Show Business Is Murder (17 page)

“I was a, uh, little busy at the time,” he said.

Church, meanwhile, was examining the mailing envelope. He tapped a finger on the cancelled stamps. “Mr. Presley, where were you six days ago?”

“The third?”

“Yes.”

“Well, let's see. That would have been Indianapolis, I think. We're zigzagging across the country, more or less. Cleveland to Detroit to Cincinnati to Grand Rapids to Grand
Bay, then we're up to Marquette, then a long trip over to Green Bay. From there we've got an extended run in Branson, Missouri.”

I took the mailing envelope from Church and examined the postage. The envelope, its photographs and blackmail note had been mailed from Grand Bay, Michigan, while our Elvis Presley was in Indianapolis, Indiana.

“Huh,” I said.

“You can say that again,” Church said. “Mr. Presley, you can go now.”

Elvis nodded and left. Church said, “Any more bright ideas?”

I looked at the stamps on the mailing envelope. “Well, just one. But it's a good one.”

RAY CHURCH AND
I were watching the tide of visitors ebb and flow through the Kingston house, a neat colonial with robin's-egg blue vinyl siding and a beautiful crop of Kentucky blue for a lawn.

“I feel guilty,” I said. “I should've noticed the stamp. Things might've been different.”

Church shrugged. “You also told her to inform you when he contacted her and she didn't. She went and met him alone instead. If she'd listened to you in the first place—it's what she was paying you for—she'd be alive. Of course, it's possible you'd be dead. Frankly, I'd rather try to figure out who killed Alicia Kingston than try to figure out who killed you.”

“I'm touched,” I said.

“It's hard to find good fishing partners,” he said.

“You say I talk too much and scare the fish.”

He smirked. “You do. It's possible that's what makes you a good fishing partner.”

We lapsed into silence. A couple people left the house, then another two cars arrived and a herd of people
tramped to the front door and disappeared within.

Ray said, “Do other artists have imitators? I mean, are there Frank Sinatra imitators? Where's that imitation thing come from, anyway?”

I shrugged. “I always felt like Elvis was imitating himself, there toward the end. Maybe it was a natural progression.”

“Huh. Sounds like a master's thesis.”

“It probably already is,” I said.

We watched three more cars arrive. Church said, “Ready?”

“Sure.” I walked down the street and entered through the front door, mingling with this particular group of well-wishers. The Kingston house was crowded with mourners and family and friends. I nodded and shook hands, murmured my condolences, mingled, and kept my eyes open. John Kingston was tall and thin with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. To my mind he seemed to be handling the murder of his wife rather well. A number of attractive women were quick to drift his way whenever the weight of his grief threatened to overwhelm him, which it seemed to do at regularly timed intervals. Then his blue eyes would swell with tears and he would excuse himself, set his punch, juice, or coffee cup down and retreat to a back bedroom, the attractive ladyfriend following in his wake.

The third time this happened in the ninety minutes I was there I picked up his Styrofoam cup of juice and gracefully made an exit, walked down the street, and climbed into Ray Church's Ford Explorer.

“Got it?” he said.

“You make sure to keep me updated,” I said.

“You bet.”

RAY DID BETTER
than that. He put me in the observation room when they brought John Kingston in. Kingston refused to talk without his attorney, but his attorney showed
up in an hour. It was a small town, ultimately.

“Okay,” said the attorney, a snowy-haired old smoothie who'd been practicing law ever since Clarence Darrow made his case against God. “Lay it out for us.”

“Your client's being arrested in the murder of his wife,” Church said. “He had a private investigator in Detroit follow her to the Amazing Elvis Extravaganza in Detroit and photographed her having sex with one of the Elvis impersonators. He then took the photographs, mailed them to his wife with a blackmail note in order to get her to go to a hotel room at the Resort to meet him. He registered under the name Elvis Presley and wore a wig, glasses, and sideburns so he would blend in with the one hundred and one other Elvis impersonators. When Alicia came into the room he stabbed her in the heart and left.”

The attorney yawned, blinked, and said, “That's the most idiotic thing I've ever heard. You can't prove any of it.”

“We'll see,” Church said. “But I can prove he sent the blackmail letter. His house is being searched now and we'll be going through his accounts to track down the P.I.”

