Jimmy and Rollo were the only people in L.A. who were convinced. His oddball documentaries devoid of commercial potential, Rollo financed his films with assorted scams and hustles: counterfeiting Disneyland tickets, peddling hot electronic gear, hacking into databases to improve credit histories. He was a gawky high-school dropout with an IQ over 140 and barely enough common sense to keep himself out of jail, and though he slept with a night-light on, he had risked his life for Jimmy and never mentioned it afterward. They were friends.
Rollo bent down and tossed Tonya her panties, the black silk rippling through the air like a fleeing octopus. "We should go. The last item on the list is the hardest."
"Where we going to find an Oscar?" said Tamra.
"A real Oscar," said Tonya, spinning her panties around one finger. "No best-costume or best-song crap."
"Major-category gold," finished Tamra. "That's what the rules said."
Jimmy reached into his pocket and answered his phone.
"How goes the hunt, dear boy?" cooed Napitano. "Did you get the rubbing?"
Jimmy could hear music at Nino's end, and the tinkle of glassware. "Yeah, we got it."
"Splendid. Some of the other players had difficulties with that one. Legal difficulties." Napitano clucked his disapproval. "Most of the teams saw 'A tombstone rubbing from a silent film star' and headed directly to Forest Lawn, even though it's after hours. Arrests have been made, Jimmy, it's quite tragic." He hummed softly. "I was wondering, though, how the police knew that there was going to be a mass scaling of the gates."
"I have no idea."
"Bravo. 'Admit nothing'-if that's not on your family crest, it should be." Napitano was chewing something. "Which star's tombstone did you visit?"
"Rex the wonder dog. The pet cemetery in Encino is unguarded." Napitano's laugh was a blubbery wheeze as Jimmy broke the connection. "Get dressed. We're being watched."
Rollo craned his neck toward the bluffs.
"Don't look," said Jimmy. "Just move."
The Monelli twins shimmied into their matching black dresses.
Rollo squinted. "I don't see-" A portable TV crashed onto the ground about ten feet away, exploded in a spray of glass. He screamed, grabbed at his ankle.
War whoops sounded overhead.
"Head toward the van," Jimmy said quietly. A cinder block thudded into the weeds right beside him. "Don't run." He watched Rollo race toward the van, arms folded over his head, the Monelli twins right behind him, wobbling on their high heels. Jimmy smiled and ambled up the path, hands in his pockets, waiting for a grand piano to land on his head.
Rollo didn't even wait for Jimmy to close the door to the VW van before peeling off. No one spoke for a long time. They were almost at the I-5 freeway before Tamra finally broke the silence. "So whose Oscar are we going to borrow?"
Rollo veered into the carpool lane. "It's a surprise."
"So is a cerebral hemorrhage," said Jimmy, suspicious now. "Who are we going to see?"
Rollo cleared his throat. "Garrett Walsh."
"Motherfucker," said Jimmy.
"I knew you weren't going to like it," said Rollo, accelerating.
"Who's Garrett Walsh?" said Tonya.
"He made that kinky movie from a long time ago. Firebug, " said Tamra.
"Firebug won two Academy Awards," said Rollo, easing through late evening traffic. "It was his first movie, a cheapo thriller full of twists and reversals, with lousy distribution and no stars, but Mr. Walsh walked away with two Oscars, best director and best screenplay. Even Tarantino didn't pull off a double play his first time out." A silver Lexus cut him off, and Rollo leaned on the horn. "And it wasn't that long ago. Nine years, big deal."
"He murdered a teenage girl," said Jimmy. "Walsh was only released from prison a few months ago."
"Heather Grimm," said Tamra.
"Who?" said Rollo.
"The girl he killed," said Tamra. "Her name was Heather Grimm."
"Seven years for murder-he should have gotten seventy," said Jimmy.
"I remember now, we were in junior high when it happened," Tonya chirped to her twin. "There was a picture of her in Entertainment Weekly. She looked like a cheerleader."
"Blonde, of course," the twins said in unison, clasping pinkies.
"Where else are we going to get an Academy Award, Jimmy?" said Rollo. "It's not like there's a black market in them." He considered it. "At least not for the major ones." "You sure you know where we're going?" Jimmy asked a half-hour later.
