“I’m okay to drive.” Jimmy had to hang on to the counter. He had stood up too fast.
“I’ll take you home. You can get a buddy to bring you back here tomorrow and pick up your wheels.”
Jimmy sat down again and rested his head in his hands.
Brimley patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on your car for you. What are you driving?”
Chapter 23
“I don’t know how you found me, but make it snappy,” said Lashonda, pacing, a black wireless microphone dangling from her earpiece. All twelve phone lines on her board were blinking. “You got five minutes, and that’s only ’cause you say you going to write something nice about Sugar.”
Jimmy followed her as she walked her spacious living room in Pacific Palisades, the house a half-acre view property with a swimming pool and a tennis court. “You were the police dispatcher who took that 911 call on the Heather Grimm homicide.”
“Weren’t no homicide call.” Lashonda listened to her earpiece as the board switched lines again. It was on a thirty-second interval— Jimmy had timed it. “It was a four one five domestic disturbance call. Wasn’t till Sugar got there, it turned into a homicide call.”
“Right.”
“What happened to your face? You ask somebody a question they didn’t like?”
Jimmy smiled, and it hurt. One side of his face was still swollen from his pick-up basketball game with the Butcher, his eye blackened. “The reason that Sugar took the call that night—”
“’Cause lazyass Reese and Hargrove was on another call and wasn’t in no hurry to take a four one five. Sugar broke in, told me he was in the area. Everybody knows that.” Lashonda peered at Jimmy over her half-glasses, a well-dressed, smooth-skinned black woman with four-inch nails and a turban of hair rising high above her head. “You wasting my time.”
“Sugar was off shift. Did he jump in like that very often?”
“Teresa, you blowing it,” Lashonda said, talking to someone on the end of the microphone. “The client wants to talk about himself, and you keep bringing up your own damn aura.” She looked at Jimmy. “Why you asking how many times Sugar grabbed calls after he went off shift?”
“I told you—”
“Don’t you
ever
say you sorry, Marvin,” said Lashonda. “If you say her daddy on the other side, wants to let her know he’s fine, and she tell you her daddy is driving an Oakland city bus, you don’t say you made a mistake. You say, sometimes you see things before they happen, but that don’t make them less true. Lashonda’s Spiritual Hotline
never
wrong. You got it?” She looked at Jimmy again. “I know what you told me, mister. If I was stupid, I’d still be answering police calls instead of working for myself.” Her face flattened out with anger. “This about Sugar’s pension? You trying to get him in trouble after all this time, just ’cause he grabbed a little overtime once in a while?”
“No.”
“Sugar’s a good man, he don’t talk down to a body. Not like some of them police, looking down on woman, making cracks, thinking he was high and mighty because he carried a gun and a badge. Sugar—” Lashonda wagged a finger at someone who wasn’t there. “Deborah, you being too specific. Not France.
Travel.
Not quit his job.
Experience life changes.
Another thing, girl, you talking too fast. At four-ninety-nine a minute, don’t be in any hurry.” She looked at Jimmy. “Sugar was real people. He didn’t hold himself any better than the rest of us.”
“Lashonda, I don’t care if Sugar got paid overtime or not. I just want to know if he freelanced calls on a regular basis. Just to help out.”
“Sugar Brimley was one fine policeman. Most of them, when they clocked out, they was gone. Not Sugar. He was always ready to fill in. You need help, Sugar was your man.” Lashonda pressed the earpiece, listening, waving Jimmy away.
Jimmy headed for the front door. He was grateful to Brimley for saving him from the Butcher, but the idea of an off-duty cop grabbing a call, a detective no less—it had made him wonder. His hand on the doorknob, he looked back at Lashonda overseeing her network of psychic counselors, impressed at the way she could keep a dozen calls going in her head, orchestrating the give-and-take, the need for reassurance. For answers. Jimmy could use a few answers himself.
Chapter 24
Jimmy found Samantha Packard’s red Jaguar—license plate number 863 YSA, according to the DMV—in the parking lot of the Santa Monica Pro Sports Club. He drove right past it and eased into a slot in visitors’ parking.
