“I’m here for Farrell Champion’s . Bachelor party.” “Yes, sir. Take a right down the stairs. It’s in the Grill’s private dining room.”
Shane turned and walked across the magnificent wood-paneled lobby, down a few steps to ground level, then followed the corridor to the Beach Grill, where he found a set of green louvered doors fronting a small, private room that overlooked the sandy Santa Monica Beach. Several beach volleyball courts were in use. Very athletic games of mixed doubles were being played by tanned twenty-year-olds. Their hard, muscular bodies glistened as they leaped and spiked, giving high-fives after every winning point.
The room was only half full with about twenty well-dressed male guests. Shane stepped up to the small five-seat bar and started looking around for Farrell.
“Hey, bud, way to go, you made it,” the handsome producer said as he made his way over and gave Shane a bear hug. It seemed they were “buds” now. Shane was again struck by the animal magnetism of the man. He was also struck by the fact that Farrell looked nothing like the faxed picture of Daniel Zelso, which was locked inside his briefcase in the Acura’s trunk. Shane tried to spot surgical scars. He checked under Farrell’s chin and behind the ears. Nothing.
Could it be that he’d been wrong? That somebody else’s prints had been on that lighter?
“Nora said the bridal shower was amazing,” Farrell said. “You guys really are the best.”
“Well, you know how close Alexa and Nora are.”
“I’ll tell you, Shane, if it weren’t for Alexa, I think Nora would have gone back to Michigan a long time ago. She told me once that she finds Hollywood people superficial. Where do you suppose she gets that?” He grinned and showed Shane that great set of pearlies. “Hollywood… superficial? We drink bottled water, wear nothing that ever grew fur, except for rabbits, which don’t count. We all have personal trainers and maintain staffs that are gender neutral, with perfect ethnic balance. We support liberal politicians no matter how many hummers they get from their interns; we go to the White House religiously, on Air Force One—our definition of political activism. What’s not to like?”
He’d done it again. Shane found himself liking the guy. He was self-effacing, funny, and smart—all gifts of a natural con man.
“I guess Nicky Marcella couldn’t make it,” Shane said. “Who?”
“Nicholas Marcella? I met him at your engagement party. Real short guy, rail-thin, said he was coming tonight.”
“Nicholas Marcella?” A puzzled frown wrinkled Farrell’s forehead. “Oh, wait a minute, yeah, I guess that was his real name. I’ve blotted that unfortunate episode from my mind. When he worked for me he was calling himself Mark Nickles.”
“He worked for you?”
“Used to be my studio limousine driver. He spent a lot of time waiting for me parked out in front of my house. I felt bad for him so I told him he could wait inside. Shortly after that a lot of stuff started disappearing. I had some friends in law enforcement run a check on him. Turns out Mark Nickles was Nicholas Marcella. Had a rap sheet with twenty priors, all kinds of sleazy bullshit. Last June I sent some people to his apartment to reacquire my possessions—mostly rings and watches, stuff like that. I still have a criminal case pending against the little thief.”
“So what was he doing at your engagement party?”
“He wasn’t at my party.” Farrell was looking at Shane closely. “Are you serious? A little guy, always wore stacked heels, narrow face, eyes too close together?”
“That’s the one. He said he had two pictures in development with you at Paramount.”
“That guy couldn’t develop Polaroids. I found out before he worked for me, he was doing deaf-and-dumb street-corner hustles.”
Shane nodded. It was true. He’d busted Nicky twice for sitting on the sidewalk at Hollywood and Vine with a sign reading: DEAF AND DUMB, PLEASE HELP. “Well, he was at your party. Maybe when you get home, you oughta recheck your jewelry case.”
“No kidding,” Farrell said.
Later that evening Shane finally learned what D people did, because Farrell introduced him to three of them.
“These are my best D guys,” he said, and Shane shook hands with an African-American named Colby, who should have been doing picture layouts in Esquire; a Mexican-American with horn-rims, named Rudy; and a white guy named Lance. Perfect ethnic balance. What’s not to like?
“Exactly what is a D person?” Shane finally asked.
