Hollywood Tough (2002)

by Stephen - Scully 03 Cannell

  Of course, there was very little he could do to escape the fact that he had probably played a key role in Carol White’s murder. He didn’t think Black Mills would beat one of his own meal tickets to death. Shane had found this poor girl for Nicky, had told Nicky where she was, and now, less than ten hours later, she was dead, hanging in a garage on West 11th in Rampart.

  Shane looked down at Sunset Boulevard below and wondered at the allure of Tinseltown, the glitzy magnet of fame and stardom. Shane did a rough chronology, playing the “Where Was I Then” game.

  When Mr. and Mrs. White had conceived Carol, where was Shane? He did the math. Was he still living with foster families? When she was still in high school, he was getting ready to join the Marines. Then she won Miss Solar Energy, came to Hollywood, and was almost a star. Almost … I was that close.

  Yesterday their paths finally crossed. They looked at each other across the chipped linoleum-topped table in the Snake Charmers Bar. The cop and the hooker. She had told him who she was … not so much by what she said but with her eyes. He saw her lost dream in their sparkle as she remembered her chance at stardom. When she told that story like a zombie, she seemed to rise from the dead.

  Somehow, Shane had connected with her tragedy. He had sympathized. He wished that Franco Zeffirelli had let her out of that damn chair, because then she would have known. She would have been able to leave the memory behind. This way it had only served to defeat her. And now, because of Shane, she was dead.

  Shane felt his chest tighten. He tried to tell himself it was inevitable. Hey, she was already on this trail before I met her. If it wasn’t one thing that got her, it would have been another, right? The drugs or a pissed-off john. Death was the price of life. It was the inevitability of being. She was born to lose; born to die young. But he couldn’t quite get there. Despite all the rationalization, he felt guilty and sad.

  Shane knew these ruminations contained nothing useful for him, but he couldn’t stop. They were the kind of thoughts rookie cops get when they roll on their first homicide and see maggots and green flies crawling in the victim’s mouth. Or when they catch their first blood-soaked T. A., where they have to pry some poor guy off his steering wheel and watch his guts run down onto the dash. Where was I when he ran this stop? Where was I when the fatal shot was fired? Why couldn’t I have stopped it? Am I doing anything here, or am I just a glorified janitor cleaning up the mess?

  Then he heard a key in the lock and the door to Nicky’s apartment opened. Shane sat very still as the little hustler entered the room. Nicky turned and relocked the door, then started across the living room. He was moving uncertainly, or maybe he was slightly drunk. He stripped off his tie and let it fall on the carpet as he entered the bedroom, not once glancing in Shane’s direction.

  Shane got to his feet and followed. He heard Nicky whistling something off-key in the bathroom. Shane crept silently across the carpet and stood in the doorway. Nicky was taking out his contacts. He had one finger up to his right eye, and was just about to remove a lens when he glanced in the mirror and saw Shane standing there.

  “Hi,” Shane said.

  “Fuuuuckkk!” Nicky shrieked.

  Shane took two steps into the bathroom, grabbed Nicky by his silk shirt, and pulled him out of the room. The little bullshitter stumbled and fell onto the bedroom carpet, then scrambled to get away. Shane reached out his foot and tripped him. Nicky sprawled.

  “Stay there, Nicky,” Shane ordered. But Nicky came up again and made a dash for the bedroom door. Shane grabbed him, spun him, then ran Nicky backward across the room and slammed him into the closet door.

  “O0000hhhhf,” Nicky gasped.

  Shane jerked him around and held him by the collar of his expensive shirt, roughly yanking him close.

  “Shane, what’re you doing? Leggo!” the grifter croaked. “I don’t like being played, Nicky.”

  “I … I I… I didn’t. Whatta you talking about?”

  “Carol White. I wanna know why you were looking for her, and if you try and tell me you wanted to put her in a movie, I’m gonna kick the shit outta you.”

  “Shane … I … she …”

  “Your part called for translucent? She was about as translucent as a concrete wall. I should’ve smelled your con when I first saw her. It was all bullshit, hadda be.”

  “Shane, look … look, will ya, for Chrissake? Let go of me. This is a custom-made raw silk shirt here. I send to Hong Kong for these. You’re gonna tear the stitches.”

