Get Shorty (14 page)

The way Chili found out Leo the drycleaner's room number at the Beverly Hills Hotel, he wrote
Larry Paris
on an envelope, handed it to the girl at the front desk and watched her stick the envelope in the mail slot for 207. It looked like 207, but he wasn't sure. So he used a house phone, around the corner by the entrance to the famous Polo Lounge, and asked for 207. The operator tried it, came back to say she was sorry, Mr. Paris wasn't answering. Chili, friendly because he was getting somewhere, told the operator Mr. Paris was probably still out at the track giving his money away. Ha ha. To double-check, Chili stepped into the Polo Lounge and ordered a Scotch at the bar.

He didn't see Leo or Leo's friend Annette waiting or Doug McClure or any faces he recognized from the silver screen. The room was crowded, six p.m., people at booths and little round tables, most of them probably tourists looking for movie stars. Harry said if anybody here even halfway resembled a star the rest of the tourists would say, “There's one. Isn't that, you know, he was in . . .” and some guy from out of town would have a few minutes of fame
he'd never know about. Harry said there were guys in the picture business had their secretaries call them here; they get paged, everybody sees the phone brought to the table and then watch the schmuck talking to his secretary like he was making a deal and knew personally all the names he was dropping. Harry said the trouble with Hollywood, the schemeballs worked just as hard as the legit filmmakers.

The limo guy, Catlett, struck Chili as that type wanted to be seen. Looked good in his threads, sounded like he knew what he was talking about—the type of guy if he wasn't dealing drugs would be into some other kind of hustle. There were guys like him Chili knew by name in Miami, all five boroughs of New York and parts of Jersey. They gave you that stuff about having something in common, being from the street but different sides of it. You had to watch your back with guys like Catlett. Keep him away from Harry.

Earlier today Harry had called from his apartment on Franklin to say he'd come home to change but would be going right back to Karen's. “You know what I did? Asked her to come on the project as associate producer and she jumped at it.” Chili was learning a little more about Harry every time the guy opened his mouth. “Karen dropped off the script at Tower and we're waiting to hear when Elaine can see us. Miss Bedroom Eyes. Listen to this. Elaine doesn't even take pitch meetings, but she'll do it for Karen. I'm telling you, bringing my old screamer aboard was a stroke of genius.” Chili asked him, shouldn't the script be rewritten first, fixed up? Harry said, “What's wrong with it?” Chili told him point by point what he thought and Harry said,
“Yeah, Karen mentioned that. It needs a polish, that's all. I'll cover that at the meeting. Don't worry about it.”

Okay, for the time being he'd forget about
Lovejoy
and concentrate on Leo the drycleaner, find him and get him out of town before Ray Bones showed up. Chili watched a waiter serving a tray of drinks, thinking he could sit here and get smashed and never even see Leo. Leo gets back, cleans up and goes out again without ever coming in here. It was watching the waiter with the drink order that gave Chili an idea, a way to get into Leo's suite.

He ordered a bottle of champagne, paid his tab and told the bartender he wanted the champagne put in room 207 right away, before his buddy got back, so it would be a surprise. The bartender-acted like this was done all the time. Chili finished his drink and took the stairway to the second floor. Room 207 was right there, at an open center point where halls went off in three different directions, the wallpaper in the halls big green plants, or they might be palm-tree branches. About ten minutes later a room service waiter arrived with the champagne in a bucket and two glasses on a tray. Chili hung back by the stairway till the waiter had the door open, then moved fast to walk in right behind him saying, “Hey, I'm just in time,” and handed the guy a ten-dollar bill.

 

Three cigarettes and a couple glasses of champagne later, he heard the key in the lock and watched the door open.

Leo came in wearing a sporty little plaid hat cocked on the side of his head. Leo still playing the high roller, not even dragging after all day at the
track, not looking over this way either, going straight for the Chivas on the desk and having one out of the bottle, ahhh, before pulling a fat wad of cash out of his jacket, tossing it on the desk like it was change from the cab fare and then taking the jacket off, the shirt too, it was coming off, Leo getting down to his undershirt hanging on bony shoulders, but not touching the hat, the sporty hat stayed, Leo thinking he must look good in it or the hat brought him luck, Leo in his four-bills-a-day hotel suite having another swig from the bottle.

“You got no class.”

The poor guy didn't move.

