Passing Through the Flame (44 page)

Conrad stiffened, then relaxed. “Touche,” he said. “But you’re still leaving me in the dark. Why this Rick Gentry?”

“Why Velva Leecock?” Beck said. “Why Paul Conrad?
Why
the Velvet Cloud and not a horde of similar acts? It’s instinct, I just
know.
Something tells me that Gentry’s the male lead we want. His history, his face, the script, Velva, what I get off you, something I see in his eyes on his recent TV commercial footage—it’s all a gestalt. I don’t know where these judgments come from, I don’t understand my own decision-making processes, and I don’t want to. All I can go by is results, like any other artist. When I follow my instincts, I create art. When I override instinct with logic, I don’t. You’re an artist, too. Is it really any different with you?”

Conrad laughed. “If you’re an artist, Jango,” he said, “then your medium is pure bullshit!”

“I take that as a supreme compliment.”

“Maybe so,” Conrad said, “but it still doesn’t give me a useful answer.”

“You insist on an operative answer,” Beck said in a harder tone of voice, “okay, I’ll give you an operative answer. I’m the producer, and I control the casting. I didn’t hassle you on the script, and I won’t hassle you on the shooting, because those are your creative ends of the collaboration. But casting is part of
my
creative input, and I insist that my instincts in that area be as final as yours were on the script or as they will be when it comes to the actual shooting. Fair’s fair, and you knew this for openers.”

Conrad sighed. “I’m not challenging your authority, Jango,” he said. “And you’re right about fair play; you’ve given me less hassle so far than any producer I could imagine. I was just trying to pry some useful information out of you.” He turned to Horst. “Mr. Horst,” he said, “is there anything useful
you
can tell me about Rick Gentry?”

A fragile, hollow feeling bubbled up in Horst’s chest as Conrad studied him earnestly, forthrightly looking to him for guidance in a way that Horst found most gratifying. At the same time, though, he was all too aware of the way Jango Beck was looking at him—a tiny Mona Lisa smile and a reptilian coldness in his eyes that somehow added up to a warning, a message of mood whose specific content he could not read. I can’t tell the kid the whole truth, Horst knew. I can’t tell him what a disaster he’ll be. I don’t know why, but Beck is telling me I’d better not, and I believe him.

“Well... ah... he’s done quite a bit of television, romantic male leads for the most part... some features, nothing really noteworthy....” This is horrible, I can’t let this happen! Gentry could destroy the whole film, Conrad, the studio. How can I let everything ride on Jango Beck’s crazy hunch?

“Suppose you tell us who your second choice is, Jango,” he said as authoritatively as he could.

Beck shrugged, looked Horst square in the face, his expression self-deprecating, utterly casual. But those hard, opaque dark eyes seemed to bore into Horst’s soul like lasers. “I had a wild notion about a possible comeback by Billy Lee,” he said.

Horst’s breath was knocked from him as if his chest had been struck a physical blow from within. Tingles of pain radiated down his arms from his breast and shoulders, and dread pounded in his chest like the sudden awakening from an early-morning nightmare. He maintained his outward composure only by an enormous act of will. Is this coincidence, or... or...

“The old child star?” Conrad asked.

“That’s right,” Beck said. “He’s been my gopher for a while, and I think he could conceivably be what we want. Of course, John worked with him in the old days, isn’t that right, John? John?”

“He... made all his films for Eden,” Horst said woodenly, unable to breathe.

“So John knows more about him as an actor than I do,” Beck said blandly. “What do you think, John, might we be better off with Billy?”

The green walls of the room seemed to press in on Horst, to pulsate like a living membrane. Motes of dust swimming slowly through the shaft of light coming from the chandelier flashed rainbow sparkles like hundreds of tiny diamonds. The oiled tabletop glistened with a rainbow sheen like the top of his desk long years ago those boyish white buttocks writhing spread-eagled atop it, he could feel rivers of sweat at his armpits soiling his fresh shirt—“Billy... always was... impossible to work with,” he said. Beck shrugged. “Well as far as I’m concerned, that settles it,” he said. “It was just a wild notion. I bow to your superior experience, John. We’ll go with Gentry.”

Horst felt his universe contracting toward a more normal state; he took a deep breath, the dread and tingling subsided, and a warm, relaxing weakness washed away the tension.

