When they arrived at the E. R., Tony, hovering near death, was sent to surgery.
Time would tell.
The Panamanian general never showed up. But Dennis Valentine was now in custody, demanding his lawyers.
Farrell Champion had been found in the trunk of one of Amac's low-riders, bound and gagged. Once they got the tape off his mouth, he made a phone call, and wide-shouldered Carl from WITSEC showed up an hour later. He still claimed to know nothing about anything, but whisked Farrell off anyway, placing the producer in protective custody. Carl had a federal warrant, so there was nothing Shane or Alexa could do to stop it. Farrell was back among the missing. Who knew where he would turn up next? Maybe as an anchor on CNN, or wired to one in Long Beach Harbor. Either way, Farrell was going to be a no-show at Nora's wedding.
Tony was moved out of surgery into ICU at six that evening, in critical condition. His wife, Mary, had arrived from L. A., so Shane, Alexa, and Chooch ducked out of the hospital through a side door to avoid the growing collection of local and national media.
They drove to the Deer Valley Airport. The federal asset-seizure jets had all left. They climbed aboard the King Air and flew back to L. A. Chooch was sitting in the front of the airplane, in the right-hand seat next to the pilot, his lip swollen where Shane had hit him. After the wheels were up, Shane went forward and kneeled in the aisle.
"You okay?" he asked, wishing his son would discuss what had happened in the desert, talk about Amac's death. Chooch's brooding silence seemed ominous.
His son didn't look at him but said, "I'm fine."
"If you hadn't shown up out there, gotten me and Mom out of that thick…" Shane offered.
"I'm fine, Dad," he said again, turning to look at the instruments, then out the side window of the small two-engine prop plane. Anywhere but at Shane.
When they got back to the canal house in Venice, Chooch went straight to his room. Shane was standing in the hallway, looking at his son's closed door, trying to decide what to do. Alexa took his arm and led him to the backyard.
Their metal chairs were waiting. A heavy fog had descended. In L. A., fog was always called a "marine layer," but it was really just fog as heavy and gray as Shane's spirit.
They sat looking at gray water reflecting a gray sky. The buildings in the distance went up three stories and disappeared in the mist. It was that dense.
"It's not you, Shane," she said softly. "It's Amac. Chooch can't deal with the death. He's angry. He needs to put that anger somewhere. You're handy. He'll get over it."
"Yeah," he said, softly. "I know how close they were." Shane could feel the fog's moisture, which had settled on the chair, seeping up through his pants, dampening his underwear. "You ever heard of the Tarahumara Indians, in Chihuahua?" Shane asked.
"No. Why?"
"I had a strange dream at the hospital. Amac was telling me he was one of those Indians, so I wondered if you'd ever heard of them."
She shook her head. "They're probably just a figment of your dream."
Shane lunged out of his chair and lumbered into the house. In his den, he pulled the Encyclopaedia Britannica off the shelf and looked them up. In a moment, he could smell Alexa behind him, fragrant as lilacs, could feel her looking at the book over his shoulder.
"Here they are," Shane said. "Page five seventeen. 'One of the few Aztec tribes of Mexico who never surrendered to the Spanish.' Just like Amac said."
"Maybe you studied them in school a long time ago," she said. "You didn't just vibe it out of thin air."
"Right…" He turned and walked back out to the lawn to again sit on the old metal chair looking out at the canals.
Their Venice house had started to feel like home again. Shane was determined not to return to the asset-seizure house on North Chalon Road except to pick up his things and get Franco. Something told him there was hidden danger for him there. Hubris and ambition lived in that house. It had started to creep inside and poison him. More and more, he worried about his soul. Some would probably call that growth, but Shane suspected that the barrier that held back his psychic demons was crumbling.
Like Carol White, he also had some dangerous flaws. Carol's flaw had been her foolish dream. Her drug was heroin. His flaw was foolish pride. His drug was self-deception. Alexa returned with a beer for him. He pulled the tab, contemplating his family's future.
"What is it? You have something else you need to tell me," she said softly. When he didn't answer, she pressed on. "C'mon, Shane, in your dream, Amac didn't just tell you about courageous Aztec Indians."
