Hard Exit, page 4
“If that’s not a rhetorical question, I’ll answer in the negative, at least if I’m the one being humiliated.”
I drove for a minute, thinking how little I understood about life—mine or anyone else’s. Especially not Game’s or his fellow gangbangers’ or Rachelle’s.
“You intentionally ensured you’d be retaliated against.”
“Like Coach Sherwood say, Hatfields and McCoys.”
“Hatred makes the world go ’round,” I said.
“That and sex.”
CHAPTER FIVE
We drove Pacific Coast Highway mostly in silence, passing restaurants with Friday-night revelers waiting to get in. If Game was impressed with or disappointed by the part of Malibu that PCH passes through, he didn’t say. What he did say was: “When I was on the freshmen team, our small forward got invited to a fancy party somewhere in the hills near here. Four of us head out. We get about here when a sheriff light us up. Ain’t stupid, so we doing everything like we supposed to. No speeding, no drugs, no weapons—acting like regular churchgoers. But bam! we lit up. He give us some crap about not signaling a lane change, but we been in the slow lane for ten miles, driving like a granny.”
“Did he write you up?”
“Nah, just say if we turn ’round and head back to the ’hood—and he say it like this, the’hood, with contempt—then we cool. Otherwise, he’d ticket us for the lane change, then he threatened to search the car, and who knows what he’d find.”
“The Sheriff’s Department out here—and the Highway Patrol, for that matter—has plenty of stupid racists in it. Your story doesn’t surprise me.”
“Ain’t you a cop?”
“No. Private investigator. I have a permit to carry a concealed weapon, but other than that, I’m subject to the same laws you are.”
“’Cept driving while Black.”
“Exactly.”
“How’d you choose what you do?”
“I’d been a journalist, so I knew how to do research, and my dad was a cop, so I knew how to handle weapons and knew a little about penal codes and the legal system. My life went sideways. I needed something, so I reached for this.”
“Like it?”
“It’s allowed me to meet you, so how could I not?”
“You a clown.”
“Yup. I need gas.” I pulled into the gas station at the Malibu Country Mart, turned off the engine, then started to fill the tank. Game leaned across the car toward my open door and said, “Cool if I listen to music?”
“Sure.”
A new gray Mercedes convertible pulled in and came to a stop. I heard Game running the stations and say “damn” when he couldn’t pull in anything he liked. Malibu has lousy reception—too many mountains.
A guy I knew stepped out of the Mercedes, which had a vanity plate that read: A WRAP. Jason Gilson, a movie director, started to fill his tank. I left the nozzle running and approached him.
“Hey, Jason, how are you?”
“Okay, I suppose, Jack. How you been?” He was in his late forties, about five-seven, as round as a basketball, his hair mostly gray, his glasses thick. He wore a mustard cashmere sweater that I was certain was one-of-a-kind, his charcoal pants were probably custom-made in Hong Kong, and his shoes were made of what appeared to be butter-soft leather. Despite his sartorial ostentation, however, he looked terrible. His face was as gray as his car and his pants. He looked tired, and he didn’t seem happy to have run into me.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Amanda gets home from Italy tonight.”
“That’s great. Please say hello for me. She’s doing Tomorrow’s News?”
“Yeah. Says it’s been a train wreck, but she’d worked with Goodwin before, so no surprise there. What are you working on?”
“It’s tentatively titled, Could Be. There’s an offer out to Amanda.”
“Yes, she mentioned it.”
Music suddenly exploded from my car.
“Lower it, Game,” I shouted. He did. Jason ducked his head to see who was trying to blow out my speakers.
“What’s going on there?”
“Too complicated to go into, but, so long as he doesn’t play Ye, formerly Kanye West, things should work out.”
“Okay. Be sure to give my love to Amanda.”
“I will. Take care.”
He turned to remove the nozzle and dropped his keys.
I finished fueling, then got in the car.
“Thanks for the serenade.”
“No problem.”
We headed up the hill, toward Pepperdine University.
“I like that song, man. Plus, you don’t get shit for stations. Why you ain’t got satellite radio?”