Not till Chili said, “Look at me, Leo.”

Watching him now reminded Chili of the time in Vegas, Leo pinned to the roulette table, no escape, and finally coming around to say, “How much you want?” Leo the loser, no matter how much he won. Leo came around this time with the same hopeless look, but didn't say anything. He was taking in the scene. Chili in his pinstripe, on the sofa. The champagne on the coffee table. But what caught Leo's eye and held his attention was sitting next to the champagne. His briefcase. The same one the bodyguard had carried for him in Vegas.

“I wouldn't think you're that dumb,” Chili said, “leave over three hunnerd grand in the closet, underneath the extra blanket, but I guess you are.”

For a second there Leo looked surprised. “I didn't know where else to keep it. Where would you?”

The guy was serious.

“You're here a while, what's wrong with a bank?”

“They report it to the IRS.”

“You don't open an account, Leo, you put it in a deposit box. Dip in whenever you want.”

He watched Leo nodding in his sporty hat and undershirt, thinking it over, what to do the next time he scammed an airline. Jesus, he was dumb.

“You been losing, huh?”

“I'm up twelve grand today.”

“From when? You left Vegas with four-fifty.”

“Who told you that?”

“Now you're down to three-ten in the briefcase. You must've cooled off quite a bit in Reno.”

“Who says I was in Reno?”

The poor guy kept trying.

“Your friend Annette,” Chili said.

Leo narrowed his eyes and stared, trying hard to fake who he was: He raised his preshaped plaid hat and recocked it, see if that would help. No, there was nothing dumber than a dumb guy who thought he was a hotshot. You did have to feel a little sorry for him . . .

Till he said, “It was Fay, wasn't it, told you about Annette. She tell you my whole life history, for Christ sake?”

“I wouldn't let her if she tried,” Chili said. “Why I'm here, Leo, basically, is to save your ass.”

“How? By taking my money?”

“You can keep what you won today. That's yours.”

“It's
all
mine,” Leo said. “You don't have any right to it.” Starting to whine. “You're some friend.”

“No, I'm not your friend, Leo.”

“I'll say you aren't. Come in and ruin my life. Why are you doing this to me? I paid you what I owed.”

“Sit down, Leo.”

Leo had to think about it, but he did. Went to the deep chair facing the coffee table, sat down and stared at his briefcase.

Chili said, “I don't know how you stayed in business, Leo, you're so fuckin dumb. Or how you ever got this far. But now you're through. I'm gonna explain to you why and I hope you're not too dumb you don't understand what I'm saying. Okay?”

So Chili laid it out, told how Ray Bones was now in the picture and the kind of guy Bones was, the reason Leo and Annette would have to disappear or else risk serious injury. That seemed simple enough, a no-option kind of situation.

Leo thought about it a minute and said, “Well, I'm not going home.”

Look how his mind worked.

“I don't care where you go, Leo.”

“I mean back to Fay.”

“That's up to you.”

“After what she did to me?”

“You aren't only dumb, Leo, you're crazy.”

Leo thought about it another minute and said, “I don't see any difference who takes the money, you or this other guy. Either way I'm cleaned out.”

“Yeah, but there different ways of getting cleaned out,” Chili said. “Ray Bones'll take everything you have—”

“What—you ,won't?”

“Leo, listen to me. When I say everything, I mean even that sporty hat if he wants it. Your watch, that pinkie you have on . . . and then he'll hit you with some kind of heavy object if he doesn't shoot you, so you won't tell on him. I won't do that,” Chili said, “take your jewelry or hurt you. You have three-ten in the case,
right? I'm gonna take the three hundred you scammed off the airline, but the rest of it, the ten grand? I'm gonna borrow that and pay you back sometime.”

He knew Leo wouldn't understand what he meant, Leo squinting at him now.

“You take all my money, but you're borrowing part of it?”

“At eighteen percent, okay? And don't ask me no more questions, I'm leaving,” Chili said.

He picked up the briefcase as he rose from the sofa and Leo came up out of his chair.

“You're saying you want me to
loan
you the ten grand?”

“I'm not asking you, Leo. What I'm saying is I'm gonna pay you back.”

“I don't understand.”

“You don't have to. Let's leave it at that.”

“Yeah, but how're you gonna pay me?”

Chili was moving toward the door. “Don't worry about it.”

