Hollywood Tough (2002) (29 page)

"You threatening me, Silvio?"

"Fuckin' A. Now, come on, don't make this into something we can't get over."

Shane heaved a deep sigh. "Can I get my coat?" "You look fine to me. Let's go."

"Do I follow you?"

"Not this time."

He led Shane over to a new blue Mercedes four-door. Two overdeveloped steroid cases in suits were standing in front; a third, even larger man was on the far side of the car. All three of these American buffaloes were on the balls of their feet, ready to rumble. Silvio opened the rear door, stepped back, then moved several feet away.

This felt bad to Shane--like a ride he wasn't coming back from. Maybe Dennis had figured him out, maybe he had someone down at Parker Center who had blown Shane's cover.

Everything told him not to get into the car. Nobody knew where he was going; he could disappear without a trace. Shane was still ten feet away from the two guys by the driver's door when Silvio made a tactical mistake. He passed between those two gorillas and Shane. In that second, he was vulnerable. Shane was tempted to push Silvio into his backup and take off, try to get away, slip between houses. But some instinct stopped him.

Then the moment of Silvio's vulnerability passed. Shane had to take the ride.

He smiled, then turned to get into the car. As he did, Silvio reached out and plucked the gun from Shane's belt, disarming him. When Shane spun back, Silvio was holding the Mini Cougar. "We're all friends. You ain't gonna need this."

Shane was pushed into the backseat of the Mercedes, crushed between Silvio and a three-hundred-pounder.

The driver of the Mercedes put it in gear. As they pulled away, Shane saw Franco watching from the windowsill in the front hall, and he wondered if he would ever see Carol's marmalade cat again.

Chapter
31.

The three gunsels that Silvio brought with him all used cute nicknames. The driver was called "Cheese." Next to him, in the passenger seat, was "Terminal Tommy." The guy on Shane's right was "Little Mo." If there was a "Big Mo," Shane sure didn't want to meet him. Silvio Cardetti was "Silver." These handles would probably render the bug in his StarTAC useless, but on the hope that they might slip and use real names, Shane reached down and surreptitiously turned on the cell.

They were on the Pasadena Freeway heading east. As they drove, his abductors kept up a constant flow of complaints about L
. A
. They were Jersey transplants who were pissed off about being stuck in a town they thought was full of faggots and butt-boys.

Then they were off the freeway, driving in Pasadena. In the front seat, a map-reading dilemma was unfolding. The driver was trying to find the Devil's Gate Dam, while Silvio was looking in the Thomas Street Guide. They both frowned and scratched their heads like monkeys working on a puzzle.

Eventually the blue Mercedes was winding down into the arroyo. The Rose Bowl slid past on the right, then they were heading north toward the mountains.

"Supposed t'be up here somewhere. Supposed t'be lik
e a
little gate or something . . . takes you up to the dam," Silvio said.

"Does Mr. Valentine always hold his business meetings in wilderness areas?" Shane was thinking his body wouldn't be discovered until summer.

"Nobody's talkin' to youse, so shut the fuck up," Silvio growled.

Climbing up out of the arroyo, they entered a wooded area where Shane saw a sign that read DEVIL'S GATE DAM.

"Mr. Cardetti, why are we going up here?" he asked, identifying Silvio for the StarTAC. Shane was beginning to panic.

"I'm tired of all the questions," Silvio barked.

They were on graded gravel that quickly turned into rutted dirt. The car bounced and rocked over the uneven surface before finally coming to a stop by a pumping station.

"Guess we're here," Silvio announced.

All the enforcers opened their doors and Shane found himself alone in the car, dreading what was about to happen.

"Get out," Silvio ordered.

Shane reached down to his belt and felt the StarTAC--it was warm and transmitting. He reluctantly got out of the car.

"That way." Silvio pointed toward a narrow walkway that led across the top of the dam.

