Hollywood Tough (2002)

by Stephen - Scully 03 Cannell

  “This isn’t lunch, it’s war. You’d never catch Schwarzkopf with his battle groups side by side. Everything in a negotiation has intense subtextural meaning.”

  The doors opened and a Napoleonic curly-haired man wearing a Hawaiian shirt topped by a fancy leather vest with silver conchos walked into the room. He was followed by a group of Hollywood-chic executives. They were ethnically mixed but similarly dressed. Some wore Tshirts and jeans with plain leather vests, others short-sleeved shirts, jeans, and plain leather vests. The vests seemed to be the preferred uniform on this side of the hill, but only Bergman got the one with cool silver conchos.

  “I’m Stevie Bergman,” the man said, smiling. He took off a pair of Nikon darks and hung them on the top button of his Hawaiian shirt.

  Nicky stood and began moving his mouth like a beached flounder. This time Shane was ready and leaped forward. “I’m Shane Scully. May I present my associate and partner at CineRoma, Nicholas Marcella.”

  They both shook Stevie Bergman’s hand; he had a soft but firm grip. Then he turned to the crowd behind him.

  “These are my D’s,” he said. “This is Tammy Ansara and Bobby Feitheim.”

  Shane shook hands with them. Tammy was a strikingly beautiful woman in her late twenties with auburn hair. Feltheim was the same age, blond, and had aqua babyblues—probably contacts. “Everybody calls me ‘the Felt,’ ” he offered warmly as Arthur returned from the kitchen.

  Bergman turned and introduced the African-Americans. Ms. Freeman was Denise; Ms. Smart was Sondra. They were trim, beautiful, and still professionally safe at under thirty.

  They all shook hands, then found their favorite seats up by Bergman at the north end of the table, slickly moving Shane and Nicky out of their prepicked, strategic positions, forcing them into the weak zone at the far end of the table.

  Nicky was so shell-shocked, he led the retreat.

  “Bueno,” Bergman said, surveying the seating. “This is perfect, excellent-o. Unfortunately, boys and girls, I only have twenty or thirty minutes, so I asked Arturo to serve us immediament-o. I have a nice lunch planned. I hope you like Cordon Bleu.”

  “Isn’t that chicken in cream sauce?” Shane asked.

  `This is Bleu a la Bergman. It’s been marinated for six hours and then basted in my mother’s special recipe. She makes it in her own kitchen. And except for an odd case of botulism now and then, people seem to love it.” He beat a rim shot on the tabletop with his hands. “Joke, boys and girls, just kidding.” Everybody smiled.

  Nicky nodded. He was still moving his lips, but no sound had yet come out.

  “Okay, we talk while we eat. Arturo, sling the hash.” Arthur took off for the kitchen again.

  “Neural Surfer . .” Stevie Bergman said. “Brilliant. The Felt read an early draft and he’s amped. Right, Bobby?”

  “I didn’t read the actual script, only coverage,” the Felt confessed. “And I must admit, the coverage was a tad confusing, but the kids who write these synopses are just outta college.” He grinned. “They want Britney Spears to star in everything. By the way, we have a first-look deal with her. She might be good casting as the slave master’s concubine.”

  Shane didn’t even know there was a role for a slave master’s concubine, and if there was, he certainly didn’t think the hip, teen bombshell would be right for it. But Shane was a cop. As far as he was concerned, good casting was something you did when you went trout fishing.

  “I’d love to get the latest draft of the script,” the Felt said.

  “It’s loaded with ferae naturae,” Shane assured him.

  “It’s not so much the untamed nature that excites us,” Bergman chimed in. “Because, frankly, we expect to get that from Paul and Michael. Right now, to be honest, we’re more interested in your completion and delivery dates.”

  “Our completion dates?” Shane was puzzled.

  “Shall we let our hair down, boys and girls?” Stevie was looking around the table with an impish grin. The D people, whoever or whatever they were, all nodded.

  “We just had a huge Christmas movie fall out on us. Tom and Julia, with Francis helming. Leaves us with a gigantic hole-o-rama in our December release schedule, and I don’t have to tell you what that means.”

  He did, but Shane was determined not to show his ignorance.

