Chapter 9
“Just a minute,” the man with the high cheekbones said to Jimmy, barely acknowledging him, too busy with the girl in the chair, a blond teenager clad in a pale blue shorty nightgown, the gauzy fabric spattered with fake blood. The man hovering over her was small and slight, wearing a black, full-cut shirt and matching jodhpurs, his dark hair sculpted high, his sideburns tapered to perfect points.
“Are you Martin?” Jimmy moved closer.
“I told you, just a minute,” hissed the man, delicately applying a thin gel pack to the side of the blond girl’s neck with gum adhesive. At a remote signal the pack would explode, sending fake blood spurting at the camera, one of the many money shots in
Slumber Party Maniacs II.
His black cowboy boots clicked as he walked around the makeup chair, checking his work. The boot heels must have been five inches high at least, but he moved smoothly, pivoting like a ballerina. “Yes . . . I think that will do.”
The shooting location today was a large house in Santa Monica. A temporary makeup room had been set up in the servant’s quarters off the squash court, a small room stacked with canned goods, the few items of furniture pushed into a corner.
“It’s not going to hurt, right?” said the girl, reaching up to touch her neck. She looked like she belonged in a shampoo commercial, brushing out her long blond hair while she talked to the captain of the football team on the phone—one hundred strokes a night, and none for him. “When it goes off, I mean. It won’t hurt, will it?”
The man smacked her hand away. “Do I look like a fellow who would hurt anyone as gorgeous as you?”
“Is that a trick question?” The girl turned to Jimmy. Her eyes were blue as an overchlorinated swimming pool. “Is he making fun of me?”
Jimmy wasn’t really paying attention. He kept replaying his lunch with Detective Katz yesterday, annoyed at himself for letting her get to him. The ME’s autopsy report on Walsh had been thorough and conclusive and documented, but there was no way that Jimmy believed it. Jane said it was hard to argue with science, but Jimmy knew that anyone who could set Walsh up for murder, set him up so sweetly that Walsh himself bought it—science was no match for someone like that.
The man with the high cheekbones brushed on makeup over the edges of the gel pack that matched the blond girl’s skin tone, made it almost invisible. He had a pencil mustache that matched the scimitar sideburns, and thin, arched eyebrows—a silent-screen heartthrob striding about with a makeup palette.
“Can I practice my scream on you?” the girl asked the man in black.
“Not a chance, darling,” said the man, hands on his hips as he examined her makeup, deftly arranging her silky hair so that it fell naturally over the gel pack.
“What about you, mister?” the girl asked Jimmy. “Can I try out my scream on you?”
“I vote with Valentino there,” said Jimmy.
“Who?” said the girl.
“You’re done, darling,” said the man. “Go forth and be butchered. Now shoo!” He turned to Jimmy as the girl scooted out the door of the makeup room. “I liked the Valentino line, by the way. Sometimes I get called Zorro, and I really don’t appreciate that.” He indicated the chair for Jimmy to sit. “I’m Martin. What am I supposed to do with you? Are you one of the maniacs?” He tapped his teeth with a forefinger. “You’re a little small—most of the maniacs are total gym rats, just huge. The room positively
reeks
of testosterone when they walk in.”
“I’m not in the movie. I’m Jimmy Gage.” They shook hands—Martin had a firm, dry handshake. “I’m a reporter with SLAP magazine.”
“Oh, I love SLAP. The producer just hired a couple of girls from the current issue. Maybe you—”
“I wanted to ask you some questions about Garrett Walsh. I know you crewed on his second film.”
“If you’re looking for someone to dump on Walsh, you’ve come to the wrong boy,” sniffed Martin. “He was a monster and a prick, but
Hammerlock
was my big break, and it was Walsh who insisted on giving me the job.” He smoothed his sideburns with a forefinger. “I was ever so young and had barely enough hours to qualify for my union card, but he had seen my work. He told me I did the best bruises in town.”
“I believe it. The job you just did on the blonde—amazing.”
