Beating the Babushka (12 page)

“I know the organization behind the crime, thanks to you, but I need to know the people behind it.”

“You want a handle on the guys who tried to kill you.” Corelli watched Cape carefully, not liking where this was going.

Cape nodded. “Or someone who knows them.”

Corelli sighed. “If you’re asking for what I think you are, then I’m gonna win that bet with Beau.”

“I won’t take it personally.”

Corelli looked at him for a full minute, then sighed again.

“You want to meet someone in the mafiya.”

“That would be nice.”

Corelli laughed despite himself.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Chapter Twenty-nine

“I won’t be dead forever.”

“That’s too bad.”

Sally was in the lotus position on the floor of her hotel room, looking far more comfortable than Cape felt. He was sitting on a narrow, high-backed leather chair that must have been designed by an art director with an impossibly small ass. Cape shifted in the chair and managed to replicate the discomfort on his other cheek.

“So I’m going to visit the Berman brothers at Empire this afternoon,” he said.

“Need a date?”

“Nah,” replied Cape, shifting again. “I’ll do better on my own at the studio. But if Corelli comes through for us with a name, I’ll need you to suit up.”

“So I guess I have some time to kill.”

Cape gave Sally a deadpan stare. “In your case, I’d say that’s a poor choice of words.”

Sally smiled. “I don’t freelance anymore,” she said. “How are you going to get into Empire’s offices?”

“It’s a surprise,” said Cape, standing. He hobbled toward the door, both his legs asleep. “See you tonight.”

After leaving the hotel and walking south a few blocks, Cape turned east until he hit Canal Street, where he found a vintage clothing store. After buying what he needed, he changed in their dressing room. At a hardware store two blocks away, he purchased a metal tool chest and a pair of cutting pliers. He paid cash at both places—no point leaving a credit trail until he was officially back among the living.

Empire was located on the edge of the meatpacking district in a gray five-story building at least a hundred years old. The neighborhood still held slaughterhouses on the west side, but most of the old warehouses were converted into expensive lofts and swanky offices. Yet despite the high rents, there was still enough blood in the streets to give the air a metallic taste when the wind came off the harbor.

The idea for gaining access to Empire Studios unannounced came from listening to Grace describe Adam Berman’s fondness for breaking things. Cape figured someone had to come and fix them.

Walking into Empire’s lobby was like stepping into a time machine. After passing through a century-old façade, you entered modern Hollywood, a visual onslaught of light and noise. The wall behind the reception desk was dominated by a large flat-screen showing a continuous loop of previews for Empire’s films, new and old. On either side of the desk were dwarf palm trees, looking much taller than their fifteen-foot height in the enclosed space. Behind the desk was a woman who at one time had been beautiful, before her piercing compulsion got out of hand.

Cape winced involuntarily as she smiled, each eyebrow ringed with four silver hoops, her lower lip encircled by a gold ring, and her nose pierced with a diamond stud. Cape couldn’t count the number of rods and loops in her ears, but he managed to spot not one but two gold balls protruding from her tongue.

“Wek-kum to Em-pah,” she said, struggling with the l and r for obvious reasons. “Can I he-ep you?”

Cape smiled, keeping his tongue to himself.

“Here to fix Mr. Berman’s phone,” he said, holding up his toolbox. In the worn blue coveralls, he was the walking image of a repairman.

“Again?” said the human pin cushion.

Cape nodded. “Third time this week, I believe.”

“Okay, I have to call,” she said, the last word sounding like “caw.”

Cape shook his head, a worried look on his face. “Call who, though? Mr. Berman’s phone is broken.”

“Sek-ur-ity,” she replied.

Cape shrugged and leaned against the desk. “I guess he can wait.”

The girl hesitated, the phone halfway to her ear. Her eyes dilated with fear at the prospect of making Mr. Berman wait for anything.

“Fifth floor,” she said, suddenly enunciating clearly in her rush to get the words out. “Take a right when you step out of the elevator.”

By the time the elevator reached the top floor, Cape had taken off the coveralls and stuffed them into the toolbox. There were only two offices on the fifth floor, one at each end of the hall. Cape turned right. At the door, he slipped the cutting pliers into his pants pocket and set the toolbox on the ground before turning the handle.

Adam Berman was sitting behind his desk, flipping through a stack of paper secured with a large paper clip. Probably a script. Cape hadn’t known whether Adam was the fat brother or the tall one, but even from across the room it was obvious.

