Angel’s Gate Page 3

  “Ahh. The horizontal mambo.”

  “You’re a Little Feat fan?”

  “Shouldn’t everyone be?” Little Feat was a legendary L.A. band that had suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Side one of The Last Record Album equaled anything by the Stones or the Beatles or anybody else. Right up there. Self-assured, comfortable in their own skin, sublime tunes, recorded beautifully. The sudden sadness of “Long Distance Love” entered my mind. I’d had some of that.

  Little Feat continued its sojourn round the planet to this day. Minus their wonderful drummer, Richie Hayward, whose contributions to the universe did not qualify him for health insurance. If only he’d made keys or cut lumber at Home Depot. God bless the Feat, every one.

  Ealing reached for a fat, tattered address book, dug through it. “I’m going to call Connie Daniels. Think she used to be a housemother at Ivanhoe.”

  “Sounds like the Girl Scouts.”

  “With the Sodom and Gomorrah Merit Badges.” Ealing found what he was looking for. “Here she is.”

  I looked at Myron’s dilapidated compendium of friends, enemies, acquaintances, and contacts. “You haven’t gone digital?”

  Ealing winked, shook his head. “I like my secrets on paper, Dick. When I throw them away, they’re gone.”

  • • •

  On the second floor of Hollywood Professional, in Suite 212, Andrea Montefiori was wondering how he, a musical genius from Padua, had come to be here. Of course, he was happy for the work. Any work. But to teach those who did not possess the ability to learn, that was another thing.

  Michelle d’Orsay was such a person. He remembered an admonition about teaching a pig to sing. Don’t do it. It can’t—and it won’t like it.

  Montefiore’s task was to teach this woman to sing. Yet something down deep was wrong. He’d had many students over the years. Rich, poor, richly talented, or threadbare, all partook of the desire to express themselves more fully. In a musical manner.

  This woman, built like a ’58 Cadillac, was a puzzle. He could discern no inclination to song. Yet she had convinced someone to pay for lessons. Obviously, there was some aspect of a sugar-daddy involvement. Maybe daddy was deaf as well as stuffed with Viagra.

  She stared into her compact mirror, mouth in an o, picking at her eyelashes.

  Everything about her was staggeringly, stupendously artificial; an amalgamation of inserts, implants, and implausibilities. From those green eyes to those blinding teeth, to those grapefruits on a plank. Even her name. Michelle d’Orsay.

  The name intimated an association with the fragrant rosewater of Paris. But no. He’d looked through her purse when she’d tottered down the hall to the ladies’ room on those spindly high heels. She was eight feet tall. Her driver’s license said Plurpkin. Eloise Plurpkin. From Centralia, Washington. A famous hotbed of culture and creativity.

  And he, the great Montefiore, was tasked with teaching Plurpkin to sing.

  “Okay,” he said, “let’s try it again. Push—from the diaphragm.”

  Eloise snapped her compact shut. “I’ve never used a diaphragm.”

  He was confused. English was a second language. They didn’t teach context in books. “What? What do you mean?”

  “I got a Depo shot.”

  He grasped for meaning. “What is a Depo shot?”

  “Gun control.”

  “Gun control?”

  “I meant birth control.”

  Montefiore felt his temper beginning a slow boil. “Look,” he said, grinding a molar, patting his abdomen, “push, push from down here.” He tightened up beneath his belt, relaxed his throat, let sound rise out. Like a fountain. “La, la, la, la, laaaaa.” He looked at her. “Like that. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  He walked over to the computer. “Ready?”

  She nodded. He pressed the start key and the music resumed.

  He put a hand to his diaphragm, gestured her to begin.

  She opened her mouth—and why the fuck was he surprised? In a dreadful, thin, quavering, off-key bleating came the lyrics. “People, people who need people—”

  Montefiore felt an eye start to bulge and then he vesuviated. “No, no, no, no, NO!”

  SIX

  The Golden Gun

  Howard Hogue’s office was huge. A hundred twenty feet by a hundred fifty, fourteen foot ceiling. Every day, from behind his mahogany desk, he took pleasure in its expanse. The world at large pressed in upon a person, pushing to swallow them up. The size of your office was a measure of how hard you pushed back.

  His office was divided into sections, so that he might accommodate his guests in various ways.

