The Down and Out Page 2

  Marvin grimaced. “I partied too much. I don’t know. I don’t even remember signing a chit. Maybe I got rufied.”

  “I could always handle you myself. Loto is still in Los Angeles. He doesn’t like you, Marvin.”

  Marvin looked down at the cast on his right hand.

  Stanley Ng had Loto, his Samoan enforcer, snap his pinky when he’d balked at the deal. Editing had been a real bitch after that.

  “Then guess what. Your hot fiancé dumps you and Stanley swoops in for the rebound.”

  Rachel watched Marvin glance at the photo of the woman on his desk.

  “Remember the deal, Marvin. Do what Shawnee says, and your accounts will be settled. Got it, you pathetic turd?”

  “Dude, I got it.” Marvin looked like he was going to cry.

  “You’re off speaker now,” Rachel said. “Listen, Marvin’s nervous, but he did a good job of setting me up here at Dynamic.”

  “Great,” Sam said. “Better let you go. I’ve got a couple minutes before the lizard enters the terrarium. Wish me luck.”

  Sam walked across the Wilshire Grand’s rooftop bar, sipping a club soda. At seventy-three floors up, the view of downtown L.A. was dizzying. He watched a helicopter land on a nearby skyscraper and thought of the scene with Dr. Leonides climbing up the rope ladder.

  You’re in for a long fall, doc.

  Sam’s name tag read “Downtown Action Film Festival.” Below it, “Harris Capp, Screenwriter.” It was a new festival that had planted its tent pole in L.A.’s tallest building. It cost a “donation” of ten thousand dollars for Sam, as Harris Capp, to be designated a festival judge. That, as well as the steep entry fee for submissions, made Sam think that film festivals were the biggest con around.

  Sam’s wardrobe was money. Counterfeit money. He had a faux Rolex Daytona dipped in Cubic Zirconia. His Berlutti boots weren’t leather or Italian. The Balmain jeans and his Tom Ford jacket were knockoffs Rachel bought from her new favorite replica website. Judging from Leonides’ penchant for nips, tucks, and plugs, Rachel and Sam figured that appearances were all-important to him.

  “Harris!”

  Sam turned to see Leonides step into the outdoor patio. “Dr. Leonides! In the flesh!”

  Leonides paused expectantly. None of festival goers at the bar looked his way. He ran his fingers through his hair and continued towards Sam. Following behind was Carlos, a sulking presence who didn’t let Leonides out of his sight. From what Sam could figure, Carlos was Leonides’ errand boy. Sam didn’t like him.

  “I can’t get Joystick to Hell out of my mind,” Leonides said. “Best script I’ve ever read.”

  Sam, Dr. Leonides, and Carlos sat two steps from a thousand-foot drop to the pavement. As in their previous meetings, Leonides didn’t order food. Sam guessed he was on one of those starvation diets concocted by the life-extension crowd. Sam could’ve used a hamburger and fries, but he mirrored Leonides, even ordering the same honey-infused vodka, green tea, and lemon drink.

  “The hero is a great character. I’ve had clients come through my clinics who match his profile. Brilliant but hopelessly addicted.”

  Sam nodded enthusiastically. “With Reed Bennek starring, it’ll be a monster.”

  Joystick to Hell was a rewrite of the screenplay Sam, Rachel, and Porter had commissioned over two years ago. It was at the heart of the grift that conned Reed Bennek out of three hundred thousand dollars. Sam and Rachel had it updated with a new title and a few other cosmetic differences for this new con. Harris had let it slip to Leonides that Reed wanted to make Joystick even more than the previous script.

  Leonides leaned in. “Shawnee really liked my short? I mean, she thought I was good?” Leonides almost seemed vulnerable. Sam saw that behind the MD, Leonides was still a weird, pimple-faced fourteen-year-old who dreamt of nookie while suffering endless wedgies in gym class.

  “She went crazy for it. After she watched it she jumped up and said, ‘We’ve found our Franz!’” Franz was a supporting role, the Formula One champ turned safecracker.

  Leonides beamed. “Would Reed go for it?”

  “That’s tricky. And I’m afraid I made it trickier.” Sam glanced at Carlos, who looked like he was drinking in every word. “That’s a topic for your ears only, doctor.”

