Loser's Town

by Unknown

  ‘How much would it take?’

  ‘It’s not about money.’

  ‘He’s never going to do your picture,’ said Spandau. ‘You know as well as I do it’s not even his decision. At this point he’s nothing but a meat-puppet for his agency, the studio and Frank Jurado. They’re never going to let you anywhere near him. So maybe they’ll buy you off. Is that what this is about? Look, just say so and I’ll go to Jurado and pimp the deal for you. They don’t want any trouble and they’ll make it worth your while. Take the money and buy yourself an entire cast.’

  ‘You really don’t get it, do you? You think I’m just some cheap little hood from back east, looking to score. I got a chance to do something I always wanted to do. Everybody’s got a dream, right? This is my dream. I’m going to make a movie.’

  ‘All I’m saying is make a movie with somebody else. Take the fucking money and move on.’

  ‘I can’t. I gotta have Bobby. Bobby is this fucking movie.’

  Spandau laughed.

  ‘You know, what’s so goddamn frightening is that I believe you. What the fuck happens to people in this town? Perfectly normal, rational people from all over the world, they come here and go crazy.’

  ‘It’s the magic, baby. The magic of making movies. Like Orson Welles said, it’s the world’s biggest electric train set.’

  Spandau threw his hands up, as if pleading with heaven.

  ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘There is no magic! It’s a business, like manufacturing toilets seats or something. Only the people who aren’t actually in it think it’s magic. That’s why they call it the motion picture industry, get it? It’s not a fucking fairy tale.’

  ‘You’re bitter, man,’ Richie said to him. ‘The system chewed you up. You couldn’t deal.’

  ‘That’s right. You think you’re any different? The system gobbles up everybody. That’s what it does best. The only magic is that people keep coming back.’

  Stella looks at his watch.

  ‘Are you gonna be around for a while? Martin will be back in a couple of minutes and he’s dying to stomp your ass. I wouldn’t want to miss it.’

  ‘As enticing as that sounds,’ said Spandau, ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to pass.’

  ‘By the fucking way, I don’t like you coming to my house. I don’t like being strong-armed. You proved your point. You think you can get to me, okay, you’re here. But you still got to get back out that door.’

  Richie pulled a .25 caliber automatic from his jacket pocket and fired it. Spandau took a dive onto the floor though the bullet hit the sofa a foot away from where he’d been sitting. Richie put the gun back in his pocket.

  ‘Relax,’ said Richie. ‘I could have shot you when I came in. I got little video cameras hidden all over this place. I watch ’em on my computer. Fucking modern technology. You think I’m stupid? I don’t like surprises. Now leave me alone or I’m going to get really pissed off.’

  As Spandau came out of the house, Martin was pulling in with the Audi. He saw Spandau and no Richie and he jumped out of the car and went at Spandau. They both went down on the lawn. Richie came out onto the steps, angry.

  ‘You guys want to do this in the backyard? I got fucking neighbors watching!’

  Spandau and Martin got to their feet. Martin looked confused and sheepish.

  ‘I’m sorry, Richie. I wasn’t thinking.’

  ‘You want to stomp him I’m fine with that,’ Richie said to him. ‘Just don’t do it in front of the neighbors. I got a good reputation here. You know the guy across the street won an Oscar? I think it was for Best Sound or one of those shit awards or something. It’s a nice neighborhood.’

  Spandau dusted himself off, started down the hill toward his car.

  Richie called after him, ‘You come back here, I’m going to shoot you, I don’t care if it is my goddamn front lawn!’

  *

  When Spandau phoned Meg Patterson, she was at her desk in the LA Times’ reporters’ bullpen. She’d been with the paper twelve years, had won a Pulitzer in her second, and now commanded one of the choicer cubicles, near a window and safely tucked away from the entrance doors and the managing editor’s office. She was a small, darkhaired beauty in her early forties, who’d gotten rid of an alcoholic screenwriting husband eight years earlier and now lived in Los Feliz with dogs, cats and any other lost animal – two-or four-footed – that needed mothering. She liked men and men liked her, but the match nearly always proved fatal. The greatest compliment she’d ever received had been the previous year, from a well-established madam she interviewed. The old girl looked Meg up and down and said, ‘You know, a couple of years ago you and me could have made a lot of money.’ It was the nicest thing anybody had ever said to her and Meg was trying to think of some way to get it carved on her headstone.