  The desk area, directly across from the entryway, conferred a measure of formality. From his desk he might commend, negotiate, or reprimand. Behind his desk was a twenty-foot width of floor-to-ceiling windows that gave out on the lot. With a touch of a button, the glass could go dark.

  To his right, with various small hills, lay the three-hole putting green. The green terminated in a thick stand of ficus trees.

  On the far side of the ficus grove, a koi pond and a Japanese sand garden summoned a visitor’s subtle sense of wa. Harmony, peace, and balance. Around the pond was informal seating, used to greet friends, such as they were, and to woo new people into his life as necessary for new projects.

  Every day, Sensei Odo Kinichi precisely raked the sand garden and inscribed the day’s symbols. Supposedly, Kinichi took his patron’s astrological sign and the I Ching into consideration before setting implement to sand. Kinichi had long since perfected the solemn Japanese wise man routine. Bowing, muttering, gazing inward. Probably a callus where each thumb met forefinger. OMMMMM. With a sushi chef’s bandana to boot. On the lot it was whispered that wise Sensei Kinichi could levitate.

  Hogue laughed. Kinichi liked redheads with big Western racks. But visitors expected a successful producer to be extravagant and arcane, and the black-sand semiotic humbuggery seemed to satisfy them. Though the epigram that had fomented the greatest comment had been done by Demosthenes. An odd corollary to crop circles. Demosthenes was a cat. Before his hurried expulsion from paradise, Demosthenes had buried a souvenir in the imported sand.

  The last section of the office was a conference area, the long table brought in through the big windows. It could seat twenty-two ass-kissers at a time. That was another of the troubles with money, no one ever told you the truth again—just words carefully fashioned to impress your money.

  He looked at his watch. It was time for another move in the endless chess game of life. He pushed the bar on the intercom.

  “Yes, Mr. Hogue?”

  “Send them in, Helena.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  • • •

  In the waiting room six people waited. Melvin Shea held his face neutral. The five searched his face for clues, nervous and uncertain. He possessed a factotum’s power of access and influence. But once in Hogue’s office, that power evaporated. Soon they would look past him. And he would hate them.

  Shea had entered Hogue’s gravitational sphere as a new face in town, a hot young producer. They’d made a few things, more than broken even, but not much more, had created nothing that changed lives. Then, somewhere along the line, in proving to Hogue his access to the menu of the hidden and forbidden, he had moved from associate to employee. The smoothest of lines to cross.

  The money was unbelievable. Intoxicating. Glorious. Irresistible. Then, one day, he realized he couldn’t do without it.

  Hogue had changed as well. Oh had he? Peremptory. A brusque edge, was that it?

  And the power of Melvin’s office, almost Caesaric. Almost. That was the rub. His sure knowledge of its limits fostered a cruelty in its use. The starlet who attempted to use him for access to Hogue was well used in the process. He would casually explore her limits of humiliation and self-abasement. Then, depending on Melvin’s mood, Howard would be busy. Or not.

  Chrissie Volanta, execut
ive producer, was studying him. “How are you, Melvin? Lost in your thoughts?”

  The other four peered at him. Nazarian, the golden boy, successful director, prince of Hollywood. Arnie Mannheim, producer, Hud Fisher, his partner, Anne Hall Black, principal writer.

  Melvin was their living barometer. The face of Hogue’s mind. He shrugged. “Oh, I’m alright, Chrissie.” The movie had been a big success. They’d be fine. Bastards.

  The door opened, Helena Richards put her head in. “Mr. Hogue will see you now.”

  Without thinking, the five rushed ahead of him. With a pang, Melvin readjusted his face. Bastards.

  • • •

  Six chairs had been positioned around Hogue’s desk. Melvin took the one at the extreme right.

  Hogue leaned back, savored the hunger of his guests. He twirled a pencil, dawdled. This was his moment to play, he could stretch it out as long as he wanted. He looked solemnly from face to face. Finally, he grinned and everyone relaxed. “Well, the final numbers are in for Terminal Velocity. We’ve done very well. Ivanhoe’s biggest ever, domestic. Two hundred eighty-seven million.”

