As Shane started toward the path, he again sensed that he had a chance to take off. None of his four escorts seemed to be paying close attention, and he thought he could make it into the woods bordering the path. But for some reason, he didn't try. Some instinct held him back. It was almost as if Silvio was making it too easy. Shane climbed the few stairs, then walked out onto the lip of the dam.
His mouth had turned to paste. A light breeze ruffled his hair and cooled the sweat on his forehead. Off to his left he could see a small dammed lake. A bright three-quarter moon lit the entire basin. As he neared the center of the walkway, he could see the outlines of two men looking at the twinkling lights of Pasadena. Silvio was lumbering along behind him, again blocking any chance of escape. As he drew nearer, Shane recognized Dennis Valentine standing next to a very thin man with a long string-bean neck. As Shane got closer, the man turned and Shane saw a look of abject terror in his pale gray eyes.
"Glad you could make it," Valentine said sincerely. "You gotta be kidding. Four guys with guns? Like I had a choice."
"Bullshit," Dennis said, then turned to Silvio. "You gave him a choice, right?"
"Yes, sir," the goon said. "He coulda split. Had two easy chances."
"What's this all about?" Shane finally asked, his heart still beating furiously.
"That was a good meeting we had earlier. Your wife is beautiful and smart, but you're the one I'm gonna be close to. I always like to invite a guy I'm thinking about doing business with on a midnight ride. He's got nothing to hide, he shows up. If he's got a hidden agenda, he's gonna take off running. You had two chances to escape, but you came through. Shit like this is ten times better than a polygraph."
Shane nodded and his heart began to slow.
"Thanks, Silvio. You can go wait in the car," Dennis said, and the bodyguard left the three of them standing on the lip of the dam.
Dennis turned back to the view. "Y'know, I almost bought a place out here. Pasadena reminds me a lot of my home in Saddleback, New Jersey. You should see some of the big houses they got down by the Ritz Carlton Hotel over there." He pointed southeast. "Lotsa trees. Not flat, like Studio City or Sherman Oaks. This Pasadena Realtor with great tits showed me around and I almost made an offer on a place on Hillcrest. Same house they used in the movie Bugsy. The movie audience thought it was Beverly Hills, but they shot it out here. Warren Beatty goes up to the front door, rings the bell, and tells the guy, 'I'm gonna buy your house.' I loved that scene. Fuckin' thing isn't even for sale and Beatty says to the guy, 'How much? I'm gonna buy your house.' " He was smiling at Shane and suddenly Shane was smiling back.
Why he suddenly found that cinematic act of extortion funny eluded him. He was probably still so juiced on adrenaline overload that his relieved senses were experiencing a catharsis.
"Decided in the end I hadda be on the west side, in Pacific Palisades or Bel-Air," Valentine continued. "It's a profile thing. Only dentists and geeks from Cal-Tech live in Pasadena. But I'll tell ya, that was some joint. Warren says to the guy, 'How much? I'm gonna buy your house… Priceless. I love that kinda shit."
"Who is this with you?" Shane finally asked to get them off of Bugsy, or real estate, or whatever it was they were discussing.
"This is Leland A. Postil, the new president of the International Alliance of Stage and Theatrical Employees."
Shane reached out and shook hands with the thin, terrified man.
"How you doin'?"
Postil's face twitched, but he didn't speak.
"He's fine," Dennis answered for him. "Lee finally gets it, don't ya, Lee?" No response from IATSE's new president. "Lee's a patriot. No kidding. He tells me about how film and TV sell American values to the world, right, Lee?"
"Uh… I I.." Postil's voice was almost inaudible in the cold night.
"He told me that movies export the way we are, and how we behave, or some shit like that. How'd that go again, Lee?"
Now Postil seemed to focus. He found his voice, which, like his body, was thin and reedy. "What I told Mr. Valentine is that films are America's most important export. Not so much as an economic resource but because they export U. S. culture. Our film and TV entertainment make the rest of the countries on the planet, even Communist nations like China, covet our American lifestyle."
"Yeah, China. Tell him about the Hunter thing." Dennis grinned.