  “What makes your project so tantalizing, aside from the beaucoup package, is it has blockbuster size, which is what we need to tent-pole our Christmas release schedule. The fact that you might be able to get it in the can and drop it into our empty release date makes it irresistible,” Bergman said.

  “At this point, you can see why it’s not so much about the screenplay as the timing,” Felt said. “I mean, we love what we’re hearing, and the elements attached are certainly primo, but we’ve got five thousand screens reserved for the tenth of December, and if we don’t have a big Christmas film to release, we’re pretty much fucked.”

  “In the ass-o-rama,” Bergman added.

  “Well, gee, uh, Christmas … I don’t see why not. Sounds good, doesn’t it, Nick?” Shane was desperate to get this monster off the LAPD’s budget.

  Nothing from Nicky. He was locked up tighter than a pawnbroker’s safe.

  “What d’ya think, Nicky? Christmas sound doable?” Shane asked again.

  More mouth movement, maybe some spittle.

  Shane didn’t have a clue whether they could get it done by then, especially with Lubick directing. “Christmas sounds makeable, right, Nick?” he repeated.

  Then his vapor-locked partner opened his mouth. “Christmas,” Nicky finally sputtered.

  “Yeah, Christmas.” Shane was getting pissed. “Christmas,” Nicky repeated impotently.

  Shane gave up and smiled at Stevie. “No problem on Christmas.”

  “Okay, good.” Bergman leaned forward. “A word of caution. We love Paul Lubick, but we’ve found, over the years, that working with him can be challenging. He’s going to have to sign on for this delivery date. No fucking around like he did last year on Adam’s Apple. That picture missed two marketing and distribution slots while he played with himself in the editing room.”

  “And even then,” the Felt added, “it was longer than a summer harvest. People grew old and died watching that thing. Took three hours and forty minutes to unspool.”

  “Good point. It’s gotta have a running time of less than two hours,” Bergman demanded.

  “Paul is … he’ s—”

  “Yeah, we know,” Stevie said, cutting Shane off. “Our financing will be subject to contract-defined running-time restrictions and a finite delivery date. We’re willing to fund half the project in return for fifty percent of the profits. Our standard distribution fee of fifteen percent is off the top; we’re in first position on our initial investment, plus an additional fifty percent against final computed production and P and A costs. Per industry standards, P and A is in last but recoups first. All recoupment after break is pari passu. We’ll put our half of the money in escrow, and you can borrow against it to get financing. But in the event you don’t deliver for our December third preview screening, we’re going to freeze the escrow account, assume total ownership of the film, tie you two guys to a stake at the Tour Center, and sell tickets to tourists to watch you bum,” Bergman warned.

  “Christmas,” Nicky said flatly. He seemed to be focused now, but at these meetings, you could never tell.

  “That’s how we make movies around here. No bullshit-o. Simple and straight,” Stevie said. “Of course, we’ll have standard approvals on all front title cast and approvals on key crew people: D. P., A. D., the UPM, and like that. Finally, we want to post everything here on this lot. Do the CGI, Foley, the ADR, all the sound design, dubbing, everything.”

  “Sounds great,” Shane said, not knowing what half of those letters and phrases stood for.

  “Okay, then, in principle, we’ll consider this a done deal.” He turned to the Felt. “Let’s get Legal Affairs to paper
it.”

  Shane looked at Nicky, who nodded and smiled at everybody.

  They had the Cordon Bleu a la Bergman, which was basically chicken in cream sauce but with a strange, tinny aftertaste. Nobody got botulism. They talked about the Lakers and Democratic politics. Throughout it all, everybody kept looking at their watches.

  In less than half an hour they were all on their feet again, shaking hands and smiling.

  “We’ll have our people get in touch with your people,” Stevie said. “Who does your gunfighting?”

  “My what?”

  “Who’s your liar for hire? Your attorney?”

  Shane couldn’t tell him the LAPD Legal Affairs Department was going to cut the deal, so he smiled. “We’re just in the midst of changing gunfighters. Our new liar will get in touch with your—”

  “Have him call the Felt. He’ll be the picture exec on this project,” Bergman interrupted. Then they all swept out of the room, leaving Shane and Nicky looking across the empty table at Arthur.

  Shane got Nicky to the door, . Then finally to the parking lot.

  “Christmas. How we gonna get this done by Christmas?” Nicky was coming out of it.

