling every ten minutes. I tried the office, the house, his cell, everything. He was supposed to be in the theater an hour ago. He’s never missed an opening in his life.”

  “Did you call the cops?”

  “Are you out of your mind? You know Barry. He’s probably got
his nose in some blow, and his dick in some underage coke whore. You want me to call the cops?”

  “Excuse me,” Terry said. “None of my business, but he hasn’t been missing long enough for the cops to get involved.”

  Baker-Broome had ignored us so far. Now he gave Terry a condescending sneer. “You’re right. It’s none of your business, Mister…”

  “Biggs,” Terry said, getting up from his seat. “Detective Terry Biggs. Los Angeles Police Department.”

  Terry Biggs is not a pretty man. In fact, he’d be the first to agree that he’s ugly as a mud fence. His face is pitted and has an unfortunate bone structure that makes him look like a cross between Mick Jagger and a weasel. At six-foot-three, he doesn’t have to work hard to look menacing. He loomed over Baker-Broome, who was still squatting, all of two-foot-nothing.

  Baker-Broome clenched his face like he had just missed the final Jeopardy question. He stood up and nodded toward me. “You a cop too?”

  “Detective Mike Lomax,” I said. “You have the right to remain silent.”

  “A little late for that,” he said, holding out his hands to be cuffed.

  “Relax, Tyler,” Halsey said. “They’re cool. I’m sure they don’t give a shit that Barry is out somewhere getting his brains fried or his knob polished.”

  “Actually, we do,” Terry said. “I only rented this tuxedo so I could meet him and pitch him a movie.”

  “I make most of Barry’s appointments and all of his apologies,” Baker-Broome said. “Sorry he stood you up. As soon as I talk to him, I’ll get you on his calendar.” He handed each of us a business card.

  “Tyler’s been with Barry for years,” Halsey said.

  “Sixteen and a half,” Tyler said.

  “His job description says he’s supposed to be making deals or movies, but he spends most of his time cleaning up after Barry. We call him Tyler Baker-Broome-and-Shovel.”

  “So this is not the first time he’s gone missing,” I said.

  Tyler laughed. “Hardly. He’s pulled his disappearing act before. He’s got a few perverse habits that get in the way of his judgment. But he never did anything like this. I can’t believe he hasn’t showed up for your opening, Halsey. Once again, I apologize. And speaking of deals and movies, I hope we’re still on for lunch Thursday.”

  “Chiseled in stone,” Halsey said.

  The audience burst into applause. The four of us turned and looked up to see what triggered it. It wasn’t Barry. It was Damian Hedge.

  “Elvis has entered the building,” Halsey said.

  “Let’s give Barry five more minutes,” Baker-Broome said. “If he doesn’t show, could you get up there and welcome people?”

  Halsey agreed and T.B. went off to make more frantic phone calls.

  “Sorry you had to hear all the deviant details about the man I picked to fund our movie,” Halsey said. “I hope it won’t keep you from taking his sixty mil.”

  “You said we’d be doing business with the devil,” I said.

  “Underage coke whore?” Terry said. “One would think Barry Gerber’s taste would run to high-class hookers and movie starlets.”

  “He’s done them too,” Halsey said, “but his first choice is always street trash. Usually young, so that even when they consent, it’s statutory rape. Barry’s biggest problem is that he hates himself.”

  Halsey waited ten minutes, then stepped to the front of the theater and took the microphone. “I just got a call from Barry,” he lied. “He’s running late.”

  “You know Barry,” a voice yelled out. It was Damian Hedge. “He’s always getting a little behind.”

  The crowd laughed. Apparently Barry’s love of young ass was legend.

  “Now, Damian,” Halsey said. “Everyone is late from time to time. When we were working on this film, there were a number of mornings that you missed your call time. Rumor has it you were all tied up.”

  Advantage, Halsey. One of the tabloids had just done a cover story on Damian’s penchant for an erotic form of Japanese rope bondage called Shibari. This time the crowd responded with hoots and yells.

  Halsey held the mic close to his face so his voice filled the hall, drowning out any possibility of a retort from Hedge. “Ladies and gentlemen, forgive me for being prejudiced, but I think I.C.U. is a terrific film. I know you’re going to embrace it, and I’m sure Barry will join us at the party later this evening.”

  With that, the house lights went down. Halsey Bates got the last laugh. And he was right about the movie. It was damn good.

  But he was wrong about Barry. The bastard never showed up. There’s no people like show people.

  CHAPTER SIX

  When my wife Joanie died a year and a half ago, I never thought I’d feel joy or love or anything but pain again. And then I met Diana Trantanella.