  Producers Mannheim, Fisher, and Volanta cheered, hi-fived. Anne Hall Black concentrated her ki, breathed deeply. She would be rich. Which was a relative term. And she’d forgotten the DVD market! The rule of thumb stated that DVD sales would equal domestic box office. She was rich.

  Hogue regarded them all. “In addendum to my last, let my just say that Terminal Velocity has done two hundred eighty-seven mil so far. Now come the discount houses, and foreign should be significant. Especially Japan. In lieu of all this good news, I’ve asked Helena to prepare a few documents.” He turned to Helena, standing to the side. “Helena?”

  Helena stepped forward, passed a manila envelope to Hogue.

  He took it, looked inside, grinned. Then pulled out a sheaf of checks. He slipped on his spectacles, opened one of the checks. He looked up at Anne, the writer. “Anne, this is for you.”

  Anne watched herself accept the check. Watched herself unfold it. $1,000,000. She was numb. “Th-thank you, Howard.”

  Hogue nodded. “You’re welcome.” He opened another. “Arnie?” Mannheim took his check.

  As did Hud and Chrissie.

  Melvin tried to maintain nonchalance in the presence of others’ extreme good fortune. “Congratulations, folks,” he croaked, parched with envy.

  Everyone had been gifted except him and Nazarian.

  In case there were nothing, which couldn’t be, Nazarian effected a cool nonchalance. Something was coming. Or why was Shea visibly leaking jaundice and spite? Nazarian breathed deep, channeled patience. How many times had he come in second at award ceremonies? Forced to cheer for others? For the talentless and the undeserving.

  Hogue examined them all. It was a game of many dimensions. Centered around money, of course. His money. He’d left Nazarian till last, so he could watch him pretend nothing mattered. And Shea—Shea was wearing out his teeth suppressing his covetousness. He’d give Shea a taste—but only a taste. It was all that was required. “And now for our director, Eli Nazarian.”

  Nazarian sat up straight, smiling, bashful, like a puppy. A vicious puppy. But a puppy that shat gold. He’d just have to make sure there were plenty of newspapers. “Helena, the box.”

  All eyes turned to view a finely crafted wooden box Helena picked up from a table off to the side.

  “Eli, this is for you,” said Hogue. “With my thanks and congratulations.” He smiled. “And I know this is only the beginning.”

  “Gumshoe will be just as good,” said Nazarian.

  “I have no doubt.” Hogue gestured that Helena might give it to Nazarian. She passed it into his outstretched hands.

  Shea watched the Asshole from Armenia spread anticipatory delight over his fashionably unshaven countenance. A gift from Howard Hogue! Nazarian would rejoice over anything he found. A comic book. A dog bone. A dog turd.

  Nazarian opened the box and drew a quick breath. In the box, on a bed of rich burgundy velvet, was a gold-plated revolver and silencer. A Smith & Wesson Model 500. Fully loaded, with five .50-caliber bullets, it weighed five pounds. Bullets would fly from this thing at 1,625 feet per second, if he remembered correctly. Engraved perfectly on the barrel: Terminal Velocity—Eli Nazarian—from Howard Hogue.

  Nazarian reached in and picked it up. Then reached for the silencer, screwed it on. With two hands he hefted it, pointed it in the direction of the ficus grove.

  “Biggest handgun in the world,” said Shea.

  Nazarian turned, pointed it at Shea. “I think you may be right.”

  “Be careful with that thing,” said Hogue. “It’s gold plated, but it’s real.”

  Melvin felt an increased gravity in his testicles, hoped he wasn’t trembling. “Put it right here,” he said, placing the tip of his index finger between his eyes. Hogue’s remonstrance of Nazarian had not come from a real concern for his well-being. Midas didn’t want a mess.

  Nazarian winked at Shea, lowered the pistol. “Melvin knows I love him.”

  Nazarian again examined the weapon, looked up to Hogue. “Howard, thank you so much. I don’t know what to say.” He paused. “Almost.”

  There was a general bray of laughter.

  The Asshole from Armenia, over time, had secured a reputation for having the last word on any subject. Disagree, on the set, and whack—you were fired. So different from the time Melvin had first met him—met him and brought him into the fold. Then he was diffident, polite, obliging. Melvin had misread the calculating part.