“D stands for development,” Rudy said, clearing up the mystery. “We develop literary properties and then once we think they’re ready, we pass the scripts along to Farrell.”
“These two guys brought me some of my biggest popcorn hits,” Farrell said, slapping Lance and Colby on the back.
“Popcorn hits?” Shane asked.
“Yeah, mindless action movies: pretty girls, guys with abs, gunfire, rock ‘n’ roll. It’s not my fault America loves that shit.” Farrell grinned, but Colby and Lance looked hurt.
“I’m trying to do the more emotionally involving, thematic material,” Rudy Garcia brown-nosed. “I want to develop something Farrell can really be proud of for a change.” It seemed Rudy was the sensitive, caring D guy, but judging from Lance and Colby’s scowls, Farrell should probably hire somebody to start his car for a while.
“Emotional involvement is the easiest thing in the world to accomplish,” Colby fired back, his ego still bruised. “Just get a little kitten and have Jack Palance wring its neck. Everybody cries. I think Farrell’s next film should be transcendent.”
Farrell smiled and nodded, happy to be at the center of the disagreement.
Shane didn’t know what a transcendent film was, so he just nodded.
Then they had dinner. It wasn’t creamed chicken, either. Farrell served them oysters Rockefeller as a starter, duck A l’orange as the entree, and peach flambe for dessert.
After dinner, a senior vice president of Paramount Pictures ran an elaborate gag video. It was a salute to the end of Farrell’s bachelorhood, complete with explosions, special effects, and outtakes from Mission: Impossible 2. At least forty name stars of both sexes appeared. They all lamented Farrell’s sexual prowess and Nora’s dire mistake in marrying him. It was funny in some spots, crude in others.
At one point, Michael Fallon was onscreen grinning into the camera, his bad-boy curls hanging loosely on his tan forehead. “Farrell, old buddy,” the actor joked, “you’re getting a great girl. I oughta know, I’ve been flicking her for three and a half years.” It was that kind of funny. But the room roared with laughter. Most of them probably hadn’t dealt recently with Michael’s chronomentrophobia—a comedy-killing ailment.
At ten o’clock the speeches started mostly low blows and crude insults. One by one, Farrell’s friends stood up and talked about the length of his penis, or his inability to maintain erections. It reminded Shane of a smoker in Ha boken.
After dessert was cleared, everybody stood and Shane made his move. He had been carefully watching Farrell’s water glass, and nobody but Farrell had handled it. Shane waited until Farrell left his place at the head of the table, then beat the busboy to it. Grabbing the glass by the bottom, he hurried out of the room, heading toward the parking lot. When he spotted his car, Shane asked the valet to give him his keys so he could get something out of it. He walked over to the Acura, opened the trunk and placed Farrell’s water glass in a plastic evidence bag next to Nicky’s shoe box top, then turned to go back inside.
Just as he was reentering the club, a white Cadillac convertible with Arizona plates pulled up. A tall, dark-haired, dark-skinned man in Western clothes got out holding a white Stetson. The man put on his cowboy hat, handed his keys to the valet, and moved inside, his footsteps making that heel-toe sound peculiar to people walking in Western boots.
Shane followed the man down the hall, right back into Farrell’s party. When the producer saw the tall cowboy, he flung his arms wide. “Carlos, mi amigo, you made it!” he yelled.<
br />
Carlos gave Farrell a big hug, and after a lot of back-pounding, apologized for being late. “My damn flight got canceled.” He had a slight Latin accent. “No flights out of Arizona ‘cause a huge weather front hit the state. I had to charter a private jet, then pay the damn pilots extra to take off, ‘cause of wind shears, which was probably bullshit.”
“Whatta buddy.” Farrell grinned. “Risked your life to get here.”
Maybe it was because Carlos was from Arizona, and that’s where Alexa said the drugs were headed. Maybe it was the bullshit about chartering a private jet when his car was parked right outside with Arizona plates on it. Maybe it was because Carlos had slicked-back hair and looked like a dirtbag. Who knows what made Shane suspicious, but the cowboy with the white Stetson had all of his alarm bells ringing. By asking around, he found out his last name was Martinez. Carlos Martinez was the Latin equivalent of John Smith.