"You're right." His resolution silently forming, he turned to face her. "Alexa, I want to make a place here for Delfina when she gets out of the hospital."
"You're kidding…"
"No, I mean it. She has nobody left here in California. With Amac gone, she's all alone-"
"You're right. It's okay, honey."
"You don't mind?"
"Take 'yes' for an answer." She was smiling at him.
"I was thinking we could make a room out of the garage for Chooch. Give her Chooch's room. We could all park our cars in the alley."
"No problem."
God, he loved her.
They sat in silence. Night finally descended, swallowing the heavy gray mist in the process.
While Alexa locked up, Shane walked into their bedroom, bone tired. He sat on the bed, then took off his shoes and socks. That's when he noticed a paper on his pillow.
It was Chooch's college essay, with a note clipped onto the front.
Dad, It's finally ready for you to read.
Love, Chooch
HEROES
by
Charles Sandoval Scully
I am six years old, and I am standing in a large room full of toys. I've been told by my teacher that I can only have one, but it is a terribly difficult choice because often I think I want something, but once I have it, I tire of it quickly. I know I must choose, so I study the shelves carefully. Do I want the policeman set, or the tin soldiers? The fire engine, or the doctor set?
I spend almost an hour vacillating-taking one thing off the shelf and almost deciding, before putting it back and choosing another.
I stand looking at the toys, but I cannot choose.
I am fifteen, looking down at my mother's grave, trying to understand my thoughts. She never let me see inside her, never let me know who she really was. I hated her for most of my life… hated her for what she did, for the way she made her living. She sold herself for money, but in the end, she died trying to save me.
I never really knew her, and now that she's gone, I don't know how I feel. Do I hate her? Do I pity her? Do I wish she was alive? Is she better off where she is? Am I better off because she's gone? I do not know. I cannot choose.
I am fifteen and a half, and I'm in a Mexican street gang.
I'm standing with my carnal, a powerful leader. We are brothers and I worship him, but there are guns on the bed. We are planning a payback shooting-a drive-by.
I feel I don't belong here, but I have made so many bad choices in my life that I'm trapped. Do I say no? Do I walk away, and disappoint my brothers? Will they kill me if I leave? Do I pick up a gun and kill a stranger? My big brother says we are fighting to free our people, but is that true? Could it possibly be right to kill, even for a cause?
I do not know… I cannot choose.
But now I am afraid and frightened for my soul.
I am seventeen, standing in my father's den. My new life's choices, like that roomful of toys long ago, are spread out in front of me.
Do I want to be a policeman like my father, or a soldier? Do I want to be a doctor or a fireman?
I have come a long way, and I know I must finally choose. My father is strong and fair. I love and trust him enough to be afraid in front of him. But he cannot help me. The choice is mine alone.
When I was six, my idols were Batman and Superman. I thought I would never find somebody real to look up to. But now I know I
was searching for my heroes too high up and too far away. My heroes were always right there in front of me: my mother, who died to save me; my big brother Amac, who tried to achieve an impossible dream to set me free against all odds; my strong, courageous father, who risks everything for me every day.
From him, I have finally learned that to be truly happy, I must live my life for others. I must not take joy from status or power, but from my accomplishments, and the way I chose to accomplish them.
The problem is not what I will become but how I will become it.
I finally have made my decision… I know what 1 want to be.
I want to be exactly like my dad.
Chapter 50
STRAYS
The deal was signed at eleven A. M. in the main conference room on the twelfth floor of the Black Tower at Universal. Stevie Bergman was presiding over a roomful of even tans and perfect teeth. There was precise ethnic and gender balance.
Nicky Marcella arrived just as the meeting was convening. He waved at Shane but never looked directly at him. Nicky was wearing another two-tone number-green and blue this time. The fabric changed colors as he moved. He shined and shimmered like New Year's bunting.
The D people held the perimeter of the room, standing with their backs against the wall, looking proud. The Felt was grinning; so was Tammy Ansara. The African-American Ds looked foxy and cool. Jerry Wireman was there, looking, well, wiry. He was representing CAA's back-end points. Also present were Mike Fallon, Paul Lubick, and Rajindi Singh. Wireman had come with a head crammed full of Latin phrases, ready to kick some loquacious ass.