“Thank you, kind sir, but bruises are much more of a challenge— more subtle.” Martin tapped the side of his nose. “Here’s a clue: Estée Lauder Potpourri, Blush All Day, and red dye number nine. That’s just the basics of a good bruise. There are other ingredients, which shall remain nameless.” He pursed his lips. “Can’t expect me to share all my secrets, can you? Not even for SLAP.”
“You said
Hammerlock
was your big break. Too bad it never got finished.”
“Yes, too bad.” Martin glared at Jimmy. “If it had—well, let’s just say I wouldn’t be working for scale on a slasher movie, and a sequel to boot. There was plenty of bad luck to go around on the shoot, but if you want someone to piss on Walsh’s grave, hit the road, Jack.”
“I just wanted to ask you some questions about
Hammerlock.
Makeup artists always have the best dish. You spend more time with the talent than the director, and people loosen up in the chair, they talk, and even when they don’t—”
“
Hammerlock
is ancient history. Why talk about it now?”
The door to the makeup room opened, and Tamra Monelli stuck her head in. “It
is
him!” she cried, then she and Tonya rushed into the room, the twins squealing as they hugged Jimmy. They wore matching white nightgowns, the fabric so sheer you could read the tax code through it.
“Is this great or what?” Tonya said, one side of her face cut to the bone, the makeup job so realistic Jimmy could barely look at her. “The same day SLAP came out, we got a callback from the director. The very same day.”
“So much for blondes-only,” laughed Tamra, her shoulders dappled with puncture wounds.
“Was that
you
in the photo?” Martin squinted at Jimmy. “I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.”
“Did you come here to do a story on us, Jimmy?” Tonya asked.
“Of course he did,” said Tamra. “Why else—”
“I came to talk with Martin. I didn’t even know you were working on the film.”
“What’s so important about him?” pouted Tonya. “No offense . . . Milton.”
“It’s Morris,” Tamra corrected her, “like the cat.”
“It’s Martin,” snapped the makeup artist, taking each of them by the hand and dragging them toward the door, his boot heels going clickety-clack. He was stronger than he looked. “Go away and adjust your implants or something.
Out.
”
“Just a second.” Jimmy walked over to the twins. “That night at Napitano’s party. Did you tell anyone the truth about where you got the Oscar?”
“Yeah, right,” sneered Tonya. “We’re really going to brag about how we’re hooked up with some has-been perv who, like, lives in a
trailer.
”
“For a smart guy, you really don’t understand how to play the game,” clucked Tamra. “No wonder Rollo is always having to bail you out of trouble.”
“If you want to interview us later, you can get our private phone number from the casting director,” said Tonya. “Ciao!”
“That was pleasant,” said Martin, as the door closed. “Sometimes I bet you feel embarrassed being heterosexual.”
“Don’t get your hopes up.”
Martin smiled back at him. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Are you going to help me?” asked Jimmy. “Walsh is dead. I just want to know about
Hammerlock.
That was the point in his life when he had it all—the point when he lost it all too. That’s the story I want to write.”
Martin scrunched his face, his cheekbones sailing. He checked his watch. “Sit down. I’m now officially on lunch break.” He pulled a blender out of a bag, plugged it in, then opened up a small cooler on the floor and took out a half gallon of soy milk. “Vanilla protein smoothie?”
“Ah—sure.”
Martin added protein powder and soy milk into the blender, mixed in a few spoonfuls of something green, then something blue, then tossed in a handful of frozen strawberries. The small room was filled with grinding sounds as Martin cranked the blender to liquefy, and the strawberries and the green and blue powder blended with the soy milk to form a sludgy gray concoction. Martin poured half into a tall glass and handed it to Jimmy, then toasted him with the rest in the blender.
Jimmy took a tentative taste. It was delicious.
Martin must have read his expression. “Life is short. If it doesn’t taste good, why bother?”
They sat beside each other on the floor, their backs against the wall. Jimmy allowed himself another long swallow before asking, “You said the
Hammerlock
shoot was jinxed. What exactly did you mean?”