  Shane turned him loose.

  “Jesus H. Christ …” Nicky wheezed.

  “You praying now, or are you just taking your Savior’s name in vain?” Shane snarled.

  “Shane, will you calm down, please? What’s this all about?”

  “She’s dead, Nicky. Somebody beat the shit out of her, hung her from a rafter in a vacant garage in Rampart.”

  “Dead. G. ?”

  “Dead. Gone. On the ark with extreme prejudice. Somebody made it hurt, then they killed her.”

  “Oh, my God,” the little hustler said as tears sprang into his eyes.

  The tears surprised Shane, so he took a step back to reconsider.

  “Oh, my God … Please, no. Not little Carol … not her …” Nicky wailed. “Are you sure?”

  “I identified the body.”

  Nicky sank down on the bed and began to weep. It sort of threw Shane, who was right in the middle of one of his patented tough-guy performances. It was disconcerting to all of a sudden have the mark start crying. But Shane reminded himself that Nicky Marcella was a street hustler, a con man who could probably break down and cry at a Tupperware party.

  “Cut it out,” Shane finally barked.

  When Nicky looked up, his lower lip was trembling. “I didn’t mean for anything to happen to her. Honest, Shane, I swear.”

  “Who did you tell? Somebody else wanted you to find her. Who were you working for?”

  “Look, Shane …”

  “Nicky, in about five seconds I’m going to introduce you to the biggest shithead on the LAPD. His name is Lou Ruta. He’s not a prince like me. He’s a farting, growling nightmare with a rubber hose. He caught Carol’s murder and he’s gonna hang it on the first person he can find who looks half good for it. He’ll lock you up in one of the iso cells they got at County, and before he’s done, you’ll be confessing to the Black Dahlia murder.”

  “Okay … okay … but this is … this is kind a ticklish.”

  “No it’s not, Nicky. It’s murder. A brutal first-degree homicide. And you’re gonna start spitting out info or I’m takin’ you downtown.”

  Then Nicky told Shane a story he found almost impossible to believe.

  Chapter 14.

  NICKY’S STORY

  “The guy I was trying to find her for is Dennis Valentine.” Nicky actually whispered when he said the name, as if Valentine was some sort of godlike eminence.

  “Who the fuck is Dennis Valentine?” Shane growled.

  “Well, to begin with, his real name is Dennis Valente, but he Americanized it to Valentine. He’s … he’s related to Don Carlo DeCesare, the godfather in New Jersey. You musta heard of him. They call Don DeCesare ‘Little Caesar.’ Dennis’s mother and Don Carlo are brother and sister, so he’s, how you say, like his nephew.”

  “A made Mafia guy, right?”

  “He’s … well, he’s …” Nicky stopped and looked at Shane in panic. “If this gets out, that I blew him in, my life is worth bubkes, y’ know.”

  “Who is he, Nicky?”

  “I told you.”

  Shane grabbed his silk shirt collar again.

  “Okay, okay,” Nicky stammered, “Dennis Valentine is like out here from New Jersey and he’s tryin’ to … how we say in film, get hooked up with talent vendors. He’s opening up a film company.”

  “Wise Guy Productions?” Shane sneered.

  “You laugh. But yeah . .” Nicky took a deep breath to calm himself. “He’s convinced that the
key to power in L. A. is showbiz. It’s our state’s largest industry, even bigger than citrus now. Film is the perfect state industry. It’s nonpolluting, labor and cash intense. These are words we use meaning—”

  “I know what they mean,” Shane interrupted. “Go on.”

  “Dennis says the State of California needs its film business to survive. ‘Control showbiz and you control the entire State of California politically and economically.’ And Valentine’s not altogether incorrect. You see, Shane, according to California’s tax base estimates, every dollar spent here gets multiplied seven times each year.”

  “What?” Shane was lost. “How d’ya figure that?”

  “It gets spent seven times in twelve months. I pay the dollar to you, you pay it to your grocer, and your grocer pays it to his dry cleaner … like that. In a year, that same buck is spent seven times, and each time it gets spent, it gets taxed. So when you add up the seven multiple, showbiz is worth fifty, sixty billion a year to the California tax base. Control that, you got one fuck of a lot of power. Dennis thinks he can control it by taking over the show business unions.”

