Hollywood Tough (2002) (20 page)

"Never heard of him," Fallon said.

"Extensive background . . . did some extremely creative animal films a few years back."

Animal films? Shane thought. The Mr. Ed episodes? "We like Paul Lubick," Mike Fallon offered.

"Uh, Paul Lubick . yes, yes . . . what an interesting idea. Very, very talented." Nicky was now in full retreat.

"Wonderful. Then we'd like you to sign him to an immediate holding deal," Fallon continued. "I happen to know he's between pictures right now and Paul and I are simpatico. We speak the same language. I have chronomentrophobia, and believe me, having a director who understands that helps me a lot on the set because we don't have a buncha A
. D
.'s running around yelling about the damn schedule. We work at our own pace. It's graceful, and it frees my creative spirit." Michael Fallon had a look of rapture as he spoke.

"Paul Lubick? You happen to know who his agent is?" Nicky had unholstered his gold LeBlanc and was clicking the lead down. He was poised to write the information on a piece of paper he had just pulled out of his pocket.

"He's with Talent Associates," Rajindi Singh contributed.

"Excuse me," the gray-haired, white-coated waiter said, holding a bottle of champagne. "This is a gift from the gentleman at that table." He pointed to Dennis Valentine, who gave them a little wave of his hand, flashing a couple hundred thousand worth of diamonds and sapphires on manicured fingers.

"Champagne?" Shane said, taking the bottle of Taittinger and looking at it.

"What kinda asshole sends a bottle of champagne over at ten in the morning?" Fallon asked, looking at Valentine, who was smiling like a jack-o'-lantern and waving like a starstruck tourist. Then, because Mike Fallon was still looking at him, Valentine interpreted that as an invitation, stood, and ambled over to their table.

"Nicholas, perhaps you might introduce me to Mr. Fallon," the mobster said, smiling his perfect smile. Shane had to admit that, on balance, Valentine wasn't giving away too many hottie points to the handsome movie star.

"Michael Fallon, this is Dennis Valentine," Nicky croaked. Then, simultaneously, they both pulled back and held their hands up, palms out.

"I never shake hands," Valentine said.

"Me neither," Fallon agreed.

They stood there for a second, with their palms extended, like two guys waving off a dinner check.

"I thought you might like a bottle of Taittinger," Dennis said.

"It's ten in the morning, bud." Fallon was slipping into his film gangster persona.

"It chills nicely, perhaps you could have it later."

"I don't drink anything unless Rajindi has blessed it, and frankly, champagne is all sugar."

"To the contrary," Dennis said, smiling, eager to give a nutrition lesson. "Taittinger is the champagne of champagnes. It's fermented in oak casks and kept in perfect, hermetically sealed containers at predetermined temperatures. During fermentation, the champagne is constantly refreshed and at bottling has over one hundred and one vitamins and minerals, as well as an array of life-extending, body-enhancing nutrients. Health food in a bottle, I call it." His smile widened. "I'm vegetarian, so I read a lot about nutrition."

"You're a fuckin' nut," Fallon snarled. "We're having a business meeting here!"

"Sorry to intrude," Valentine said, bowing at the waist. "Before leaving, Mr. Fallon, let me just say that I have lon
g b
een an admirer of your tremendous talent and magnetic film presence. I thought your performance as the taxi driver prophet in Yellow Angel was magic. Why you didn't get nominated an . . ."

"Get the fuck away from me," Fallon growled, not knowing he was pissing on a made guy who had killed men for much less.

But Dennis Valentine was acting like a fop prince. All that was missing was the little heel click. He backed away from the table grinning and bowing, until finally resuming his seat near the window.

"Who's that dipshit?" Fallon scowled.

"A new producer in town, quite an up-and-comer," Nicky said.

"Then why they got him sitting in fucking Siberia over there, eating with all the losers?"

Nicky shot Shane a look that said "See," but Fallon was already staring at his watch.

"Okay, look. In ten minutes it's time for my next meal and neural blessing. We're on a tight clock, so we better get going." Shane thought it was a strange remark for a man with chronomentrophobia.

Nicky took out his business cards and passed them out.

"Your offices are at Hollywood General?" Fallon said suspiciously as he read it. "That's the rental lot for jerks who can't get studio deals."

"All of our money goes on the screen." Nicky was coming alive again. "We don't waste moolah on fancy overhead."

Fallon and Singh both slowly rose, then walked away from the table without even saying good-bye. Shane and Nicky were left sitting, watching them go.

"Chronomentrophobia?" Shane snorted.

"Fear of clocks," Nicky answered.

"He actually gets away with shit like that?" Shane wa
s a
ppalled.

"Yeah. Pretty shrewd in a totally fucked-up way. A gu
y w
ith chrono-whatever doesn't ever have to deal with the film's production schedule."

Shane could see Valentine starting to get up from behind his loser's table. "Valentine's coming. Let's get outta here." "That's what we want, isn't it?" Nicky asked.

"I wanna troll the bait for a little longer before we hook him up."

Shane pulled the little grifter out of the booth, and they rushed to the front entrance of the Beverly Hills Hotel. He grabbed the valet ticket out of Nicky's hand and gave it to the parking attendant. The rented Bentley was parked nearby, helping to decorate the entrance.

The valet ran to get it just as Valentine's stooge arrived. Up close his shoulders were so developed, he looked like he was wearing football pads under his suit.

"I'm Gino Parelli, Mr. Valentine's assistant," the goon said in a heavy New Jersey accent. "He would like da pleasure of youse's company back in da restaurant."

"Give Mr. Valentine our regrets, but tell him we're late to a preproduction meeting," Shane said. "Have him call Cine-Roma and set up an appointment with one of our secretaries." He looked at Nicky. "Give him a card."

