Bloodthirsty Page 9

  We thanked Pags and met up with Dennis, who was standing in the doorway of the first trailer. “Good timing,” he said. “They’re going for the big money shot in about three minutes.”

  It turned out to be a Hollywood three minutes, which dragged on into forty-seven. I tried to calculate how much money was being poured down the drain. A hundred people stood around with their thumbs up their asses while two guys dicked around with the lights. One light, actually. But even if there were a hundred light bulbs to change, the hundred people with nothing to do couldn’t have helped. They could only stand around and wait for the union electricians to do the job.

  It’s not the most efficient system in the world, but since the teamsters union helped pay for everything from my potty training to my college education, I’ve never been one to complain about the pace of organized labor.

  Dennis is an ex-cop, but he’s not your silent-but-deadly Clint Eastwood type. He’s a talker. So while we waited, he nattered. “Do you guys remember those two blondes in nurses’ outfits that drove up in the ambulance with Damian at the premiere?”

  “Long legs, pouty lips, big tits?” Terry said.

  “Them’s the ones,” Dennis said.

  “Didn’t notice them.”

  “Damian told me he took them home for the night,” Dennis said, trying to dazzle us with his new Hollywood-insider status. “And guess what he paid them?”

  We didn’t guess, but that didn’t stop Dennis. “Three grand apiece,” he said. “Can you believe that? Six grand for two chicks in nurses’ uniforms.”

  “You’d think that would’ve been covered by medical insurance,” Terry said.

  Finally, lights came on, bullhorns screamed for quiet, cameras rolled, and the director yelled, “Action.”

  They were shooting a car chase. Thirty cars, each with stunt drivers, were strung out along Pico Boulevard. A helicopter caught it all from the sky. A red van, obviously the bad guys, weaved in and out of the traffic, followed by an LAPD cop car. Our boy Damian was driving. When the van got to its preset mark, Damian leaned out of his window and fired his gun.

  “Oh yeah, that’s real believable cop shit,” Terry said. “Shooting at a speeding vehicle in heavy traffic.”

  “Left-handed,” I pointed out.

  He must have been a fantastic shot, because he apparently hit the rear tire of the van, which spun out of control, barreled through an outdoor café, and—with a little help from an unseen ramp—lofted up in the air and crashed through a liquor store window.

  Damian’s black and white had barely stopped rolling when he jumped out, gun in hand. Right hand this time. He ran toward the wrecked van and yelled, “Freeze, motherfucker.”

  “Snappy dialogue,” Terry said. “I may steal that next time I drive a bad guy through a plate glass window.”

  The director, a lanky Brit with a blond ponytail, was ecstatic. “Cut!” he bellowed into a bullhorn. “Brilliant, Damian! Bloody fucking brilliant. Ladies and gentlemen, it’s a wrap.”

  There were no cheers from the hundred ladies and gentlemen involved in the bloody fucking brilliant production. It may look glamorous when you watch the rich and the beautiful clutching their Oscars on award night, but for the people who make the movies day in, day out, in the drenching rain, the staggering heat, and the bone-chilling cold, the glamour wears thin. Then it’s just another bloody fucking job.

  And then there are people like Damian who believe all the make-believe. He’s not one of those guys who goes home to a cold beer, a large pizza, math homework with the kids, reality television with the wife, then before bed, fills out the Publishers Clearing House letter, because, hey…you never know.

  Damian Hedge has a different reality. Screaming fans, swarming paparazzi, eight-figure paychecks, revolving hookers, a gym on wheels, a nasty affair with the boss’s wife, and an ego that has its own zip code.

  I was looking forward to giving Mr. Hedge a reality check.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I’d not only seen Damian’s trailer before, I’d made love in it.x For years my wife Joanie and I had tried desperately to have a baby. But after we struck out with progesterone shots, intrauterine insemination, gamete intrafallopian transfer, and in vitro fertilization, Joanie decided the fertility gods might respond to something more romantic.

  Like spending the night in that star trailer.