Martin ran the tip of his pinkie across his pencil mustache, wiped off foam, and licked his finger clean. “It was rushed from the start. Walsh didn’t even have a complete script that first day. Or that first month. I guess after he grabbed the two Oscars, the studio didn’t think he needed one, but it made things difficult for everyone. The actors were frustrated, they never knew from one day to the next what scenes they were in or what their lines were going to be, and Walsh kept changing his mind, rewriting and reshooting. We went through two line producers in the first two months, and the original cinematographer walked after waiting three days for his setups to be delivered.”
“I’m surprised the studio didn’t step in.”
“They tried, but Walsh just ran the suits off the set, told them to go crunch somebody else’s numbers. It took Danziger, the big cheese himself, to get Walsh’s attention, but by then . . .” Martin shrugged. “When was the last time you heard of a studio chief visiting a shoot? Danziger hardly said a word, but you could feel the chill. Even the crew made themselves look busy, union guys with twenty years seniority.”
“Danziger had been Walsh’s biggest supporter. He was the one who okayed the project and gave Walsh carte blanche. No wonder he was pissed.”
“He should have gotten involved sooner. Walsh was a genius, but he was in way over his head.”
“A sloppy set and too much time on your hands—there must have been plenty of gossip. What were you hearing about Walsh?”
“Sex or drugs?”
“Sex.”
Martin rolled his eyes. “The man was a machine, a piston-driven fuck machine. I don’t know how he got
anything
done. Actresses, secretaries, models—there was even a girl on the lighting unit who would pop into his trailer after a call.”
“Was there anyone special?”
Martin buffed one of his black cowboy boots with the palm of his hand. “There were a few regulars, but Walsh was a free-range hump-monkey. For a while, anyway.” He shrugged. “If you’re writing a general feature about sex on the set, I can give you a few names. One sitcom actress in particular makes Walsh seem like a celibate—” There was a knock on the door. “Go away!” He looked at Jimmy. “I’m not going to out anyone, if that’s—”
“What did you mean, ‘for a while’?”
Martin turned his boot in the overhead light, checking his reflection.
“You said Walsh was free-ranging it for a while. When did he stop?”
“I don’t know—three or four months into the shoot. Suddenly the talent was turned away, and the great man’s trailer declared off-limits.” Martin smiled. “The crew—certain members of them, anyway—were quite happy to comfort the rejects.”
“Was there one woman who still had access to the trailer? Someone who seemed to have an ongoing relationship with him?”
“You’re asking if Walsh found Ms. Right?” Martin chuckled, then shook his head. “I just assumed he decided to focus on the film. Still, I was quite busy with my job. I might have missed something.”
“Did Walsh have any enemies on the set?”
“Just
everyone.
”
“I mean did he exchange words with anyone? Threats or—”
“Everyone. I saw one of the
caterers
wave a knife at Walsh once, threaten to cut his balls off if he talked to her like that again, and who could blame her? The producers—you don’t even want to get into that. He drove them absolutely mad. Mick Packard kicked in the door to Walsh’s trailer one afternoon, one of his signature roundhouse kicks, but it was no act. The PA closed the set and told us to go to lunch, but we could hear them shouting from fifty feet away.”
“That’s right, Packard was the star of
Hammerlock.
”
“Mr. Action Hero himself. He was hotter than Boys Town on a Saturday night in those days, and he wanted the whole world to know it. God, was I grateful when his career went into the shitter. Talk about karma.”
“What were he and Walsh arguing about?”
“No telling. It was one of those typical Hollywood-alpha-male pissing contests from the very first day on the set.” Martin took another sip of his power drink. “In your article I hope you don’t just talk about the bad things that Walsh did—killing that poor girl. He was a very talented man. The
Hammerlock
shoot was a mess, disorganized and self-indulgent, but he shot some incredible footage. Walsh’s
out-takes
were better than most of the crap that gets released today. I just hope you tell people the truth about him.”
“Are you going to the funeral tomorrow?”
Martin looked pained. “I thought about it, but I can’t afford to miss work, and besides—it’s just kind of sad, isn’t it? Drowning in a fish pond, eaten away by
koi,
for God’s sake, which are just so . . . passé.” He started giggling, “I know I shouldn’t laugh.” He laughed harder. “Forgive me, but it’s this stupid movie—you spend all day making beautiful girls look like hamburger, it changes your sense of humor.”
