Hollywood Tough (2002) (15 page)

Shane was standing just inside the glass door in the entry hall of Building Six, watching as Nicky got out of his Bentley. He glared at Shane's car before kicking the side of the Acura, leaving a scuff mark. Then he grabbed his heavy briefcase and headed toward the entry. When he walke
d t
hrough the lobby doors and saw Shane waiting, he came to an abrupt halt.

"What the fuck are you doing here?' he blurted. "Don't tell me you forgot about our deal already, partner."

"I've got casting. There are thirty girls coming in today and I'm already an hour late."

"No problemo, I let 'em all go."

Nicky glared at Shane. "I beg your pardon?"

"I let 'em go, Nicky. They're not here. Pfft . gone."

Nicky stalked toward the corridor door and went through. Twenty empty chairs were lined up along the wall with script sides on the seats.

"This fucking pisses me off. I have the investors coming in for final callbacks with Milos today. I'm looking to roll film in three weeks. Milos has another film booked. I can't push back 'cause he's scheduled to do a huge big-budget Western at Fox in three months. You don't understand this business, boychik. Our little whatever-it-was last night i
s n
ot a legal deal, it was achieved under duress. I'm reneging."

Shane grabbed Nicky by the coat collar and yanked him down the hall toward the same empty office they had used yesterday.

"Get your hands off me. Stop pulling me around. I'm not a fucking albacore."

Shane dragged him into the office and closed the door, then pushed Nicky, hard. The little man stumbled backward and landed in the swivel chair. Shane closed in on him and leaned down into his face. "Nicky, let's you and me get something straight, okay? You are an accessory to first-degree murder. Murder one! So don't fuck with me. Beyond that, I've been asking around, checking out this operation of yours. Cine-Roma Productions is just another one of your storefront street hustles with better props and girls in short-shorts."

"I beg your pardon?" Nicky said, trying for some righteous indignation.

"You've been casting this same movie for three years, and from what I hear, the only thing Milos should direct is traffic. His last job was an episode of "Mr. Ed, The Talking Horse," thirty years ago. Back when I was in Hollywood Vice, I worked some of these showbiz hustles. You want my take on this one?" Nicky didn't answer, so Shane charged ahead. "You've got these poor actresses coming in for casting, but my source tells me they're just students enrolled in your acting school in San Diego."

"How did you find out about San Diego Artisans?" he sputtered indignantly.

"You get the attractive female students in your acting class up here, and also pass your cards out to every pretty girl you see, along with some tired 'You oughta be in pictures' B
. S
. They all come here dressed like contestants in the Miss Tropicana Contest, thinking they may actually get cast in this movie of yours. The investors, my source says, get fed up and change periodically. They're just a buncha horny dentists who you've talked into putting up small amounts of preproduction money so they can sit in on casting sessions and see pretty girls in heels and short-shorts. You get the girls who are desperate enough to sleep with the investors or party with them so they'll stick around and put more money into this turkey. But there is no preproduction and you just spend the money to live on. That's the movie part of the scam, but you're also working a photo scam. New head shots for these girls at four hundred dollars a sheet, where the sleazeball photographer kicks back half to you. Add that all up and you have a pretty good criminal picture of Cine-Roma Productions."

Nicky was sitting in the swivel chair, breathing hard and looking pale. "I resent that, Shane. You hurt me deeply." "Really? Shall we take it downtown, then?"

Nicky looked out the window, close to tears.

"The only thing that's keeping you out of the felony lockup is your tenuous connection to Dennis Valentine, who I think killed Carol White. If I can turn that into something, then maybe . . . just maybe . . . you won't do another stretch for this horseshit."

"I don't want to run a hustle on Valentine," Nicky said. "The guy is a killer. He's a made guy, Shane. I won't work him. If he finds out I'm setting him up, he'll feed me to the fish."