Church then held up a sheet of paper that looked like a blotchy barcode. “This is a copy of Mr. Kingston's DNA fingerprint taken from a cup of juice he was drinking in his house.” He held up another sheet of paper. “It's identical to this one. Which was taken off the postage stamps on the envelope the photographs came in.” He shook his head. “Elvis stamps, no less. Should've used self-adhesive, Mr. Kingston. As you're aware, counselor, that's probable cause. I have warrants to search his house, his office, and draw blood for an official DNA sample. Do you have anything to say, Mr. Kingston?”

Kingston looked stunned. “Why would I do that? Why would I kill my wife?”

“Having sex with an Elvis impersonator isn't enough?” Church said.

“That's nuts! I'd just get a divorce. I wouldn't murder her.”

Church leaned over and inspected something else in the file next to him. He held it out to John Kingston. “Just in case you were wondering if the only thing I had so far was the DNA samples, I've been busy. And we're only getting going, John. When we're done with you, your life is going to look like a large print easy-to-read edition. The truth is, I didn't think you'd murder her over her infidelities. But I do think you'd murder her over a half-million life insurance policy.”

He leaned toward John Kingston. “Elvis is dead, John. And so are you.”

GARY PHILLIPS

FADE IN.

ON SCREEN
[Sometime in the near past.]

INT. ALAN ROSS'S OFFICE—DAY

{ALAN ROSS is thirtysomething, a vp of development at Ten-Shun Productions. He is built like the runner he is, wears tortoiseshell glasses, and is in shirtsleeves and suspenders. Ross sits behind his stressed antique desk in his tastefully appointed office. Absently, he fools with one of his Mont Blanc pens as he listens to:}

{WALSH KAGEN, late fifties, sitting across from Ross. Kagen is craggy-faced, thick in the middle, the product of too many Scotches for lunch for too many years. He is a director-writer with a track record of cult features and cable movies.}

ROSS:
I'm going to take a pass on the interstellar doctor transporting medicine for sick alien kids, Walsh. It's cute and touching, but not blue sky enough, you know?
Hardball,
how that was a heart-tugger and we could identify with those kinds of kids, their problems, what have you. See what I mean? (
beat; fools with pen
) What else?

{Kagen leans back in his chair, a satisfied smile spreading his cracked lips.}

KAGEN:
Bring Me the Head of Osama bin Laden
.

ROSS:
Pardon?

KAGEN:
You ever see that flick by Peckinpah?

ROSS:
The old dead western guy?

KAGEN:
Yeah, but he did other sorts of pictures, too. Though you could argue they all had western sensibilities. Anyway, this one,
Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia,
was released in 1974.

{Ross says nothing, jiggling the pen in one hand. Kagen leans forward again.}

KAGEN (cont'd):
Alfredo Garcia starred Warren Oates—

ROSS (interrupting):
He was in that other movie of Peckinpah's,
The Wild Bunch
.

KAGEN:
Right. Anyway, in this one I'm talking about, it's set in present day, and Oates is hired by this Mexican crime lord to bring back proof that the scum punk who seduced his daughter is dead.

ROSS:
Wasn't this already re-made with Joe Pesci?

{Kagen swallows a caustic comeback, instead he says:}

KAGEN:
Not really. That was
Eight Heads in a Duffle Bag,
and it was a comedy.

ROSS:
Oh. I'm sorry, go ahead.

KAGEN:
No sweat. Okay, in Sam's picture Oates goes through all manner of turmoil to get this Garcia's head. And his character arc is, each step of the way his
psychological state deteriorates faster than the head he's bringing back.

{Ross says nothing. The pen is held motionless in his hand.}

KAGEN (cont'd):
I mean, Oates at one point is talking to this head in this crummy stained canvas sack, flies whizzing all around it, as it sits on the seat next to him in his car.

ROSS:
So in your picture, what, your protagonist is riding around in a jeep in the hills of Afghanistan yakking it up with the world's number-one terrorist's head next to him in a Trader Joe's shopping bag?

KAGEN:
Not exactly. The idea here is a group of guys, men and women, who have failed at one thing or another, led by a disaffected vet, hunt bin Laden down, who has now fallen out of favor with his other Al Qaeda pals.