"Yes, well, the TV show Hunter, starring Fred Dryer, was on in China in the mid-eighties. First American TV show to ever play there. The producers didn't get much money for it, 'cause the TV business in China is small and government-owned. But that show had a huge cultural impact. After it ran, democracy gained a foothold. There is a good cause-and-effect case to be made that the rise of democratic thought in China paralleled the popularity of that show." Lee Postil was coming to life now. "The Chinese people saw Hunter driving around in Bel-Air, saw the big homes, and it made them want democracy. After Tiananmen Square, the Chinese government threw the show off the national network, and it never played there again."
Shane smiled, but wondered why the hell were they standing on the lip of a dam in Pasadena in the middle of the night, talking about Hunter broadcasts in China?
"I love that story," Dennis said, smiling. "The Neural Suifer will export the shit outta American culture. That's why it's so important IATSE cuts us a deal to get it shot for short dollars. Right, Lee?"
"Yes. I think a similar case can be made, but-"
"No buts, Lee. Movies are power, man." Dennis was grinning broadly. His alabaster teeth gleamed dangerously. "The Neural Suifer is American culture," Dennis enthused. "It's about our psychological beginnings, our racial misunderstandings, our tortured journey out of darkness. And Lee knows that without his help, this testament to American values may never be seen by the Chinese or the emerging African nations. Am I right here, Lee?"
The narrow-shouldered man nodded, and now Shane could see where this was heading.
"We need IATSE's help to bring the budget down or else we can't shoot it," Dennis continued. "Lee has agreed to make a special arrangement with Cine-Roma. Right, Lee?"
"Yes, I guess," the IATSE president said tentatively, looking like a man trying to decide whether or not to jump over the rail to his death.
"Tell our producer here what you're prepared to do," Dennis prodded.
"Uh, even though this is a big-budget film, given its sociological values and definition of American culture, IATSE would be willing to work against our low-budget rate card to help get it green-lit."
Dennis was smiling. "If you do the math, on a fiftymillion-dollar below-the-line budget, that would cut the union costs roughly in half. Am I correct, Lee?"
"In essence… if you… more or less," he croaked.
"This is great news," Dennis said, slapping the tall man on the back. "I've got the agreement letter right here, all drawn up and ready for signatures." He reached down, picked up his alligator briefcase, opened it, then withdrew three copies of a letter printed on IATSE stationery. Valentine closed the briefcase on the narrow railing and used it as a writing surface. He pulled a gold Montblanc out of his pocket, clicked it open, and handed it to Lee Postil, who signed all three copies of the document. Then Dennis handed the pen to Shane.
"Shane, you're a damn smart producer. You have just saved your production twenty-five million in below-the-line costs." Dennis beamed and handed the pen over.
Shane took the gold Montblanc and signed all three copies.
Valentine's friendly smile suddenly disappeared like smoke out an open window. It was replaced with a cold, hard, menacing stare. "Our deal was percent for percent. There's the signed paper I promised, guaranteeing the low rate card. I'm in. We'll call my end fifty-one percent of your end."
"We'll do the math once the budget is set," Shane countered. "The way Lubick is going, twenty-five million might not even cover our catering costs."
"Okay, but I'm holding you to the equation. That was our deal."
Shane nodd
ed.
"As of right now, I'm co-producing a Michael Fallon movie," Valentine whispered reverently, testing the sound of that sentence.
"Film," Shane corrected.
Dennis was beaming. "This is an auspicious occasion. The coming together of a unique creative enterprise with an alliance of working-class unions, in the interest of spreading democracy around the world."
"Too bad nobody brought a camera," Shane quipped.
Chapter 32
COMING HOME
Shane and the president of IATSE switched cars for the ride back from Devil's Gate Dam. Lee Postil looked terrified as he squeezed in with the American buffaloes, while Shane walked down the rutted dirt road with Dennis Valentine. He had another Rolls-Royce convertible parked on a slab of poured concrete by the spill-gates. This one was midnight blue with a tan interior.
"I see you got a new parade float," Shane observed.
"I lease these things. Can't drive a car full of bullet holes."