"Nicky, I don't like hearing words like don't and won't. These are bad words, okay? These are words that put you straight back on the main tier at Soledad. The kind of words I wanna hear are can do and will do and What's next, Shane? These words keep you breathing my air. The first time you disappoint me, Nicky, I'm gonna put the bracelets on and roll you up like a Turkish rug."

"You're gonna get us both killed."

"Be brave. It hasn't happened yet."

"I've gotta tell the investors we're not gonna cast today," Nicky said, pouting.

"Done," Shane said. "They left an hour ago. See what an efficient partner I can be?"

"Why are you doing this to me?"

Shane moved around the desk, sat on the corner, and looked down at Nicky, who seemed terrified of him, or Valentine, or maybe just of life in general. "Nicky, you used me to find Carol. I found her, and I don't know how it happened, but she got to me. Some part of me, Nicky, has been sitting around lately wondering why I'm here, why I'm a cop, why I even bother anymore. But when I saw her hanging from that rafter, I promised myself somebody was gonna finally give a shit what happened to Carolyn White. If Dennis Valentine killed her, he's going down for it. And if I have to waste you to make that happen, that works, too."

Half an hour later they were in Nicky's office with the doo
r c
losed. Nicky was pacing. "Michael Fallon?!" he said.

"You gotta be kidding! This guy gets megabucks to star i
n f
ilms."

"So?" Shane answered.

"I hate to introduce you to the economic realities of film production, bubee, but making big-budget movies requires big bucks. We don't have big bucks. How the hell can we afford Michael Fallon, whose last quote was near twenty million, if I recall what I read in the trades? How do we get a macher like him to work for us?"

"Okay, all these big stars have pet projects, right?" "Huh?"

"John Wayne had The Alamo, remember? Worked for next to nothing to get it made."

"Old news, bunkie. You may not have heard, but the Duke's dead. Man hit the slab more than twenty years ago." "Okay, John Travolta, then. Battleship Earth."

"Better," Nicky conceded.

"These stars are all in the script market, so all we gotta do is find out what script Michael Fallon is passionate about and wants to make, then we option it."

"You don't want to make the script that Michael wants to make," Nicky said.

"So there is one. . . ."

"Yeah, it's like a cocktail party joke in this town. It's radioactive. Nobody should touch it without wearing a lead vest."

"It can't be that bad," Shane said, warming to the fact that his plan might actually have some merit. "On the bright side, if nobody wants it, the price will probably be in a range we can afford."

"Oh, ye of little understanding." Nicky put his ferretlike face in his hands.

"Tell me, Nicky."

"It's called The Neural Surfer. Forget that it makes no sense and starts with the ending and ends with the beginning. Forget its simian logic and clunky dialogue. There's a bigger problem. It was written by a holy man, and I use the term generously. He's really more of a cultist and a con man. The author of this New Age turd is a guy named
Rajindi Singh, the grand mucky ducky of the Singh Church of Meditation and Herbal Healing."

"I can live with that."

"Live with this: He's also a certifiable nut case who thinks that his screenplay, The Neural Surfer, is biblical. I haven't read it, but from the coverage, the story all takes place in Singh's mind. It's about his schizophrenic battle with his changing concept of life, and the new concepts materialize as monsters called neural dragons and they fight with him. There are nightmare sequences called neural storms and corny life lessons that are two-page soliloquies that sound like old Jimmy Swaggart sermons. It's drivel. Singh has a price tag of two hundred thousand for a six-month option. Beyond that, he's insisting on no changes. It's impossible to even rewrite this turkey. And Shane, we are talking turkey here. This script is a Thanksgiving feast, a feather-covered gobbler."

"Then why does Michael Fallon want to make it?"

"Fallon's also some kinda Grand Pooh-bah in the Singh Church of Meditation and Herbal Healing. He's a minister and a true believer. He worships Rajindi Singh. They go on retreats together. He's as nuts as the writer. Are you getting the picture, bubee? This is lose-lose. The script is uglier than a hemorrhoid cluster."

"Cine-Roma is going to option it."

