The Big Bamboo (3 page)

“That was nice of them,” said Ally.

“Nice, nothing,” said Tori. “It was just to generate rumors about you two in the press. Jason’s career’s been racing south ever since the breakup of Boyz II Synched XS.”

On the other side of the patio, Mark pestered a babe exiting the women’s room.

“Excuse me, you’re a model, aren’t you?”

She raised her chin in umbrage. “
Spokes
model.”

Mark tapped a spot on the side of his face. “You got throw-up.”

Ford slumped against the wall and grabbed two more glasses from a passing tray.

Mark opened his cell phone and looked up at the woman. “Maybe I can call you sometime?”

“Uh, sure…”

Ford killed the glass in his left hand, then his right. The woman hurried away. Mark turned to Ford and held up his open cell phone. “Just got another number.”

Ford read the blue liquid display: 555-1234.

Mark closed the phone. “That was a good one, too. I was low on
H
’s.”

“Do you ever call them?”

“Constantly.”

“And?”

“They’ve all been wrong numbers. I think something’s the matter with my phone.”

Ford scanned the patio with double vision. “Haven’t seen any stars yet.”

“There’s Ally Street,” said Mark.

“Where?”

“Against the railing.”

Ten minutes later, the rest of the gang from props clustered around Ford. They stared at his cell phone in astonishment.

“I can’t believe you got Ally Street’s number!”

“I just walked up to her,” said Ford. “I guess everyone else is too intimidated.”

“When are you going to call her?”

“Tonight,” said Ford. “She wants to meet later.”

“Probably a fake number,” said Mark. “That’s what they do.”

Ford flipped open his cell and hit the last number entered. A phone rang on the other side of the pool.

“Hello?”

Midnight.

The props guys sipped Long Island iced teas and gazed out an upstairs picture window overlooking Wilshire Boulevard. Novelty ice cubes blinked in their drinks. New tote bags hung from their shoulders.

The music was loud and industrial, the dark room behind them jammed and sweaty with people dancing by the light of a hundred blinking cocktails. A record label release party for the new anarchist punk band Plastic Corporate Man Massacre, whose name was embroidered on the promotional tote bags.

“When are you supposed to call Ally?” asked Mark.

Ford held his watch to his drink. “Half hour.”

“Let’s get something to eat.”

They took the elevator to the ground floor. The party was being held above a high-end department store, and the Otis doors opened to the bright, jarring light of the bedroom section. Ushers in bow ties were waiting to take the next group upstairs; others escorted the props guys back through the cologne atrium to the front entrance.

A daisy-yellow Malibu convertible headed north on Vine. Normally, Ford would have been behind the wheel. He was the gang’s permanent designated driver, because he never drank, until now. So they reverted to their previous rotation: whoever was currently shit-scared onto the temporary wagon. Tonight that would be Pedro, still trying to shake off being awakened naked in a Topanga Dumpster by a bunch of transients poking him with sticks.

They turned left on Sunset, the radio cranked. Ford’s head lolled, chin to his chest.

“…All right now, baby, it’s all riiiiiight now!…”

Five more blocks. The Malibu entered a drive-through. Pedro shook Ford. “Wake up!”

Ford looked around. “Where are we?”

“The In-N-Out.”

“May I take your order?”

“What do they have?” asked Ford.

“Just burgers, fries, soda. It’s the In-N-Out.”

Mark was trying to make calls on his cell but only getting out-of-service messages.

“Hey, Ford,” said Pedro. “What time were you supposed to call Ally?”

“Oh, shit!” Ford flipped open his own cell.

A hand reached over the passenger door and snatched it away. The gang turned.

Two guys with ski masks and guns.

“Give it up! That other phone! Now!”

Mark held out a quivering arm.

“Wallets and watches!” demanded the second robber.

The guys were suddenly sober, fishing out billfolds and undoing wristbands.

“Hurry the fuck up!”

“May I take your order?”

A police car with two hungry officers pulled in.

“Damn!” The jackers took off across the parking lot and disappeared through a hole in the fence with the Days Inn.

Five hearts pounded in the convertible, five frozen guys holding wallets and watches.

“Hello? Anyone there? Can I take your order?”

They began snapping out of it.

“That was close,” said Pedro. “We almost lost our wallets.”

“They got my cell phone!” said Mark. “All my numbers!”

“They got mine!” said Ford. “How am I going to call Ally?”

