Author: Matt Goldman
Category: Mystery
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/matt-goldman/page,8,556903-dead_west.html
I said, “Where’s Jameson?”
“I don’t know. He said something came up and he had to go. What happened? Why didn’t you get the car from the valet?”
“Did Jameson say he was going to see August?”
“No. He didn’t say anything.”
“Strange.”
Ebben said, “Why didn’t you pick up the car?”
I said, “Your agent, Sebastiano, has some issues.”
“I know,” said Ebben. “That’s what makes him a good agent.”
“We had a not-so-great conversation while waiting for the cars.”
“Is that why you walked away?”
“I didn’t walk away.”
Ebben said, “Yes, you did. I got the car.”
“You got the car, but I didn’t walk away.”
“I’m confused.”
His cell rang. I saw Sebastiano’s name pop up on the car’s screen. Ebben pushed a button on the steering wheel and said, “Hey, Sebastiano. What’s up?”
Sebastiano’s voice came through loud and clear on the car’s speakers. “Is that motherfucker with you?”
“What motherfucker?”
“Nils Shapiro.”
Ebben said a tentative, “Yes…”
“Where’s my car, Shapiro?”
Ebben said, “What’s he talking about?”
I said, “It’s at Cedars-Sinai.”
Sebastiano said, “Where at Cedars-Sinai?”
“In a no-parking zone.”
“You fucking asshole. You stole my car.”
I glanced at Ebben. His eyes smiled.
Sebastiano said, “Are the keys in it?”
“No. I have the keys.”
“Well, what fucking good is that going to do me?!”
I said, “You may find this hard to believe, but I wasn’t thinking about what was good for you.”
“That car cannot be towed!” said Sebastiano. “It will ruin the transmission!”
“Well,” I said, “you shouldn’t have threatened me.”
“I did not threaten you. I just suggested you go back to the middle of nowhere.”
I said, “How’s your pal Vasily Zaytzev?”
“Who?”
“Uh huh. Listen, Sebastiano. We’ll drop the keys at your office after our meeting.” I turned to Ebben. “Where are we going?”
Ebben said, “Fox. It’s ten minutes from Sebastiano’s office.”
“Hear that, Sebastiano? You’ll have them in an hour or two. Then you can find a pal to drive you to the impound lot.”
“Ebben,” said Sebastiano, “we’ll talk later.”
Ebben said, “Sorry about all this.” But he wasn’t sorry. He had a kid’s mischievous joy in his eyes.
Sebastiano said, “Yep,” and hung up.
Ebben asked me what was going on, and I told him about my exchange with Sebastiano at the valet stand and that I kind of stole his car. “You shouldn’t have done that.” Then he laughed. “But it’s pretty awesome you did.”
“Why do you work with that guy?”
Ebben lifted a devil-worship-themed energy drink can from the cup holder. He took a sip and said, “He’s powerful. He can get me any meeting I want. He can team me up with the best writers, actors, and directors. Studios love him. He makes things happen. Who’s that Russian you mentioned?”
“Vasily Zaytzev is the name of the eye patch who threatened us.” He nodded and said nothing. “Vasily’s words were, ‘One pretty girl is dead. No one else needs to be dead.’ He was at Juliana’s memorial or celebration or whatever you want to call it, so it was an easy threat to make whether or not he had something to do with her death.”
Ebben said, “That’s worrisome.”
“The other thing is I got the plates of the Mercedes SUV he drove to Brit’s house last night. It may also be the same SUV that forced you off Mulholland Drive. I had my partner, Ellegaard, run the plates. That’s how I got Vasily’s name. I also got his address. I’ll grab Jameson this afternoon and we’ll go say hello. See if we can learn anything more.”
Ebben kept his eyes on the road. “Thank you.”
“One more thing. Are you comfortable with me telling your grandmother about The Creative Collective?”
“Sure. I don’t care.”
“Why didn’t you tell her?”
“The honest answer is I don’t like her all that much. She’s not a nice person. Treats my father like shit. Hates my mother. I don’t want her in my life.”
“Can’t blame you for that.”
“But tell her this because it’s the truth: I put $1 million of my own money into The Creative Collective. That’s it. The rest I’ve raised both domestically and abroad. I won’t bore you with a lot of details, but basically fifty percent of the collective’s profits will go back to investors and fifty percent will go to production participants. The reason that’s attractive to investors is our upfront costs are low because the big salaries—actors, directors, writers—are working for scale.”
“For scale?”
“The minimum amount required by union contracts. Those involved in the production will make their money on the back end if there’s back-end profit. Just like the investors. And we’re much more likely to see a back-end profit because, like I said, our upfront costs are low. Also, our accounting is legitimate. Make a deal for back-end profit with a studio, they’ll make sure they never show a profit. Ever. They’ll repave the entire studio lot with diamonds and charge it off to your production before they pay a cent of profit participation. But our books will be wide open. Is any of this making sense?”
I said, “Low upfront costs. Everyone makes money if the project makes money. It’s all out in the open and legit.”
“You got it. I used a prospectus to raise money. I’ll give you one. Between what I’ve just told you and the prospectus, that should convince my grandmother I’m behaving prudently. Get her off my back and get her off yours.”