Nicky groaned.

"If Michael Fallon wants to make The Neural Surfer, he'll work for us on the cheap. Dennis Valentine worships Michael Fallon, ergo, if we control the material, we get Michael Fallon, and Michael Fallon gets us Dennis Valentine. It's perfect. Valentine will come to us. He'll solicit us, not the other way around."

"Why does that matter?"

"If we solicit him, he'll be suspicious. He's gonna have his guard up. However, if it's his idea to go into business with us, we gotta new ball game. He's ours."

"How are we gonna get the two hundred K to optio
n t
his thing?"

"We're gonna sell your Bentley." Shane smiled.

'Puck you, it's rented," Nicky snarled. "Everything I have is rented, right down to this." He went to the shelves and took down a gold statuette, turned it over, and read the tag aloud. "Property of The Hand Prop Room, Hollywood, California." He glared at Shane. "See, no money."

"I'll get the money," Shane said, and got to his feet. "I want you to set up an appointment with Rajindi Singh's agent and then I want to meet Dennis Valentine, but it's gotta be casual. It can't look planned. That party you mentioned you're throwing for him sounds perfect."

"Shane, this is off my scale. I hate to admit this, but I'm something of a coward."

"Nicky, you'd better not wobble on me, guy. I'm looking for backup."

"Shane, I'll . . ."

"Do it for Carol."

Then Nicky surprised him again. He lowered his eyes and spoke softly. "You know, when we were kids, when everybody picked on me, Carol always made 'em stop." He smiled at the memory. "She was such great-looking quiff, the guys at my school all wanted to please her. 'Don't tease Nicky the Pooh,' she would say. Nicky is my friend.' " Then he looked up and again Shane saw tears in the little grifter's eyes. "God, I'm so sad she ended up a junkie and a prostitute. I should have known. If I had, maybe I could have stopped it. I'm so sad she died that way."

Nicky Marcella was a complicated guy.

Chapter
16.

Shane was fifteen minutes late for his two o'clock meeting with Chief Filosiani because he had stopped by the LAPD computer center in the Valley to collect more research. Alexa was waiting for him on the sixth floor of Parker Center as he came off the elevator, lugging his newly filled briefcase. His wife had an armload of gang folders crammed with yellow sheets; she seemed irritated and tired. Shane couldn't ever remember her looking so stressed.

"Jesus, where've you been?" she asked.

"Alexa, I need to talk to you before I talk to the chief."

"Not now. We're already a quarter of an hour late. The chief is scheduled on half-hour intervals. He's asked me to attend the meeting."

"Okay, good. Then you can back me up."

They hurried down the hall and stopped before the large double doors that led to Filosiani's office. Alexa walked him in and Shane found himself in the chief of police's outer office.

Filosiani's secretary was a hawk-faced woman named Bea; she looked like Whistler's mother in a blue pantsuit but had a heart the size of Texas. She knew they were late and showed them right in.

Filosiani's office was huge. The Day-Glo Dago had taken the antique furniture and expensive wall art that had filled the office of ex-chief Burl Brewer and sold them a
t a
uction, using the money to buy state-of-the-art Ultima flack vests for the SWAT teams. He was a no-frills guy from Brooklyn who, in the wake of Brewer's corruption, had proven to be just what the LAPD needed. The office was now furnished like a Xerox room. A long metal table sat next to one wall under a bulletin board with pushpins holding up each division's crime stat sheets. In counterpoint to all this was a breathtaking view of the Financial District through the huge plate-glass windows. Chief Tony Filosiani was standing in the center of the room grinning as Shane and Alexa came through the door.

"How'sa guy?" he caroled. He was a shade under fivefoot-five and his fat, round pie-pan of a face framed piercing blue eyes that sparkled under a pate of shiny pink skin. Chief Filosiani would have been perfectly typecast to play the butcher at your corner market, but he hardly looked like he should be running one of the largest and most complex law enforcement agencies in the world.