Rollo squinted through the cracked, dusty windshield. The VW's lights barely illuminated the winding, two-lane road as the van lurched its way up Orange Hill, second gear slipping. There was a restaurant on the peak, and houses strung along the ridges of the Anaheim foothills, million-dollar crackerboxes with views of the ocean ten miles away. On a good day at least.
Jimmy stuck his head out the window to get a better look. The air pollution cut off the stars, and it was the myriad glittering lights below that looked like the Milky Way, the rakish, cocked neon halo atop the A in the ANGELS STADIUM sign shining brighter than Polaris. It was as though the world had flipped over, and they were not moving higher but lower, into the darkness.
"I ran into Mr. Walsh at the Strand's midnight movie a few weeks ago," Rollo said to the twins. "He was getting-"
"What is this 'Mr. Walsh' crap?" said Jimmy.
"I was the only one who recognized him," continued Rollo. "He didn't want company, but I followed him to his car afterward anyway. It wouldn't start, which I thought was a good omen, because it was three A.M. and he didn't have money for a tow truck."
"Walsh should have called O. J. and asked him for a lift," said Jimmy. "Killers helping killers-it sounds like a bumper sticker."
"How could he not have any money?" said Tamra. " Firebug did over seventy million domestic. That's a cost-return ratio of almost fifty to one. He's got to be sitting on a pile."
Jimmy turned around and stared at her.
"What?" said Tamra. "I majored in business at community college."
"Mr. Walsh was pretty nervous that night," said Rollo. "Pretty drunk too. He kept asking me to run red lights and dodge through alleys. I think he was scared we were being followed. Fans can be pretty aggressive." The van lurched, and he fed it more gas, then suddenly veered off the main road and onto a barely visible gravel path, the wheels spitting up stones. "Mr. Walsh told me to stay on the paved road, then had me drop him off in front of this big house. He said it was his place, but I watched him in my rearview as I pulled away and saw him pretending to unlock the gate." Rollo grinned. "He's a tricky guy. I guess you have to be when you're famous." The van hit a pothole, and Rollo's chin banged against the steering wheel, but he was so pleased with himself that he didn't seem to notice. "So I started back down the hill, then cut my lights, parked on the shoulder, and waited. Sure enough, ten minutes later I see Mr. Walsh walking up this path. I tagged along on foot. He had to stop a couple of times to throw up, and I thought once he heard me, but now I know where he lives. Smart, huh?"
Jimmy looked out the side window. They hadn't passed a house since the turnoff-no lights, no mailboxes, no safety rails.
Rollo gasped as the van skidded toward the edge, fighting to regain control. The road narrowed still further, not even gravel now, just dead grass and hardpack.
Tamra caressed Rollo's neck. "Is Walsh working on a new project?"
"How's my makeup?" Tonya asked her sister. "Heather Grimm. The photo of her in Entertainment Weekly-her hair was in a French braid. Walsh must like that."
"Yeah, he was so turned on by her hairstyle that he raped her, then stove her head in with one of his two Oscars," said Jimmy. "That's a sincere compliment."
"I don't get your point," said Tonya.
"Mr. Walsh paid his debt, Jimmy," said Rollo.
"No, he didn't."
"Yeah, well…" said Rollo. "Anyway, now he's just trying to get his life back together."
The VW crested the hill. Jimmy could s
ee a large house above the ridge, and a trailer nearby, dimly lit, a beat-up Honda parked beside it. The road abruptly ended, and as Rollo hit the brakes, the van skidded to a stop. The engine idled roughly, and the headlights illuminated the landscaped slope, lit the arrangement of boulders behind a large pool of water that had white lilies floating on the surface. At the center of the pool, balanced precariously on some rocks, a man stood with his back to them, jeans hanging loosely around his hips, barefoot and bare-chested, caught in the headlights' glare as he pissed merrily into the koi pond.
Tamra giggled.
The man turned his head toward them, blinking, as he casually shook his penis, a cigarette jutting from his mouth, sunglasses pushed back on his forehead. The black water seemed to be boiling, fish churning around his toes, their gold scales flashing in the light.
"Oh yeah," said Jimmy, "he's putting his life back together. He's almost got the puzzle complete now."
Chapter 2
Walsh plucked the cigarette from his mouth and flicked it into the koi pond as Jimmy and Rollo approached. The sizzle was loud in the stillness. He started toward them, slipped on the rocks, and went into the dirty water up to his knees, staggering closer now, bringing the stink of booze and dirty water with him.