They got into the Corniche convertible and Shane inhaled the rich smell of English leather. Dennis drove out of the arroyo and found his way back onto the westbound 210.
"What's the story with Lee Postil?" Shane finally asked. "He was so scared, I thought he was about to jump."
"I used to think Postil was a democratic visionary, but it turned out he was just another slimeball extortionist. Guy takes our help to get elected-our money, our muscle-then after he wins the I. A. presidency, he starts halfsteppin'. All of a sudden, it's like, 'Who's Dennis Valentine?' I had to give him a little flashlight therapy to put him back in line."
Shane touched the cell phone on his belt to make sure it was still warm and transmitting.
"You hear all that shit about film and TV exporting American culture to the world?" Dennis continued, shaking his head in disbelief. "He actually told me that when I was trying to line him up a year ago. That shitbird thinks Hunter is changing the course of democracy in China. I hear stuff like that, I know I'm gonna be huge out here, 'cause nobody is thinking straight."
"Probably all the carbs we're getting."
"You laugh, but that ain't far off."
By the time Dennis pulled up in front of North Chalon Road, it was already one A. M. He turned off the engine, then fixed Shane with a businesslike stare.
"Now that I'm a full-fledged partner and getting my percentage against cost, I think we need to rein in this out-ofcontrol director you hired."
"And how do you think we can do that without scaring off Rajindi Singh and Michael Fallon?"
"I was thinkin' maybe we pull him out of the office some night, find a quiet spot, give him a Louisville adjustment."
"You wanna beat Paul Lubick with a bat?"
Valentine shrugged. "Listen, Dennis, I admit he's a jerk, but if you beat him up, you better either kill him or take off running, 'cause he thinks he's invincible and he'll go right to the cops."
"Then how do we fireproof this asshole?" Dennis asked. "You see the way he's spending money and I can't even get a copy of the script!"
"Let me and Nicky handle it."
"Nicky? That little liar can't handle shit."
"He's good with Hollywood types. Let us deal with it." Dennis frowned but finally nodded.
Shane got out of the car, walked around the back, then stopped at the driver's side and looked in at Valentine. "Tell Silvio I want my piece back. Tell him to put it in the mail slot over there. If it's not here in the morning, I'm gonna have Alexa write some paper on him."
"Jesus, calm down. I'll take care of it." Champagne Dennis Valentine started the Rolls. "Don't forget, we're flying to Jersey, eight A. M. on Saturday. Plane is leaving out of Burbank, hangar twenty-six. Don't be late."
Shane watched as the midnight-blue convertible drove up the street, then turned right at the end of the block.
Once Shane walked inside some sixth sense told him he wasn't alone. Somebody was in the house. Shane was unarmed, so he froze in the entry. Then he heard Chooch's voice.
"Dad, it's me."
Relief flooded through him. He hurried into the living room and found Chooch sitting in the beige club chair holding Franco on his lap. The cat jumped down as Chooch stood. Then Shane reached out and gave his son a hug.
"My God, I've been so worried."
"Dad, I need your help."
"Where were you? Why didn't you call?"
"I left messages-"
"That's a buncha bullshit." Anger swept in and took the place of fear. "I couldn't talk to a message machine and you knew it."
"Dad, I'm in trouble. Please, I came here to get help, not a lecture."
Shane stood in the room a few feet from Chooch, trying to push two days' worth of tension and emotion out of the way. "Okay. Okay, sure. Whatta you need?" he finally said, but his voice was trembling.
"Dad, I never told you about my girlfriend-"
"Wait a minute, not yet." Shane's eyes flicked toward the bug hidden in the lamp. "Follow me, I wanna show you something first." He turned and walked out of the house onto the pool deck.
Chooch followed him as Franco trailed behind, slipping out through the sliding glass door just before Chooch closed it.
Shane led the way around the pool. There were still a few ribbons and scraps of wrapping paper on the glass-topped table from Nora's shower. Shane and Chooch sat across from one another at the table.
"Why are we out here?" Chooch asked.