  It’s a forty-three footer with three slide-out compartments; a lot of big name actors have made it their home away from home.

  “Including Bruce Willis and Demi Moore,” Joanie informed me. “And who has had the most famous pregnancy ever?”

  “The Virgin Mary,” I said.

  “I’m talking LA pregnancies, Michael. Besides, my chances of an immaculate conception were over long before I met you. Demi Moore posed nude for the cover of Vanity Fair when she was in her seventh month. It was awesome. She’s the poster girl for expectant motherhood. We owe it to our unborn child to try to conceive where the Famously Pregnant have gone before.”

  We tried. We failed.

  That was eight years ago. Sadly, Bruce and Demi are no longer a couple. Neither are Mike and Joanie.

  Terry and I walked through the door of Damian’s trailer. Except for the predictable gallery of photos of himself, he hadn’t done much to change the decor. The curtains, the carpeting, the furniture, all had that Very Best of Winnebago commercial sameness that I remembered. It looked just the way it had that night, and I could feel Joanie’s presence. I forced myself to shake it off. This was a homicide investigation, not a séance.

  We decided that Terry would ask the questions. Damian was an actor. He gets paid to lie well. If one of us did the talking, the other could focus on the suspect’s body language and voice patterns for tells. Terry would be the interrogator; I’d be the shit sorter.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Damian said. He was still wearing his LAPD uniform.

  “No,” Terry said, “but you can unholster that gun.”

  “Relax,” Damian said. “It’s a prop. They call it a non-gun.”

  “It’s a non-issue,” Terry said. “Take the gun out of the holster and put it where I can see it.”

  Damian flashed a multi-picture-deal smile. “Well, since you outrank me, Detective, I’d be glad to put it away.”

  He unbuckled his gun belt and tossed it on the counter. Then he opened the refrigerator and took out a beer. “From Australia,” he said. “But not that weasel piss they sell here. The studio has this stuff flown in fresh for me.” He opened it and took a swig. “Ask away.”

  “Why did Barry Gerber fire you?” Terry said.

  He shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  “Where were you this past New Year’s Eve?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t remember.”

  “I bet the paparazzi remember,” Terry said. “Why don’t you come to the station with us till we can find some photo hound who will jog your memory.”

  “Fine. I was at Barry’s house.”

  “And there was trouble. Correct?”

  “We had a falling out. That’s show business.”

  “A business dispute on New Year’s Eve?” Terry said. “Come on, Damian.”

  “Okay. A Royal dispute. He caught me kissing his wife.”

  “And kissing is a euphemism for what?”

  The questions were far too insightful to be random. I watched as Hedge’s self-involved brain began to open up to the fact that maybe this dumb ugly cop knew something.

  “I’ll repeat the question,” Terry said. “Did Gerber catch you kissing his wife, or…”

  “Humping. He caught us in bed.”

  “You were having an affair with Barry Gerber’s wife?”

  “I never said ‘affair.’ We were drunk. We thought Barry had tranked himself into a coma. We got naked. We got caught. What pisses me off is a guy like Gerber, he walks around with his fly open and he has the nerve to fire me for boning his old lady?”

  Actors
make choices. Hedge did his best to act indignant.

  “So it was more than a Royal dispute,” Terry said. “It was a Royal Screwing.”

  “Hey, all I did was bang the guy’s wife. I didn’t kill him. I have an alibi.”

  “How can you have an alibi if I didn’t give you the time of death?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Hedge said. “I was on the set all day, and those low-life paparazzi you’re talking about follow me all night. I’m sure they’ll sell you the pictures to back up my story.”

  “He was murdered on Sunday,” Terry said. “You were shooting on Sunday?”

  Hedge didn’t answer. He was trying to think. I could tell it was not a process that came natural.

  “Were you shooting Sunday afternoon at four o’clock?” Terry said.

  “No, I was getting ready to go to the premiere at the Pantages.”

  “Getting ready with witnesses?”

  “I was home alone. It was Sunday afternoon. I might have done a few lines. You still arrest people for that in this town?”