Shane waited until the Cohibas came out, then handed Carlos a box of matches and watched while he held the box and struck a wooden match on its side. Then Shane took the box back and slipped it into his pocket.
“Whatta . you do in Arizona?” Shane asked conversationally.
“This and that. Excuse me,” the cowboy said, and walked away.
Ten minutes later, Shane said his good-byes to Farrell, thanking him for a great time. He retrieved his Acura from the valet, then drove out of the beach club and turned left.
The houses along the beach bordering the club were all expensive, and had private concrete strips adjoining the Coast Highway to handle overflow parking in front of their garages. Thirty or forty yards north of the entrance to the Jonathan Club Shane swung a U-turn and parked on one of the concrete pads just off the highway.
He had to wait for almost an hour, but a little after midnight the white Cadillac pulled out of the club drive and headed south down the Coast Highway to the Santa Monica Freeway. Shane pulled out and followed, carefully keeping two or three cars back.
The cowboy turned onto the 405, then exited on Sunset and headed out toward Pacific Palisades.
Then a strange thing happened.
Carlos Martinez turned onto Mandeville Canyon Road. Suddenly, Shane’s heart began to pound. He decelerated, keeping the convertible’s taillights in view while falling farther back.
The white Cadillac pulled up to some lighted gates Shane turned off his headlights, parked half a block down then watched in amazement as the gates opened and the cowboy disappeared onto the huge estate of Champagnf Dennis Valentine.
Chapter 39.
OCCAM’S RAZOR
Shane sat in the dark, half a block down from Valentine’s estate, trying to figure out why Carlos Martinez, a guest at Farrell Champion’s bachelor party, would drive directly from the Jonathan Club to Dennis Valentine’s estate on Mandeville Canyon Road. It destroyed all of Shane’s theories about what was going on.
So he sat in the dark and ran through it all again, looking for his mistake. His investigation had started at Farrell Champion’s engagement party, because the producer had made a bad joke about two dead exwives. That initial concern had led him down a path of inquiries that culminated in the discovery of Farrell’s real identity—Danny Zelso—along with a drug background in Panama, two murdered wives, and his enrollment in WITSEC. Farrell Champion was the North Pole of one investigation.
Shane also reviewed the route that had led him to Dennis Valente a. K. A. “Champagne” Dennis Valentine. At Farrell’s engagement party, Shane had run into Nicky Marcella, who had asked him to find Carol White. That investigation had led him down another completely separate line of inquiry. Shane had been successful, turned Carol’s location over to Nicky, and now believed that act had led to Carol’s murder. He’d grabbed Nicky, who quickly spit up Champagne Dennis Valentine. That put the New Jersey mobster at the South Pole of a completely separate investigation.
To that point, the only thing connecting Farrell Champion and Dennis Valentine was Nicky’s attendance at Farrell’s engagement party, and that was easily explained by Nicky’s new career in show business.
But tonight, Farrell not only denied inviting Nicky to his party, he actually had a complaint pending against the little grifter for grand theft. Then in pops Farrell Champion’s cowboy amigo, Carlos Martinez, who does “this and that” in Arizona. He leaves Farrell’s party and drives to Valentine’s estate, connecting the two poles of seemingly separate investigations.
The longer Shane thought about it, the less sense it made; unless he was willing to accept the connection as pure coincidence, which, as Alexa cautioned, you never did in police work.
Shane sat and pondered.
At the Police Academy, he had taken a class in criminal logic that included a theory called Occam’s Razor. The essence of this principle stated that when things were extremely complicated, the simplest answer was usually the right one.
So Shane sat in the dark, searching for the simplest solution. He began by setting out all the basic points and separating them into three piles: facts, lies, and suppositions.
Then he started over, analyzing each piece.