  “Carlos,” Leonides said. The doctor snapped his fingers and pointed at the bar. Carlos scowled. He reluctantly got up and strolled away.

  “Who is that guy again?” Sam asked.

  “My recruiter. Invaluable in bringing me clients for my clinics. Pointless in our field of expertise.”

  It took Sam a moment to realize “clients,” meant “patients.” So it’s Carlos who scrapes the gutter for the good doctor. Sam didn’t like to knock someone else’s grift but messing with the homeless was some bottom-level scumbaggery.

  Sam spent time on the streets when he was a kid, even before Porter took him under his wing. Sam had an uncle who helped out while his parents couldn’t be bothered. Uncle Gene. He had ended up on the street, too. All memories Sam didn’t like to revisit.

  Focus.

  “I think I had a little too much to drink last night. Said some things I shouldn’t have.”

  Leonides took a pipe stem from his blazer and sucked on it. “Perhaps. You said your wife is a raging bitch who’s about to divorce you.”

  Sam slowly shook his head. “Sad but true.”

  “Been there done that. And you told me how you cheated Shawnee out of her option.”

  Sam took a drink. I was good last night, if I say so myself.

  Last night, the waiter had brought another round of drinks while Sam had explained that when Shawnee began producing Gorilla My Dreams, she’d hired the show’s payroll service to be her personal accountant.

  Leonides had listened intently as Sam told him he knew a former bean counter from the payroll company. His buddy still had all the passwords. “He found my account and extended my last payment by an extra month. I would get an extra check for the option on my script. More important, Shawnee would be notified a month late her option was up.”

  That was yesterday, when Sam was baiting the hook. Today he was expectant. Let’s see if he nibbles. “It was a gamble. Shawnee had first right to re-option or buy, but she had to do it before her option lapsed. That date has come and gone. The script is mine again. And it couldn’t happen at a better time. I need a cash infusion.”

  “Does Shawnee know?”

  “I think so. She called a couple times today. Didn’t leave a message.”

  An attractive college-aged woman approached Sam and Dr. Leonides. “Excuse me, are you Harris Capp?”

  “I sure am. Let me guess. You’re a writer. I can always tell.”

  “So cool to meet you. My professor talked about your writing site in my screenwriting course. Pretty good stuff.”

  “And your name is?” Sam asked.

  “Topanga Willing.”

  Sam winced. That wasn’t the name they’d agreed to. These actresses needed to stay on script.

  “Topanga, why don’t you pull up a chair and tell me how I can make your Hollywood dreams come true.” Sam gave Leonides a knowing glance. Leonides looked Topanga up and down like he was giving her a physical exam.

  “My dreams are about getting a scholarship to law school. I work part time at a firm right now. These are court papers.”

  Topanga set the papers on the counter in front of Sam. He recoiled from them like they were writhing snakes.

  “They’re for you,” she said.

  “What?”

  “You’ve been served.” Topanga scrunched up her shoulders apologetically. Sam could tell she was about to go off script again. Don’t blow this, lady.

  “I really did like your website, Mr. Capp. Good luck, I guess?”

  Sam breathed a sigh of relief that he made sound like a groan. Her improvisation wasn’t a deal breaker. Sam and Leonides watched her as she walked away
. Sam sunk his head in his hands.

  “I remember my first divorce,” Leonides said. “Ex-wife number one was a hard-headed, self-willed ball-buster if there ever was one. I’ve always been a sucker for strong women with big knockers.”

  Sam nodded. I’ve gotta pass that little tidbit onto Rachel.

  “She locked me out of our house, then out of our bank accounts,” Leonides said. “I lived out of a Motel 6 and ate Ramen. Just like what’s happening to you, Harris.”

  Sam groaned again. “I need another drink.” He looked around, trying to catch the attention of a waiter.

  “Now my wives get prenupped,” Leonides continued. “I’m married to a full-time yoga student. She can untie her shoelaces with her mouth from a standing position. If we get divorced all she gets is sixty thousand dollars and her yoga mat.”

  “Stop rubbing it in.”

  “I’ve been thinking about your situation since yesterday. I have a proposition for you, Harris. Maybe we can help each other.”