  “Oh,” said Hogue, patting down his pockets in pretended confusion, “I almost forgot.” From his inside jacket pocket he brought another envelope. “Eli . . .”

  The Grateful Armenian took the proffered envelope, a flash of humility passing through his body language.

  Melvin watched the scenario, pushing his feelings down. He would be careful. As always. But Nazarian would rue the day he had thrust Melvin aside. Because, inside any organization, all projects required an uncle—an inside man committed to the matter at hand—the man who would assure that even a sure thing would not accidentally run off the tracks. Because eventually, in the production process, all projects got wobbly. Well, Asshole no longer had such an uncle. Which was why Gumshoe was subtly running into difficulties. Scheduling, craft services, minor casting. Case in point, that imbecile, Heather Hill. Motivation.

  “Open that envelope when you’re sitting down, Eli,” counseled Hogue, grinning, surveying the scene. Melvin didn’t much care for Eli, that much was clear.

  Hogue patted himself down again. “Wait a second, what’s this?” Then, with a smile, he pulled the last envelope out, handed it to Melvin. “Don’t spend it all in one place, Melvin.”

  Nazarian sat, looked into the envelope. Christ Jesus Mary and Joseph. “Howard,” he said, shocked into real emotion, “thank you. Thanks for everything.” His future had arrived. Like he had known it would. Now what would he do with it?

  • • •

  In the privacy of his office, across the lot, Melvin tore open his envelope. A hundred grand. What the fuck. Pitiful. A taste, a whim, a subtle insult. Because Helena’s assistant owed him, he knew what the others had received. At a minimum, each of them had made ten times as much. And that fucking Armenian.

  Once upon a time, a hundred thousand dollars in hand would have been a stupefying sum. But then he had met rich men. Consorted with them. They could drop that much in Vegas in a night. Every night. Whores and coke. Bread and circuses.

  Christ. He had to start producing again. Really producing. Finding good scripts, attaching talent, spreading some risk around. He had to get off the Hogue train. Because it would kill him.

  SEVEN

  Devi

  I had been tempted, over the years, to get rid of my Caddy. My ‘69 Cadillac Coupe de Ville convertible. But then, cruising down one of the big boulevards, Wilshire, Sunset, Hollywood, lounging back, driving with just a finger, a
feeling of well-being would come over me. Those men from Detroit knew what they were doing. At least for a while. Before the Yellow Peril ate their bento box.

  Myron Ealing had called me. Connie Daniels, housemother at Ivanhoe, was long gone. Her replacement, Devi Stanton, had been there going on four years. But she’s heard of the Shortcut Man, said Myron, grinning. She’ll meet with you tonight, if you’re interested.

  • • •

  I called her. She was terse, not too friendly. We’d decided on Canter’s. I figured if she had nothing at least I could get a good Reuben.

  As far as Reubens were concerned, Canter’s had the best in L.A. Sixty years of practice. Canter’s was open 24/7, rain, shine, or earthquake. A million years ago the place had been a theater. The Esquire. Preston Sturges movies had probably played there. Sending the populace back into the streets, weary hearts lifted, able to slog on for another day. Now the bakery did Sturges’s job.

  Lot of stars at Canter’s, too. I’d seen Brian Wilson, Tom Waits, David Lee Roth. And lots of people you’d only recognize during their fifteen minutes. Which took only ten minutes these days.

  I parked in their lot, down on the corner, got my ticket, and walked up Fairfax.

  The familiar smells greeted my nose. They knew me here and the greeting lady welcomed me personally. “Hi, Jack,” she said. “Howya been?”

  “Fine, thank you.” Jack. Guess it was better than Dick-Dave. The hayseed.

  I looked past her into the lower seating area, saw a likely suspect. I pointed and greeting lady nodded, go ahead.

  In the middle aisle on the left, underneath the autumnal ceiling squares, sat a pretty woman, black-haired, hard-looking. One arm was fully sleeved in well-executed oriental tattoos.

  She reminded me of Eileen Klasky, but younger. Eileen, who had famously married a dead man, now emptied bedpans in a minimum-security lockup.

  Tattoo-lady looked up.

  “Are you Debbie?” I asked.

  “I’m Devi. You the Shortcut Man?”

  “That’s what they call me.”

  “Sit.”

  I sat. “Have you ordered?”