“Because I don’t need satellite radio. Plus, I don’t commute much, so it would be a waste.”
“Who was that?”
“A director. You’ve probably seen some of his movies.”
“He do Avengers: End Game?”
“No. The Russo brothers directed that. Gilson mostly does romantic comedies. He made two good movies, or what I consider to be good movies, about fifteen years ago, but now he’s mostly a dump-truck director, according to Amanda.”
“Who’s Amanda?”
“My girlfriend. You’ll meet her tomorrow. Or maybe tonight.”
“That right, the fine one. She an actress or something?”
“Or something.”
“What that mean? She ain’t no good?”
“She’s not an actress—she’s a star. In most cases, there’s a difference.”
We passed Paradise Cove, where I’d gone scuba diving many times.
“She been in anything I seen?”
“Twice Shy. Unvarnished. Never Forget.”
“Hold on, she ain’t Amanda Bigelow?”
“Yes, she is.”
“Damn! You banging America’s Sweetheart.”
“Watch your mouth. If I can treat a sixteen-year-old like an adult, the least you can do is show me some respect.”
“My bad. Surprised me. I mean, Amanda Bigelow. Didn’t know something like that even possible—a regular nobody getting together with a big-time movie star.”
“That’s what she likes most about me, my regular-nobody-ness. Able to leap small nothings in two or three bounds.”
Seeing Jason reminded me I was supposed to go hiking with my friend Chris Cerveris early the next morning. I called him to cancel but got his voicemail. “Chris, it’s Jack. Taking a raincheck on tomorrow’s hike. When this case is resolved, probably in a couple days, we’ll hike or kayak. Hope you’re doing well.”
I took a left off PCH at Trancas Canyon, turned right onto Broad Beach Road, passed the public-access beach entrances, then drove up the hill toward Amanda’s house. I took a left into the driveway and turned off the engine. Game said, “Amanda Bigelow. Fierce.”
Yes, Amanda Bigelow, sometimes referred to in the tabloids and trades as AB. Star of the silver screen. A Hollywood hottie for twenty-four years—almost certain box-office gold. Sure, a couple of her movies had flopped, but whether she was in runaway blockbusters or limping disappointments, she was always America’s Sweetheart. She’d managed to retain the adolescent, girl-next-door charm she’d displayed in the teenager-in-jeopardy Disney flick that had launched her career yet commingled it with a femme-fatale’s carnality. That combustible combination kept her in-demand. She had an unmatched string of $100 million grossers when that number still meant something, and the public has never tired of AB’s high-profile, off-screen entanglements.
Tabloids have linked her to every leading man she’s worked with, relationships that existed for the most part only in the press releases her publicists sent to the fan rags.
“Contrary to the rumors being bandied around town, Amanda Bigelow and her co-star in the certain-blockbuster Blue Wedding—hitting theaters May 18—Justin Billingsley, are only very good friends. Yes, they were seen together entering Bungalow 4 at Chateau Marmont late one October night, but they insist they were only running lines.” That Amanda’s and—surprise—Justin’s reps at HHH Public Relations had paid a photographer to capture this spontaneous late-night rehearsal was beside the point.
Amanda has, in fact, been linked to me for seven years, an eternity in this town, and I’ve accompanied her through the gantlet of microphones that inquire from the edges of red carpets at premieres in Westwood, Hollywood, and New York.
If I were a small-town private investigator forced for financial reasons to tail some poor slob’s wife to cheap motels to see if she is in fact doing to her boss what she stopped doing to her poor-slob husband long ago, my career would be over as soon as I was seen on red carpets and in the tabloids. Stealth and anonymity are usually essential to private eyes. People have generally exhausted all hope when they call a P.I., but L.A. is different. I may as well be handing out business cards each time I walk those red carpets.
I popped the trunk to get Game’s bag, and he said, “Damn” when he saw the gear inside—the wardrobe I used when I needed a disguise, the camera equipment, the night-vision goggles, the empty pee bottle for stakeouts, and the black Mossberg 500 Bullpup 12 gauge shotgun with pistol grip and eighteen-and-a-half inch barrel—all neatly organized.