Along with Shane was Charlotte "Call me Charlie" Brooks, from LAPD Legal Affairs, who was representing the department. Charlie was nervous and overdressed.
Earlier that morning, Shane had been told by the chief, who was still in the Phoenix hospital, that the federal attorney wasn't going to file charges against Don Carlo DeCesare. The feds had listened to the tape and said it would be useless in court. So the New Jersey Don would just have to finish his life on Earth sentenced to a wheelchair parked in front of a plate-glass window, watching llamas eat grass while his deadly cancer spread.
The Day-Glo Dago must have been feeling better, because at the end of the conversation he implored Shane to "Get us da fuck outta d' movie business!" Which, at this moment, Shane was desperately trying to accomplish.
"Bueno," Stevie Bergman said, hosting the event with trilingual charisma. "This is excellent-o." He glanced at his watch. "I only have thirty minutes, boys and girls, so let's cha-cha-cha."
Shane was having deja vu.
As far as the LAPD was concerned, the deal was pretty straightforward. They sold their half of The Neural Surfer for four hundred thousand dollars, which was the accrued cost of pre-production up to nine o'clock that morning, less Dennis's hundred grand. Shane argued with the chief that the LAPD should retain some upside back-end points, just in case Paul and Michael actually managed to prove that turkeys really could fly. But Filosiani wanted out.
"Since this is now a major studio picture, Michael Fallon and Rajindi Singh should no longer be deferring salary. We want their contracted amounts up front, upon signing. Mutus consensus." Wireman smiled.
"Be smart and fair," Steve Bergman said. "Mens regnum bona possidet."
"Huh?" Charlie said, wrinkling her freckled nose. Apparently nobody spoke Latin in the LAPD Legal Affairs Department.
"Means 'A good mind will win the day,' " Wireman grinned, eager to translate for the dummies in the room.
"Actually, it means, 'A good mind will possess the kingdom,' " Stevie Bergman corrected.
Wireman pushed up the glasses on his nose, then smiled and nodded. "I stand corrected."
"Mentiri splendide," Stevie said.
Shane was getting another headache.
Despite all the posturing and bullshit, the deal was finally signed. The LAPD got its cashier's check for four hundred thousand dollars, which Shane handed to Charlie. She snapped it up into her worn leather briefcase like a fly down a frog's throat.
Soon they were out the door and in the elevator.
As Shane was unlocking his car in the Universal parking lot, he heard his name being called. He looked around and saw Nicky hustling toward him across the asphalt, teetering along on his stacked Cuban heels. Shane waited until the little grifter got there.
"Nice going, Nicky. Twenty-five percent of a major studio picture. Congratulations."
"The pricks reduced me down to ten, but, hey, who's complaining? I'm getting a producer credit, got a housekeeping deal here at Uni, complete with a development fund, and a great office in Building Nineteen. Got a neat little patio. If I go out there and stand on my furniture, I can actually see Steven Spielberg's tile roof over at Amblin Entertainment."
"Sounds like you're well positioned," Shane said as he turned and popped the lock on his Acura, then took off his coat because it was a hot day.
Nicky was shifting back and forth, looking a little like a seal, waiting for his trainer to throw the ball. "Something on your mind?"
Nicky stopped rocking. "Yeah…" He squinted at Shane, using his doe-eyed expression, the one he'd used to con old ladies on Sunset Boulevard back in the nineties. "I feel kinda funny about all this. I mean, if it hadn't been for you, I would've never got the front money to get this movie going, hire all these A-listers. Now I got a major studio movie, and you got nothin'."
"I got what I wanted, Nicky. You got what you wanted. We're square, okay? Don't worry about it."
"Yeah, okay." But his ferret eyes looked puzzled, his narrow face scrunched up with worry. It wasn't hard to read his thoughts: Had Shane scored a piece of this deal that he didn't know about? Was he being screwed? "What did you get that you wanted?" Nicky asked suspiciously.