I said, “I like the sound of that.”
“You know,” said Ebben, “you grow up in Minnesota with a dream to make good movies and TV shows. That’s it. Some quality work you can be proud of. Work that people will still watch when you’re long dead. You get born into a family that makes you luckier than winning the lottery. You educate yourself about money, work with money, study people who have and who have lost money. Then you study film. From its beginning. My grandmother didn’t tell you I have a second degree in film, did she? That’s because she doesn’t know. I have an MFA, and she has no idea. But go ahead and tell her that, too, because I don’t give a damn about her anymore.”
Ebben Mayer was on a roll. Something about riding in cars gets people talking. Maybe that’s why powerful people pull up in limos and tell people to get in. If I ever become powerful I’ll give it a try.
Ebben said, “I have worked hard to be where I am right now. Since I was sixteen years old. Studied hard and got into good schools. Made my own money as an investment banker and in private equity. Serious money. I could have done this without my trust fund. In fact, I have done this without my trust fund. I had seven figures in the bank. My trust fund is a safety net and that’s not nothing, I know. But still. I’ve earned this opportunity. I’m not going to let some thug take it away from me.”
Ebben shifted into the turning lane to take a left on Pico Boulevard. The actual turn would not happen until the light turned green then red then green then red then green one more time.
I said, “But isn’t the show business industry vested in keeping the status quo? Change scares people. Makes them do stupid things. The Creative Collective is like a nature conservancy that swoops in and buys up a bunch of land, taking it away from hunters and developers. You’ve threatened their way of life. And now one of them might be threatening you.”
Ebben said, “But why would they? I’ve greenlit one low-budget film. I’ve cut out the middleman and the bankers, so to speak, but so what? It happens every day. Blair Witch Project, Nap
oleon Dynamite, El Mariachi, and thousands of other projects were made outside the system. They didn’t change the industry, and I won’t change the industry. Upfront money has always had the loudest voice and it always will. Anyone who’s threatened by what I’m doing isn’t thinking clearly.”
My phone buzzed. It was August Willingham the Third. I answered.
“Hey, Shap. Is Jameson with you?”
“No. I was hoping he was with you.”
“He should have showed up to practice half an hour ago. Shit.”
“Did you try calling him?”
“Of course. His phone goes straight to voicemail. Doesn’t even ring.”
“All right. If he doesn’t show up in an hour, we’ll go look for him.”
“In L.A.? I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
I had to admit, neither did I.
15
Security wasn’t expecting me to attend Ebben’s meeting, so it took a few phone calls to get past the guard gate at Fox. Then I sat in on Ebben’s get-together. Three executives all under the age of thirty seemed thrilled to meet him. One confused Minneapolis with Indianapolis, a common mistake if you’ve never lived more than five miles from an ocean. Another just wanted to talk about Bunion Brit’s movie For the People, gushed about taking the fight for equality to the next level. And the third said nothing and took notes, as if what they were discussing was important enough to be documented. When it was over, business cards were handed out like mints at a halitosis convention, then we drove to a glass tower in Century City to drop off Sebastiano’s keys.
Ebben idled in the delivery area, and I approached a security desk in the lobby. Half a dozen navy-jacketed security guards wearing matching white shirts and red neckties stood behind a white marble monolith. They looked like underwear models and wore earpieces. A guard with a crew cut asked me to sign in. I said I wasn’t going in. I just needed to drop off some car keys for one of the building’s tenants. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“It’s time you and me have a talk.” I didn’t have to turn around to know it was Sebastiano. “My office. Ebben will be back to pick you up in an hour.”
I could have refused and walked away, but sometimes I feel like a dentist. My job involves picking and probing and, when I find something rotten, I feel obligated to drill into it.
The security guard handed me a card on a lanyard and said, “You’ll need that to get upstairs. And I have to see your ID.”
I showed the security guard my ID. He said, “Thank you, Mr. Shapiro. And please sign in.”
So I did. Name: Jim Rockford. Date: January 16. Time: 12:47.
The card on the lanyard allowed me to pass through a revolving door. Banks don’t have this much security. Art museums that house $50 million paintings don’t. Over-the-top security is a statement of self-importance, as if foreign spies are lurking about, waiting to steal that stupid Robin Hood doctor show idea.
We passed two assistants to enter Sebastiano’s office. One mentioned Sebastiano’s personal trainer asking to move 8:00 to 8:30 and the other said something about a screening tomorrow night on the Warner Bros. lot. Sebastiano responded to both and we entered his office. A lot of glass and steel and two separate seating areas, one upholstered in brown and white cowhide, the other in black and white cowhide, providing plenty of meeting space and both oriented toward a billboard-sized TV. Sebastiano had a stand-up desk because type A’s never sit, and a Fast and the Furious pinball machine to show that, even with all this success, he was still a kid at heart.
We sat on the brown and white cowhide, and a different assistant, not one of the two who sat out front, entered pushing a cart of food and beverages. Sandwiches and salads and cans and bottles. Some labels read gluten free, others dairy free, others vegan, and others paleo. The assistant asked if we wanted anything else, Sebastiano deferred to me, and I said, “Does he usually eat this much?”