“So you’re the short, fat one,” said Cape pleasantly.

Adam looked up, startled, obviously not used to people showing up in his office unannounced. “What did you say?”

“I said I’m here to fix your phone,” said Cape, stepping over to the desk.

Adam glanced at the phone, then back at Cape, annoyed. “Somebody already did that,” he said. “This phone’s not broken.”

Cape pulled out the pliers and carefully cut the cord running from the back of the phone.

“It is now.”

Adam opened and closed his mouth like a guppy, his eyes wide in disbelief.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Cape set the pliers down and pushed his sleeves back dramatically, stepping back from the desk.

“Okay, Mr. Berman,” he said, spreading his arms wide, “here’s the pitch.”

“Oh, fuck,” muttered Berman. “Just what I need—some nut-job screenwriter tryin’ to pitch a movie. I’ll give you points for having big nuts—sneaking in here—but if you don’t turn around in one minute and get the fuck out, I’ll make sure you never work in the movie business.”

“Here’s the story,” continued Cape, undaunted. “A big time producer commits suicide in the middle of a movie by—now get this—jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge. Only he didn’t commit suicide—he was murdered! So the movie studio hires a hot-shot private detective to get to the bottom of things. I’m thinking George Clooney to play the detective. Or maybe a younger Bruce Willis—like his early days on
Moonlighting
. Or maybe Brad Pitt with the same attitude he had in
Ocean’s Eleven
, only looking older…”

Adam’s eyes narrowed as he sat up in his chair.

“You’re that detective Grace hired.”

“How’d you guess?” Cape dropped his hands. “You think I look like Brad Pitt?”

“I think you look fired,” said Adam, his face red. “They told me you were dead.”

“That’s what they said about Elvis.” Cape took one of the seats in front of the desk.

Adam sat up even straighter, incredulous that Cape sat down without permission. Unconsciously he reached for the tumbler on his desk.

“Did I say you were fired?”

Cape nodded.

“Then what the fuck are you still doing here?”

Cape shrugged. “Well, I have another client,” he said simply. “Who wants me to work on the same case.”

“Who?” demanded Adam, leaning forward.

“Normally I don’t discuss—”

“Who?” yelled Adam, veins bulging in his neck.

“Your brother,” said Cape, watching for a reaction. If Grace was right and the brothers barely spoke anymore, he had some leverage. If she was wrong, he’d be finished before he got started.

Adam blinked, his mouth opening and closing. He was apoplectic. It was a full minute before the words came out, and then only in a strangled whisper.

“You’re…a…dead…man.”

Cape reached out and took the tumbler from Adam’s hand, then stood up and walked over to the sideboard. Holding the glass up to the light he caught a golden residue along the bottom of the glass and guessed bourbon. Pouring a new drink he set it down in front of Adam, who reflexively wrapped his fingers around the glass.

“Relax, Adam,” said Cape reassuringly. “I’m already dead, remember? Let’s talk about something else.”

Adam glanced at the broken phone, then at the door behind Cape. There was no escape. His eyes reluctantly came back to the detective. He swallowed half the drink in one gulp. “I got nothin’ to say to you,” he said slowly, “except stay away from my business. That means you can investigate whatever the fuck you want, but don’t mess around with my production, or my schedule, or my producers. I don’t care how many bodies pile up, as long as they don’t prevent me from shooting.”

“Such a compassionate position,” said Cape. “I’m sure the press would—”

“That’s another thing,” spat Adam, pulling on the drink again. “Since you showed up, the press has been on me like flies on shit.”

“You worried bad publicity might ruin the sale?”

Adam’s eyes opened wide, then narrowed again quickly. He finished the drink.

“What sale?”

“What a sense of humor you have,” said Cape. “The sale of Empire Studios, of course.”

“Who told you about that?” demanded Adam.

Cape hummed a familiar tune before answering. “It’s a small world, after all,” he said cheerily.

“Jesus.” Adam put the empty glass down heavily. He slouched in his chair and exhaled as if he were a balloon slowly deflating.

Cape deftly took the glass and returned to the sideboard. Adam watched him, mute, his eyes half-lidded and red. When Cape put the full glass back in Adam’s hand he sat up a little straighter, blinking. He took a loud sip and coughed. Cape let him sit there for a while before saying anything.

“Look, Mr. Berman,” Cape said gently. “I’m really not trying to fuck anything up for you. That’s not my intent, anyway.” Adam relaxed physically, but the hostility in his eyes remained. Cape forged ahead. “And I don’t really give a shit if you and your brother want to sell the company.”