  “No, other cops do that. We arrest people for murder, and right now all I can see is you have no alibi and you were really pissed off at the victim, because he didn’t buy into your thinking that ringing in the New Year with his wife was no big deal.”

  “So am I under arrest?”

  “No, you’re under suspicion,” Terry said. “And if we do arrest you, you’re going to have to change out of that uniform. When was the last time you saw Barry Gerber?”

  “I haven’t seen or talked to that asshole in months.”

  “How about his wife?

  Hedge laughed. “No, I haven’t seen that skinny black bitch either. News flash, Detective: there are plenty of other women in Hollywood. And if I find the right one, her husband won’t even care if I’m doing her.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure there’s a line of guys outside your trailer just begging you to loot their villages and screw their womenfolk.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “And there they are now,” Terry said. “Right on cue.”

  “Come in,” Damian yelled.

  A young woman opened the door. Early twenties, pretty face, good body, clipboard in hand, glasses tipped up on top of her head. I knew the type. The classic production assistant. This town is full of them. They come in two flavors: male and female. Young kids who want to be directors, producers, writers, and movie stars, who show up in LA looking for their first big break.

  The better-looking ones, especially the girls, get invited to the industry parties, so the people who are already directors, producers, writers, and movie stars can check out the fresh meat. If a girl is lucky, she’ll be ignored, give up, go back to Peoria, marry the produce manager at the Kroger’s Market, and live happily ever after.

  The unlucky ones get a line like, “I don’t have any acting jobs but we need a PA. The job pays $450 a week, the hours suck, and nobody appreciates anything you do.”

  She’s thrilled. She grabs it. She’s thinking all she has to do is order a few lunches, send a few faxes, whip up a few cappuccinos, and she’s the next Reese Witherspoon.

  More likely she’s running film canisters to the processing lab, trekking out to some remote location with a pair of sunglasses that the director forgot at home, moving furniture for the producer’s wife, or driving from Malibu to Diamond Bar delivering middle-of-the-night script revisions to the entire cast.

  This one was extra unlucky. She was doing servitude for Damian Hedge.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” she said. “Here’s the call sheet for tomorrow. You’re in makeup at 6:30.” She smiled politely at me and Terry. “Hi. I’m Robyn.”

  “These are cops,” Damian said quickly. “This one is Detective Briggs. I think the other one is just an extra. He doesn’t seem to have a speaking part.”

  “Nice to meet you Detective Briggs,” Robyn said.

  “It’s Biggs. Nice to meet you, Robyn.”

  “Yeah, if you’re ever in a jam, just call these guys,” Damian said. “They’re my new best friends.”

  “I have to drive out to Western Costume,” she said. “Do you need anything before I go?”

  “The second draft of that script was supposed to be here yesterday.”

  “He said it won’t be ready till tomorrow morning. I’ll pick it up first thing. If there’s nothing else, I’m gonna run. Nice meeting you all.”

  She started out the door.

  “Keep your cell charged,” Damian yelled.

  She turned and looked at him, the devoted look of a personal slave. “Don’t I always?”

  The door shut and Terry let fly the next question. “Do you know Steve Kronowitz?”

  “Who?” Hedge looked genuinely confused.

  “Dr. Steven Kronowitz,” Terry said. “He was your technical advisor on I.C.U.”

  “Oh, Dr. K. Yeah, he taught me lots of doctor shit for the movie.”

  “Doctor shit,” Terry said. “So that means you can give shots, draw blood…simple medical procedures.”

  “That’s cake,” Damian said. “I can do better than simple stuff. I’ll tell you what, Detective, if you ever need a vasectomy, give me a call. No charge.”

  Before Terry could give it back, we were interrupted by the sound of a string orchestra playing “Ave Maria.” It was a ringtone. Damian’s cell phone.

  He answered, “Yo.” He listened for a few seconds, then turned to Terry. “Are we done here? I got a life.”

  Terry looked at his watch. “Guess what? So do I. Yeah, we’re done. For now.”