{Ross absorbs this.}

KAGEN (cont'd):
Remember this guy has been called the “venture capitalist” of terrorism. He's got an extensive network and has been working out his strategies for a long time. He would have prepared for the contingency of capture.

ROSS:
This is pretty, you know, out there, Walsh.

KAGEN:
Jesus, Alan, the goddamn
Producers
is a fuckin' comedy about Hitler.

ROSS:
We've had decades of distance, Walsh.

KAGEN:
That won't bring back the millions who died in the camps or on the battlefields.

ROSS:
So your point is?

KAGEN (enthused):
It's a great story, it's got action and suspense, and a certifiable bad guy. See, the subtext is about how this isn't about Islam versus the world, because of course these terrorists subvert any religion they purport to advance. This is about how an extremist of any stripe is dangerous. Because they feel they can do anything in the name of God.

{Ross puts the pen down, leans forward on his elbows.}

ROSS:
Mid-East politics is a very touchy subject, Walsh.
The Siege
and
Rules of Engagement
didn't exactly burn up the box office or make Arab-Americans all that slap happy either. We want heat, but not that kind of heat.

KAGEN:
In this version of
Bring Me the Head,
the hunt for this bastard takes us to Paris, London, and out West.

{Ross taps his desk with his finger.}

ROSS:
Here, too?

KAGEN:
Yes, of course, this is where the third act will take place. And I see the lead as this semi-burned-out character who at first is hunting bin Laden for the money, the reward, you know. Then in the course of events, his arc is that his patriotism is reawakened. Not the stick-a-flag-on-my-car then put it away halfway into football season, kind, but real, tangible. (
beat
) Some of what was felt when we didi maued out of 'Nam. Even though by then, the grunts were disillusioned with our government and its policies

{Ross says nothing as Walsh shakes a faraway look from his face.}

KAGEN (cont'd):
So here, try this. Our hero is a somewhat cynical, slightly burned-out veteran of Beirut or the Gulf War. This guy came home after doing his
duty, wounded, you know, the whole bit. He's drifted from job to job, but now there's this opportunity within his grasp.

ROSS:
Which is?

KAGEN:
The twenty-five million dollar reward for bin Laden is reactivated when the rumors are confirmed that he isn't dead. Like Stalin and Saddam, I'm going to posit in the picture that bin Laden uses doubles to fool his enemies. One of them is killed and at first everyone thinks the sonabitch is dead.

{Ross scratches the side of his cheek.}

ROSS:
But we find out different. How can the hero, ah, what's his name?

KAGEN:
Flagg.

ROSS (nodding head):
That's good. Who are you thinking about for the lead?

KAGEN:
Not sure, maybe Cage, or even Snipes, who needs a hit.

ROSS:
Yeah, yeah, I can see that.

KAGEN:
Like I said, Flagg has been going from job to job, more bitter each time, more withdrawn. He comes to a town in rural Illinois. A friend from the service has sent him a letter, offering some kind of a vague opportunity.

ROSS:
But this friend has been tied into some shady stuff, right? Cut-out kind of work for our intelligence agencies.

KAGEN:
Exactly. He's a kind of NRA/soldier of fortune borderline nutzo.

ROSS:
Bruce Willis? You know, he'll work for scale if he likes the project.

KAGEN:
I had in mind someone like Ben Affleck, or maybe make him Latino or even an Arab-American. Get Tony Shaloub or that tall good-looking guy from
UnderCover,
what's his name? He was in the Mummy movies. This would show we're not out to beat up the Arab community. Anyway, the friend has these on-the-ground contacts and now has a line on where to get bin Laden.

{Ross holds up a hand.}

ROSS:
Look, I get it, all right? I know you can do this, but I need to talk this over with . . . (
makes vague hand gesture
) the others.

(
smiles
)

KAGEN (rueful smile):
How well I know.

{Ross rises, signaling an end to the meeting. Kagen gets up, too.}

ROSS:
We'll noodle on it and I'll get back to you. I like it, enough to maybe talk about it further. But as you're well aware, it's going to be tough to do in this market.

KAGEN:
Think on it, Alan. Without going out of our way this could be entertaining, but a subtle take on the meanings or rather, the dimensions of patriotism.