  ‘How would you like to have lunch with an extremely good-looking cowboy type?’

  ‘Am I speaking to George W. Bush?’ she asked him.

  ‘No,’ said Spandau. ‘I’m taller and I can find France on a map.’

  ‘How are you, handsome? Still getting thrown off ponies?’

  ‘Yes, and now I’ve managed to rope my own thumb. It looks like an eggplant. I’ll show it to you if you’ll have lunch with me.’

  ‘That’s practically an irresistible offer, but I’m swamped right now. And something tells me this isn’t a social call anyway.’

  ‘I need whatever you’ve got on Richie Stella, the guy who owns the Voodoo Room on Sunset.’

  ‘You got a few days? There’s a lot on him, but it’s all just talk, nothing anybody could print. Otherwise he’d be in San Quentin by now. He’s like Teflon. Nothing ever sticks. What the hell are you doing with Richie Stella? He’s not a nice guy.’

  ‘Just a job I’m working on. Strictly routine.’

  ‘Routine, my ass. I’m going to be on your side of town. Meet me at Barney’s in an hour. We’ll make a trade.’

  ‘There’s nothing to trade.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  Barney’s Beanery is yet another LA institution, like colonic irrigation and cruising Sunset on Friday nights. It resides on Hollywood Boulevard, parallel to Sunset but close enough to have an identity crisis. The chili is good and they serve around three hundred beers. Breakfast is ample and also not bad, one of those rare spots where you can create or wear off a hangover with equal dexterity. There’s no question about it being a dive, but nobody would go there if it wasn’t. It was a great place to play pool and pretend you were Jim Morrison, who used to hang out there. Spandau liked it because it he liked pretending to be Jim Morrison.

  He was sitting at a booth when Meg arrived.

  ‘Do I look like Jim Morrison?’ Spandau asked her.

  ‘No, but you do look like Morris Cochrane, my chiropodist.’

  ‘You’re never going to mate successfully until you learn to pick up on these little cues.’

  ‘If I’m going to be pumped for information, I really should have insisted on someplace more expensive,’ she said.

  ‘You suggested it.’

  ‘Only because I know you like pretending to be Jim Morrison. Anyway I’m too easy. I’d probably sleep with you if you’d offered ravioli. As it is, I’ll barely contain myself when the hamburgers get here.’

  ‘Tell me about Richie Stella and I’ll throw in a milkshake.’

  ‘I have one word of advice about Richie Stella: don’t. He’s a little worm, but he’s ambitious and has some nasty friends.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Connections with a lot of Latino and biker gangs. They run errands for him and help with the dirty work. But the one I’d worry about is Salvatore Locatelli.’

  ‘The mafia boss?’

  ‘The very one. Stella isn’t made, but he works for Locatelli and is under his protection, otherwise somebody would have offed the little shit before now. That’s what’s kept him safe with the gangs, even they’re not stupid enough to piss off Sal, and Richie has jockeyed this little safe
ty net into a lucrative relationship with them.’

  ‘Any arrests?’

  ‘Nah. Been rousted a few times. It’s common knowledge he’s dealing, but Sal has a long arm. Anyway, he needs Richie clean to run the clubs. He gets busted and they take away his license.’

  ‘How many clubs?’

  ‘Three. There’s a popular gay club downtown, another club in the valley. Richie’s name is on the lease, but they’re owned by Locatelli. Richie owns the Voodoo Room outright, but you can bet Sal takes a healthy cut. Richie’s doing well, but he’s not getting rich. Locatelli will never let him, and word is that Richie is champing at the bit.’

  ‘What about the drugs?’

  ‘Locatelli looks the other way, as long as Richie doesn’t get too ambitious and cut into his own territory. Who knows how far Sal will let it go before he cuts Richie off at the knees. And he will, sooner or later. Sal didn’t get this far encouraging competition. Sooner or later, Sal is going to reel Richie in, and Richie knows it.’

  ‘You think Richie’s building some kind of power-base to challenge Locatelli?’