The assistant noted Sebastiano’s smile, parroted it, then excused herself and left.
I said, “Well-trained kid.”
Sebastiano said, “That kid was top of her class at Harvard.”
“Huh. I would have figured a Harvard grad would get a more lofty job than sandwich pusher.”
Sebastiano smiled. “She just started working here. In three months, she’ll cover my desk. In a year, she’ll make agent. In five, she’ll make partner and pull down seven figures before she’s thirty. But we’re not here to talk about her. We’re here to talk about you. That was a bold move taking my car. I respect bold moves.”
“I’m not after your respect.”
He eyed the sandwiches but left them where they were. He said, “Ebben Mayer has let you into his inner circle. That doesn’t happen often. I won’t insult you by blowing a bunch of smoke up your ass so I’ll cut right to it. Ebben is one of my most important clients. That means I make his business my business. That includes his personal life. I don’t know exactly why he’s let you in or exactly how you fit in, but you do, so here you are and here we are. We’re going to be in each other’s lives now so we need to get along.”
I helped myself to a turkey sandwich and said, “I’m visiting. There’s a six-thirty flight I’m hoping to be on this evening. Then you’ll never see me again.”
“Why would you go back to Minnesota if Ebben wants you here? No offense, but everything is happening in Los Angeles. What’s happening in Minnesota?”
“I heard you say ‘no offense,’ but ‘what’s happening in Minnesota?’ is offensive. Saying ‘no offense’ doesn’t make it not offensive.”
“Yeah well, I’m not just talking shit—I’m from the Midwest. Danville, Illinois. Got a need-based scholarship to the University of Illinois. Then law school at Loyola. Worked as an AUSA in the Southern District of New York. That’s Manhattan. I lived in New York City. They wanted me to move to D.C. and slot me into DOJ, but I wanted to make some money so I came out here and worked my way up to all this.”
Did I ask for his résumé? Was I supposed to be impressed? Is that how everyone in Hollywood talks? I said, “This is a good turkey sandwich. Do you mind if I take another one for later?”
“Take all you want. The point I’m making, Nils, is I’ve lived in Illinois. I’ve also lived in New York and now I live in Los Angeles. I know what the coasts have to offer. I think you should spend more time out here and see how you feel about it.”
Huh. A few hours ago he told me to go back to Minnesota. Maybe these free sandwiches weren’t because Ebben brought me into his inner circle. Maybe Sebastiano wanted me in his. The big powerful agent and cheekbone show-off was trying to ingratiate himself, and in my experience, that meant he was afraid of me discovering something about him, something he didn’t want Ebben to know. He thought he could wine and dine me so I’d look the other way, but his efforts had the opposite effect. I wanted to look more closely.
I said, “Isn’t Ebben’s Creative Collective taking significant business from you?”
“I see it as one step back and two steps forward.”
“So one step forward?”
“Show business has been changing since we gathered around the fire in caves to hear stories. It’s always attracted the best and brightest storytellers. But even the smartest creatives can’t run a business. And under the glitz and glamour, this is a business like any other business. You have to make more money than you spend, otherwise you go poof. So the creatives will always need people like me.”
Sebastiano reached over and grabbed a salad marked paleo. “Doesn’t matter if their work is on the stage or in movie theaters or on TV or on the internet or beamed directly into people’s brains. Studios might go away. Networks might go away. Non-writing producers might go away. Hell, even publicity and advertising might go away. But if the creators are the bricks in the wall, then I’m the mortar. I connect the bricks to one another. I make them into something strong and durable that has purpose. Without me, they’re just a pile of bricks. With me, they can stand together for
eternity.”
I swallowed a mouthful of turkey sandwich. “You don’t have much of a self-esteem problem, do you?”
Sebastiano smiled. “I don’t have much of an anything problem.”
“But you have a me problem. That’s why I’m here.”
“The reason you’re here is because you’re not a problem. You were a potential problem but we’ve handled that. When you leave, you’ll be an asset for me, and I’ll be an asset for you.”
“All right. Can I ask a question?”
“That’s why we’re here. Get to know each other a little better.”
“Did you kill Juliana Marquez?”
“What?” No delay. No exaggerated facial expressions.
“She died of a caffeine overdose.”
“I know. From diet pills.”
“She took diet pills. But she wasn’t dangerous about it. I think she ingested a lethal dose of caffeine unsuspectingly. I think someone mixed caffeine powder into some food or drink and she consumed it.”
Sebastiano’s giant office was dead quiet. Unnaturally quiet. The interior walls were probably insulated to give the master agent and brick mortar the silence his genius demanded. He thought about what I’d said then took a sip of bubbly water. “Why would anyone want to kill Juliana?”
“They didn’t want to kill Juliana.”
“Now I’m really confused.”
“They wanted to kill Ebben.” I kept my eyes on Sebastiano. He held my stare for a good five seconds then looked away, stood, and walked over to a bowl of fruit on the credenza behind his desk. He picked up the whole bowl and returned with it, set it on the coffee table, and chose an apple.