Jimmy held his ground, but Rollo took a step back. The twins were still in the van, working on their hair and makeup, preparing for their big entrance.
Seven years in prison, and Walsh still had the same insolent mouth and sleepy eyes, the same Wayfarers perched high on his head, and three days of stubble. The bags under his eyes were bigger now, his face puffier and more dissipated, but it was still the same bad-boy mug that Newsweek had put on the cover twice, once when he won the Oscars and again when he was convicted of murder. The tattoo on his right shoulder was a jailhouse-issue devil with a pitchfork, the tattoo as sloppy as his sunburned torso, a shim of gut drooping over the waistband of his jeans. He looked a lot better than Heather Grimm did.
"Mr. Walsh-it's me, Rollo. Remember?"
"Yeah, I remember you," growled Walsh, slouching, his thumbs hooked into the back pockets of his jeans. His eyes shifted from one to the other like he was trying to decide something. He settled on Jimmy. "The tough guy here looks familiar too."
"Hope you don't mind us dropping by," said Rollo. "We're playing a game."
"You already played me, kid," Walsh said to Rollo, still keeping watch on Jimmy. "You fooled me good with all that yakkety-yak about movies, and you being a fellow filmmaker. Well, I have only myself to blame."
"I'm not sure I understand, Mr. Walsh."
"Shut up, Rollo," said Jimmy, who did understand.
"Yeah, shut up, Rollo," Walsh said evenly. "You did your job, you don't have to pretend anymore." He smiled at Jimmy, his teeth uneven and nicotine-stained. "I know what you're here to do, tough guy, but don't worry, I'm not going to make you sweat for your paycheck. I just want a few minutes to make my peace."
Jimmy saw Walsh doing something with his right hand behind his back.
Walsh bowed his head. "Now I lay me down to sleep," he said, inching closer, "I pray the Lord, my soul to-" He whipped the linoleum knife out from behind his back, the curved blade catching the moonlight as he swept it low, going for Jimmy's belly. "Making spaghetti," that's what the disemboweling stroke was called in prison, intestines spilling out in a red sauce of blood.
Jimmy had been waiting for the Chef-Boyardee move ever since he saw Walsh slip his hands in his back pockets. He pivoted to his left, barely avoiding the blade, then punched Walsh in the face, caught him just under the nose, and knocked him backward. The knife spun off into the night. A linoleum knife was a smart choice for an ex-con. Anything with more than a four-and-a-half-inch blade was considered a deadly weapon, but a linoleum knife, equally deadly in the right hands, was just a tool.
"Thanks, Jimmy," said Rollo, rushing over toward where Walsh lay sprawled on the ground, groaning. "That's really mature."
Jimmy smiled as he rubbed the throbbing knuckles of his right hand. Moonlight shimmered on a small gold ring through Walsh's right nipple.
"Mr. Walsh is sure to help us now," Rollo muttered. "What do you care if we win the scavenger hunt?" He sat Walsh up, then picked the Wayfarers off the ground and tenderly fitted them back into place on his forehead. "You're always settling scores that aren't any of your business, Jimmy. Mr. Walsh did his time. Why is it your job to decide what he had coming?"
Jimmy watched the blood trickle from Walsh's nose. "It's not my job," he confided to Walsh. "It's more of a hobby."
"You hit-you hit like a girl," Walsh said to Jimmy.
"Stand up. I'll try to do better this time," Jimmy said softly.
Walsh stayed where he was, thinking. "Rollo called you Jimmy."
"That's my name."
"You're Jimmy Gage?" Walsh squinted at him in the dim light. "Rollo told me about you. The magazine writer…" He spit blood. "You're not here to kill me."
"I tried to tell you." Rollo looked around. " Is there somebody trying to kill you?"
Walsh looked at Jimmy. "You cold-cocked me just for the fun of it?" He dabbed at his nose with his fingertips, winced, then wiped the blood on his jeans. He stood up, still wobbly. "I've gotten bad reviews before, but this is the first time I got punched out by a critic." He grinned at Jimmy, but there was no humor in it. "I owe you one, tough guy."
"Get in line, asshole," said Jimmy.
Rollo sidled away from Walsh. "Are we in any danger being here with you?"