“I like to be prepared,” I said, handing him the duffel and closing the trunk.
He nodded and looked at the house. He saw the relatively unimpressive street side, with the three-car garage supporting only one elevated story, albeit a story with a turret, then said, “We ain’t in Oakville, Toto.”
It was 10:15, and other than the light above the front door, the only illumination came from the almost-full moon. He couldn’t see the views of the ocean or the coast that arced gently off to the left or the rocky promontory, Victoria Point, to the right.
We walked to the front door, and he asked, “What that smell?”
“The ocean.”
“People pay for that?”
“Millions.”
I opened the door, disabled the alarm, and flipped on the lights.
I’d expected him to cuss when he walked in, run from room to room, something. But he dropped his bag and turned in slow circles, his eyes wide. His jaw moved, but no words came out. I wasn’t sure if the pictures of Amanda, framed in silver and sitting on almost every level surface, had rendered him mute, or if it was the conspicuous wealth.
Amanda had decent taste, true, but she also had oodles of money, and she had parted with gobs of it to ensure that her home was as comfortable as it could be. She spent so much time in temporary settings—in on-set trailers, in hotels on location—that she felt compelled to create an atmosphere that all but shouted, “Lie down, relax, luxuriate. You deserve it.”
Silk pillows the size of Shetland ponies—thickly striped in emerald green and silver, to interplay with the house’s exterior patina and trim—lined the area against the left wall that wasn’t punctuated by the emerald-green sectional. Game stood in front of the wall-to-wall plate-glass window, staring at the slick of white light rolled out by the moon across the ocean. One large pane had to be removed to get the sectional in, and while the glass was airborne, a second crane had delivered the silver Steinway concert grand piano that allowed anyone tickling the ivories to stare out to sea for inspiration. That neither Amanda nor I could play much more than “Chopsticks” didn’t lessen the impression the gorgeous instrument had on people.
He walked from the window to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that ran the length of the right wall. The shelves that weren’t filled with books held either the various pieces Amanda had acquired on her worldwide travels—candlesticks from Egypt, platters from Mongolia, a carving of a naked couple embracing from Nairobi—or glasswork, either Steuben crystal or Venetian masterpieces so delicate that they seemed only to have been imagined. The art was valuable, certainly, but Amanda had chosen each piece because it made her feel something—worthy, most likely. Game reached for a book, then thought better of touching it.
“It’s just a book,” I said. He made a dismissive gesture, then turned back to the sliding-glass door. I walked over, unlocked it, and slid it open. We stepped onto the large deck. He looked at the ocean, then shook his head.
“You live here? This your damn house?” He put his hands on the railing and looked down the beach, toward the moon’s shimmering alley of light. “Every morning you wake up and look at this, and this your view at night.”
I stepped inside, pulled out my phone, and checked my messages. I’d silenced my phone when I’d arrived at Rachelle’s house, and the unexpected turn that my life had taken since had caused me to forget to turn the ringer back on.
“Hello, Jack. It’s Rachelle,” said the first voicemail. “This feels kind of pointless, since I don’t have the words to thank you for what you’re doing. But I’m hoping you’ll understand. So, thank you from the bottom of my heart. I’m sure you will, but please keep my baby safe. Please tell him to call me, no matter how late. I’m at Mike’s. Thanks again, and we’ll be in touch soon.” The next message was from Amanda. “Hello, Sweetbuns. The driver should get me there by 10:30 or so. I can’t wait to see you. All my love.”
I grabbed two waters from the fridge and brought them outside. I handed one to Game and said, “If you want something else, the fridge is full. We have three kinds of juice, all kinds of soda. Whatever you want.” He gave me a look, and I said, “Don’t even ask. I’m not giving you a beer or anything else alcoholic. In fact, there’s nothing in the house.”
“Big Hollywood movie star? Thought it be like a Crystal fountain here twenty-four–seven.”
“Neither of us drinks.”
“Don’t mean you can’t be good hosts and serve a brother a beer.”