As Shane started toward the path, he again sensed that he had a chance to take off. None of his four escorts seemed to be paying close attention, and he thought he could make it into the woods bordering the path. But for some reason, he didn't try. Some instinct held him back. It was almost as if Silvio was making it too easy. Shane climbed the few stairs, then walked out onto the lip of the dam.

His mouth had turned to paste. A light breeze ruffled his hair and cooled the sweat on his forehead. Off to his left he could see a small dammed lake. A bright three-quarter moon lit the entire basin. As he neared the center of the walkway, he could see the outlines of two men looking a
t t
he twinkling lights of Pasadena. Silvio was lumbering along behind him, again blocking any chance of escape. As he drew nearer, Shane recognized Dennis Valentine standing next to a very thin man with a long string-bean neck. As Shane got closer, the man turned and Shane saw a look of abject terror in his pale gray eyes.

"Glad you could make it," Valentine said sincerely. "You gotta be kidding. Four guys with guns? Like I had a choice."

"Bullshit," Dennis said, then turned to Silvio. "You gave him a choice, right?"

"Yes, sir," the goon said. "He coulda split. Had two easy chances."

"What's this all about?" Shane finally asked, his heart still beating furiously.

"That was a good meeting we had earlier. Your wife is beautiful and smart, but you're the one I'm gonna be close to. I always like to invite a guy I'm thinking about doing business with on a midnight ride. He's got nothing to hide, he shows up. If he's got a hidden agenda, he's gonna take off running. You had two chances to escape, but you came through. Shit like this is ten times better than a polygraph."

Shane nodded and his heart began to slow.

"Thanks, Silvio. You can go wait in the car," Dennis said, and the bodyguard left the three of them standing on the lip of the dam.

Dennis turned back to the view. "Y'know, I almost bought a place out here. Pasadena reminds me a lot of my home in Saddleback, New Jersey. You should see some of the big houses they got down by the Ritz Carlton Hotel over there." He pointed southeast. "Lotsa trees. Not flat, like Studio City or Sherman Oaks. This Pasadena Realtor with great tits showed me around and I almost made an offer on a place on Hillcrest. Same house they used in the movie Bugsy. The movie audience thought it was Beverly Hills, but they shot it out here. Warren Beatty goes up to the front door, rings the bell, and tells the guy, 'I'm gonna buy your house.' I loved that scene. Fuckin' thing isn'
t e
ven for sale and Beatty says to the guy, 'How much? I'm gonna buy your house.' " He was smiling at Shane and suddenly Shane was smiling back.

Why he suddenly found that cinematic act of extortion funny eluded him. He was probably still so juiced on adrenaline overload that his relieved senses were experiencing a catharsis.

"Decided in the end I hadda be on the west side, in Pacific Palisades or Bel-Air," Valentine continued. "It's a profile thing. Only dentists and geeks from Cal-Tech live in Pasadena. But I'll tell ya, that was some joint. Warren says to the guy, 'How much? I'm gonna buy your house. . . Priceless. I love that kinda shit."

"Who is this with you?" Shane finally asked to get them off of Bugsy, or real estate, or whatever it was they were discussing.

"This is Leland A. Postil, the new president of the International Alliance of Stage and Theatrical Employees."

Shane reached out and shook hands with the thin, terrified man.

"How you doin'?"

Postil's face twitched, but he didn't speak.

"He's fine," Dennis answered for him. "Lee finally gets it, don't ya, Lee?" No response from IATSE's new president. "Lee's a patriot. No kidding. He tells me about how film and TV sell American values to the world, right, Lee?"

"Uh . . . I I. ." Postil's voice was almost inaudible in the cold night.

"He told me that movies export the way we are, and how we behave, or some shit like that. How'd that go again, Lee?"

Now Postil seemed to focus. He found his voice, which, like his body, was thin and reedy. "What I told Mr. Valentine is that films are America's most important export. Not so much as an economic resource but because they export U
. S
. culture. Our film and TV entertainment make the rest of the countries on the planet, even Communist nations like China, covet our American lifestyle."

"Yeah, China. Tell him about the Hunter thing." Dennis grinned.