“I mean you won't know where I am. I don't even know where I'll be.”

“I'll find you, Leo. You leave a trail like a fuckin caterpillar.” Chili reached the door and opened it.

Leo saying now, “Wait a minute. What's this eighteen-percent-a-year shit? You want to borrow ten, the vig's three bills a week. You hear me?” Chili crossing the hall toward the stairway, shaking his head, Leo yelling after him, “Fifteen for the vig plus the ten, that's twenty-five big ones you go a whole year, buddy! You hear me?”

Chili stopped. He turned around. As he started back he saw Leo's scared look just before he slammed the door shut. Jesus, he was dumb.

He thought Raji's would be a cocktail lounge with entertainment, a Hollywood nightspot. It turned out to be a bar with pinball machines and video games making a racket, also a counter where you could buy Raji's T-shirts, in case you wanted to show you had actually come in here. Sometimes it was hard to keep an open mind. Chili, in his pinstripe suit, nice tie, wondered if any regular people came here or just these kids trying to look like heroin addicts. He said to one of them, “How come there's no sign out in front?”

The kid said, “There isn't?”

He said to the kid, “I see they have Yul Brynner in the sidewalk outside.”

Part of Hollywood's famous Walk of Fame, the names of 1,800 show-biz celebrities inlaid in stars.

The kid said, “Who's Yul Brynner?”

Chili said to the bartender, a young guy who looked normal, “How come there's no sign out in front?” The bartender said it was down temporarily while they reinforced the building against earthquakes. Chili asked him how come there weren't any
barstools? The bartender said it was a stand-up kind of place: A and R guys from the record companies didn't like to sit down, they'd catch a group and then come back upstairs to have their conversation, where you could hear yourself think. He told Chili Guns N' Roses had been signed out of here. Chili said no shit and asked if Nicki was around. There were “Nicki” posters by the entrance. The bartender said she was downstairs but wouldn't be on for a couple hours yet.

“You in records?”

“Movies,” Chili said.

He had never made it with Nicki or even tried, but she still ought to remember him. The idea, get her to ask him to drop by the house, say hello to Michael and he'd take it from there. Get next to him.
Look at me, Michael.
See what happens.

Chili went downstairs to an empty room with a bar and a few tables, hearing a band tuning up, hitting chords. It reminded him of bands at Momo's cranking up, doing sound checks, setting those dials just right, then blasting off loud enough to blow out the windows and he'd wonder what all that precision adjusting was for. Maybe they said they were reinforcing the place against earthquakes, but it was to keep the rockers from shaking the walls down, and that's why they played in the basement here: the bandstand through an archway in a separate room that was like a cave in there and maybe would hold a hundred people standing up.

There were four guys, three with guitars and a guy on the drums. He didn't see Nicki anywhere, just these four skinny guys, typical rock-and-roll assholes with all the hair, bare arms tricked out with tattoos and metal bracelets, all of them with that typical
bored way they had. Looking over at him now standing in the archway, but too cool to show any interest. Some dickhead in a suit. Chili stared back at them thinking, Oh, is that right? Any you assholes want to be in the movies? No chance. They were turned toward each other now, one of them, with wild blond hair sticking out in every direction, talking as the others listened. Now the blond-haired one was looking over this way again, saying, “Chil?” The middle one.

Christ, it was Nicole, Nicki. They all looked like girls—that's why he thought she was a guy.

“Nicki? How you doing?”

He should've spotted her, the skinny white arms, no tattoos. Nicki handed her guitar that had a big bull's-eye painted on it to one of the guys and was coming over now, Nicki in black jeans that were like tights on her and, Christ, big work boots, smiling at him. Chili put his arms out as she raised hers, high, and saw dark hair under there in the sleeveless T-shirt, Nicki saying, “Chili, Jesus!” glad to see him and it was a nice surprise, knowing she meant it. Now she was in his arms, that slender body tight against him, arms around his neck giving him a hug, hanging on, while he kept thinking of her armpits, the dark tufts under there like a guy's, though she certainly felt like a girl. Nicki let go but kept grinning at him, saying, “I don't believe this.” Then saying over her shoulder to the guys, “I was right, it's Chili, from Miami. He's a fucking gangster!”

The way they were looking at him now—he didn't mind her saying it.

“That's your new band, huh? They as good as the one you used to have?”