"I got the D. A. to indict Dennis for Carol's murder. Insane Wayne was in on the hit. He's downtown, singing like Pavarotti. Dennis is gonna go down. The full twenty-five with an L."
"Oh, that," he said. Now he seemed recalcitrant. "Y'know, Shane, that wasn't my fault she got killed." "Yes, it was. Yours and mine."
"But I didn't know he was gonna clip her."
"You knew she was using heroin when she auditioned for you."
The little grifter looked down in embarrassment.
"And you knew Dennis had something more than friendship on his mind when he asked you to find her. You must have guessed she was threatening to go to the cops and expose Dennis's movie scam if he didn't give her money for her heroin habit. You had to know it wasn't going to be good once he found her."
Nicky slowly looked up. Shane saw deep pain and guilt on his narrow face.
"Nicky, we were careless, and we set her up for him. Admit it, 'cause if you don't own up to your mistakes, you'll just keep making them. It's how you grow. It's how you reach out and finally come to Jesus. Say hallelujah."
"I know you're making fun of me, but I did find Jesus. And I do pray for her, Shane. I pray for her every day." He was close to tears.
"Me, too."
They stood uncomfortably in the parking lot, bathed in hot sun and shared guilt.
Suddenly Nicky leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Shane…" he said softly, looking like a man on the edge of a confession. Then his resolve hardened and he said, "You were right…"
"About what?"
"I knew she was on drugs. When she came in for that reading a few years back, she was pretty seriously tweaked. She looked like shit and tried to borrow money and I didn't do anything… not a damned thing. I just.. I kinda. I got her out of the office because she…" He stopped, tears welling up.
"She embarrassed you," Shane finished.
"I had to get her out. My investors were shocked at her appearance." Now the tears were flowing.
"It's okay, Nicky… In the long run, you'll feel better if you own up to it."
"It's not okay, Shane… It's not. I owed her much more. She was my friend in school when nobody else was willing to be. I didn't prot
ect her when she needed me." He pulled out a silk handkerchief and wiped his eyes.
"Neither did I," Shane said softly.
They looked at each other across this big ugly fact.
Finally, Nicky seemed to shake out of it. He put the handkerchief away, reached into his pocket, pulled out an envelope, and handed it to Shane.
"What's this?"
"Well, it's probably not worth anything, but I'm giving you a point and a half outta my back-end of The Neural Surfer. Course, by the time Universal gets through bookkeeping the profit participants, net points are usually worth bubkes. But who knows? Stranger things have happened."
Shane nodded and put the envelope in his pocket.
"I really did love her, Shane," Nicky said softly.
"I know," Shane said sadly, then got into his car and pulled away.
As he turned the corner on Lankersheim, he looked back and saw Nicky was still standing in the Universal parking lot… a tiny little man in an iridescent suit. Thinking. Rocking. Looking down at the pavement.
Carol's funeral was at five o'clock at the New Calvary Cemetery. Besides the minister, there was just Shane, Alexa, Chooch, and Franco. Delfina couldn't make it because she was still in the hospital. But she was being discharged the next day, and moving in with them.
Nicky called at the last minute to say he had to go into a budget meeting and wouldn't be able to make it. Apparently somebody in Universal's auditing department had discovered a line-item for five Oregon redwoods, which were cut and shipped at fifty thousand per tree. Nicky conceded to Shane over the phone that they should have used papier-mache. Just before the service began, a flower truck arrived with a wreath from Nicky that would have held its own at Gotti's funeral.
Alexa cradled Carol's cat in her arms while the minister read the service.
Chooch had donated the casket, his mahogany Heaven Rider, as well as his preselected, prepaid burial plot-all courtesy of American Macado and the 18th Street Surenos. Carol was being laid to rest surrounded by the graves of dead Emes. Amac's funeral wasn't scheduled yet, because the Scottsdale P. D. hadn't released his body. Once they did, Shane, Alexa, Chooch, and Delfina would be back here, standing two plots away, while a hundred Mexican bangers, wearing their trademark Eme blue, stood on the graves of their fallen brothers, nodding wisely, saying that Amac was con safos-one hundred proof-rifa. It was an endless, useless cycle of death that showed no sign of ever ending.
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