Author: Matt Goldman
Category: Mystery
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/matt-goldman/page,11,556903-dead_west.html
“Did he punch with his left hand or right hand?”
Brit’s eyes looked up into her head then said, “Left. Why?”
20
I followed Debra out to the backyard. The air had cooled and smelled of jasmine. The sky glowed, reflecting city light back to all who sent it. Debra turned on a heat lamp. Its internal flame burned blue and hissed, and we sat on patio furniture that looked like big loaves of shredded wheat. A square of strung lights burned yellow over the patio, making everything look candlelit.
Debra said, “So you’re leaving.”
“Yes.”
She looked dubious. “Why did you come out here?”
“Ebben’s grandparents asked me to check in on him. They’re old and weren’t up for the trip.”
“They asked a private investigator to check in on their grandson?”
“Yes. Today’s private investigator is about more than damsels in distress and telephoto lenses.”
She flashed me a courtesy smile then took it back. Debra said, “I’d like Ebben to drive you to the airport.”
“I’d like that, too. But apparently, getting a ride to the airport in Los Angeles is harder than getting a ride to the moon.”
“I’m going to insist he drive you. And during that drive, I’d like you to convince him to drop For the People.” A helicopter circled overhead, sweeping its spotlight through the air. “We have to take these threats seriously. Making a movie is not worth jeopardizing anyone’s safety.”
The helicopter stopped and hovered and fixed its spotlight on whatever or whomever it had found, which seemed to be a couple blocks away. I said, “I agree. But what makes you think Ebben will listen to me?”
“You’re from Minnesota. He trusts you. You have nothing vested in the movie, so he knows you have no ulterior motive.”
“Do you?”
Debra looked to the side, her dangly earrings swung back and forth like fishing lures. She swung her head back toward me. “Of course I don’t have an ulterior motive. Don’t be insolent. I lose money if this movie doesn’t get made. Not only in fees but in the hundreds of hours I’ve spent helping to put it together. Movies don’t just happen. This isn’t fucking Entourage. The Creative Collective’s first film has to be a commercial and critical success. It has to make money to attract more investors. It has to be critically acclaimed to attract the best talent. There are no guarantees. In fact, this business fails most of the time. Drive by a multiplex and look at the titles. Ninety percent of those movies will be shit. But we have to at least try to make something good by eliminating all potential stumbling blocks, and a Russian thug committing battery against one of our producers while making verbal threats against the film is one big-ass stumbling block.”
“Then why don’t you call the police? They’ll either stop Vasily or, according to all of you, force the insurance company to cancel the film’s policy.”
Debra said, “I can’t call the police. My name would be on the report. My reputation would be shot, and I’d never work in this town again. I’d be wearing a blue vest at Walmart.”
“I find that hard to believe. All the misbehaving that goes on in this business and they’d bounce you out for filing a police report?”
“Talent can misbehave because they’re considered a limited resource. Writers, actors, directors, DPs, some on the business side who’ve built first-place networks and money-printing companies. But most of us work our asses off to make our monthly nut. We’re inside the circle, sure, but if we step out or, worse, get pushed out, it’s almost impossible to get back in.”
“Sounds like a friendly business.”
“It’s a cruel business. Fucking horrible to almost everyone in it. It’s sexist, racist, ageist. Do you know how hard it is for me to be a woman of a certain size? For every size twenty-two like me there are a hundred size twos and another hundred size zeros. Lane Bryant sends me a dozen cupcakes on my birthday. But I get the small chopped salad at La Scala hold the fucking dressing and everyone looks at me with expressions like, How dare you eat?
“Do you know what everyone says to me? You have such a pretty face. But what they’re really saying is it’s not my face’s fault. It’s mine. My lack of self-control. My laziness because they think I don’t exercise. My freezer full of Ben & Jerry’s which, by the way, does not exist.”
