The Big Bamboo (21 page)

“Because they’re gouging history buffs.” Serge closed the sock drawer. “Room 105, Highland Gardens, formerly the Landmark.”

Coleman torched a mombo spliff. Serge pointed at the floor. “She hit face-first right where you’re standing. October third, twenty-six years ago.”

“Who did?” Coleman held the joint between his middle fingers and cupped his hands to his mouth like he was doing bird calls.

“You pulling my leg?” said Serge. “This is Joplin’s room.”

Coleman blew out an enormous amount of smoke. “I don’t know this old stuff like you.”

“That’s okay. I don’t know how to interlace my hands like that to smoke dope.”

“You mean a carburetor? It’s the first thing they teach you.”

“…Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose…”

Coleman exhaled another cloud and stared down at the spot on the floor. “Whoa!…Death is trippy when you’re ripped. How’d it happen?”

“Heroin. Shot up enough scag to drop a charging rhino. Then went out to the lobby for cigarettes and came back in here and—wham! The junkie’s belly flop. Facial bones shattered like a skeet-shooting disk. The maid found her the next morning in a blood slick. I’m guessing there were flies by then.” Serge looked around the room, smiling and nodding. “I’m in a happy place.”

“Serge?”

“What?”

“I’m bored.”

“I thought the pot would make this really entertaining.”

“If it was a little entertaining,” said Coleman. “But instead, if it’s a little boring, then it makes it really boring.”

“Now I’m bored, too.”

Coleman pressed the TV’s power button.

Serge opened a suitcase. “What’s on the tube?”

“Not sure yet. It’s in the middle of another commercial for boner pills.”

“I never understand those ads,” said Serge, pulling a stack of celebrity magazines from his luggage. “They always warn about erections lasting longer than four hours. I mean, when
don’t
they?”

Coleman’s head jerked back. “Four hours!”

“What? Don’t yours…?”

“I wish.”

“Really?” said Serge, handing Coleman half the magazines.

“Trust me. I’ve tried.” Coleman flipped open a recent issue of
In Touch.
“You never struck me as the kind of guy with chicks on the brain so much.”

“Oh, it’s not just women. I could be in a new museum for the first time.”

“Is that why you wear those long, untucked shirts?”

“Avoids questions.”

Coleman turned a page. “What are we looking for?”

“Clues,” said Serge, folding over a copy of
Us
. “If we’re going to operate in this city, we have to find the pulse of the stars or we’ll be eaten alive…Here we go:
Laverne and Shirley
’s Squiggy is now a pro basketball scout. So that’s what he’s been up to…”

“I found an article,” said Coleman.
“Is the
American Idol
voting fair? Take our poll!”

“Angelina takes her toddler on a play date
…” Serge flipped the page. “
Diane Sawyer has an age-defying secret!
”

“This story blames a star’s incoherent Letterman appearance on ‘professional exhaustion,’” said Coleman. “What’s that mean?”

“Let me put it this way,” said Serge. “You suffer from amateur exhaustion.”

“Oh, I get it.”

Serge threw his magazines aside. “I have the pulse now. It’s stupid.”

Coleman closed his own magazine. “I’m bored again.”

“I know, I know. I’m trying to think….”

A knock at the door.

Serge whipped out a gun. “Who’s that!”

He crept across the room and peeked out the peephole. A tall man in a silver running suit glanced nervously up and down the hall from behind dark sunglasses. His dyed blond hair was slicked straight back.

Serge opened the door a crack. “Yes?”

“Are you Coleman?”

“No.”

“It’s okay,” Coleman yelled from back in the room. “You can let him in.”

Serge opened the door the rest of the way, and the man quickly brushed past him. Serge shook the confusion out of his head and followed.

Coleman and the stranger gathered in a corner. Money changed hands. Baggies came out of the man’s fanny pack.

“Coleman,” said Serge. “You’ve never been to California. How’d you find a connection so fast?”

“Guess it’s a gift.”

A business card snapped crisply out of the fanny pack. The stranger placed it in Serge’s hand.

Serge looked up from the card. “Not
the
Dallas Reel.”

The man smiled.

“Oh, my God!” said Serge. “I love your work. What? Sixty films now?”