  “Shut up, Nicky. I could’ve used that criticism half an hour ago.”

  “But Christmas! Are you out of your fucking mind? We’ll never make it,” the little grifter wailed.

  Chapter 37.

  IN THE WIND

  “Does the chief know about this?” asked Charlotte Brooks, who insisted on being called Charlie. They were in her cramped, windowless office in Legal Affairs at Parker Center.

  “Yeah, kinda,” Shane hedged, but in truth, he hadn’t been able to get in to see the Day-Glo Dago. Four more gangsters had hit the sidewalk, and the escalating street warfare had Alexa and the chief in a frenzy.

  “So I’m supposed to call this Mr. Feltheim at Universal, he’ll put me in touch with their legal department, and then we’re supposed to do what? Arrange for the LAPD to sell an interest in a movie that’s being shot by a production company named CineRoma, that we supposedly own?” Her right eyebrow was cocked and she was looking sideways at him through thick octagonal glasses.

  “Yeah, but you can’t mention you work for the LAPD. CineRoma is a front company. All you have to do is take down their preliminary offer and make sure there’re no loopholes.”

  “Sergeant, I don’t know anything about movie deals. I wouldn’t even recognize standard boilerplate.”

  “We’ll … we …” He stopped and took stock of Charlie. She was only about twenty-six and looked frail and uncertain. She’d go down like Polish infantry in front of the leather-vested killers at Universal.

  “Okay. I’ll get a showbiz attorney to negotiate the general deal points, then you can go through it for the LAPD. ‘Cause I need somebody from our legal department to approve the contract before I sign it.”

  “Why is the LAPD making a movie?” She pushed her glasses a little higher on her nose. “I don’t think we should be doing that. I mean, we’re a city service, a nonprofit agency.”

  “Wonderful observation, Charlie. And when I come up with an answer, I’ll have my people call your people.”

  Shane left Parker Center and decided that he’d better get Nicky to call his entertainment attorney after all. He tried CineRoma from his cell phone and got Nicky’s secretary.

  “CineRoma, Mr. Lubick’s office, Daphne Del Rey speaking.”

  “This is Shane, I’m trying to get in touch with Nicky.”

  “Well, I’m not that man’s secretary anymore. I work for Mr. Lubick now.” There was both disdain and relief in Daphne’s voice. She had fended off her last bimbo in short-shorts.

  “Hey, congratulations. But if you’re with our esteemed director, throw away that computer, ‘cause you’re working with a shovel now.”

  “I know you think that’s funny, but Mr. Lubick is a genius. His visions have creative magnitude. I didn’t come to Hollywood to work on scams like Boots and Bikinis. Paul is actually trying to make a meaningful film here, so if you say one more smartass thing about him, I’ll be forced to report it.”

  “As well you should.” Shane shook his head; this wasn’t getting him anywhere. “Look, Daphne, I apologize. You’re right, of course. Paul Lubick is the best. He’s tits. But right now I need to talk to Nicky. Think you could hook me up?”

  “I’m not supposed to handle anything but Mr. Lubick’s business. I’m his personal assistant.”

  “Could you make an exception just this once? Can you please just transfer me?”

  “Nicky went home. He’s at his apartment.”

  “Thanks. And congratulations on the promotion.”

  She didn’t respond; instead she hung up on him. Shane dialed Nicky’s apartment three times but kept getting a busy signal. The Hollywood Towers were only five minutes away, so he drove there, parked on the street out front, then went into the building. It was five-thirty, so he left the pizza box prop in the trunk. He was going to find the manager this time and just badge him. But his timing was perfect. Somebody was just getting off the elevator as he walked into the lobby. He sped up and caught the door before it closed. If he’d been a home invasion specialist, this building would be high up on his target list.

  Shane exited on the twenty-fifth floor and walked down the hall to Nicky’s apartment.

  He pulled up a few feet away.

  The door was ajar, the lock splintered.

  Somebody had left a big, black boot mark up by the brass knob. This B&E was about as subtle as a gay pride parade.

  Shane was still packing Alexa’s Double Eagle in his belt, at the small of his back. He pulled the piece, chambered it, touched the door with his toe, and pushed it open. Then he dove into the apartment.

  It wasn’t pretty.