Jimmy had called Packard’s agent that morning hoping to get a home phone number, but Packard had been dropped two years ago, according to the receptionist. She directed him to a smaller agency. The agent there was giddy at Jimmy’s interest, suggesting that the three of them sit down for lunch and talk about Packard’s next project. Jimmy had told her that he was just quote-checking for a piece on Garrett Walsh’s funeral. The agent shook off her disappointment after a suitable grieving period and gave him the number.
The two calls Jimmy made to Packard’s house were a bust. The housekeeper answered both times, and when he asked to speak to Mrs. Packard, he was told to leave a name and phone number for a return call. He declined. Miss Chatterbox, the society editor at SLAP, had been more help, telling Jimmy that Samantha Packard worked out regularly at the Pro Sports Club.
“Can I help you, sir?” The tanning-bed Adonis behind the front desk looked like he had come out of some breeding program that had succeeded beyond its wildest expectations. His white polo shirt had
Sandor
written in small letters above his heart. “Sir?”
“I’m considering joining. I’d like a tour of the facility.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“You should have made an appointment.”
“I feel bad about that too.”
Sandor didn’t react. He stared at Jimmy and finally came around the back of the desk, replaced by a female of the same perfect species who appeared from a nearby alcove. For all Jimmy knew there were hundreds of them stacked up back there, an army of glorious beings in white shorts and polo shirts programmed to say “May I help you?” without really meaning it.
“Thanks,” said Jimmy.
“You should have made an appointment,” Sandor repeated as he sauntered past the marble entryway. He glanced over at Jimmy. “I can see why you’re interested though. You have decent muscle bellies, but you’re not doing anything with them.”
“I know.” Jimmy had no idea what a muscle belly was.
“The initiation fee is ten thousand dollars. Dues are four hundred a month,” said Sandor. “You still want the tour?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good for you. Fitness is the best investment a person can make.”
They walked through the men’s locker room, Sandor reciting statistics in a dry monotone: four single-sex Jacuzzis, two saunas, a private aromatherapy spa, and three hundred individual lockers. Jimmy noted four TVs in the waiting room, all of them tuned to business channels. No sports. He commented on that, but Sandor said he didn’t understand what Jimmy’s point was.
Sandor pushed open the doors to the locker room, almost knocked down an older man in a three-piece suit, and walked on without apologizing.
“This is the coed weight room,” said Sandor, leading Jimmy through the large, well-lit, immaculate room filled with Nautilus, Hydro-Press, and every other form of resistance equipment made. The floor was deeply cushioned, and all the walls were mirrored. Jimmy showed interest in everything, looking around while Sandor continued his spiel. There were plenty of people in the weight room, most of them beautiful fit women in skimpy, high-fashion breathable fabrics, but he didn’t see Samantha Packard.
They toured the tennis courts, the squash courts, the four swimming pools, and the six aerobics studios. No Samantha Packard. Jimmy was just about to ask Sandor if he knew her when he spotted her through a large widow, doing yoga asanas in a room full of other women. She was sweating. They all were sweating. The yoga mats were covered with thick towels, and the window dripped with steam. From the moment he walked into the Pro Sports Club, Jimmy had not seen anyone sweat—the air-conditioning was frigid. So why was Samantha Packard sweating?
Sandor tapped the glass. “Thermal yoga,” he explained. “Thermostat in the room is set at a hundred and ten degrees. Keeps the muscles limber and pushes out the toxins.”
“Must be a regular Love Canal in there.”
“You need to bulk up more than you need yoga,” said Sandor. “Let me show you—”
“I’d like to stick around here for a few more minutes and see what’s going on.”
Sandor checked his watch. “I wanted to show you the virtual-reality stationary bike stations. You can bicycle across the Alps or twenty different cities in the world.”
Jimmy watched Samantha Packard bending backward, hands clasped over her head. Her leotard was soaked, her dark shoulder-length hair lank against her neck. He remembered his brother, Jonathan, doing yoga exercises in the ocean off Newport Beach early one morning, the water so cold Jimmy could barely feel his feet after walking out to him.
“We should move along,” said Sandor.
“That’s Samantha Packard,” said Jimmy, pointing. “I think I’ll stick around until the class lets out. I’d like to talk to her about the club, see how she likes it.”
Sandor seemed uncomfortable. “That’s not a good idea.”
“It’s all right. Samantha and I have met before.”
“Then wait and meet her again off premises. We can’t afford the liability.”