  The animal-like howl hit Ford like a shot of epinephrine. In the course of working the shadows at the edge of L.A.’s glitz, the detective was accustomed to humans doing the inhumane. This sound gave him chills. Evil-in-a-Hollywood-Hills-basement chills.

  Ford had business here at Las Encinas many times before. His grandfather, a police detective under Police Chief Horrall, had come to visit W.C. Fields here during one of his many stays. Ford knew his way around.

  He locked the door to the private room and pulled a chair up to the bed. Ford’s Angel’s cap, replacing his usual Panama hat, was pulled down low to hide his face.

  Ford had at least fifteen minutes before the orderly he bribed would be off her rotation. He took the hypo out of his satchel and slowly injected one hundred milligrams of sodium thiopental into Mol Rakosian. Too much too fast and the mobster could stop breathing. Ford didn’t want to kill him.

  Yet.

  Mol briefly fought against the restraints anchoring him to the bed.

  “Hi, Mol,” Ford said. “Remember me?”

  Mol looked like he was about to howl again. Instead, he exhaled deeply.

  “I’m looking for Shawnee Whitman. You visited her. Two years ago. Do you remember? What can you tell me about her?”

  Mol let out a series of small breaths.

  “Mol, do you understand me? I couldn’t find a damn thing about Shawnee. She’s like a ghost.”

  Mol quickly turned to him. “Ghost?” Mol focused his eyes on a point somewhere directly behind Ford. His eyes grew wide with fright.

  “Shawnee Whitman. What do you know about her?”

  Mol grimaced. He held the grimace for a full minute.

  “Talk to me, Mol.”

  Mol was silent. Then he began to grunt. Every second, he grunted. Ford knew asking Mol anything more would be pointless. He took the other hypo out of his bag. He injected Mol right through his thick sock.

  “So long, Mol,” Ford said. “I’m doing us both a favor.”

  Ford closed up his satchel and rose to his feet.

  “I talked with Shawnee in her office. Lovely strawberry blonde. I had her followed,” Mol said, strangely lucid.

  Ford turned back to Mol. Mol was looking up at Ford. He appeared clear-eyed and normal.

  “Shit,” Ford muttered.

  Ford quickly whipped off his belt. He wrapped it around the ankle of the foot he’d just injected the lethal amount of potassium chloride into.

  “Keep talking.” Ford pulled the belt as tight as he could, trying to stop the poison from circulating. “Just keep talking.”

  “I was suspicious,” Mol said. “You and I were blackmailing Reed. Reed didn’t know you were involved. You’re the shadow man, Ford. Always in the dark. You remember that? We were blackmailing Reed?”

  “I remember,” Ford said, pulling on the belt. “Just keep talking.”

  “Shawnee was asking questions about me around town. Turns out she’s a movie producer.” Mol laughed. “Well, that’s what I believed. I met her about a script I had. But then I got a call from someone I had tailing her. Shawnee was spotted with this guy. The description, I knew just who it was. Everything Shawnee said, it was bullshit. I was going to tell Reed about both of them.” Mol stopped talking. A lone tear streamed down the side of his face. “I don’t know what happened. Just everything changed. What happened to me, Ford? Do you know? I’d really like to know.”

  “I’ll tell you in a second. What about Shawnee’s friend?”

  “That’s when I knew they were some kind of con artists. The guy, he worked for Reed.”

  Mol lurched violently. He shuttered under the restraints. It was like his whole body had the hiccups.

  Ford quickly unwound his belt and shoved it in the satchel. He left the room, holding up his pants.

  “I told you upfront, Rachel,” Shinika said. “My services only get your foot in the door. I can’t control the internet. I ain’t Putin.”

  Shinika Graham was an underground talent agent who had been highly recommended by Rachel’s old friend Mia. “Shinika’s like me, an actress who is no stranger to the grift,” Mia had told her. “Except while I still go on auditions, Shinika has full-on embraced the dark side. She will lie, steal, and blackmail to get her clients jobs.”

  Shinika was expensive and thorough. Rachel was impressed when she taped Sam lecturing about screenwriting to a class full of acting students, all Shinika’s clients. It was part of the Harris Capp Screenwriting website that Shinika had created.