Debra dug a pack of cigarettes from her purse, stuck one in her mouth, and lit it with a gold Zippo. She sucked the tip orange, held the smoke a few seconds, exhaled it skyward, and said, “You think I wear these earrings because I think they’re beautiful? No. I wear dangly shiny pendulums so that’s what people focus on. Not my waistline or lack thereof. It’s not run-of-the-mill fat shaming. Not in Hollywood. It’s an image-based business. Success is perception. Thin is power. Rich is power. Sex is power. Fat is weak. Fat is dumb. Fat is incompetent. I have to fucking bleed just to exist in this business. And one fuckup can mean death.”
Sounded a little over-the-top, but people under stress with no vision for a way out can get a little crazy. I said, “If this business is so horrible, then why are you in it? There must be something good about it.”
Another inhale. She ashed on the patio. Another exhale. “It’s what I know. It’s what I’m good at. It’s what the world talks about. Once in a while, it’s incredibly rewarding. Your name gets on the screen, people you haven’t seen since third grade tweet you congratulations. Everyone back home follows your career. It’s a fucking ego boost and, honestly, anything else would bore me to death.” Debra smiled for the first time since I’d met her, and her suit of armor fell off. “I speak at events for young actors. Acting classes and cold-reading classes, showcases, things like that. Couple times a year, I let a desperate young actor pick me up. I take him home. Not that I’m horny or lonely or have any interest in seeing the guy again. But you know why I do it?”
I said, “I can think of a lot of reasons why you’d do it.”
“Well, you probably can’t think of my reason. I do it so rumors spread. I do it for the affectation. Ironically, even my weight is an affectation. You need something to make you stand out in this town. I’m five feet eleven. I weigh 220 pounds. I wear shiny earrings. I pick up young men. I make an impression. The men don’t really want to fuck me but they tell their friends they did because they think having done so ups their chances in this business. Then I get all sorts of attention, which I don’t even want. But they remember me. They all remember me. That’s why I’m successful.”
“I thought you bled to survive in this business.”
“I do. I’m just saying you need more than that. You need to have your thing that makes you stick out. I’ve found it and I’m not going to lose it when a Russian thug kills someone to stop our movie. It’ll come out that we all knew about the threats then our careers are over. That’s why you’re going to convince Ebben to drop the Kate Lennon film.”
The helicopter hovered straight overhead, its spotlight shining east if I had my bearings straight. I said, “You sure are spouting a lot of information. Sounds to me like a sales job, and I hate sales jobs.”
“Of course it’s a sales job. I want you to convince Ebben—”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. But I bet you’re more interested in playing the long game. And your long game is to either prevent The Creative Collective from taking off so you can produce Ebben’s movies or to step in and run the operation if it succeeds. That would also make you a producer. You’ve made it clear that standing out from the crowd is what it’s all about, and you can’t stand out from the crowd on just commissions. You have to produce. That’s what I’ve learned in the thirty goddamn hours I’ve been in this town. And FYI, you got competition when it comes to running The Creative Collective. Sebastiano’s gunning for the job, too.”
Debra smirked. “Sebastiano. He’s out of the business.”
“Really? I had lunch in his office today. Had a couple of assistants sitting out front. Another one waiting on him. Seemed like he wa
s in the business to me.”
“I hear otherwise.”
I stood. “Well, I’ll ask if Ebben will drive me to the airport. For what it’s worth, if you didn’t live in this town, if you lived in Minneapolis or Boston or Chicago or Atlanta or Denver or anywhere else in the world, most men would love a date with you. A real date.”
She stared at me and said nothing. I took a couple steps toward the house then stopped, turned around, and said, “By the way, when I was outside Sebastiano’s office today, one of his assistants used her phone to photograph her computer screen. Do you know what that’s about?”
Debra’s front teeth sucked in her lower lip. She shut her eyes and let out a long “Fffffuck.” She looked at me and said, “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
21
Ebben did not want me to leave. He offered me my daily rate just to stay and do nothing. I politely declined and suggested he hire a bodyguard. He said he’d think about it and agreed to drive me to LAX. Said he wouldn’t mind a chat on the way there and he could catch up on Marc Maron’s podcast on the drive back home.