"Yes, well, the TV show Hunter, starring Fred Dryer, was on in China in the mid-eighties. First American TV show to ever play there. The producers didn't get much money for it, 'cause the TV business in China is small and government-owned. But that show had a huge cultural impact. After it ran, democracy gained a foothold. There is a good cause-and-effect case to be made that the rise of democratic thought in China paralleled the popularity of that show." Lee Postil was coming to life now. "The Chinese people saw Hunter driving around in Bel-Air, saw the big homes, and it made them want democracy. After Tiananmen Square, the Chinese government threw the show off the national network, and it never played there again."

Shane smiled, but wondered why the hell were they standing on the lip of a dam in Pasadena in the middle of the night, talking about Hunter broadcasts in China?

"I love that story," Dennis said, smiling. "The Neural Suifer will export the shit outta American culture. That's why it's so important IATSE cuts us a deal to get it shot for short dollars. Right, Lee?"

"Yes. I think a similar case can be made, but--"

"No buts, Lee. Movies are power, man." Dennis was grinning broadly. His alabaster teeth gleamed dangerously. "The Neural Suifer is American culture," Dennis enthused. "It's about our psychological beginnings, our racial misunderstandings, our tortured journey out of darkness. And Lee knows that without his help, this testament to American values may never be seen by the Chinese or the emerging African nations. Am I right here, Lee?"

The narrow-shouldered man nodded, and now Shane could see where this was heading.

"We need IATSE's help to bring the budget down or else we can't shoot it," Dennis continued. "Lee has agreed to make a special arrangement with Cine-Roma. Right, Lee?"

"Yes, I guess," the IATSE president said tentatively
,
looking like a man trying to decide whether or not to jump over the rail to his death.

"Tell our producer here what you're prepared to do," Dennis prodded.

"Uh, even though this is a big-budget film, given its sociological values and definition of American culture, IATSE would be willing to work against our low-budget rate card to help get it green-lit."

Dennis was smiling. "If you do the math, on a fiftymillion-dollar below-the-line budget, that would cut the union costs roughly in half. Am I correct, Lee?"

"In essence . . . if you . . . more or less," he croaked.

"This is great news," Dennis said, slapping the tall man on the back. "I've got the agreement letter right here, all drawn up and ready for signatures." He reached down, picked up his alligator briefcase, opened it, then withdrew three copies of a letter printed on IATSE stationery. Valentine closed the briefcase on the narrow railing and used it as a writing surface. He pulled a gold Montblanc out of his pocket, clicked it open, and handed it to Lee Postil, who signed all three copies of the document. Then Dennis handed the pen to Shane.

"Shane, you're a damn smart producer. You have just saved your production twenty-five million in below-the-line costs." Dennis beamed and handed the pen over.

Shane took the gold Montblanc and signed all three copies.

Valentine's friendly smile suddenly disappeared like smoke out an open window. It was replaced with a cold, hard, menacing stare. "Our deal was percent for percent. There's the signed paper I promised, guaranteeing the low rate card. I'm in. We'll call my end fifty-one percent of your end."

"We'll do the math once the budget is set," Shane countered. "The way Lubick is going, twenty-five million might not even cover our catering costs."

"Okay, but I'm holding you to the equation. That was our deal."

Shane nodded.

"As of right now, I'm co-producing a Michael Fallon movie," Valentine whispered reverently, testing the sound of that sentence.

"Film," Shane corrected.

Dennis was beaming. "This is an auspicious occasion. The coming together of a unique creative enterprise with an alliance of working-class unions, in the interest of spreading democracy around the world."

"Too bad nobody brought a camera," Shane quipped.

Chapter
32.

Shane and the president of IATSE switched cars for the ride back from Devil's Gate Dam. Lee Postil looked terrified as he squeezed in with the American buffaloes, while Shane walked down the rutted dirt road with Dennis Valentine. He had another Rolls-Royce convertible parked on a slab of poured concrete by the spill-gates. This one was midnight blue with a tan interior.