Deal to Die For (32 page)
When he looked at Deal again, his expression was intent. “Okay, just one more phone call. Let me give it a shot, then I’ll tell you what I think.”
Deal threw up his hands. He’d long since learned it was impossible to get Driscoll to explain anything before he was ready. It was like when he first started going out on the jobs and would try to get his father to tell him how to perform some seemingly arcane operation involving carpentry. “I’ll explain it to you when I’m damn good and ready,” his father would say. “Now bring me that power cord/hammer/box of nails.”
Driscoll finished dialing another long-distance-sized series of numbers, then sat waiting for the connection to be made. Deal thought he heard an answering click. After a moment an odd expression came over Driscoll’s features.
“Listen,” Driscoll said, thrusting the phone at him. “What do you make of this?”
Deal took the phone, puzzled. Brought it to his ear. And then he heard the scream.
The chirring of the tiny phone came to Paige through the thickness of
her
pillow. It was a sound she sensed more than heard, seeming to reach her from a distance that was greater than space itself could contain. She found herself remembering all the times she’d endured exhausting, disorienting nighttime shoots, would have to sleep days, rise with the sun going down, force herself out of bed like a creature not fully human.
That’s what she had become once again, she knew. Whatever Mahler had injected her with had rendered her not fully human. And no way she could move from this bed, not with the restraints that bound her, not with her muscles turned to lead by the drug.
A second ring sounded. It took every bit of her will, focusing on this muscle, then that, until she could nudge the corner of the pillow aside with her chin. She had no idea if the phone had sounded before, no idea if she’d missed other opportunities, how many times it had already rung. Any moment now whoever was calling could ring off, someone would hear the sounds or Mahler would come looking in this room for his misplaced phone…but if she could just manage to hit the right button, get a line open and please God let an operator come on, then maybe, some way, she could find help.
The third ring came. She struggled wormlike against the pillow, which in her state was as massive an obstacle as a boulder, felt it buckle and pop up away from the phone. Gasping with effort, she lunged toward the phone before it could ring again, unmuffled.
She felt the side of her face slap down the tiny set. She rolled her cheek blindly back and forth over the buttons, fearing that any moment the phone would blare again or she’d set off some terrible electronic howl that would bring her captors running…
…and then, mercifully, she heard the connection make. She lay exhausted, thinking that small triumph would have seemed enough, but then she heard the voice on the other end, and that was enough to bring tears to her unfocused eyes.
“This is Vernon Driscoll,” the voice said, and for a moment, she believed that she had somehow, miraculously, been saved. But then she tried to speak.
“Who’s there?” Driscoll’s voice repeated. “Who
is
this?”
Paige listened to the impatience build in Driscoll’s voice, willing herself frantically to respond. She could hear her pleas for help echoing inside her mind, a pressure building that seemed enough to blow her head apart. But still, although she fought to cry out with every ounce of strength, although she felt the muscles of her neck and throat quiver with effort, she remained mute:
“Huh…huh…huh,” she managed. “Huh…huh…huh…” Tears were running freely down her face now, all her joy turned in an instant to frustration, rage, and despair. She heard a tiny coughing sound emerge from the back of her throat, wondered for a moment whether it signified the breaking of the dam or if she were simply about to choke and die…and then she felt a rough hand clamp down on her shoulder.
It would have taken her far too long to will her gaze upward, so all that happened seemed to come almost by proxy. Someone was shouting in a language she did not understand. She felt the phone being wrenched away from her, felt something hard strike her at the temple, and heard a scream that must have come from her own throat.
Although there was pain, it seemed very far away. She sensed Driscoll’s voice swirling away from her as if he, or she, were plunging down a dark, bottomless well. There was another blow then, and the speed of her fall, or was it his, increased into a hurtling, spinning plunge. And finally, one of them struck bottom.
Terrence Terrell himself met Deal and Driscoll at the hangar on the
north
side of Miami International Airport, where he kept his planes at the ready. The owner of the Florida Manatees, and a man who’d amassed an incalculable fortune as the mastermind of the alternative-to-IBM personal computer, he was accustomed to jetting anywhere on a moment’s notice. The call from Deal had not seemed out of the ordinary at all. He hadn’t wanted to know the details: it was enough that Deal needed urgently to get to a friend’s aid, that the final destination was Palm Springs.
Before Deal made the call to Terrell, Driscoll had laid out what he’d found in Dr. Rolle’s records. Still not proof positive, Deal would admit, but he’d be willing to give odds now that Paige Nobleman’s real mother had been a pretty fair actress herself; unfortunately, Rhonda Gardner, off in the orbit of Alzheimer’s, was in no condition to confirm anything, and the only other person who might shed light on the matter—Marvin Mahler, Rhonda’s husband and, significantly enough, Paige’s agent—was incommunicado, on the set of a film at the family compound with the unlikely name, somewhere deep in the Southern California desert.