“It’s not a question of manners. It’s a personal decision. The house is dry.”
“Then that’s the only thing ain’t perfect here. Where the TV?”
“Yours is downstairs.”
“How many downstairs are there?”
“Four from here, because there are six levels.”
“Six? This place unbelievable.” I nodded. “I mean, I know what AB do to get a place like this. She a big star, maybe the biggest. At least biggest female. But what did you do to deserve this?”
“I’m a regular nobody, remember?” I looked at him for a second. “Your mom wants you to call her. She left a message.” My comment revealed to him that something was wrong, and he reached in his pocket and took out his cell phone. He seemed perplexed.
“Why I ain’t got no calls?”
“Who’s your provider?”
“AT&T.”
“Useless in the house. Only T-Mobile works, and that’s spotty. You have to be on the sand for AT&T to have a chance to work.”
“That messed up. Two things wrong with this palace.”
“I’m sure you’ll find others. We have to travel thirty miles one way to buy a piece of plywood, and the baristas at the Trancas Starbucks are very slow. Let me show you your room.”
We took the outside steps because the glass elevator might have shocked his system. I unlocked the outside door on the next lowest level. Before Game followed me inside, he made a show of waiting until I looked, then shook his head at the eight-seat Jacuzzi that sat on the deck. I didn’t mention the other one on the upper deck.
I opened the door to the room he’d be staying in, and he said, “This a guest room, and it bigger than my mama’s house.” He was exaggerating but only slightly. I figured he’d appreciate the 65-inch flat-screen and the pool table.
“That couch is comfortable,” I said. “I’ve fallen asleep on it watching TV. Or that one pulls out into a bed. If you want a regular bed, you can stay in the room next door. But it’s too girly for my taste.”
“I’ll manage here.”
From upstairs I heard, “Sweetbuns, where are you? I’m home.”
“Sweetbuns?” Game asked.
CHAPTER SIX
“Wait here until I explain things.”
“Should be fun.” His sarcasm made him chuckle.
I handed him the remote, then headed outside and up the stairs. As I stepped inside, Amanda was closing the front door, presumably behind the driver. Six Louis Vuitton suitcases sat near the front door. She wore a beautiful cream-and-tan sweater I hadn’t seen before and milk-chocolate, skin-tight pants, the kind fashionistas wear to yoga classes. The gold silk scarf that her famous mane of blond hair was piled under complemented the soft tones of her sweater, and she wore a pair of exquisitely embroidered slippers—black beadwork and golden curlicues dancing across her toes. It was footwear designed for a genie who had flair and a sense of humor. In her hand she held a small package, wrapped in green-and-silver paper to match the room in which I would receive her gift. She was thoughtful that way. When she looked up and saw me across the room, she smiled. That’s all it took. That’s all it ever took.
Her teeth were perfect, and her gorgeous green eyes lit up like a pinball machine on tilt, but what was behind her ebullient expression rendered her America’s Sweetheart. Her charisma and magnetism had paid for the mansions of numerous producers and directors, yet when she regaled me with her smile that night, something was different.
I didn’t realize what it was until she glided across the floor and leaped into my arms. She clung to my neck, her legs wrapped tightly around my waist, then she began to kiss me frantically, first on my neck, then my cheeks, then my forehead. Between the kisses she whispered, “I missed you,” over and over. Her signature perfume was too strong, as though she’d just doused herself, and when I returned her kiss, mouth to mouth, I could taste the alcohol behind the green-apple Tic-Tacs.
I wanted to push her off me, to confront her. I wanted to walk away, this time for good, because I didn’t think I could go through all the drama again.
She had nearly two years clean when she left for the shoot—712 days—and I’d hoped she’d found some peace this time, bought into an image of herself that she could tolerate while sober. The misery that had preceded this latest stretch of sobriety had included temper tantrums, a car crash, two rehab stints, and a sympathetic, star-struck Highway Patrolman who drove Amanda home instead of arresting her for DWI. And she’d spent a lot of time in therapy. Her drug of choice had been cocaine, but alcohol was always in the mix.