  Rachel had called for an emergency Skype meeting with Shinika when she discovered that both Shawnee’s and Harris’s fake credits were vanishing from the IMDb. Without their phony credits, the whole grift could be blown. Rachel decided that getting an early concession from Shinika was the best way to come at her.

  “Before I forget,” Rachel said, “the actress who played the process server made up her own dialogue. Sam said she went off script and almost ruined everything.”

  “My bad. I sent that one based more on looks than talent.” Shinika sighed. “I guess that makes me like every other producer in town. The actor playing your lawyer is a seasoned vet. Spent twenty-five years on the soaps. He’ll deliver, I promise you that.”

  “Good. What’s really troubling me is that my IMDb credit on The Forces of Love is gone,” Rachel said. “You picked Forces because there are eleven executive producers on that one. No one was supposed to notice one more.”

  “Anyone who wants to can suggest an edit to the IMDb,” Shinika said. “There’s a lot of bored TV watchers who ain’t got nothing better to do than go on-line and try to edit the credit lists. And if someone who actually worked on the project suggests a change, IMDb gives it extra weight.”

  “Sam lost his credit on Raw Target 2 before we even settled into our motel room.”

  “Well that’s different. Fake writing credits are way harder to maintain than fake producing credits. Writers are a bunch of neurotics. They’re checking the IMDb all the time. You ask me, they need to do their writing and not worry about people hustling. For real.”

  “I thought you had someone on the inside at IMDb. Can’t they delay these changes? Forty thousand dollars is a lot to pay for something with such a short shelf-life.”

  Shinika shook her head. “Mia said you were experienced in the game. You should know smoke blows away. These fake credits ain’t built to last. What can I tell you?” Shinika frowned. “We don’t do refunds.”

  Rachel’s burner phone, reserved for just her and Sam, dinged with an incoming text. “Just a moment,” Rachel said.

  “Okay. But in twenty minutes I’m on the phone getting a wedding photographer a DP job on a hundred-million-dollar sci-fi miniseries.”

  Rachel read the text from Sam.

  Phase one is happening. Check the account soon and thank me tonight. FYI Leonides likes strong women/big boobs. Miss you.

  Rachel smiled. Phase one was just a do
wn payment, but it was a start. She would thank Sam tonight. Big time.

  “I see you’re smiling about something,” Shinika said.

  “If Mia told you anything about me, then she told you I’m a pro. All I need is a little time.”

  “I don’t like to give bad news to good paying clients, but you ain’t gonna like this. Your credit on Gorilla My Dreams is on the chopping block.”

  Rachel took a breath. These credits seemed so inconsequential to her, yet they were the fuel that ran the whole town. No wonder someone like Shinika was in demand. No credits, no gigs. “I need to keep my producer credit on Gorilla for at least another day. Besides our credit from before with Reed Bennek, this is my most important one. Mia said you were a miracle worker.”

  “I’m doing what I can. My person can keep the credit active till sometime tomorrow. That’s the best I can do. If it wasn’t for me, it would already be gone.”

  There it was. Rachel weighed if it was worth shutting down the con, and quickly decided it wasn’t. If Lizard Face noticed her credit was missing, she’d talk her way out of it. One credit wouldn’t be the deciding factor. Sam said Leonides was a horn dog. As repulsive as he was, Rachel could throw on the charm. She’d show enough skin to set Leonides’ lizard blood on fire.

  Rachel texted Sam back.

  Our credits are vanishing. The meeting has to happen tomorrow.

  Rachel hit send.

  Sam put the burner phone in his pocket. The fifty-thousand-dollar option for the script had been quickly hashed out and signed. The option price might be steep, but it was the deal of a lifetime for someone who wanted to break into Hollywood and star opposite Reed Bennek.

  The fake lawyer that Shinika sent over played the part well. While he and Leonides’ lawyer put the paperwork together, Sam had excused himself to use the john. Sam looked in the bathroom mirror and did a quick appraisal.

  It’s too early for a victory lap, but it sure feels sweet.

  Leonides thought he was so close to stardom he could taste the fruit platter at the film’s first table read. When Leonides sensed Sam’s feigned desperation for funds, he demanded Sam give him an option on the script immediately. Leonides set up a meeting at his lawyer’s office twelve miles north in Pasadena. Sam was ready with his own lawyer, a believable silver-haired actor.