  The place had been completely trashed. Tables and furniture were tipped over. The Japanese prints had been pulled off the wall and kicked to shreds. Shane rolled to his feet, and, not hearing any movement, began to creep carefully through the rooms. Just minutes ago, the phone had been busy, so he took no chances.

  He slowly cleared the apartment. The destruction seemed gratuitous. This had been more than a search; there was anger here. It looked like whoever had done this came specifically to destroy things.

  Nicky’s personal effects were gone. The bathroom had been emptied.

  Shane opened the closet door. Nicky’s suits were all off the hangers and thrown on the floor. His jewelry box was crushed, his watches stomped on. The little grifter’s tan Louis Vuitton overnight bag was missing. Shane reached up and found the shoe box that had contained the 9mm pistol and two clips. The minute he put his hand on it, he could tell the box was empty. He pulled it down anyway, carefully removing the top, using his thumbs to push it up and off.

  He found a baggie in the kitchen and secured the box top for prints.

  Nicky’s trick book with all the girls’ pictures in glassine envelopes had been removed from his sock drawer.

  Then Shane’s eyes fell on the telephone. It had been knocked off the hook, which explained the busy signal. This could have happened any time since Nicky left the apartment this morning.

  Shane stood in the center of the ransacked living room trying to add this piece to the puzzle. Nicky was a smalltime crook, a petty criminal. He was a, well, to be honest, a Pooh. Nicky the Pooh was the kind of guy you slapped around but probably didn’t hit. This angry trashing of his apartment was a troubling, discordant note in the whimsical life of the little con man. So who had tossed this place? Who could get this mad at Little Nicky? It didn’t figure. But either way, Nicky was in the wind.

  Shane looked at his watch: six o’clock. He needed to be at the Jonathan Club in Santa Monica in an hour for Farrell’s bachelor party. He decided he would try to piece it together on the drive there.

  Chapter 38.

  THE BACHELOR PARTY

  The Santa Monica Freeway was a parking lot full of rush-hour hostility. Shane was cut o
ff, flipped off, and pissed off. He tried to calm himself while averaging a snail-like six miles an hour. He inched along past Hoover, then La Brea. His car was creeping, but his mind was racing.

  Despite the fact that many crimes appear to be disorganized and chaotic, inside that chaos is usually some kind of, twisted criminal logic. If an investigator can adopt the right mind-set, he can often spot a pattern.

  As Shane smogged along in a sea of potential violence, he let his mind zigzag across Nicky Marcella’s involvement in this case. He could easily understand Nicky hanging out with Champagne Dennis Valentine, running his errands, even getting Shane to find Carol White for him. All of that fit into some kind of logical equation.

  What didn’t make sense was Nicky’s relationship with a Hollywood heavy-hitter like Farrell Champion. Why would Farrell hang out and do deals with a smalltime bullshit artist like Nicky the Pooh? Yet there he was at the famous producer’s engagement party, in his two-tone suit and Cuban heels, bragging about the projects they had in development together. Savages in the Midst, a film about a girl destroyed by Hollywood … the Carol White Story.

  Nicky was a pretender. So why would Farrell Champion, a. K. A. Daniel Zelso, have anything to do with him? With his WITSEC status, the last thing the producer or the U. S. Marshals’ office would want was for him to befriend a criminal loser like Nicky Marcella. It just didn’t track.

  Now Nicky was missing. He’d either been snatched or, as his missing suitcase suggested, had packed up and left in a hurry. Somebody had gotten pissed and trashed his place either during the snatch or after Nicky left. Shane didn’t think whoever did it was searching for anything. They were sending a message.

  After leaving the vomitorium this afternoon, Nicky had scurried along, looking over his shoulder as if somebody was after him. Now Shane wondered who that might be.

  At seven-fifteen he finally arrived at the luxurious, private Jonathan Club. The massive brown building sat on the sand at Santa Monica Beach, with one windowless wall backing up against the four-lane Coast Highway. The sun was hovering just above the ocean, tinging everything with orange light. Shane made a left through the arch and drove toward the entrance. A man in a red jacket was valet-parking cars. As Shane pulled up and got out, he looked at the nearby parking area, trying to spot Nicky’s maroon Bentley—it wasn’t there. He gave up the Acura and headed inside the private club, where he was met by a tall, good-looking man about thirty, wearing a dark suit.