Eight o’clock P.M. and rush hour was still strong, clogging the city to a standstill. We were backed up behind a long line of red taillights running straight and long up a hill into nothing. The mini-malls and their signs pushed hard toward the street. Sidewalks served as boundaries between building and roadway but that seemed to be their only purpose. No one walked on them. A few people clumped up at bus stops. Human beings close off when using public transportation. But the Los Angeles bus riders appeared to have vacated their bodies. Their spirits would float along and rejoin their hosts when they got off the bus.
Despite the miles of mini-malls and endless signage and flood of light in pinks and blues and yellows and reds, despite the cars and helicopters and pedestrian-free streets, as if the city was run and occupied by only machines, Los Angeles felt like the Wild West. Ugly and brutal and exciting and beautiful and rife with opportunity. Abject poverty juxtaposed with in-your-face money. Beggars and Bentleys. A cardboard sign: pregnant and homeless held below a billboard: Emirates Airlines First Class Suites. Show up with nothing and this town will give you a chance to have everything. The rules were different here or maybe there were no rules. The Wild West.
I called The Line Hotel and checked out, then we drove in silence for fifteen minutes, covering a mile at most, then Ebben said out of the blue, “I’ll double your daily rate if you stay.”
“Stay and do what?”
“This. Hang with me. Live at the house. Maybe carry a gun in case Vasily shows up.”
“I understand why you want a bodyguard, but I’m far from that. I’m sure if you call Sebastiano, he’ll have one at the house within the hour. Seems like a guy who knows how to get things done.”
“Triple your rate?”
“Tempting, but I want to get back to my fiancée.”
“Yeah…” said Ebben. His voice shook soft and weak.
I felt like the biggest asshole on the planet telling a guy who had just lost his fiancée that I had one to get home to. Everything the guy was looking forward to washed away, and I’d just thrown the dirty water right back in his face. “I’m sorry. That was a terrible thing to say.”
“I know you didn’t mean it like that.”
I was eager to change the subject. “Just before we left, Debra pressured me to pressure you into dropping the For the People.”
“I’m not dropping the movie. I’m not telling Kate Lennon and Ava St. Clair thanks for taking a chance on me but I’ve changed my mind. I’m trying to attract talent, not scare it away.”
“I get it.”
“Why would she even suggest that? It makes me question why I hired her.”
“She’s taking Vasily’s threats seriously. She doesn’t want anyone else to get hurt. At least that’s what she’s saying. My gut is her motivation is more complicated than that.”
“I’ll talk to her tomorrow. This is such a weird business. The crap you go through to make a movie. Even when you’re funding it yourself. It’s like a house of cards. One wrong move and the whole thing falls down.”
Ebben’s phone rang. He took the call on speaker. The screen on the dash said it was from ACI.
A woman’s voice said, “I have Jay Rosenstein calling for Ebben Mayer.”
“This is Ebben.”
“Jay will be with you in a moment. Hold, please.”
Ebben said, “I wonder what this is about.”
“Who’s Jay Rosenstein?”
“The head of ACI. Founded the agency when he was twenty-eight.”
“Oh, I think I saw a thing on him on 60 Minutes. Left Ukraine when he was a kid.”
“That’s him. Moved here with nothing. Went to Santa Monica Community College. Talked himself into a mailroom job at CAA and—”
“Ebben Mayer! It’s been too long. How are you?” Jay Rosenstein had a good phone voice. Bright and light and young. He spoke fast yet somehow sounded like he meant what he said.
“I’m well, Jay. How are you?”
“Fantastic! Just great. Hey, I was looking over our roster of extraordinarily talented clients and when I saw your name I thought we have got to get Ebben Mayer in our big conference room for a general. I need all of my top agents to meet you and hear your thoughts then go back to their client lists and see how they can help you get to where you want to go.”
“Great,” said Ebben. “Anytime.”
“How about tomorrow? Ten A.M. My department heads are buzzing about it. Could not be more excited.”
“I’ll see you at ten.”
“Fantastic! And hey, so sorry about your loss. I stopped by the celebration the other night. You were surrounded by Juliana’s family—didn’t want to interrupt. You spoke beautifully. Just wanted to let you know I’m thinking of you.”