  “Met” is a poor choice of terms. I was sandbagged by my meddling father. Big Jim invited me to dinner one night and there she was. I was totally pissed. What kind of an overbearing, interfering, fat jerk of a father blindsides his forty-two-year-old widowed son with a surprise dinner date? And only six months after Joanie died.

  I was as uncooperative, unfriendly, and unsocial as I could be. Actually, I acted like a complete asshole. Jim wanted to kill me. Diana was more forgiving. At the end of the evening I walked her to her car and apologized. She smiled and gave me a gentle peck on the cheek. Apology accepted. Pain understood. Diana’s husband had died two years before. She knew we had both just been manipulated by a Machiavellian teamster, and she forgave my bad behavior.

  You don’t let a woman like that go. Especially when she looks like Diana.

  Ever since my hormones were old enough to form opinions of their own, when I hear the Beach Boys sing “California Girls,” I picture a sun-streaked blonde with blue eyes, golden skin, and a knockout smile, running in slo-mo through the surf. Diana is the early-forties version of my fantasy girl, and if they ever met her, I bet Brian Wilson and Mike Love would update their lyrics in a heartbeat.

  Diana and I are now living together. Sort of.

  I still rent the little house in West Hollywood where I lived with Joanie. A month after Diana and I started dating, she moved some of her things in. But not all of her things. She keeps the rest in an apartment on Wilshire, where she had lived with her late husband.

  When I realized she wasn’t going to move in with me full time, I brought some of my stuff over to her apartment. So for the better part of a year it’s been your place or mine. There is no ours.

  Big Jim, who is never short on solutions, especially when they’re for somebody else’s problems, offered up his unwanted fatherly wisdom on our living arrangements. “Stop holding on to the past, and buy a house together.”

  When I informed him that we were happy the way we were, he informed me that we were not. He may be right, but I’ll be damned if I let him know.

  Halsey’s movie ended at 9:30. Diana and I left the party at 11, blew off the limo, and took a cab to her place.

  The sun came up about 6:20. Little Mike was up shortly after that. Diana loves to make love in the morning. Personally, I’m not fussy about the time. Just the woman. We were in that half-asleep, totally naked, post-coital spoon position, her belly pressed to my back, her fingers stroking my chest.

  “I think we got this backwards,” I said. “Roll over.”

  We twisted a hundred and eighty degrees, until I had arranged myself comfortably behind her and could cup a breast in each hand.

  Diana has fantastic breasts. Tits that tit men fantasize about. Full, firm, and oh, so real. The kind that God provides, not the ones approved by the FDA.

  We lay there in silence, breathing in perfect sync.

  “What are you thinking about?” she said.

  “Nothing.” I shifted my body ever so slightly because Little Mike had actually started thinking about an encore.

  “You’re thinking about Paul McCartney, aren’t you?”

  “No,” I said, �
�and if you bring it up again, you’re going to give me a serious case of erectile dysfunction.”

  “Paul McCartney” is code for the state of our relationship. He was married almost thirty years when his wife died. Four years later he remarried and had a child. Four years after that, his second marriage ended in an ugly divorce.

  The sociologists pounced all over it. Their bottom line is that men are quick to remarry, but that the new wife has a tough time measuring up to the memory of the sainted dead original.

  Sir Paul’s divorce made all the papers. The first mistake I made was to read about it. The second mistake was to share it with Diana.

  “They call it the Rebecca syndrome,” she said. “Widowers who were happily married have expectations that the replacement wives can’t live up to. But we’re fine. I’m not a replacement wife.”

  True. But I had thought about it. According to what I had read, the average widower waits two and a half years before remarrying. My brain started heading in that direction by the third date.

  “So marry her” was Terry’s solution. “If it works, it works. It took me three miserable marriages before I found Marilyn.”

  “It’s not the same thing,” I told him. “Marilyn didn’t have a gold standard to live up to. All she had to do was not shoot you with your own gun, and you’d have called it a roaring success.”

  “You know what your problem is? You overthink everything.”

  He’s right. Thinking is bad for me. Getting laid is good. I stopped thinking, kissed Diana’s shoulder and pulled my body as tight to hers as I could. Penis trumps Brain every time. Both Mikes were ready for Round Two when my cell phone rang.

  “Somebody needs a cop,” Diana said.

  “It’s Terry. Let it ring.”

  “Whatever happened to Protect and Serve?” she said, unspooning. She reached over to the night table and handed me the phone.

  I flipped it open. “Have I told you lately that your timing sucks?”

  “And good morning to you too, Detective Lomax. I’m sorry to interruptus your coitus, but there’s a body in a trash can up in the Hollywood Hills, and you’re invited to the opening. If you tell us where you are, we’ll send a limo.”