“I’m impressed,” said Dallas. “Most people only know four or five.”

“Not me,” said Serge. “I stay and memorize all the credits. Can’t leave the theater until I at least get to Glenn Glenn Sound. So what’s a third executive producer do?”

Dallas zipped the fanny pack closed. “Pretty much this.” A beeper went off. He looked down. “That’s mine. Gotta run.”

Serge closed the door behind him and walked back into the room. “Imagine that.”

Coleman was spreading Baggies on a nightstand. Pills, grass, powder. “But we’re bored again.”

Serge pointed at the drugs. “Wait, I got it! We’ll do a historical reenactment!”

“What’s that?”

Serge moved a chair out of the way. “Watch ’em all the time on the Discovery Channel. They investigate to see if a famous celebrity’s death might have actually been murder.” Serge walked to the motel room door, turned around and began counting off steps. “They did this one on Marilyn. Her death bungalow had since been demolished, so they used forensic photos to build a new one, replicating every last detail: lamps, ashtrays, color of the walls. Then they conducted tissue-absorption analysis for all the pills on her nightstand. You be Joplin.”

“What do I do?”

“Simulate an OD.” Serge handed him the Baggies. “I want you to do as many drugs as you can in the next thirty minutes. And be sure to wash it all down with lots of liquor.”

“But you always yell at me when I get that way.”

“Except this is research. If we can prove Joplin was murdered, we might be talking a grant.”

Coleman filled a plastic cup with rum and grabbed a sack of striped capsules.

A half hour later Serge helped him off the bed. “Here’s the room key. I want you to go out to the lobby. The cigarette machine’s gone, so just tag the front desk and return.” Serge began timing with his wristwatch. “The first test is to see if you can make it back here by yourself…No, Coleman, the other way…”

Serge walked him out into the hall. “I’ll be waiting…” He closed the door.

Serge’s new group of friends was meeting again for lunch at Pat & Lorraine’s. Without Serge and Coleman.

“How do we know we can count on him?”

“I have complete trust. He’s Sergio’s grandson, after all.”

“I don’t mean trust. I mean
depend.
”

“What are you talking about?”

Serge leaned close to the television. His
Midnight Cowboy
DVD. Serge only watched the end, where Ratso’s bus rolls down the Miracle Mile in Coral Gables. He looked at his watch. “What’s taking him so long?”

Serge opened the door and stuck his head out in the hall. “Where could that idiot have—”

Moaning at his feet.

“What are you doing down there? Stop fooling around!” He grabbed Coleman under the armpits and dragged him backward into the room. “It’s starting to look like Joplin was murdered. This is getting exciting.”

Serge left Coleman on the carpet and cued up “Piece of My Heart.” He crouched down and lightly slapped his pal on the cheeks. “Coleman! Wake up! I think we’re about to crack the case!”

Coleman slowly came around. “Where am I?”

“In the middle of an investigation that’ll blow the lid off!” Serge pulled him to his feet. “This is the crucial part. I need you to stand right here.”

Serge stepped back and looked Coleman up and down, rough calculations of height and weight. He took a baby step forward and put out his arms. “I’m ready. I want you to close your eyes and put your arms by your side.”

Coleman complied.

“Good. Now, fall forward.”

Coleman’s eyes opened. “I’m not doing that.”

“I’ll catch you. I promise.”

“What if you don’t?”

“Are you religious? Because this is about faith. Put your faith in your best friend and nothing will happen. You just have to let go. Release your doubts and fall into it like a big, cozy pillow.”

Coleman closed his eyes again. “Okay, but you better catch me…”

Pat and Lorraine’s.

“I’m still not a hundred percent on those guys. Something’s not kosher.”

“Like what?”

“Are you nuts? The fat guy’s a fuck-up and the other’s—…I have no idea what that is.”

“You liked Sergio, right?”

“Of course.”

“We owe him big time. This is his grandson. It’s the least we can do.”

“But…”

“But what? Sergio was odd too, and it all worked out in the end.”

“I hope you’re right.”

Serge knelt over Coleman on the motel carpet. “Keep your head tilted back or you’ll bleed everywhere.”

“You said you’d catch me!”

“You didn’t wait for my signal.”

“You didn’t say anything about a signal.”