  ‘Christ, no. As far as the mob is concerned, Sal Locatelli owns Los Angeles, lock, stock and stinking barrel. Look, not even the Feds want to go after Sal. They’re scared shitless of what they’ll find. The arrangement has always been that Sal gets to do whatever the hell he wants, provided he does it quietly and doesn’t rub anybody’s nose in it. Richie is never going to be in his league.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because Richie isn’t made and he’s never going to get full support of the mob. To them he’s just marginal, somebody they can use. On the other hand, Locatelli inherited the family business. His old man was like something out of Mario Puzo all through the forties, fifties and sixties.’

  ‘So what is Richie after?’

  ‘Richie is star-struck. He’s like some kid. He loves movies, loves movie stars. He’s got a goddamn home cinema in his basement, he invites people over for screenings of classic movies. He longs to get his face in People magazine next to some hot actors. Richie wants to be a player. I think he wants to make a big score and get out of the business. He wants to make movies. He knows he’ll never be made, he’ll never have mob support, and at some point the big guns are going to move in and take it away from him. But if he can buy enough time to get his own little empire going, then he can either sell it to the mob or auction it off piecemeal. First, though, he needs to be strong enough to convince them it’s less trouble to buy him out than to kill him.’

  ‘A dangerous little game he’s got going.’

  ‘No one ever said Richie didn’t have cojones. And behind that ferrety little mug of his, there’s a razor-sharp brain, always calculating the odds. Meanwhile he’s trying to edge his way into the movies. He’s got a couple of scripts he’s hawking around town.’

  ‘Is anybody taking him seriously?’

  ‘This is Hollywood, sweetie. Anybody can be a producer if Uncle Herman dies and leaves them enough money. Rumor has it Richie’s tied in with the Chinese. Cash provides its own veracity. You’ve got money, nobody cares who the hell you are, ’cause you got the one thing everybody in this town needs. Richie’s also known as a guy who gets things done, no matter how unpleasant. I don’t even want to think about the number of people who owe him favors.’

  ‘So you think he’s got a shot at it.’

  ‘Did you just fall off a turnip truck? You’ve worked in the business. How do you think half the people in town got their start? You think all you’ve got to do is go to USC and people are going to throw money at you? Jesus, where the hell do you think money comes from? Half the independent movies in the seventies were financed by the yakuza, when the Japanese were willing to pour money into anything that would get them a foothold here. You need to know how to make deals. Richie Stella is very good at making deals. Does that answer your question?’

  ‘You truly are a princess. I take back all the horrible things I’ve said about you over the years.’

  ‘I want the story,’ she said.

  ‘There is no story. I am only, as they say, making inquiries.’

  ‘You’re a lying cowpat. At the end of this thing I want the exclusive.’

  ‘I’ll give you what I can.’

  ‘Exclusive, Roy Rogers. The whole schmere, or I start making inquiries of my own.’

  ‘That would be awkward.’

  ‘Oh, I just bet it would.’

  ‘I’m hurt,’ said Spandau, giving her his sad Walter Matthau face. ‘I always thought there was this chemistry between us.’

  ‘Oh, darling, there is!’ she said, reaching over to give his hand a gentle squeeze and gazing into his eyes. ‘To me you’ll always be the mildly retarded brother I never wanted.’

  ‘Spinsterhood is making you bitter.’

  ‘Spinsterhood is giving me plenty of time for my work,’ she said, looking at the menu.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘It’s yours. If there is a story.’

  ‘That’s all any honorable journalist could ask for,’ Meg said. ‘Unfortunately you’re dealing with me and you’ll have to take your chances. Now are you going to buy me a hamburger or what?’

  At the Ventura Harbor marina, Spandau squeezed the BMW into a restaurant parking lot and walked out to the boats. It was a small but pretty harbor where people seemed to like boats, as opposed to someplace like Rio del Mar, which has become like St Tropez in its inclination toward floating status symbols. People actually sailed the boats here.