“Thanks, Jay.”
“And we’ll see you in the morning. Can’t wait. Have a great night!”
The phone call ended. Ebben said, “That was weird.”
“Not business as usual?”
“I’ve never met the man.”
“He certainly sounds exuberant.”
“I wonder why Sebastiano didn’t call about the meeting.”
The traffic at LAX was worse than the traffic getting there. It took twenty minutes to crawl from Terminal 1 to Terminal 5 in a horseshoe of red taillights. When we arrived, Ebben shook my hand and said, “I’ll be back in Minny next month for my grandfather’s birthday. Dinner?”
“Absolutely.”
“And bring Gabriella. I’d love to meet her.”
We said a few more pleasantries, I grabbed my bag out of the back seat and headed into the terminal.
I’d come to Los Angeles to learn whether or not Ebben Mayer was investing in show business. By that measure, I’d done my job. But by any other measure, I’d failed. I suspected someone had murdered Juliana Marquez—but I had no idea who. I also didn’t know if that person would try to kill Ebben. And I’d come to Los Angeles with Jameson White. I was going home without him. Leaving him in the care of a tiny doctor with a big attitude.
I knew I wasn’t the only person who could help Jameson, although I’ll admit I wanted to be the only person. I had a lot of acquaintances but only a few friends. One friend was my business partner. One friend was my fiancée. The other was Jameson White. At first he healed my body, then my heart and mind. He was the rare friend who could call me on my bullshit and make me laugh while he was doing it. I did not want to lose him but maybe I’d have to. Maybe Dr. Li was the only person who could help Jameson, and Jameson’s well-being was the only condition on which I’d let him go.
I was headed back to Minnesota in January. Ice and snow and sunsets at 4:30 P.M. People who don’t live in Minnesota think we’re crazy for enduring winter. They don’t understand we get acclimated one day at a time, going from hot and humid August to tolerable September to perfect October to chilly November to the beautiful first snowfalls of December. January and
February can be hell but we’ve waded in—it’s not nearly as bad as if we’d jumped straight from summer into the deep freeze. And yet, that’s what I was going to do when I got off the plane. I started to understand why everyone else thought we were insane.
The red-eye from Los Angeles to Minneapolis was short in duration and short on sleep. Just under three hours. I walked into the condo before seven. Gabriella had just returned from her run, sweat frozen on her hat and balaclava. I crawled into bed, and she stepped into the shower. Fifteen minutes later, we made love. She left for work. I woke at 10:30, made myself pretty, then fired up my Volvo and headed east to visit Beverly and Arthur Mayer.
22
Beverly and Arthur Mayer sat on the same couch in the same spots. Beverly wore a wool suit, sage green and festooned with a brooch that looked like a twisted mess of gold and silver left over after a jeweler had crafted something recognizable. Arthur wore the same herringbone suit. It was probably his smallest so it fit his shrunken body the best.
“I want you to tell me everything,” said Beverly, straight-backed and smiling, more at ease and cheerful than at our first meeting two days ago.
I wasn’t going to tell her everything. But I’d tell her everything she hired me to find out. Most of that I’d already told her on the phone, but she took great delight in hearing it again.
“Did you hear that, Arthur?”
Arthur said, “Huh?”
“Ebben raised a $100 million fund and has only invested $1 million himself!” she said, repeating what I’d just told her. “And he’s making art. Not all that nonsense with monsters and explosions. We can hold our heads high when the Mayer name is on the screen. Oh, that’s a relief.”
Arthur Mayer, his chin pressed against his chest, swung his eyes toward his wife. He would never hold his head high again. His neck was too bent. But he grunted a nod, the top of his head still thick with perfect hair. It hadn’t receded in front—it hadn’t thinned on top. The man was a genetic marvel. Beverly Mayer reached over and took her husband’s frail hand. Maybe that was all my errand to the West Coast had been about, to learn whether or not Ebben Mayer would shame the family out there in Hollyweird. Now that the Mayers knew he wouldn’t, they seemed more relaxed, more upbeat. At least Beverly did.