Adam started to say something, then hesitated. His stare shifted from Cape to the glass in his hand.

Cape had been a detective long enough to know what it meant when someone broke eye contact. “Does your brother know you’re planning on selling the company?”

Adam shook his head as if to clear it. He breathed deeply through his nose, then exhaled loudly. When he spoke, his voice had regained some of its earlier tenor, only now it resonated with forced charm instead of hostility. His slur had evaporated with his drink.

“I don’t believe this hypothetical sale you’re talking about has anything to do with your investigation,” he said. “Do you?”

Cape smiled, the picture of reason. “I honestly don’t know. But if you were trying to sell the company, I don’t think you’d want a prospective buyer to discover that one of your producers was smuggling drugs…do you?”

Adam raised his right hand but caught himself before it became an angry gesture. Instead the hand fluttered dismissively. “Drugs,” he said. “I abhor drugs.”

“So you’re saying Tom was acting alone?”

“Tom?”

“Your producer,” said Cape. “The one who fell off the bridge.”

“Tom,” nodded Adam. “A real tragedy.”

“He worked for you a long time.”

“Did he?”

“According to Grace.”

At the sound of her name, Adam’s eyes hardened, but he smiled expansively.

“Grace is a helluva producer,” he said warmly. “But she’s a bit, well, close to the situation, if you get my meaning?”

“Because she and Tom were involved?” asked Cape bluntly, letting Adam know gossip wouldn’t distract him. Letting him know it wasn’t news.

Adam laughed coarsely. “Okay, so you are a detective.”

“Cut the bullshit, Adam. What’s the deal with the sale?”

Adam moved back in his chair, then came forward again as he talked.

“I love my brother,” he said deliberately, looking Cape in the eye, “but he’s a pretentious windbag. He thinks we’re making art.”

“What are you making?”

“Me?” said Adam. “I’m in the movie business—I have perfected the art of putting asses in seats. That’s the only art I give a shit about.”

“Fill the theaters,” said Cape. “Big box office.”

“Fuckin-A,” said Adam, pounding his fist on the desk. “You want haute couture, go see a play. You want simple and friendly, stay at home and watch television. Movies should be events. Movies should be big—big screen, big stars, big opening weekend, big box office. Big—big—BIG!”

“That’s a lot of bigs.”

“When it comes to movies,” replied Adam, “it can’t be big enough. Whoever said size doesn’t matter never worked in the movie business.”

“And your brother doesn’t agree?”

“You can take all the statues and awards my brother collects for his films and sell them at a garage sale, for all I care.”

Cape noticed the statues and trophies scattered around the room. One wall was dominated by wooden shelves set behind glass, each cluster of silver and gold idols accented by a plaque with the title and year of the corresponding film. Maybe Adam meant what he said, or maybe someone else put the statues in here. Cape scanned the plaques and didn’t see a single award for self-awareness.

“You’re saying critics and award shows don’t matter to the studios?” he asked.

Adam’s mouth twisted with disdain. “The real dick-measuring contest between the studios is over how much their movies grossed by the end of the year. Who’s got the most cash to throw at the next picture. That’s how you get the big stars. That’s how you get to make more movies. It’s a numbers game, plain and simple.”

“And you want to win.”

“We have won.” Adam pounded the desk again. “We’ve proven we can compete with those Hollywood cocksuckers.”

“So why sell?”

Adam nodded to himself, rocking a little in his chair as if to build momentum. The reticence he’d shown only minutes before had evaporated in the heat of the discussion. He was on a rant, and there was no stopping him.

“Movies cost money,” he explained. “Big movies cost big money.”

“Okay.”

“You know how much money?”

“Big money?” offered Cape.

“Exactly,” said Adam, nodding. “Big money. That asteroid movie we’re making cost almost two hundred million dollars, and that’s before marketing and distribution costs. The special effects alone cost almost fifty million—it cost almost ten million just to destroy San Francisco.”

Cape raised his eyebrows. “You’re destroying San Francisco?”

“Sure,” said Adam, waving his hand. “No big deal—the guys at Industrial Light & Magic are doing the computer graphics. It’s only ten seconds of screen time, but it’s critical to the story, so you gotta pay. In the last movie, we destroyed Paris—it was great.”

Cape remembered the scene—gargoyles on Notre Dame gazing down upon an apocalyptic wasteland. “I forgot you destroyed Paris.”