"Good for you, kid, no sense being a hero." Walsh rubbed his stubble. "I didn't think anybody knew where I lived, so anyone dropping by…" He spotted the Monelli twins slinking toward him from the van. "Then again," he said, raking his long hair back, "I could be persuaded to throw out the welcome mat."
"I'm Tamra."
"Tonya."
The sisters giggled as Walsh kissed their hands, his lips lingering. "I learned how to kiss a beautiful woman's hand when I was at Cannes," he said, eyes glittering. "There was plenty of hands to kiss in the old days. I won the Palm d'Or, but I guess you know that."
Tamra stared at Walsh's dirty fingernails and unwashed jeans, but Tonya didn't seem to notice.
Jimmy listened for the sound of a car engine or the crunch of gravel, wondering who Walsh was expecting, but heard only the distant hum of traffic. From anywhere in Orange County, at any time of day or night, the sound of wheels on pavement was steady.
"We're on a scavenger hunt," said Rollo.
Walsh scratched his belly, checking out the twins. "You girls collecting geniuses?"
"We need an Oscar," said Jimmy.
"Everybody needs an Oscar, tough guy. Me, I got two of them." Walsh smiled at the twins. "The best things always come in pairs."
"We just want to borrow one of them," said Rollo. "We'll bring it back right after the party."
Walsh put his fingers to his nose, closed off one nostril, and blew a spray of blood onto the ground. "Why would I do that?" He cleared the other nostril the same way.
"Why don't we talk about it inside?" Tonya took Walsh's arm and walked him toward the Spanish-style mansion towering above them through the trees. "Rollo said you're working on a new project. Do you have a studio commitment yet, or are you riding bareback?"
"I didn't say anything about a project," protested Rollo.
"He doesn't necessarily need studio participation," Tamra said, turning to Walsh. "You could self-finance the seed money. Even if your house is a tear-down, the lot alone has to be worth at least eight or nine million-"
"Probably twelve with the unobstructed view," said Tonya. "Prices have skyrocketed since you… went away, Garrett, so even if you're carrying a couple of mortgages, you should be able to collateralize." She rolled her eyes upward, while Walsh stared at her. "Three million, easy. You roll that into a performance bond, then leverage the bond into a ten-million-dollar feature budget, coproduce it with a European consortium-"
"Asian market has m
ore liquidity right now," said Tamra, tapping her front teeth with a forefinger. "So you lay off a coproduction deal with one of the Hong Kong outfits, and now you're bumped up to twenty, maybe twenty-five million, and then…"
Tonya squeezed Walsh's arm. "Then you start thinking of casting." "It's not my house," Walsh said.
"The Asians are saturated with blondes," counseled Tamra, "so you should be thinking of female leads with pigmentation."
"Actresses willing to defer their salary in exchange for profit participation," said Tonya.
"It's not my fucking house!" Walsh pointed at the rusting trailer perched on concrete blocks. "That's where I'm camped out. The bastards who own the property are sailing around the world for the next year. They're letting me stay here because they're such patrons of the arts. My two biggest fans, that what they said. Not big enough to let me stay in the house, oh no, they got that locked up tight and secure, with their own electronic gate off the main road, but they just love-"
"What about all the money from Firebug?" Tamra said indignantly. "You couldn't have spent all that. You didn't have time."
"I had plenty of time," said Walsh. "Took about three months, but then I only retained two percent of the Firebug net profits. I had to sell the rest to get the money to finish the movie. I didn't care. When you want something, you do whatever you have to."
The twins looked at Walsh, then the trailer, then flipped out their cell phones in tandem.
Walsh watched them stroll back toward the van, chattering into their phones. "Easy come, easy go, story of my life," he said to Jimmy. "No big deal. I've got free room and board, fresh air, and an ocean view"-he gobbed a wad of spit toward the koi pond-"and all I have to do is take care of the goddamned fish."
"You looked like you were taking care of them when we drove up," said Jimmy.
Walsh grinned at Jimmy. He pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket, tapped one out, and Zippoed it with a practiced flourish, snapping the lighter shut with a distinctive snick.
"I'd really like to borrow one of your Oscars, Mr. Walsh," hurried Rollo.
Walsh watched the twins get back into the van, smoke trickling from his nostrils. "Women used to find me charming."
Scavenger hunt Page 2