Jimmy waved to Samantha Packard through the steamed glass. She pretended not to see him, folding her hands in front of her chest. Praying for a cool breeze, maybe.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Her husband shows up as soon as the class is over. He’s very . . . protective. I try to stay out of his way. We all do.”
“Really?” Jimmy pretended surprise. “Mick seems pretty relaxed to me.”
“You know Mr. Packard?” Sandor squinted. “I don’t think so. If you knew Mr. Packard, you wouldn’t be waving at his wife.”
Chapter 25
“You are early.” The man’s disapproval was evident even through the intercom.
“Traffic was light. If you want, I can circle the driveway for fifteen or twenty minutes, but I have to warn you, I need a new muffler.”
The intercom was silent. Then Jimmy heard the elevator descending. The doors opened, and he stepped in. He could see the Pacific Ocean sparkling as he rode the glass elevator up eighty or ninety feet to Michael Danziger’s house, an ugly modernist assemblage of planes and cubes perched atop the highest of the Malibu Hills. He stood in the center of the private elevator, watching the ground rapidly fall away under him as he rose into the morning sun. When the doors slid open, he was still blinking.
A slim man cinched into a red jacket glared at him as the doors slid open, but Jimmy didn’t apologize. He liked being early for interviews. Sometimes he would be asked to wait, but usually he got ushered in, and the time dislocation slightly tilted the emotional playing field in his favor. The man in the red jacket turned on his heel.
Jimmy followed him along the outside of the house and out onto a huge redwood deck. He could see almost to Santa Barbara to the northwest, the dry brown hills shimmering with heat. L.A. was spread out across the southeast, wrapped in freeways, half hidden under a haze of smog, but Danziger’s house was serenely above the carcinogenic fog. West was the Pacific, dark and deep and teeming with cold-blooded life.
The man in the red jacket bent down on one knee, seeming to speak into the deck.
Closer now, Jimmy could see a twelve-foot-long rectangular jet-pool built into the redwood. A man was hanging onto the side, water churning around him.
The man flipped a switch, and the water stopped. He pushed his swim goggles back onto his forehead. “You’re early,” he said to Jimmy, smiling. “I hope you don’t mind if I finish my workout. Raymond will bring you orange juice or coffee. We can talk over breakfast when I’m done.”
Raymond tugged his jacket, shot Jimmy a dirty look, then headed toward the house.
Danziger hit the switch again. Powerful jets pushed him to the back of the pool. He trod water, tugged his goggles back into place, and started swimming against the artificial current.
Jimmy sat down at the patio table nearest the pool. Danziger was a strong swimmer, with a powerful kick and an economical freestyle stroke—his mouth barely cleared the surface of the water to take a breath. Raymond came out after a few minutes with a glass pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice and two thick cut-crystal tumblers, leaving as silently as he had come. Jimmy sipped at his juice, watching Danziger; he knew the jet-pool was an efficient way to get a workout, but Jimmy didn’t like treadmills. It made him feel like a gerbil. Not that the thermal yoga class at the Pro Sports Club was any more appealing—he could still see the water droplets running down the inside of the glass, Samantha Packard avoiding his gaze through the steam. He had waited in the parking lot, hoping that she would come out to her car alone, but Mick Packard had accompanied her, swaggering, one hand clasped on her arm. Jimmy thought he saw Samantha glance around as she eased into the car, but he couldn’t be sure. Maybe Michael Danziger could tell him what he needed to know.
Danziger had been head of production at Epic International, the studio chief who had hired Garrett Walsh to make
Hammerlock
after he won those two Academy Awards, the man who had greenlighted the film and okayed the budget—the man who had ultimately taken the fall for that debacle and several other high-profile failures. Danziger had been eased out five years later in a bloodless coup, given a cushy severance package and an independent production deal with the studio. He had produced three pictures since leaving EI, none of which had made money.
Jimmy finished his orange juice, slowly chewing the pulp. Restless now, he got up and walked to the edge of the deck, leaning against the railing. A hawk drifted overhead, riding the thermals, and Jimmy could see a woman horseback-riding along a nearby ridge, riding easily in jeans and a creamy white shirt, her long, dark braid flopping against her shoulders. Horses scared the shit out of him. They were too big, too strong, and just smart enough to sense that he was intimidated. He watched the woman until he heard the jet-pool suddenly stop, and turned back.