  “Can he do that?”

  “Yeah, maybe … you see, in showbiz, we got what we call your abovethe-line unions and your below-the-line unions. Boiling that down, your abovethe-line handles all the creative people: writers, that’s the Writers Guild of America—but to be frank, nobody gives a shit about writers, so forget the WGA. You also got SAG, the Screen Actors Guild. Then there’s the big kahuna of all the guilds, the DGA, which is the directors’ union. Directors are the real power players in film—the auteurs.”

  “And Dennis Valentine thinks he can organize a bunch of actors and directors? People who live in multimillion-dollar Malibu houses? What’s he smoking?”

  “No, no, Shane. He doesn’t want to organize the abovethe-line—those guys are untouchable. He wants to organize the below-the-line guys—the I. A.”

  “The I. A.? That’s like an alliance of unions, right?” “Exactly. The full name is IATSE, stands for International Alliance of Theatrical and Stage Employees. These unions include all the dumb everyday working stiffs who actually make the damn films—the grips, the set decorators, costumers, hair and makeup … like that.” He grinned. “We call hair and makeup the ‘pretty departments.’ I think that’s cute. You learn these terms when you’re a player.”

  “I don’t need the travelogue,” Shane growled.

  “Dennis thinks these below-the-line unions can be taken over. I think they’ve already bought some guys at the top, or threatened them—something. Anyway, IATSE is onboard already. Next, Dennis is going to use his uncle’s contacts with the national brotherhoods in D. C. to put pressure on all these IATSE locals to negotiate with Dennis. Eventually, Dennis thinks he can control the cost of each film made in Hollywood.”

  “How?” Shane asked.

  “If he says to a producer, ‘You shoot your film and the unions will work at a cut rate,’ the producer gets a great bargain, movie gets made. If he says, ‘No deal, Mr. Producer, you gotta pay full boat,’ or worse still, ‘I’m gonna sock you with beaucoup overtime and a lotta expensive fringe bullshit,’ then the producer gets screwed and his profits are destroyed. In so doing, Dennis thinks he can leverage that power to gain a percentage of ownership in the films made here. Pretty soon, nobody can shoot a union film in California without his say-so. See, he becomes like the czar of all filmed entertainment. That means he’s got his hands around the throat of this sixty-billion-dollar tax base. He could call a strike, shut down the state, and all the schools would have to close. Even your fucking LAPD check would bounce. He becomes unstoppable, economically and politically. It’s brilliant.”

  “You’re screwing with me, aren’t you?” Shane said.

  “I swear. He’s out here with his uncle’s blessing, trying to set this up. I’ve been working with him on some deals. He knows I got connections. He’s the one who wanted me to find Carol White.”

  “Why? What’s he care about her?”

  “We all went to Teaneck High together. We were all friends in the ninth grade.”

  “Awww, come on, Nicky … a class reunion?”

  “Shane, it’s true. Carol and Dennis were kinda the hot couple on campus back then. He was the BMOC, ‘cause he was a big athlete and his uncle was the godfather of New Jersey. Carol was head cheerleader. She won some beauty contests, then came out here to be in films. Dennis used to make trips to L. A. to visit her. He and I hooked up ‘cause I’d gone to USC film school, I’d learned my Yiddish by then. I could talk the talk. It was during one of those trips that he got the idea to take over the showbiz unions.”

  “Where is Valentine now?” Shane asked.

  “He was living at the Bel Air Hotel, but he just moved to Kenny Rogers’s old estate up on Mandeville Canyon Road. Thing’s a mausoleum, sits on five acres. Musta cost him a fortune. Everything’s real classy. He’s not your normal garlic breather. He calls himself Champagne Dennis Valentine—drinks nothing but Taittinger, which he calls the champagne of champagnes. He’s loaded with personality tics. He’s a germ nut—won’t even shake hands. He’s a health-food nut, a vegetarian. Eats mostly broccoli and spinach. I swear, Shane, you go to his place for dinner and it’s tofu and brown rice. I’d rather eat a hairball.”