Nicki said, “What, at Momo's? Come on, that was techno-disco pussy rock. These guys
play.
” She took him by the arm over to a table, telling how she met them in the parking lot of the Guitar Center, standing there with their Marshall stacks, and couldn't believe her luck 'cause these kids could play speed riffs as good as— “You know the kind Van Halen did on ‘Eruption' and every metal freak in the world copied? . . . No, you don't. What am I talking about? Eight years ago you were still into Dion and the Belmonts, all that doo-wop shit.”

“ ‘I'm just a lonely teenager,' “ Chili said.

“Right, and ‘I Wonder Why.' Who do you listen to now?”

“Guns N' Roses, different ones.” He had to think fast. “Aerosmith, Led Zeppelin . . .”

“You're lying. Aerosmith, that's who I was listening to in Miami, way back when. I'll bet you're a Deadhead, you dig that California acid Muzak.”

“Let's have a cigarette,” Chili said, sitting at the table with her now. “I wasn't sure you'd recognize me.”

“You kidding? You're the only guy at Momo's didn't try to jump me.”

“It crossed my mind a few times.”

“Yeah, but you didn't make a big deal about it, like Tommy. I had to beat him off with a stick.” She reached across the table to put her hand on his. “What're you
doing
here anyway?”

“I'm making a movie.”

“Come on—”

“And you live with a movie star.”

“Michael, yeah.” She didn't sound too happy about it. She didn't sound unhappy either. Glancing
at her watch, Nicki said, “He's gonna stop by. You want to meet him?”

Just like that.

“Yeah, I wouldn't mind.”

“Michael won't stay for the performance, too many people. Crowds scare the shit out of him, like he's afraid he'll get mobbed.”

“Sure, the guy's a star. Not only that, he can act.”

“I know,” Nicki said, “he's incredible. His new one,
Elba
? It isn't out yet—I caught some of the dailies when they were shooting. You see Michael, he
is
Napoleon. He doesn't play him, I mean he
is
this fucking military genius, man, this little guy . . .” She drew on her cigarette looking toward the bandstand. “I have to get back.”

“How'd you meet him?”

“At a performance. I was with a metal group, Roadkill? They're still around. They try to sound like Metallica, straight-ahead rock with a lot of head banging. I had to fucking sing and throw my hair at the same time, only it was shorter then so I had to wear extensions. I remember thinking— this was about a year and a half ago—if only I was a light-skinned black chick I could make it on my voice, not have to do this shit.”

“Michael saw you perform . . .”

“I guess he was in a particular mode at the time.” Nicki tapped her cigarette over the ashtray, maybe giving it some thought. “Sees me up there thrashing, this chick in geekwear, shitkickers, hair under my arms . . . He still won't let me shave. I guess I fill some need. He works, I work and in between we kick back. We do drugs, but not all the time. I wouldn't call either of us toxic. We play tennis, we have a
screening room, a satellite dish, twelve TV sets, seventeen phones, a houseman, maids, a laundress, gardeners, a guy who comes twice a week to check out the cars . . . But where am I really? Down in a basement with a sticky floor and three guys barely out of Hollywood High. I feel like I'm their mother.”

“Why don't you get married?”

“You mean to Michael? I don't think I would even if he asked me.”

“Why not?”

“What's the point? It's not like, wow, I'd be making it, something I've always wanted. You get married, then what? All it does is fuck up your life, especially marrying an actor. Look at Madonna . . . No, don't. I don't have all that underwear going for me. I'm a rock-and-roll singer and that's it, man, nothing else.” She looked off toward the bandstand. “Listen, I have to go. But when Michael comes, I'll introduce you.”

“Yeah, I wouldn't mind talking to him, he has time.”

“You want him to do a movie?”

“We're thinking about it.”

“Good luck.” Nicki stubbed out her cigarette before looking up at him again. “We're gonna open tonight, play around with the Stones' ‘Street Fighting Man.' What do you think?”

With that innocent straight face, putting him on.

It took Chili four seconds to find the album cover and the title in his mind from twenty years ago, the concert recorded live at the Garden and Tommy playing the record over and over, Tommy at the time stoned on the Stones.

Chili said, straight-faced back to her, “From
Get Yer Ya-Ya's Out,
huh? That one?”

It got Nicki smiling at him, looking good, those nice blue eyes shining. She said, “You're a cool guy, Chil, without even trying.”