He became aware of Paul Conrad’s eyes upon him; there was something guarded in them now, a subtle distancing, perhaps an erosion of esteem. Horst felt diminished somehow, older, more fragile, as if he had somehow failed Conrad and, through Conrad, himself.

Jet Warren’s house perched like a giant sea gull’s nest on the lip of a cliff overlooking the Pacific about ten miles north of Acapulco. From the road that petered out not many miles north of the house, not much was visible beyond low windowless yellow stucco walls half-hidden by local foliage and a screen of tall imported cedars.

Chris Sargent turned off the road and into the driveway with mixed feelings. He had been to the Warrens’s no more than a half dozen times, though Jet Warren had made it clear that he was always welcome. Although the only time he had actually got laid there had been by a thoroughly pissed oil heiress who kept demanding he suck her off, the scene always held out the illusion of fancy pussy. Cynthia Warren had made it clear a couple of times that he could ball
her,
but only if he would let Jet simultaneously ball him. Fancy pussy or no, the Warrens were real creeps, and their scene was paranoid and ugly.

They were low-level jet-set types who had made themselves dope groupies in order to make points with the show business and society types who hung out at the poshest Acapulco hotels. The house was always filled with uncool coke and smack dealers, dope smugglers on soldier-of-fortune trips, and raunchy jive-ass spades, all very colorful and all full of shit. Any drug you could imagine was laying around in stone bowls, and the regular chicks tended toward pale-blond speed freaks with the siff. On any given night, Jet Warren would drag half a dozen or so tourists from town through this gross scene—actors, bombed actresses, “daring” society types, “hip” businessmen, and high-priced whores come to gawk at the animals, get cursed at by stoned spades, rub asses with the “underworld.” The Warrens’ house made a Saigon enlisted men’s whorehouse look like a class establishment, but on the other hand, the place always cockteased you with the promise of meeting high-class women, who were usually just barely out of reach.

Sargent parked his rented car in the gravel-surfaced lot to the right of the house, noting a large black Cadillac limousine, the Warrens’ two Mercedes, a silver Rolls, and nothing else. That was already slightly weird. It made him check the Luger in his shoulder holster before pressing the button beside the plain black front door.

An imitation of Big Ben sounded within, and then a big bald black man stuffed into a ridiculous-looking black conservative suit opened the door. “You must be Sargent,” he said in a flat voice. “Jango’s expecting you.”

The black man led him inside, down a darkened hallway past closed silent doors, and that was even weirder. The Warrens’ house was always noisy and filled with people. Somebody had cleared the place out, and Sargent had a pretty good idea who.

“What’s going on here?” he asked the black man as they crossed the big empty living room, lit only by one pale-orange lamp. “Don’t ask me,” the black man said. “I’m only muscle.” There were five people out on the balcony overlooking the sea. Jet Warren and his wife, Cynthia, both thin, reedy, and very nervous-looking, sat side by side on beach chairs facing the ocean, smoking pot in long clay pipes. It pleasured Sargent to see them looking so sweaty and terrified. Jango Beck, naked to the waist, sat at a round table smoking hash in a small brass pipe. Across the table was a small gray-haired man in a dark conservative suit sipping a tall glass of iced red wine. By the door to the living room stood a big crew-cut ugly, also in a conservative suit, with his arms folded across his chest. The black man took up a position beside him, crossed his arms, and set his face in an ironic parody of the hood’s frozen expression.

“Sit down, Chris,” Jango said. “This is Mr.—”

“No names.”

Jango shrugged and handed Sargent the hash pipe as he sat down at the table. “We’ll call him Joe,” he said.

Sargent took a short toke of hash. “You’ve caused us a lot of trouble, Sargent,” Joe said.

Sargent blew smoke at Joe. “No names,” he said. “We’ll call me Chris.” Jango laughed aloud. Sargent offered the hash pipe to Joe, who screwed up his thin lips into a curl of distaste. Sargent handed the pipe back to Jango. What a dumb scene this is, he thought. Like some stupid gangster movie.

“All right, Jango,” he said. “What’s this all about?”

“Joe and I have reached an accommodation,” Jango said. “Joe just wants to make sure you understand the terms of the peace.”

“I’d like to make sure Joe understands the terms of the peace, too,” Sargent said. And I’d like to know how in hell you pulled this off, he thought.