Jimmy smiled. He didn’t even have Martin’s excuse.
Martin drained the blender, stood up, and stretched. “Finish your shake, dearie. It’s got yohimbé extract—your prostate will thank you.”
Chapter 10
“You can always tell a true has-been, pilgrim—they have lousy timing,” said ATM, shaking his head at the sparse turnout for Walsh’s funeral. He snapped a couple of telephoto shots of a cop scratching his nuts beside a wilting floral display at the entrance to the chapel. “Walsh gets planted on the same day that a nationally syndicated talk-show queen may be getting indicted for murder, you know where the cameras are headed. Not that I blame them. Debra! caps her longtime boyfriend—that’s entertainment.”
“So what are you doing here, ATM?” Jimmy looked across the grassy expanse of Maple Valley Memorial Gardens, a boneyard just outside Seal Beach, with a view of the ocean from the most expensive plots, and a view of the 405 freeway from the lowlands where Garrett Walsh was being interred. “Why aren’t you camped out at the Hall of Justice, waiting for the DA to announce his decision?”
“
Major
miscalculation.” ATM sighed, the three cameras slung around his neck swinging gently. He was a rotund, slovenly paparazzo specializing in car crashes and Hollywood Babylon, utterly heartless in pursuit of a tabloid buck. “Not an A-list star in sight, no current ones anyway—strictly cable and movie-of-the-week-grade heat.” He assessed the crowd. “No wonder the only other shooters here are amateurs who wouldn’t know an f-stop if it blew them.” He snorted. “Second-rate media coverage too. A couple of radio talk-show remotes and one local TV news crew. Bottom line: This funeral is a waste of film.”
“Not for you,” said Jimmy, looking at ATM. The photographer was renowned for staking out the rich and famous in a food-stained sweatshirt and baggy shorts, but today ATM wore reasonably clean jeans and a black tuxedo T-shirt, his tangled hair freshly washed. “I think you knew what you were doing when you came here today.”
“Yeah,” ATM admitted, scratching his belly. “Walsh—he was a stone genius. A snap of Debra! sneaking out the side door of County is good for a paycheck, but sometimes you have to show respect. Even if it costs you.”
“Does that mean you
didn’t
try to bribe the funeral director to open the casket for a shot?”
“Come on, give me some credit.”
“I am.”
ATM sighted through his camera. “Open-casket portrait of a floater that used to be famous? I could peddle that horror show to some European tabs maybe, but it would barely bring in what I’d have to lay out to take it.” He swung the barrel of the telephoto toward the chapel. “Just for your information, never approach the funeral director—go through his assistant. It maintains deniability, and assistants have a better grasp of the marketplace.”
A dozen or so demonstrators from Voices of Victims, a throw-away-the-key advocacy group, marched around the gravesite, waving their signs at a cluster of listless goth teenagers who squatted on the nearby markers flipping them the finger. Jimmy waved to Lois Hernandez, the Orange County chapter president, and she waved back. The goths were sweating in their black outfits, capes dragging on the grass, necks layered in silver crosses and ankhs, but even in the heat they remained cheerful; death of any kind was cause for celebration, but the death of a murderer was particularly festive. Every few minutes a bored off-duty cop would order the goths and the VV demonstrators to disperse. He was ignored by everyone. The cop didn’t care; he was pulling down forty dollars an hour for standing around watching the freaks. The Maple Valley officials didn’t care either— any kind of publicity was good for business, and they were as bummed out about the arrest of the talk-show diva as everyone else.
“I’m going to check this out,” ATM said, heading toward the demonstrators. “With any luck, maybe it’ll turn into a riot.”
Jimmy watched him hurry down the grassy slope, then turned to see Rollo leave the chapel and walk rapidly toward him. The flowers and funeral expenses had been picked up by the Directors Guild, a legal obligation that hadn’t entailed any current members showing up for the service. Jimmy had been disappointed when he found out who had paid the bill—he had hoped it would be the good wife. Or even an anonymous benefactor he could have tracked down.