Danziger put his hands on the edge of the pool and easily launched himself onto the deck. He stood there dripping in the sunshine, goggles pushed back, water glistening across his tan. His bio listed him as fifty-three, but he was still broad chested, lean and muscular, an aging preppy, handsome as any of the stars of his recent flops. Raymond appeared with a white terrycloth robe and held it out while Danziger stepped into it, then knotted it insouciantly around his waist. “Nothing like a swim to get the blood flowing. You look like you work out yourself, Mr. Gage.”
“It’s Jimmy, and yeah—I play a little basketball.”
“I’m not much for team sports myself.” Danziger waved at the patio table. “Shall we?”
Raymond ferried a carafe of espresso to the table, poured Danziger orange juice, then set a half-papaya dabbed with nonfat vanilla yogurt before each of them.
“If there’s anything you’d like, just let Raymond know,” said Danziger, spooning out papaya, stopping halfway to his mouth. “Did you get your invitation to the press screening of
My Girl Trouble
?”
“I did.”
“There’s been some negative buzz. I don’t know who starts these things, but I hope you’ll approach the film with an open mind.” Danziger smiled. “That sounds rather desperate, doesn’t it? In fact, I’m quite confident that the film will find its audience. We tested very well among single women aged twenty-two to thirty-six.” He blotted his lips with the napkin. “Still, anything you could do to help would be appreciated.”
“I’m not reviewing many films these days, but I’d be happy to mention it in my article.”
Danziger scraped the last of the orange-colored flesh away from the rind. “This article you’re doing . . .”
“It’s about
Hammerlock.
I’m using the production as a metaphor for the grand ambition and ultimate destruction of Garrett Walsh.”
“Hammerlock
?
”
The water beaded along Danziger’s eyebrows gleamed in the sun. “Why would I want to rehash one of my worst failures?”
“I thought you got a bad rap on that.”
“Tell that to the board of directors of Epic International.” Danziger looked off toward the ocean, and Jimmy followed him.
Fishing boats bobbed in the far distance, heading out toward Catalina, and Jimmy thought of Sugar Brimley, wondered what he was catching today. Jimmy had called a couple of times in the last few days, checking in, hoping to prod the retired detective into sharing his files, but his calls hadn’t been returned. He watched the boats shimmer at the edge of his vision, losing definition until they were indefinable from the water.
“I’d be happy to help you with your article,” said Danziger. “I’ll have my office send you a press kit on
My Girl Trouble
too. Just in case.”
“Sounds good.” Jimmy pulled out a mini-recorder and set it on the table between them. “I’ve talked to some of the crew. They say the production was in trouble early on, and most of them blame the fact that the cameras started rolling before there was a completed script.” He looked at Danziger. “Wasn’t that a bit—optimistic of you? Okaying a ninety-million-dollar film without a script?”
“Optimistic?” Danziger shook his head. “It was
insane,
but after the success of Walsh’s first film, every studio in town was eager to hand him a blank check. He actually got better offers than mine from some of the majors, but Walsh and I hit it off. He said he thought he could work with me.” He leaned toward Jimmy. “And for your information,
Hammerlock
was originally slated for sixty-five million. It was supposed to be a six-months shoot; Walsh was arrested during the tenth month, and it
still
wasn’t finished.”
“I met Walsh just once. It was after he got out of prison, and he was pretty messed up, living in a rusty trailer, strung out on pills and booze. What was he like before?”
“Ambitious, egotistical, demanding, volatile, insecure.” Danziger stirred his espresso. “Brilliant, insightful, generous, and
funny,
God, he used to make me laugh. Garrett was the most talented individual I ever met. I’ll never forgive him for throwing it all away.”
“Were you aware that he was using when you signed him to direct
Hammerlock
?”
“If abstinence from drugs were a prerequisite, Hollywood would be run by Mormons.” Danziger shrugged. “I thought he had it under control.
Garrett
thought he had it under control. We were both wrong.”
“His arrest cost the studio millions, but you stood up for him at his sentencing. That took a lot of courage. I read the editorials afterward. The papers mocked you for pleading for leniency; they said you were hoping to salvage
Hammerlock.
”
“I stood up for Garrett because I believed in his talent. He wrecked my picture, he put my job in jeopardy, and he killed a young girl, but he was a great artist. The film business is filled with hacks who consider themselves artists, but Garrett was the real thing.”