"The house is bugged. It's a long story. A lot's happened since you left. Go on…"
"Dad, I have a girlfriend. I met her when I was fourteen, on the streets."
"I know all about her, son. Delfina Delgado. Amac's second cousin." Chooch looked surprised. "After you left, I got in touch with American. He told me she was your jiana, and that she'd disappeared. He told me he didn't think she'd been kidnapped."
"Dad, he's lying. She was kidnapped by the black gangs, and he knows it. While he's been trying to arrange to buy her back, I think I found out where she is, but I can't go to Amac, because he'll try and take her by force. That's why I came to you."
"Where is she?"
"Before I tell you, I need your promise that you won't call LAPD and tell them. You can't even tell Mom."
"Both things I'm not going to agree to in the blind." "Dad, this is really important to me. I love her. I love her as much as you love Mom."
"Then you're very lucky, but I can't make promises until I know what I'm agreeing to."
Chooch looked troubled, then spread his hands in some kind of gesture of defeat. "Can you at least promise me you'll listen to all my arguments?"
"I can do that."
They sat looking at each other across a no-man's-land of clear glass and torn wrapping paper. Finally Shane leaned forward in his chair. "Go on," he said. "Let's hear what you've got."
"Delfina was kidnapped by Crip gangsters. Guys from Kevin Cordell's set. Hardcore Hayes is in charge now but they're hooked up with the Compton Bloods on some huge drug deal."
"Where is she?"
"I think they're holding her out at Stone's old house in Westlake. It's a mansion on more than six acres. Three years ago Stone moved out of South Central into a millionaire's neighborhood. After the cops finished their murder investigation there, they padlocked the gate to his mansion. The place is supposed to be empty, but there's a guesthouse down by the artificial lake, and I think some G's slipped back in there with her. I saw one of their work cars parked nearby."
"And…?"
"And I think I know how to rescue her, but I can't do it alone. I need your help."
Shane sat still for a long time, thinking, before finally shaking his head.
"Dad…"
"Whatta you take me for, huh?" Shane asked. "I'm your father. I have a responsibility to your dead mother, Sandy, and to your stepmother, Alexa. I'm supposed to look out for you. So what'd you have in mind here? We both strap up and go in shooting?"
"Dad, come on…"
"No, you come on; this isn't
a TV show. I could end up getting you killed." Shane paused, then continued. "We call Alexa right now. We fill her in, then CRASH will set up a hostage retrieval."
"You promised…"
"The hell I did!"
"You promised to hear me out. You haven't even tried. You heard what you wanted, then made a cop decision without even listening to my reasons."
"Okay, go ahead. Let's hear 'em."
Chooch took a deep breath to calm himself down, then he stood and started pacing around on the other side of the glass-topped table. "According to American, when I talked to him earlier, he and the black gangs are setting up a transfer to trade Delfina, in return for one hundred thousand in cash. But I think they don't really care about Amac's money, and have no intention of giving her back. It's probably just a way to draw Amac into an ambush. She'll die and Amac will die with her. I can't let that happen."
Chooch's voice was hard with anger. Shane was frightened for his son, but also extremely proud. He knew in that moment that Chooch had become a man.
"That's all the more reason to go to Alexa," Shane said. "Listen to me! Just please listen." Chooch was almost shouting.
"Don't yell at me."
"If we tell Mom, you know exactly what she's gonna do. She's gonna take it straight to the Gang Squad."
"Right. Because that's the correct thing to do."
"Dad, it's a horrible idea. To begin with, CRASH is trying to shut this war down. There's lots of glass-house pressure on them, plus they're like frickin' commandos. They're only gonna want to take out the Crip and Blood shot-callers, and get Amac, too. That'll be their top priority. Delfina is just bait to them. It'll end up as some kind of SWAT operation with tear gas and street sweepers. Delfina will be expendable."
"So how would you play it?" Shane asked.
"You and me. We slip in there while they're asleep. Pull a raid and get her the hell out of there."
"You and me. Butch and Sundance."
"Mom is by the book. That's why she's heading DSG. But you're more… creative."
"Creative… I see." Shane wasn't sure how to take that.
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