But Deal did know this much: Barbara Cooper had been murdered only hours after telling Paige she’d been adopted. Shortly after Paige came to them for help, he and Driscoll had very nearly been killed. Now Paige herself appeared to be in danger. Impossible to say who was responsible, but Deal was convinced of the why, part of it, at least. Someone was willing to do anything to cover up Paige Nobleman’s true identity. Nothing else made sense.
And yet, who could they turn to for help? To the local authorities, there could be no apparent connection between a suicide in Fort Lauderdale and one more garden-variety home invasion in Miami. And as for Paige’s disappearance, what would ensue from any complaint? Some bored cop calling another bored cop on the opposite coast, “Hey, would you run down to this hacienda in the desert, see if they have an actress tied up there? Oh, they do that all the time out there?” Sure. Thanks and good night.
And even if their concerns were taken seriously, what if Marvin Mahler—never mind why for the moment—was connected to all this? A phone call, a knock on the door—“Notice any adopted actresses around here, Mr. Mahler?”—what would that accomplish, except to warn him? They had one option, it seemed, the one they were about to take. If it came to nothing, if they found Paige lounging in the desert at poolside—“Oh, that? I must have been dreaming when the phone rang.”—then they could come home, accept all that had happened as part of normal life in a place where murder was just another aspect of the landscape: palms, flamingos, and corpses.
But if they did not go, and Paige were never heard from again…No, Deal shook his head, hearing the plane’s engines whining to life. He would not hesitate this time. They would all be looking over their shoulders for the duration.
“The pilot’s ready and the plane’s yours, John.” Terrell’s voice broke into his thoughts. Terrell stepped forward, shook Deal’s hand, then Driscoll’s. “You’re just lucky I was at home, that’s all.” Home being the twenty-room mansion that sat between Brickell Avenue and the bay, the place that Deal had rebuilt for Terrell after the onslaught of Hurricane Andrew.
Deal nodded his thanks. Typical of Terrell that he wouldn’t ask for any explanation. If Deal had made such an unusual request, there had to be good reason. He stood there now, as apparently unconcerned as if Deal had asked to take the family car for a spin around the block.
“We’re giving you the Lear Fifty-Five,” he said, pointing at the gleaming plane poised before the doors of the hangar. “It’ll get you out there with one stop, and quicker than the little one.”
Deal glanced back into the shadows where the “little one” sat. This close, both planes seemed as big as the commuter aircraft he’d flown around the state, and either of the sleek-looking craft seemed capable of an around-the-world expedition. He turned to Terrell, nodded his thanks. “I really appreciate this, Mr. Terrell.”
Terrell gave the two of them an appraising look. “You sure you two don’t need any help?”
“I appreciate the offer,” Deal said.
“I have some fellows around, they wouldn’t mind whatever came up, you know,” Terrell said.
And a part of Deal
was
grateful for that offer, wanted to grab Terrell’s sleeve and say, Yes, lend us the whole damned cavalry, but he knew it couldn’t work that way. He wasn’t sure if it was going to work
any
way, for that matter, but there didn’t seem to be much choice. It would have to be Deal and Driscoll, for better or for worse, and Deal gave Terrell a smile that said so.
“We’re okay,” Driscoll added.
“Good luck, then,” Terrell said, giving them his hand once more, and within moments they were strapped in their seats, sinking back as the powerful engines took them into the night, streaking toward California.
Mahler awoke just before dawn, too groggy to know where he was at first; for a moment he felt only tired, only alive, even good. Then the memory of where he had taken himself swept back and he felt the anxious dread reclaim him.
The filming had gone on until nearly midnight, the old man interrupting the proceedings what seemed like every five minutes to give Mahler and anyone within earshot a lecture on Chinese sexuality. By the time Mahler had called a halt, the actors, already wired to the gills, were ready to kill the old bastard. Even Cross’s wife, Cherise, had taken him aside to vent her frustrations in a furious whisper.
“If I hear about the helpless female and the ‘sacred square inch’ one more time, I’m going to scream,” she said. “Let’s let the old fart tie me up and stick it in my ‘inch.’ Maybe that’ll quiet him down.”
Mahler had cast a glance back off the set, where the old man had ensconced himself in one of the high-backed chairs he’d had Gabriel bring down from the living room. He looked like a gnome back there, like some extra out of a temple scene in a kung fu movie, far too wizened to have a sexual thought. But that hadn’t stopped him.
First, when he’d realized what the script’s excuse for a story line was about, he’d groused that it had no relevance to the Chinese audience. So they’d given Cherise a geisha outfit and had Paco come up with a couple of lines about her taking over an offshore university for nefarious political reasons. None of it made any sense, but the old guy had been satisfied.