“I signed the guest book,” said Rollo, oddly dapper in a blue suit—Armani, it looked like, one of the latest shipments of merchandise to fall off a truck at the precise instant that Rollo was there to catch it. “You wouldn’t believe some of the nasty things people wrote in the book, Jimmy. What’s wrong with people?”
“They think the dead can hear them. Evidently so do you.”
Rollo slipped a business envelope out of his inside jacket pocket. “I brought you a surprise. Don’t open it here.”
Jimmy tore open the envelope and pulled out five pages of telephone numbers with dates and time of day listed. He stared at the billing records. “How did you
get
these? Jane wasn’t sure she could get prepaid records even with a court order.”
Rollo blushed. It made him look about thirteen. “These are only the records for the cell phone he had when—when we found him. No way to pull up any calls he might have made from another line.”
Jimmy riffed through the list. “You’re amazing.”
Rollo pushed back his glasses.
“How much do I owe you?”
Rollo shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I know you’re trying to help Mr. Walsh.” He stuck a finger under his glasses and wiped an eye. “Someday people are going to realize what a great man he was.”
Jimmy slipped the records into his pocket.
“I’m going home and watch some movies. This is a bad day at Black Rock, man.”
Jimmy waited until Rollo disappeared into the parking lot before walking over to where Mick Packard was being interviewed. Jimmy had been on his way to talk to the actor when he ran into ATM, and he had kept Packard in sight ever since. He was interested in Packard, but he was even more interested in the woman hovering just behind him, keeping a discreet distance.
Packard was at least twenty pounds heavier than Jimmy remembered, his extra chin badly hidden by a turtleneck.
The interviewer was a freckle-faced redhead who kept thrusting the microphone at Packard’s face. Packard had to pull back before he spoke. The cameraman was equally young, a well-built jock in shorts, muscle-T, and backward ball cap. The camera atop his shoulder had FULLERTON STATE UNIVERSITY stenciled on the side.
Jimmy pulled out his reporter’s notebook as he approached. The woman with Packard was in her early thirties, a beautiful brunette, long-limbed and tan, wearing a slinky charcoal-gray dress and huge dark sunglasses. Packard was shorter in person than onscreen, his thinning hair slicked straight back.
Packard put his hand over the microphone. “I’ll be right with you,” he said to Jimmy. He acted like Jimmy should be grateful.
“Hey, this is my interview,” the redhead said to Jimmy.
“Take your time,” said Jimmy.
“I don’t want you listening in to my questions,” said the redhead.
“Don’t fight, boys,” Packard said beneficently. “There’s plenty of me to go around. Just ask your questions,” he said to the redhead. “I’m sure this gentleman will respect your professionalism.” He glanced at Jimmy. “Who are you with?”
“SLAP magazine.”
Packard brightened, then turned to the redhead. “Let’s wrap this up.” He smiled into the camera. “I had intended—make that, I had
hoped
that Garrett Walsh and I would have the opportunity to work together again. He was a flawed man, a haunted man, but I considered him a spiritual brother in arms, another Hollywood outlaw, just like myself.” He nodded to the camera, walked over to Jimmy, and threw a mock karate chop at him. He looked annoyed when Jimmy didn’t flinch, but quickly covered. “Nice to meet you. I didn’t catch your name.”
“I’m Jimmy Gage.”
“Great. Fabulous. Shall we get started? It’s Jimmy, right?” Jimmy smiled at the woman in the gray dress and sunglasses. “We haven’t been introduced. I’m Jimmy.”
“Hello,” the woman said, her voice soft, a little tremulous. “I’m Samantha Packard.” Her eyes were invisible behind the dark glasses.
“Hey,” said Packard, “are you interviewing me or my old lady?” If it was supposed to be a joke, none of them believed it. “So you want to start with my new movie, or you want me to spout off on
Hammerlock
?”
“Let’s go with
Hammerlock,
” said Jimmy, watching Samantha Packard as he wrote in his notebook. “That must have been an interesting shoot. Big budget, and Walsh had just won a couple of Academy Awards—”
“Those awards are just popularity contests. I was the number-one box-office star in the U.S. the year before—that’s all that counts,” blustered Packard. “Walsh knew that. He was a rising star, but I think I intimidated him. I get that a lot.”