A yellow Malibu sat in the rear of the parking lot behind the In-N-Out.

“This is insane!” Pedro grabbed into the backseat. “Give me back my phone!”

Mark jerked it out of reach.

“Come on, give it!” said Pedro. “I never would have lent it to you if I’d known—”

“I have to get my cell phone back!” said Mark, punching in numbers.

“I have to call Ally!” said Ford.

“You’re both drunk!”

“Shhhh! It’s ringing!” said Mark. “Uh, hello?…Yeah, it’s us…We just met…The guys you robbed…Sorry, should have figured there were several…At the In-N-Out…That’s right. I want to make a deal. I want my phone back…No, this isn’t a joke. We’ll pay…because I got a bunch of stuff stored in it I need…Look, it’s not worth anything to you anyway. We’ll have the police trace your calls and then you go to jail…No, I wasn’t threatening you. I was trying to make a point—…You just found my personal info in the phone? You’re going to hunt me down and kill me?…”

Ford waved drunkenly in Mark’s face. “Gimme, gimme, gimme. Let me talk to him…”

“Hold on. Someone else wants to talk to you…”

“Hi, Ford Oelman here…Right, another fuck-head. Listen, we’ll give you two hundred dollars for the—…Because I met this really hot actress tonight and her number’s in the phone…Ally Street…I did so meet her!…Skybar…Me neither, but I got on the list this time…I
know
she’s really hot—I just told you that…Can we speed this up? I was supposed to call her twenty minutes ago…You found her number?…Great! Why don’t you just read it off to me and then we don’t have to meet?…What do you mean, you’re going to call her yourself?…No,
I’m
supposed to call her. You can’t—”

“What happened?” said Mark.

“He hung up.”

Mark grabbed the phone and dialed again.

“Is it ringing?” said Ford.

“Busy signal.” Mark hit redial. “Still busy.”

“Gimme that.” Ford hit redial. On the fifth try, he gave Mark a thumbs-up. “…Hello. It’s me again…The guy who knows Ally Street…You just talked to her?…You set up a meeting?…But how—…You said you were my driver?…Could you repeat that last part?…I see…Hold on…” Ford covered the phone and turned to Mark. “The price is now five hundred.”

“Five hundred!”

“Says they’ll give us both phones as well as the location where I’m supposed to meet Ally.”

Mark winced at the cost, then nodded reluctantly. “Split it fifty-fifty?”

“Deal.” Ford uncovered the phone. “Five hundred it is…Yeah, I know the place…Fifteen minutes in front of the Pig ’N Whistle. You got it…Hey, when you talked to her did she say anything about me, you know, if she thought I was cute or—”

“What happened?”

“He hung up.”

Fifteen minutes later.

A yellow Malibu sat in the shadows of a dark side street off Hollywood Boulevard, a half-block down from the Pig N’ Whistle.

“What are you doing?” said Ford, pointing up the street with a five-hundred-dollar wad from an ATM. “We’re supposed to meet over there!”

“Not a chance,” said Pedro, stretching his neck to see if anyone was lying in wait near the pub. “I should have my head examined just for being
here
. This is the most dumbass stunt I ever—”

Pedro felt something cold and metal in his ear.

“Gimme your wallets,” said a man in a ski mask.

“And your watches,” said his accomplice.

The money was plucked from Ford’s hand. The robbers collected the rest of their loot and ran off.

Ford turned to Mark. “They lied.”

The next morning.

Ford lifted his head off the pillow and checked the alarm clock. Actually afternoon. His head fell back down with a groan.

Mark was already up, frying ham and eggs in the kitchen of their modest third-floor unit at the Alto Nido Apartments. It was the quiet north end of Ivar Avenue, Jackson Browne playing softly on a small stereo from the Home Shopping Club mounted under a cabinet next to the stove.

Ford stumbled into the kitchen rubbing his eyes.

“…Running on empty…Running bliiiiiiiiiind!…”

He filled a glass under the faucet and plopped two Alka-Seltzers, waiting on the fizzing action by staring out the window over the sink: light freeway traffic, partial glimpse of the Capitol Records tower…Hold it. Something out of place. He turned to Mark at the kitchen table, sawing ham and dipping in yolk. “Why is it so quiet?”

Mark flipped a page of the
Los Angeles Times
sports section and pointed toward the living room with his fork. Three guys watching TV. “The silent treatment.”

“Why are they giving you the silent treatment?”

“My guess is you’re going to get it, too.”