“I don’t have to. There’s always a signal.”

Coleman lightly touched tender spots on his face. “What do you think?”

“It’s beginning to look like Joplin wasn’t murdered after all.”

“I mean my nose. It feels broken.”

“That’s just the pain. You hit pretty hard. But your contribution to the historical record has been duly noted.”

“You said to have faith.”

“Yeah, but there’s a lot of bad religions going around. You have to be more skeptical.”

Friday evening. Third floor.

A room full of bachelors, splashed cologne and brushed teeth.

Except one. He was in bed.

Pedro popped his head through the neck-hole of a polo shirt. “Ford, why don’t you join us?”

Ford just stared at the ceiling.

“This isn’t healthy,” said Mark. “We thought you’d snapped out of it working on that new script…”

“But now you’re back to staying in bed sixteen hours a day,” said Tino.

“And you’ve stopped writing,” said Ray.

“We know you’re going through a lot,” said Pedro. “But you need to get out. Have some fun.”

“I scored an extra invitation from Dallas,” said Tino.

Ford rolled over on his side and faced the wall. “They’re not going to let me in the party. They fired me. And threw me off the property. Remember?”

Mark looked at the others. “Do it.”

They grabbed Ford by the arms and dragged him out of the sheets.

“Let go of me.”

“It’s for your own good.”

Five guys in a Malibu cruised down Sunset Strip and pulled up in front of Skybar.

The midpoint cast party for
All That Glitters
.

Mark and Ford took up positions outside the ladies’ room. A waiter walked by and Ford lifted two flutes of champagne off his tray.

“Ford, you’re drinking,” said Mark.

Ford knocked one of the glasses back.

Mark reached for the second one. “Thanks…”

“They’re both for me.” Ford knocked the other one back.

The party was effective. More champagne. Pedro walked up. “Can you believe this place? It’s like the women aren’t real.”

“Ford’s drinking,” said Mark.

“You are?” said Pedro.

Ford nodded with glazed eyes and grabbed two more passing flutes.

“Must be the firing,” said Pedro. “Good for you!”

Tino arrived. “Isn’t that Ally Street over there?”

“Where?”

“By the railing. With that older woman.”

“Think it’s her agent.”

“I’m going to go talk to her,” said Pedro.

“She’s a big star,” said Tino. “You don’t stand a chance.”

“That’s what everyone thinks,” said Pedro. “So nobody approaches. Then we see them in star magazines with total losers and wonder, How did
that
happen?”

“You’ve convinced me.
I’m
going to hit on her.”

“But she’s mine,” said Pedro.

Ray came over. “What’s happening?”

“We’re going to hit on Ally Street,” said Tino.

“Who is?”

“We’re still arguing.”

“You don’t stand a chance,” said Ray.

“Pedro was just explaining his theory,” said Tino.

A burst of paparazzi flashes lit up the other side of the patio. “Crap.” Pedro’s shoulders slumped. “Jason Geddy’s hitting on her.”

“Told you we didn’t stand a chance.”

“It was fun while it lasted.”

“Wait, he’s leaving with his manager,” said Tino. “We’re back in the hunt.”

They gaped across the patio at Ally, alone again, gazing off into the night. The wind lifted that stunning blond mane streaming out behind her.

“Watch this,” said Pedro. He took a step and stopped.

“So what are you waiting for?”

Pedro took a step back. “I’m nervous.”

“Then I’m going to try,” said Mark. “Here goes.”

“Why aren’t you moving?”

“I’m scared.”

“I’m going,” said Ray. “It’s all about projecting confidence.” He took two steps and came back.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Confidence?”

“I went farther than you!”

“You guys are chickenshit,” said Tino. “Watch this…”

They watched.

“What’s the matter?”

“Shut up.”

Another waiter came by. Ford grabbed two more glasses of champagne and headed across the patio.

“Where’s
he
going?” said Pedro.

The guys couldn’t believe their eyes. First, that Ford actually had the guts to go over there. And again, when Ally accepted his champagne. Paparazzi cameras flashed.

“Now I’ve seen everything,” said Tino.

No, he hadn’t. Ally was soon laughing at something Ford had said.

“Did you see that?” said Mark. “She touched his arm. That meant something.”