“Walsh was working on a screenplay after he was released. Did he contact you about it?”
“Right after he got out. I told him he’d have to try someplace else.”
“I’m surprised.”
“So was he. I told him that even if I still ran a studio, I’d have a hard time selling a Garrett Walsh project to the executive committee. Not because he killed that girl. You know this town; we believe in second chances, as long as you put enough asses in the seats. No, Garrett committed the one unforgivable sin: he cost the studio money.” His eyes were cool, still faintly ringed with red from his swim goggles. “Maybe if I were still running EI, I could have thrown him a bone, a low-budget feature or a direct-to-video for the foreign market, but I don’t work there anymore. When I left the studio, I got a three-picture, first-look deal with them. That’s over now. I don’t even have a production office on the lot anymore. I had to raise the capital for
My Girl Trouble
from Europe.”
Jimmy looked around at Danziger’s mansion. “I guess the secret of being an independent producer is never to tap your own bank account.”
“One of them.” Danziger had a great set of choppers, white and flat, fakes so perfect that they looked natural.
“During the shooting of
Hammerlock,
the papers were filled with stories about the rapport between Walsh and Mick Packard. They supposedly liked going out together after work, street racing their Ferraris, and hitting the joints. I heard a different story from people who worked the shoot. They said the set was toxic, that Walsh and Packard hated each other.”
Danziger looked at Jimmy, amused.
“You can be as off the record as you want. I just want to know what happened.”
“Let’s just say that the publicist assigned to the project was paid six thousand dollars a week, and she was worth every penny of it.”
Jimmy picked at his plate, allowing the silence to sit there.
“The package looked good when we first were negotiating,” explained Danziger. “Mick had box office, but no credibility with the critics; Garrett had credibility, but had never worked on a big-budget film before. At first things went well.” His laugh was warm and confident. “But by the second day . . .”
“Did they have differences about the direction of the film, screen time?”
“Oh, there was more than enough ego to go around, but that’s true of any shoot. You
expect
the talent to butt heads. In fact, the most maddening aspect of the failure of the film was that Mick had never done better work. I got involved about midway through the shoot, and the dailies were incredible. Who knew Mick could act?
Garrett
did— the only chemistry between the two of them was
bad
chemistry, but Garrett got things out of Mick that no director had done before or since.” Danziger turned his face into the breeze from the west. He had a great profile. “The problem was tying all the footage together. Garrett kept reshooting scenes that were already perfect. It wasn’t that he was displeased with the performances—he just kept changing his mind about the plot. There were so many twists. I don’t think even
he
knew where it was going.”
“Is that why you started showing up on set? A studio chief that makes house calls—that doesn’t happen very often.”
“I had no choice. Garrett ignored my memos and barely spoke to me when I got him on the phone. I should have fired him, but we were in too deep by that point. When I showed up, I found all these useless people, Mick’s entourage, Garrett’s entourage. That software fellow who bankrolled his first feature
—he
was there, for God’s sake, and don’t ask me why. Eyeballing the starlets, probably. Garrett had so many of them lined up, he should have assigned them numbers—except that would have taken away the pleasure of playing them off against each other. Garrett and his little intrigues.”
Jimmy hadn’t heard about the software entrepreneur being on the set. “The women. Was there anyone in particular?”
“With Garrett? You must be kidding.” Danziger massaged an acupressure point at the base of his skull with a knuckle. “Are you referring to the coke whore?”
Jimmy had no idea what Danziger was talking about.
Danziger allowed himself a slight frown. “One of Garrett’s dealers had a girlfriend, a spectacular woman from what I heard. Evidently Garrett got a little frisky with the lady in question at a party, and the lady was . . . receptive. Shortly thereafter Garrett alerted studio security to double-check the passes of anyone wanting access to the set.”
“Are you sure she was the dealer’s girlfriend? Could she have been his wife?”
Danziger chuckled. “I don’t know. Do drug dealers have wives?”
“Did Walsh mention the dealer’s name?”
“Hardly.”
Jimmy didn’t like the way Danziger took pleasure in telling him no. He was probably a real thrill in a pitch meeting, getting a pedicure while some screenwriter crawled. “Walsh was pretty up front about his escapades. It sounds like he enjoyed his reputation. But did you ever hear of him having any
secret
affairs?”