"Huh?" Nicky said.

"A card. A business card."

Nicky had vapor-locked again so Shane reached into the little producer's inside suit coat pocket, grabbed his billfold, extracted a card, and handed it to Parelli.

"You ain't gonna come?" the goon said, baffled. This was obviously something that rarely happened.

"Yeah, we're not coming," Shane said. "We're late. We've got a Michael Fallon film to make."

The Bentley pulled up so they walked around and got in. Nicky was moving in a frightened daze as he sat behind the wheel and drove the huge car away. The startled bodyguard was left standing there, casting a giant shadow, muttering to himself.

Chapter
21.

They always left notes on the refrigerator door at the Venice house, but he was surprised to see one taped to the Sub-Zero in the huge country kitchen on North Chalon Road. It read:

Had to go back to the office. Chooch at Public Library til
l i
t closes, working on history paper. Chicken in the fridge.

Ha, ha, ha . . . Love ya, Babe.

He opened the fridge. Cold and empty as a drug dealer's heart.

The only guy eating right in the house was Franco, who was crouched over his dish of cat food, purring loudly.

Shane went back into the living room and Franco dogged him like, well, a dog. Franco was turning out to be very uncatlike--not standoffish, like most felines; he actually liked being near you. Fido with cat whiskers.

It had been a long, hard day at Cine-Roma Productions. It turned out that Nicky had only rented the one big suite. He didn't even control the space across the hall. He'd stolen a key to get into that office. In order to keep the sting going, they would have to rent more space from Hollywood General Studios, but Shane was already out of money. He and Nicky had opened negotiations with both Paul Lubick's and Mike Fallon's agents. They were also represented by CAA, so it became something called an "Agency Package," where because they controlled three major elements, CAA also got five percent of the budget in back-end points. Once that happened, the three CAA agents started making more ugly demands than the West Hollywood House of Bondage. Shane had called Alexa at two that afternoon, pleading with her to put another fifty grand into the blind account for front-end deal money. She had reluctantly put in ten and said she would check with Filosiani on the rest. Nicky had been bustling around the office like Louis B. Mayer on speed, filing old scripts, redecorating, neatening up, polishing and moving his rented awards, getting ready for the arrival of Michael Fallon and Rajindi Singh.

Shane tried to get a copy of The Neural Surfer from CAA but had been informed that Rajindi had instructed his agent that no copies be released because he wanted to do some potchkehing on the script. Shane wondered if a potchkeh was the same as a rewrite, and if they were going to be charged for it. Several girls in booty shorts and stilettos showed up to audition for Boots and Bikinis but had to be turned away.

That was his day.

By the time Shane was back on North Chalon Road, he was exhausted and wished he had stopped at the market to pick up a six-pack of beer.

Then the doorbell rang.

It surprised him, because except for Shane's immediate family and Chief Filosiani, nobody else knew he was living there.

He had picked up a backup Beretta Mini Cougar from his locker downtown, and as he walked to the front door, he pulled it out of his ankle holster and relocated it in a handier spot at the small of his back, then he unlocked and opened up.

Valentine's goon was standing there, his overdevelope
d t
raps still hopelessly bulging a size-fifty suit.

"Evening," the man said.

"Hi ya," Shane replied.

"I'm Parelli. Youse may remember me from this morning." In truth, Parelli was impossible to forget.

"Whatta you doing here, Gino?"

"Nice house." He was looking around, craning his neck to see more of it from the porch.

"Same question," Shane persisted.

"Mr. Valentine wanted me to give youse this." He reached into his inside pocket. Shane was poised to hit the deck and come up shooting, but instead of a gun, the gorilla removed a fat envelope and handed it over.

"What is it?"

"Open it."

Shane ripped the envelope. It was full of C-notes, at least a hundred of them.

"The price is right," Shane said, "but I should warn you, I never kiss on the first date."

Parelli didn't think Shane was funny. He just stared at him. "Mr. Valentine wants that youse keep that as his gift, and would very much like the pleasure of youse's company--no strings. The money buys a meeting. He's waiting at a restaurant not far from here, on Fairfax. Just follow m
y c
ar.

"Why?"

"He don't tell me things like that." Gino gestured to the envelope. "It's ten large for an hour of youse's time." "Which car is yours?" Shane asked.

Parelli pointed to a blue Chevy with black-walls that was parked at the curb with a Hertz tag hanging off the mirror.

"Okay, gimme a minute," Shane said, and went back inside. He put the money in the top desk drawer in the entry hall, reholstered the gun on his ankle, grabbed his blazer, then rejoined Parelli and locked up.

Then a strange thing happened. Parelli walked him over to the blue Hertz rental and took out a small battery-operated 2300 Frequency Finder exactly like the one Shan
e ff h
ad gotten from the Electronic Surveillance Division yesterday. Parelli ran the wand over Shane, checking the meter as he did.

"Sorry 'bout that. Mr. Valentine insists we scan everybody for bugs." Then he let Shane walk to the garage for his car.

It was a ten-minute drive across town before they finally parked at a valet stand in front of a newly built brick-andstucco structure on the corner of Melrose and Fairfax. Across the front, in blue neon script, it said: Ciro's Pompadoro Ristorante.

"Best veggie lasagna in this whole fag town," Parelli said as he led Shane into the restaurant.

Chapter
22.

The interior of Ciro's Pompadoro was right out of the assassination scene from The Godfather: wine casks hanging from nets on exposed ceiling beams, red-and-whitecheckered tablecloths, straight-backed wooden chairs, and the pungent smell of garlic. The only thing out of place were the Mexican waiters, but this was true in French and Italian restaurants all over L
. A
. The maitre d' made up for it with greased black hair, a heavy Sicilian accent, and the traditional five o'clock shadow.