“As I said, you’ve caused us a lot of trouble... Chris,” Joe said. “We don’t want any more of that kind of trouble, and I’m sure you don’t, either.”

Sargent leered at Joe, beginning to enjoy his role. “Doesn’t matter to me,” he said. “Your guys were never a serious threat. We could’ve snuffed them all whenever we felt like it. I think we demonstrated that.”

“Stop fucking around,” Jango snapped. “This is serious.”

“We recognize your exclusive right to the marijuana harvests along the west coast of Mexico,” Joe said. “We further recognize your nonexclusive right to transport cocaine through Mexico into the United States. In return, you are to renounce all involvement in the heroin business. Further, you are to recognize
our
nonexclusive right to transport cocaine through Mexico into the United States. This has all been agreed upon in negotiations between Mr. Beck and my associates.”

Joe took a long sip of wine, smacked his lips, gave Sargent a cold little smile. “Mr. Beck assured my associates that his word was binding upon you,” he said. “However, I have had unfortunate personal experience with subordinates who were too hot-blooded to maintain such an agreement, and I insisted on your own personal word on this matter. Do you understand what you are being asked to uphold?”

“Sure,” Sargent said, glancing at Jango, who studiously concentrated his attention on the glowing bowl of the hash pipe in his mouth. Unexpectedly, Sargent found himself liking this Joe. This guy is showing me respect. More damn respect than I get from Jango.

“Do you agree to the terms of this agreement?”

Jango looked over at Sargent, gave him a hard warning look, as if he feared that he was thinking of having some fun and games with old Joe before going through with this little ceremony.

“Yeah, I agree,” Sargent said.

“Your hand on it,” Joe said, reaching across the table. Sargent hesitated, then took the gray-haired man’s hand. Joe gave his palm a squeeze, then stood up, breaking the grip. “It’s consummated, Beck,” he said. “Just make sure you keep your end of the bargain.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Jango said. “It’s in my own best interest, that’s the best guarantee you can have.”

“We understand each other,” the gray-haired man said. He turned, gestured to his bodyguard, and left, with his muscle guarding his rear.

“Oh, wow,” Jet Warren whined, “man, that scene was too heavy for me. I don’t need that kind of number here, Jango. I just don’t
need
it. Clearing all my friends out of my house like that and bringing...
someone like that
here....”

“You can tell your grandchildren about it,” Jango said.

“Only...
no names
, “the black man said, parodying Joe, then breaking into a cackle.

“You didn’t tell me it was going to be a scene like that when you asked to use the house,” Jet whined on. His thin shallow face was screwed into the shrewish pout of an aging spoiled brat.

“Oh, shut up, Jet,” Cynthia said. “I found it deliciously frightening. All that masculine electricity!” She shook her head provocatively, whipping her lank black hair over her face, and giving Sargent a toothy grin around a pink point of tongue. Sargent thought he just might barf.

“Can we talk alone somewhere, Jango?” he said.

“By all means. I’ve
got
to talk to you.”

“Where?”

“Here would be fine,” Jango said. “Don’t you like the crash of the surf at night?”

“Let’s go, honkies,” the black man said, bowing ironically from the waist and gesturing for the Warrens to precede him into the house.

Jet hesitated petulantly; Cynthia smiled her tongue-tip smile at Sargent again. “Maybe the three of us can get together afterward, Chris,” she said. Jet smiled like a hungry rattlesnake, and the two of them oozed into the house, followed by Beck’s bodyguard.

“Man, what creeps!” Sargent said. He walked over to the balcony railing, leaned his back against it, facing Jango, who still sat at the table sucking on his hash pipe. “Why do you hang around with slime like that?”

“They’re useful. Besides, I find them amusing.”

“You ball Cynthia? Or either of them?”

Jango touched his upper lip with the point of his tongue. “A gentleman never tells,” he said.

Sargent walked back to the table, stood over Beck. “How the fuck did you get the organization to buy a deal like this?” he said. “It makes no sense. They try to muscle in, and a few weeks later they cave in and give us back everything we had in the first place.” Could it really be that that one minor skirmish where we tore them apart scared them off? he wondered. It didn’t seem possible that they were that chickenshit. Or that smart. “Are you going to tell me I scared them off?”