Dennis Valentine had been attacked by La Eme. A fact. Because of this attack, Shane believed the mobster might be the one masterminding the importation of White Dragon heroin into L. A. A supposition. According to Alexa’s street intel, the drugs were heading to Arizona, and Carlos was from Arizona—both still suppositions. That was all he had on Dennis Valentine’s side of the equation, except for his mob history and current scam to organize the I. A. unions, which Shane didn’t think was a part of this big drug smuggle.
Next he reexamined the Farrell Champion track, using the same three categories. Champion’s real name was Daniel Zelso. A strong supposition that could turn into a fact if the prints on the water glass came back hot. According to the WITSEC computer, Zelso used to launder money for a Panamanian drug syndicate and Farrell Champion was one of WITSEC’ s assets—both facts. Farrell said Nicky had been his studio driver. Probably true, but Shane would check it out. All the P. R. stuff on Farrell was probably bullshit, except maybe the gun-running story. Guns and drugs lived in the same criminal quadrant.
So how did this collection of facts, suppositions, and lies make a picture?
While Shane methodically let the sediment settle, one thing became increasingly clear to him: Nicky Marcella had to be the common denominator.
Nicky had been friends with Dennis Valentine at Teaneck High School in New Jersey. Once they were both in L. A., he had tried to help Valentine meet agents and showbiz players. Nicky had also used Shane to find Carol White, then Dennis probably had her killed. That covered Nicky the Pooh’s connection to Dennis Valentine.
Next, Shane reexamined Nicky’s connection to Farrell Champion.
Nicky had driven Farrell’s studio limo and had stolen jewelry from the producer; an act that eventually got him fired. Moreover, Farrell had a criminal case pending against the little grifter. If Nicky had lied about his relationship with the famous producer, what the hell was he doing crashing Farrell’s engagement party? If Farrell had seen him, and eventually he would have, Farrell would have simply called security, or the police, and Nicky would have been arrested on the spot. The more Shane thought about that, the less sense it all made.
Shane had been meaning to run Nicky Marcella through the police computer, but he’d been so busy, he’d forgotten. He would do that the first chance he got.
Shane also had some nagging questions: Who busted up Nicky’s apartment, kicked the shit out of his Oriental paintings, and stomped on his expensive watches? It probably wasn’t Valentine, who was still using Nicky. So who? Farrell? The U. S. Marshals? Tiger Woods?
His head was beginning to ache. He didn’t know where the answer was hiding in this slew of facts, guesses, and questions. Shane needed help.
He had written down the Cadillac’s license plate number so he now called it into the DMV. After he gave them his badge number, they came back immediatel
y with the information. The car was registered to Hertz, in Flagstaff, Arizona. He took Carlos’s residency in Arizona out of the maybe column and put it with the facts. The picture became a bit clearer.
Shane dialed Alexa’s cell phone.
“Yes,” she answered, her voice clipped.
“I need to see you and Chief Filosiani right now.” “Shane, I’m … we’re—”
“I know … people are dying in South Central.”
“All over town. I’ve had three more machine-gun shootings since yesterday. It’s like the Gaza Strip in some of these divisions.”
“I think I might have some of the pieces on that.” “What pieces? You’re working on Dennis Valentine. What does that have to do with this gang war?”
“I told you before, I think he may be the one moving the White Dragon into L. A. Now I think Farrell Champion may be involved, too.”
“Come on, Shane …”
“Honey, I need forty minutes with you and the chief. It’s gonna be worth your time. Send a detective car out to Valentine’s house on Mandeville Canyon. I’m sitting on a Hispanic cowboy driving a white Caddy convertible with Arizona plates. His name is Carlos Martinez, but that’s probably a bum handle. The car was rented from Hertz in Flagstaff, Arizona, wherever the hell that is. I’m going to ask R and I to contact Hertz and get me the name of whoever rented this car, and I’ll bet you a weekend in Paradise it’s not anyone named Carlos Martinez.”
“Hertz doesn’t even rent Cad convertibles—only Ford Mustangs, Buick LeBarons, Lincoln Town Cars, and SUVs.”
“Then it’s got stolen plates. Honey, stop arguing and get a detective car out here somebody who can tail this guy without being made. I need to get in there and run through this with you.”
Hollywood Tough (2002) Page 26