“What did I do?”

“Still sore about the robbery.”

“
I
didn’t steal anything.”

Mark turned the page. “They won’t listen.”

Ford grabbed the edge of the sink. “Whoa…” He felt a momentary wooziness and the sensation something was pushing on his eyeballs from the inside. “I think I need to go back to bed.”

He started walking away. Pedro ran into the kitchen and grabbed his arm.

“Look,” said Ford. “I’m sorry as hell about last night, but Jesus!”

Pedro’s face wasn’t angry. It was white.

Soon, they were all gathered around the TV in the living room. A publicity photo of Ally Street filled the screen. The image switched to a reporter on the sidewalk in front of a trendy restaurant.

“…Tinseltown remains stunned by last night’s brazen abduction of Ally Street, who witnesses said was standing on this very spot along famous Sunset Boulevard when she was forced inside a dark van by masked gunmen…”

Mark turned up the volume.

“…Ms. Street’s dining party reported that shortly before the kidnapping, the actress received a mysterious call on her cell phone and excused herself…”

The roommates exchanged looks.

“…Authorities aren’t officially commenting, but inside sources at the police department say they’ve been able to trace that final call to another cell phone and are seeking to interview this man, described only as a ‘person of interest’…”

A blown-up paparazzi photo from Skybar appeared on the tube.

“It’s Ford!” said Pedro. “When he was talking to Ally last night by the pool!”

“…Meanwhile, a Vistamax spokesman said the studio is saddened by the news and will do all in its power to ensure Ms. Street’s safe return and maintain the shooting schedule for a holiday release…”

Loud banging on the apartment door.

“Open up! Police!”

Serge sat in a grimy motel room along Tampa’s Nebraska Avenue, banging away on a manual Underwood typewriter.

Coleman chugged a Budweiser and stared out the window at prostitutes and a bearded man pushing a rusty shopping cart full of curled phone books. There was no middle ground—the section of town where motels rent by the hour or the month. Disagreements and unidentifiable thumps through thin walls.

Coleman tossed his empty aluminum can in the wastebasket, but it bounced out because the basket was already full of crumpled pages with “Scene One” at the top.

Serge ripped another sheet from the typewriter’s spool, wadded it up and threw it in the corner.

Coleman popped another beer. “How’s your screenplay coming?”

Serge inserted a fresh page. “Great. Almost finished. Guaranteed to make my movie career. All I need is the opening hook.” He began typing again.

Coleman stopped chugging and lowered his beer. “How do you write a movie, anyway?”

Serge sighed and stopped typing. “Well, you begin by just letting your mind float. After a while, if you don’t have any
distractions
, you enter an astral-plane dream state, where the scene you’re writing becomes as real as this desk.” He slapped the top of the table.

Coleman killed the rest of the beer and tossed it in the corner. “Can I come with you?”

“Sure.” Serge resumed typing. “But first you’ll have to loosen all the bolts on your imagination.”

“No problem.” Coleman snatched a fat spliff from over his ear and fired it up. He blew a large cloud toward the ceiling. “Okay, I’m ready.” He leaned over Serge’s shoulder for a peek at the typewriter. “Where are we going?…”

Klieg lights sweep the night sky. A bustling city street in black-and-white. Vintage automobiles from the ’40s drive past the exterior of a popular bar in Morocco. A neon sign: SERGE’S. The perspective segues inside. People drinking, gambling, singing along with the piano player. The camera zooms. A tall, debonair man in an immaculate white tuxedo appears from a back room. He moves through the crowd with panache and approaches the source of the music.
Coleman glances up from his stool: “Hey, Serge, look at me, I can play the piano!”
Serge fits an unlit cigarette between his lips and lets it droop.
Coleman, noticing his hands on the keyboard: “And I’m black!”
Suddenly, a commotion toward the front of the club. SS uniforms fill the entrance.
Serge turns toward them with a penetrating gaze.
Coleman: “What is it, boss?”
Serge: “I don’t like Nazis.”
“Why’s that, boss?”
“Goose-stepping never preceded any big laughs.”
“What are you going to do, boss?”
Serge faces the door and grabs his crotch. “Master race this!”
The platoon draws its sidearms and charges. Serge and Coleman begin running but are quickly pinned down in the back of the club.
German captain: “Shoot them.”
Soldiers raise their Lugers.
Coleman: “What do we do now, boss?”
Serge: “Damn. I wrote us into a corner.”