Then, last night, he’d complained that the women playing the roles of college girls came off as too “mature.” It had taken wardrobe nearly an hour to get them recoiffed, refitted, and re-made up. Finally, to Mahler’s eye, they had two hookers dressed in Barbie clothes, but the old man was content once again.
Hardly had they finished the next setup, however, than the old man had started raving about pigeon eggs. Mahler had to shut everything down again, listen to a discourse that he finally realized was about how virginity was traditionally proven in China.
They’d had to break for another hour while the entirety of He-Men Film Services scavenged about the darkness outside for enough oval river rocks of the appropriate size, then painted them up to the old man’s specifications for pigeon eggs.
One of the He-Men had been at Mahler’s side watching the ensuing shot. The Mr. T lookalike knelt before one of the spread-eagled Barbies, trying to insert one of the supposed eggs in the crucial spot. His partner stood by, leering, ready to signify his approval through action once this coed’s innocence had been established without a doubt.
“Either one of those broads could make an ostrich egg disappear,” the He-Man said in Mahler’s ear. And though Mahler suspected it was true, he had become philosophical. A couple more days of this insanity, the old guy would get bored, go back to counting his money in Beverly Hills, leave them the hell alone. He’d hoped to average twelve minutes a day, have this piece of shit wrapped in a week, but unless things changed, they’d be rivaling the shooting schedule of
Heaven’s Gate
. Patience, he told himself. Have patience. Get this film made, win the old guy’s confidence, all the rest of them could be farmed out to the usual players.
He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing feeling back into his face. There had also been the interruption when he’d sent one of the old guy’s minions up to check on Paige and he’d discovered where his cellular phone had been. What a piece of carelessness that had been. While Paige was certainly incapable of making any calls, the very prospect had been enough to stun him.
He shoved himself off the bed, shuddering anew at the thought of what he faced with Paige, staggered into the bathroom. It was true what he’d said—she was just another above-average looker with a mediocre talent, somebody whom he’d had to bust his butt to keep working. But she was a good kid. She’d never begrudged her status, never whined for leads. Downright amazing in their business.
But what were the choices, after all? Keep her loaded up with the meds, move her into the Brentwood house, create a vegetable wing? He didn’t think it would wash. The old guy had already told him what to do about the problem, but Mahler had hesitated. The other “corrections,” as he’d begun thinking of them, had been abstract, matters taken care of by others, and at some distance. Even Mendanian’s death he could rationalize. Mendanian had gone off on his own, crossed the old man as much as Mahler. Mahler wasn’t responsible for what had happened. But now there was Paige, and there was no turning from his own responsibility in the matter.
He’d felt a fierce burning at his bladder, but when he tried to relieve himself, what should have been a stream to make a horse envious came out as a pitiful trickle. Probably prostate cancer coming on, he thought. Add it to the list.
He forced himself to the sink, lathered his face, tried to shave without looking himself in the eye. He knew it was a sad picture, all right, one he wasn’t anxious to confront. A guy his age doing what he was doing for the sake of money. What the hell, he could have ridden out the string just the way things had been.
But, for all the bullshit about him being Mr. Super Agent, when it came right down to it, he’d been a guy working for wages, it would have meant going to the grave still kissing ass, Rhonda’s and everyone else’s in the business, and besides, he reminded himself, the way he’d set it up to begin with, it was so simple, no one was going to be hurt, and he’d be able to walk away with a fortune, maybe even nurse Rhonda back to a miraculous recovery—maybe they could reclaim something of the old days, ride out the string together if he were his own man. She’d never be the wiser, after all. No one would, with Paige out of the way.
He closed his eyes on the thought, took a deep breath, forced himself to meet his own gaze in the mirror. All this self-doubt, all the anxiety, it had to be banished. He was too far in now to change course. The old man was responsible for the things that had happened. Mahler had had no choice. And he had no choice now.
The sun would be up soon, he’d have coffee, a decent breakfast, a good piss, and things would be just fine. He’d have a word with the old man, let one of the goons clear out the guest wing. He would steel himself and life would go on. That’s the way it would be. And once the money was rolling in, all this weasely thinking would vanish.
That’s what he was telling himself, at least, when the old guy’s majordomo appeared in the foggy mirror beside his half-lathered face like some vision out of a horror film, scared the living shit out of him.
“How’d you get in here?” Mahler gasped. He held his chest, thinking maybe his heart was going to go, along with the prostate. “I had the door locked. I know I did.”
But the big guy shrugged his question away, seemed to glower at him through the mirror.
“Two men,” the guy was saying. “Two men from Florida downstairs to see you.”