  Damian put his hand over the phone’s mouthpiece and moved a few feet closer to Terry. “I don’t care what it looks like. I hated him, I fucked his wife, I took his money, but I didn’t kill him. Thanks for stopping by.”

  He turned his back on us and started talking into the phone.

  Terry and I walked out of the trailer and stepped onto the street. Dennis was still outside.

  “How’d it go with Damian?” he said.

  “It went great,” Terry said. “He offered me and Mike six grand if we’d spend the night with him.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  I miss my dog. Andre is a black standard French poodle that Joanie and I brought home seven years ago. After she died I did the best I could to take care of him, but it’s not easy being a single parent, especially when you work cop hours. A dog can only keep his legs crossed for so long.

  When I started bouncing back and forth between Diana’s place and mine, Andre got caught up in the shuffle. So I recruited my carpenter buddy Kemp Loekle to dog-sit when I couldn’t be there. Three months ago Kemp quit.

  “I’m moving to Oregon to pan for gold,” he said.

  “I never heard that one before,” I said. “What is that, some kind of metaphor for finding a new girlfriend or getting a new job?”

  Kemp laughed. “No, it means I staked a claim up at the Klamath River. I got a pan and a sluice box and a metal detector, and I’m going to pull gold nuggets out of the water and sell them for six hundred bucks an ounce. A lot of my friends are moving up there. It’s like the gold rush of 1849.”

  “I pay you by the hour,” I said. “I’ve never known you to be in a rush. You really think you can make a living at this?”

  “On a good day panning, I can make more than I do in a week hammering nails. Plus you set your own hours, there’s great fishing, lots of women, and no freeway traffic.”

  It was hard to argue with him. Kemp is a bit of an oddball, but his latest life plan sounded pretty damn good to me.

  So Andre got shipped off to Big Jim’s. But one of Jim’s dogs, Jett, the black Lab, apparently doesn’t like the French. “I can’t keep them both in the yard,” Jim said. “They’re barking at each other 24/7. It’s driving Angel nuts.”

  Terry to the rescue. His youngest daughter Emily had always wanted a puppy, but Marilyn had always refused. “She’s totally against it,” Terry told me. “She invoked the No Puppy
Clause in our pre-nup.”

  So Terry suggested they adopt Andre. But when Emily went to Big Jim’s to meet the poodle, she fell in love with the Lab.

  “If you love Jett that much,” Big Jim said, “take her home with you. Just promise me you’ll take real good care of her.”

  Emily was thrilled. She promised at least a hundred times.

  Now everyone is happy. Andre isn’t cooped up at home all day. Marilyn and the three girls are crazy about Jett. Jett loves all the attention she’s getting. And Terry, of course, gets to complain. “Just what I needed. Another damn female in the house who doesn’t listen to a word I say.”

  Everyone’s happy but me. In the game of musical dogs, I came up short.

  I opened the front door to Diana’s apartment. Blanche, her long-haired white cat, looked up, saw it was only me, and went back to doing what she does best. Shedding on the couch.

  Diana was in the kitchen making dinner. “How was your day?” she said.

  “It sucked,” I said. “I spent a good chunk of it with a hundred and twenty-nine dead people in the morgue. How was yours?”

  “Fantastic. There were only fourteen kids with cancer on the floor, and they all made it through the end of my shift.”

  “You win,” I said.

  When you play how-was-your-day with a nurse at a pediatric cancer ward, she always wins.

  Dinner was whole-wheat fusilli, chicken, and broccoli rabe. “For a Jewish girl,” I said, “you’re a darn good Italian cook.”

  “When you have a mother-in-law everyone calls Mama Trantanella, you learn fast.”

  “Speaking of which, I learned another Jewish word today, but I don’t know what it means. When Terry and I got to the morgue, Eli Hand, the pathologist said, ‘We have a minyan. We can start.’”

  “It’s a quorum. When you gather in the synagogue for communal prayer, you’re supposed to have ten adult Jewish males. That’s a minyan. I doubt if you’ll ever get a chance to use it in conversation.”