{Ross shakes Kagen's hand.}

ROSS:
I will. I'll be in touch.

{Kagen exits, a noticeable limp to his gait. Ross sits back down and starts fooling with his Mont Blanc again. He then buzzes his assistant, JOSIE.}

ROSS (into phone intercom):
Get me Eddie, will you, Josie?

JOSIE (over intercom):
No problem.

{Ross leafs through that morning's
Hollywood Journal,
the industry newspaper. He begins to read an article that catches his interest when Josie buzzes him again. Ross presses the intercom button.}

JOSIE (over intercom):
I have Eddie for you, Alan.

ROSS:
Thanks. (
he picks up the handset
) Eddie? I just had a meeting with Walsh Kagen. (
He listens
) Yeah, yeah I know he hasn't made anything in a while, but he's got this crazy idea that, well, may be something.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. BILTMORE HOTEL, DOWNTOWN L.A.,
ESTABLISHING—NIGHT

ON SCREEN

{Three nights later.}

{Various limousines and trendy cars pull up to the valet parking at the swank hotel in L.A.'s downtown and disgorge smartly dressed men and women.}

INT. BILTMORE HOTEL, CRYSTAL BALLROOM

CU—SIGN

{Announcing the ninth annual Frontlines of Justice Dinner sponsored by the Legal Aid Council of Greater Los Angeles.}

{W
IDEN
to reveal many well-dressed guests milling about drinking and talking in the large foyer of the ballroom, the curtain still drawn as the space is readied.}

ROSS

{—sips his drink and spots IVAN MONK, whom he has met before.}

MONK

{—is black, six-two, built like an aging linebacker, but solid, despite the fact that he's a private investigator who owns a donut shop. He's casual in a dark Bironi sport coat, open collar, and cuffed slacks. His shoulders say he's relaxed, but there's an energy to him that's notched in neutral.}

{Near Monk is a handsome Japanese-American woman with medium length brownish hair and alert eyes. She is JILL KODAMA, Monk's significant other and a superior court judge. She is smooth in her St. John ensemble. They are chatting as Ross walks up.}

{Ross sticks out his hand.}

ROSS:
Hi, you remember we crossed paths when I was with Exchange Entertainment?

{Monk blinks, then:}

MONK:
Right, Alan Ross.

{The two shake hands. Kodama looks on.}

ROSS:
Exactly. We had some discussions with you about turning one of your cases that got some ink into a movie of the week.

MONK:
This is my squeeze, I mean, this is Judge Jill Kodama.

KODAMA:
(
to Monk
) Be cool. (
She and Kagen shake hands
) Good to meet you. I recall you wanted to make my character a Latina beer truck driver going to law school at night, because that would make Ivan more down, more like the working man.

KAGEN:
The demographics you know.

MONK:
What brings you here?

ROSS:
We donate to the Legal Aid Council.

{Monk and Kodama look equally surprised.}

ROSS (cont'd):
No, really. I'm at Ten-Shun now and we were developing a show a few months ago and their attorneys provided technical assistance to the project. My boss, Eddie Mast, took a liking to them and there you go.

{Ross has some of his drink.}

KODAMA:
I'm glad you do, the LAC fills a necessary need.

{The two men nod in agreement. SANDI LOFTON, an aging beach bunny and reporter with the
Hollywood Journal,
appears at Ross's elbow, butting in.}

LOFTON (to Ross):
Is it true you're considering doing a picture about bin Laden?

{Monk and Kodama perk up.}

ROSS (smiling):
I shall demonstrate my usual blasé indifference to you, Sandi.

LOFTON:
I heard this from our friends at the American Jewish Association. More than one of whom sits on your board, Alan. And it's not just Jews who will be upset if this project goes forward.

{She turns to Monk.}

LOFTON (cont'd):
What do you think?

MONK:
I'm not completely sure, but if other warped people and events aren't off limits, then why bin Laden?
Wasn't there a musical about the hijacking of that ship, the Achille Lauro?

LOFTON (jerks head at the sign):
Figures a lawyer for this group of worn-out hippies and disillusioned revolutionaries with law degrees, that helps welfare cheats and renters duck their responsibilities would say that.