  Terry McGuinn owned and lived aboard a thirty-foot Catalina sailboat he’d bought third-hand at a desperate price from a fellow Hibernian who’d skipped town one step ahead of the immigration authorities. The boat was called the Galadriel, after the Tolkien elf-queen, and Terry, a Tolkien fan, thought this a clear sign from God, in spite of the fact he knew bugger all about boats or sailing. He’d just been excavated from a cabin in Topanga where he’d lived for all of four weeks with a female singer named Gooch, who uprooted him out when he drunkenly sat on her guitar. She patiently explained that she liked sleeping with Terry and all that, but he was a drunk and he couldn’t pay his share of things and the guitar was just the last straw. Now she didn’t have the rent or a guitar. Goodbye, goodbye.

  Terry sold his car in Woodland Hills and hitchhiked out to the boat, where he paid Boylan in getaway cash, took up rental on the slip and moved in. He lined up his hardback collection of J.R.R. Tolkien on the small shelves above his rack and taped his poster of Gandalf on the bulkhead above. He talked a drunken old sailor in a rickety scow at the end of the harbor into teaching him to sail. Terry turned out to be a pretty fair sailor and picked up a cruising license. He was very sorry to hear when the old man fell overboard one night and drowned, though Terry fully expected the same thing to happen to him one day. There were worse ways to go.

  Terry McGuinn was five feet six inches tall. He had bright-blue eyes and brown curly hair, and J.R.R. Tolkien was one of the few things in life that made sense to him. People indeed sometimes said that he looked like a hobbit. Depending on Terry’s degree of drink, people sometimes got their noses broken. He came to Spandau’s attention through a friend, another private detective, who’d witnessed Terry in operation at a roadhouse near Wrightwood. Terry had been shooting pool, minding his own business, when three drunk loggers down from Oregon decided he looked funny, and took umbrage at the peculiar way he stuck out his ass when he leaned over to shoot. Terry did an admirable job of being cool about it, until one of the loggers made the mistake of goosing Terry with a pool cue as Terry lined up a shot. Without bothering to turn around, Terry brought the end of his own pool cue back into the guy’s stomach. Then Terry proceeded to beat the shit out of all three of the guys in a flurry of samurai-like spinning pool cue. All three had to be helped to their trucks. An amazing performance, considering that all three were at least a foot taller than he was and not one hand was ever laid on Terry. The detective had offered him a job on the spot.

/>   Spandau watched a similar incident on the set of a music-video shooting in Compton. The young director had decided to shoot ‘on the streets’ but had no idea the complexity of such a thing. The star was Raissha Bowles, a small and painfully shy girl who’d hired Coren’s to keep an aggressive ex-boyfriend off her back. The boyfriend showed up with several compatriots one afternoon, demanding access to Raissha. Normally it wouldn’t have been much of a problem, but the boyfriend was vocal about it and his friends began stirring up the crowd, who started chanting, ‘Show us Raissha! Show us Raissha!’ Things were about to turn ugly, and inside her trailer Raissha was having a meltdown. The boyfriend boldly pushed through the security picket as guards looked toward Matt Kimons, the guy in charge of the security group that day. Spandau asked Matt what the hell he was going to do now, and Matt laughed and said, ‘Watch this.’ Matt looked over at Terry McGuinn, who’d been standing quietly and inconspicuously in a corner, reading a book. Matt motioned to him and Terry went over. Matt said to him, ‘Don’t hurt him,’ and Terry nodded and went over to the boyfriend just as he crossed the cordon. Terry stood in front of the boyfriend, looking up at him. The boyfriend had at least a foot and a hundred pounds on Terry. The guy looked like a wall. He looked down at Terry and laughed, and then looked at the crowd and the crowd laughed. Great fun. The boyfriend took another step forward, as if to brush Terry aside. The moment he touched Terry, Terry grabbed his shirt and his belt, and, in the neatest little aikido move Spandau had ever witnessed, magically waltzed the boyfriend in a circle and back on the other side of the cordon. The boyfriend had no idea what had happened. In fact, hardly anybody did. It was done so fast and smoothly it looked like magic. The boyfriend tried it again, and again the same thing happened. Then he took a couple of swipes at Terry, all of which would have brained him if they’d connected, but somehow they never did. The blows seemed to move right through the little bastard somehow. The boyfriend did this over and over with the same results. By this time, the crowd was laughing at him now. It looked ridiculous. The single retirement-age cop standing by had called for backup and sirens were heard. His friends grabbed Raissha’s boyfriend and swept him into the crowd. By the time the cops arrived it was history.