Jimmy dutifully entered the information in his notebook under Packard’s watchful eye.
“Is this going to be a main feature in SLAP?” demanded Packard. “My agent said I should always insist on a cover.” He patted his shellacked black hair. “What the hell, I’m doing this one for Garrett.”
“Were you and Walsh friends before
Hammerlock,
or did you get close during the shoot?” Jimmy saw Samantha Packard pull a pack of cigarettes out of her tiny purse and light one up, inhaling as though it were the last breath she was going to take.
“We knew
of
each other, of course,” said Packard, keeping his chin high as he looked around, checking to see how many in the crowd were noticing him. “But it was only when we got on set that things started to click. You have to remember, Walsh was still new to the big leagues. I like to think that I showed him the ropes, helped him to stand up to the studio. I don’t think he would mind me telling you this, not now, but he used to ask my advice on blocking and dialogue. I was happy to help, of course.”
“Of course.” Behind Packard’s back, Jimmy could see Samantha Packard turn away, her hand shaking as she brought the cigarette to her mouth again.
“Where’s your photographer?” asked Packard. “It’s Jimmy, right? You want to do something here, Jimmy, or should we arrange for a photo session later?”
“Later is fine. I’m traveling light today.” Jimmy took a slow pan of the cemetery. The victims’ rights demonstrators were circling more slowly now, beaten down by the heat and the lack of TV news crews. The goths had taken off their capes and were fanning themselves. At the buzzing sound of a prop airplane, everyone looked up—maybe they thought it was going to be some flyboy supporting the cause, but it was just a Piper Cub towing an AGAVE GOLD TEQUILA banner along the beach. Jimmy turned back to Packard. “I heard there were a lot of problems on the shoot.”
“Studios never really understand talent,” said Packard. “They understand money, that’s all, and schedules and contracts—”
“I was told that you and Walsh didn’t really hit it off.”
“Walsh was okay. He and I—giants always bump shoulders. That doesn’t mean we didn’t respect each other.” Packard squinted at Jimmy. It was the same look that usually preceded Packard breaking somebody’s neck or throwing them down a flight of stairs. On film, anyway. “Maybe we should talk about my new movie? It’s called
The
Holy Killer,
and I think it’s really going to change the way a lot of people in this town think about me. So far we haven’t gotten an American distributor, but that’s just the way it works. You buck the system, you maintain your integrity as an artist and a man—you get knifed in the back. That’s why I chose to work overseas. Foreigners—they have an appreciation for integrity.”
Jimmy wrote down
integrity
and underlined it three times for Packard’s benefit. “My understanding is that you and Walsh had some pretty intense arguments.” He sneaked a look at Samantha Packard, but she had her back turned toward them. “What did you fight about? Integrity?”
“Artistic differences, that’s all. No big deal.”
“I heard you actually broke down the door to Walsh’s trailer.”
“Who told you that?”
“Just doing my research.”
Packard gave Jimmy a little shove. “Was it Danziger? That fucker hated my guts from day one. He blamed me for everything that went wrong on
Hammerlock.
Said I had bad chemistry, which was bullshit, because I was only on steroids for a few months,
under doctor’s orders,
for inflammation . . . or something.” He glared at Jimmy. “Is Danziger the one telling tales about me and my chemistry?”
“You have a reputation for having a temper. So did Walsh,” said Jimmy, baiting him. “I don’t think it’s some dark secret that you might have had words on the set. I just was curious to know what you were arguing about.”
“You write that I’m difficult to work with, I’m going to break your fucking face,” Packard said quietly, barely moving his mouth. “Is that what you’re really doing here? You writing a hit piece on me?”
“I’m writing a piece on Garrett Walsh.”
“I’ll take you out if you hurt my career,” said Packard. “I’m the last of my kind—the last man in Hollywood that does what he promises—and I’m promising you, fuck me over, and I’ll fuck you up.”
Jimmy nodded as he wrote in his notebook. “How do you spell
fuck
?”
Packard stalked away.
Samantha Packard turned around, covering a smile, her eyes still hidden. She flicked her cigarette onto the grass, then slowly followed her husband toward the nearest camera.