 

They'd start a number, race into it and stop and Nicki would play part of it over on her bull's-eye guitar, slower, smoother, and then one of the guitar players would pick it up, imitating, give a nod and the drummer would kick them off again. They might be good—Chili couldn't tell. Hearing a line of music by itself, when Nicki showed them how, it sounded okay, but all of them playing together came out as noise and was irritating.

Thinking of that album cover again, he seemed to recall a guy in an Uncle Sam hat jumping up in the air with a guitar in each hand. He liked the Rolling Stones then, back in the hippie days, all the flakes running around making peace signs. It made him think of the time they grabbed this hippie, dragged him into Tommy Carlo's cousin's barbershop and zipped all his fuckin hair off with the clippers. He thought of that and started thinking of Ray Bones again and Leo the drycleaner, his calling Leo dumb for leaving three hundred grand in a hotel-room closet, and where was it now? Under his bed at the Sunset Marquis. He'd check, make sure Leo and Annette had taken off, just to be on the safe side. Later tonight he'd call Fay, tell her to look for three hundred big ones coming by Express Mail. Put it in one of those containers they gave you at the post office. He'd hang on to the extra ten grand. Maybe pay off Ray Bones, get that out of the way, or maybe not. But the three hundred, basically, was Fay's. Let her do whatever she wanted with it. Two to one she'd tell a friend of hers about it and pretty soon the suits would come by, knock on the door, flash their I.D.'s . . .

He wondered what would've happened if he'd brought Fay with him to Vegas . . .

And realized he was thinking of it as a movie again, the way he had told it to Harry and Karen, but seeing new possibilities, getting the woman, Fay, into the story more, looking at it the same way he had looked at
Lovejoy
and saw what was needed. Fay comes to L.A. with him . . .

Except it wouldn't be
him,
it would be an actor, Jesus, like Robert De Niro playing the shylock. And for Fay . . .

Karen.
Why not? Karen even had kind of a you-all accent, though it wasn't as downhome as the way Fay talked. Okay, now, by the time they get to L.A. they realize they're hot for each other and aren't even sure they want to find her husband, Leo, except he's got all that fuckin dough. Do they want it? They know somebody who does, Ray Bones, he's coming after them and he'll kill for that money.

It didn't sound too bad.

You have Leo pulling the scam on the airline in the opening . . .

Or, no, you start with the shylock and Fay waiting for Leo to come home from the track, while actually he's out at the airport getting smashed and the jet takes off without him and goes down in the swamp, blows up.

So you have the shylock, basically a good guy, a former shylock, played by Bobby De Niro. You have Karen Flores making her successful comeback as Fay . . . She wouldn't have a sweaty job, she could be something else, an entertainer, a singer. You have Leo . . . You wouldn't have Harry in it or the limo guys—it wasn't a movie about making a movie—but
you'd have Ray Bones in it. Leo would be a tough one to cast. Get an actor who could play a good sleazeball . . . It took Chili a moment to realize the room was quiet. Nicki and her guys were looking this way, but not at him. He looked over . . .

And saw Michael Weir.

It was, it was Michael Weir crossing the room from the stairs, giving Nicki a wave, the other hand in his pants pocket, baggy gray pants too long for him. Chili saw that as part of the whole picture, his first look at Michael Weir in person, white Reeboks too. But what caught and held his attention was Michael Weir's jacket. It was like the one left at Vesuvio's twelve years ago, that worn-out World War Two flight jacket nobody wanted. It was exactly like it. On a guy that made seven million bucks a movie.

Now Michael Weir had his hand raised to the band. Chili heard him say, “Hey, guys,” and it was his voice, Chili recognized it from movies. Michael Weir was good at accents, but you could still tell his voice, kind of nasal. The cockrockers gave him a nod, not too impressed, these young dropouts with their hair and their guitars. Now it looked like Michael was joking around with them, doing the moonwalk and pretending he was strumming a guitar. He was good, but the guys still didn't seem impressed. Michael turned to Nicki and right away she grabbed his arm and Chili saw them coming this way, Nicki doing the talking, Michael Weir looking up and then Nicki looking up as she said, “Chil? I'd like you to meet Michael.”

Chili got to his feet, ready to shake hands with a superstar. What surprised him now was how short the guy was in real life.