  “And you’re working for him?”

  “I’ve got a co-production arrangement hammered out with his company, HeartShaped Films. Valentine … heartshaped—get it? We’re going to do a film or two. I’m doing a lot for him, like arranging the party tomorrow afternoon to introduce him to the big players in Hollywood—agents, managers, and such. I’m not going to accept some snowball definition of net profits or rolling break-even. My piece on our co-productions has to kick in from first-dollar gross, after P and A, of course.” Nicky talking the talk.

  “I haven’t heard so much sleazy bullshit since Clinton testified.”

  Nicky held up his hand. “You aren’t a player, so naturally you don’t get it.”

  Maybe not, but Shane had been getting one good idea. So he sat down on the edge of the bed beside the little grifter. “Guess what, Nick? This is your lucky day.”

  “I don’t want a lucky day.”

  “Well, you got one. While you were just sitting here talking about your deal with this mobster, and this great life you finally got, I had a great idea.”

  “Bubee, ain’t ya heard? There’s a twenty-year-old reward out for a cop with a great idea.”

  “You’re about to get a new fifty-fifty partner at CineRoma, and you’re looking at him.”

  Now Nicky actually looked frightened. “Whatta you mean, ‘partner’? Do I look like I want a partner?”

  “Nicky, this isn’t a negotiation. It’s a condition. Either I come in for half of your company, or you take the pipe for Carol’s murder. Say no, and I’ll sell you so fast you’ll think you’re a used Bentley.”

  “Shane, why are you doing this to me?”

  “Because I want this guy, Nicky. I think he killed Carol and I want him.”

  “Why? Why would he kill her? It makes no sense.”

  “Who knows why? Because he’s a goomba, or because he eats too much broccoli. Maybe she knew his plans to infiltrate Hollywood and when she started shooting heroin, she became a liability and had to be fixed.”

  “Shane, he wouldn’t do that.”

  “Or maybe she was shaking him down for money, to buy drugs. Who knows? Look, Nicky, I’m not arguing here. You’ve got no choice.”

  Little Nicky looked at him and actually started to weep. Tears came down his face, although for some strange reason, this time he made no crying sounds. Then he got control of himself.

  “How much are you gonna pay me for your end?” he finally said, hope reappearing on his tear-stained face. ” ‘Cause it won’t be cheap. CineRoma has a book value of slightly over five mil. That’s not counting goodwill with agents and distributors and unearned assets like future profits on Boots and Bikinis
.”

  “Five mil sounds high.” Shane opened his wallet and took out one dollar and handed it over. “How ‘bout one dollar and other considerations? I believe that’s the legal necessity to guarantee a contract in the State of California.”

  “No fucking way,” Nicky howled.

  “Don’t lose sight of the fact that the other considerations in this case include my keeping you off Lou Ruta’s suspect list. I’ll have somebody in the LAPD Legal Affairs Department draw up the contract.”

  Nicky Marcella sat there looking at Shane for a long moment, then he finally sighed and nodded. “I guess we should say a prayer or something.”

  “You pray over deals?”

  “No. I wanta pray for Carol. We should do that, don’t you think?”

  Shane sat looking at him for a long moment, trying to assess if he was serious, and for some reason, Shane knew he was. It surprised him. But that was the thing about Nicky; he wasn’t just one thing. He could catch you off balance. “Yeah, sure, let’s do it,” Shane agreed.

  So they held hands while Nicky the Pooh bowed his head and prayed for Carol White’s newly departed soul.

  Chapter 15.

  PARTNERS

  Even though he didn’t get home until three in the morning, Shane was up at six. He left the house shortly before Alexa and Chooch and headed to the Hollywood division. Today was the day he was supposed to go back on duty, but now he wondered if that was the right move.

  Once he arrived at the Hollywood division, he went directly up the stairs to the computer room on the second floor.

  “Hi ya, stranger,” the morning-shift computer tech called out as Shane walked up. Shane couldn’t remember the guy’s last name, but like a lot of computer nerds at the LAPD, his nickname was Sparks.

  “Hey, Sparks, you still hooked to LexisNexis?” Shane asked.

  He smiled and gave a thumbs-up.