The Bequest (20 page)

Bob Keene sat
at his desk, focused on the computer screen. The
bloggers had broken the story first, but now all of the news sites were
picking it up, as were the tabloids. No one had enough actual news yet to
know what the hell was really going on, but speculation fueled by
journalistic imagination lacked the patience to wait on facts. The truth
might turn out to be boring, so the media typically kicked early into
overdrive to feed on the sensationalism—the “breaking news”—before
reality set in. The corrections could be filler on the inside pages or
footnotes at a later date.

He clicked from link to link, headline to headline, a faint smile on his
lips as he mentally calculated the escalating opening box office.
His
internal guesstimate had already cranked up
to a minimum
opening
weekend of at least one hundred twenty-five million. “Two time Oscar
Winner Questioned in Homicide” was the main theme of the articles, but
the subplot included questions about the shooting of Mona Hirsch and
where that fit with a murder near Big Sur.

“Love Triangle Ends Badly for Actress.” That one was the most farfetched, although it tried most earnestly to tie the two events together. It
had Teri and Mona in a threesome with an unnamed lover that ended with
Mona shooting him in the back up at Big Sur, then Teri, in a fit of rage,
shooting Mona in the back.

Bob had been fielding phone calls non-stop for the past two hours
before delegating that duty to a squad of younger agents, whose mantra
was, “We have no comment at this time about Ms. Squire’s involvement
in either shooting,” thereby implicating her while at the same time
spreading gasoline on the rumor wildfires. That had been Bob’s idea, one
he cleared with Doug Bozarth, who was equally enamored with the idea of
upping the hype before the release of the movie, even if it meant
sacrificing Teri Squire’s reputation. The agency would dump her after all
this, anyway, so the goal was to capitalize as much as possible before that
happened.

He spun around in his chair and gazed out the window at a layer of
smog descending on downtown Los Angeles to the east. God, he was glad
he officed in Century City and not downtown. He hearkened back to his
younger days, working at a wannabe entertainment law firm on the 28
^th
floor of a bank building in L.A. At least he had been drawing a paycheck
while his law school classmates toiled long hours in the mail rooms and at
assistant’s desks of talent agencies. But they soon moved into agent’s
offices while he struggled for fifteen years to build his own entertainment
clientele.

Then came his big break, a young actress from Texas with no family
and no discernible background, shunned by the all the agencies, whom he
had befriended at the diner where she waitressed while taking acting
classes and going on endless auditions. She brought her first real contract
to him—a guest spot on a sitcom—and when she got her big break, a low
budget indie film that earned her an Oscar nomination in a supporting
role, Bob had ridden her coattails to TAA, where his star skyrocketed. His
client list grew exponentially and bore so much fruit that he was now
willing to sacrifice his first-born, so to speak, on the altar of show
business. He rationalized it by telling himself that she could rise from the
ashes again, just as she had a couple of years ago with
The Precipice
script
that, ironically, now threatened to take her down. She was still under
forty; she had time for another rebound.

And besides, he had a piece of this one. He hadn’t told anyone, but
he had put in some of his own money with Doug Bozarth’s investment
group. Not a lot by Hollywood standards, but enough that he could retire
and ride off into a tropical sunset with the fountain of income that this
project, his final project, was going to create for him.

His cell phone
rang.
He
looked at the
read-out:
NUMBER
BLOCKED. And yet it was someone who had his private number. He
answered. “Hello, this is Bob Keene.” A pause, then, “Who?” Another
pause, then “I’ll meet you on the corner across from the mall.”

Teri kept her head down, focused on the glittering glass as she swept
the shards into a pile, scooped it up in a dustpan, and dumped it into the
trash. It sounded like off-key wind chimes as the pieces clanked against the
metal sides of the can, before coming to rest in the bottom. A slight
breeze filtered in through the broken frame of the sliding door, carrying
with it a hint of plumeria from below the deck, the sweet smell taking
Teri back to the north shore of Kauai and her vacation stay in Hanalei, the
summer before the box office bomb that sent her career into a tailspin.
Oh, to be back on Kauai, hiking to the Alaka’i Swamp or on the
Hanakapi’ai Trail along the Na Pali Coast, where her biggest concerns
were keeping enough sunblock on her face or avoiding slick spots along
the muddy trails, with no worries about cars trying to run her off the road
or snipers firing through her windows.

Or intruders shooting her friends in the back.
“You know as much as I do,” she said.
“Do I?”
“Do you really need me to answer that?”
“I think I do.”
She swept the last of the glass into the dustpan then dropped it into

the trash. “Okay, here it is in a nutshell. You and Bob fired me. Then,
when I found a good script, you acted like bygones were just bygones. You
brought in investors who have no past and untraceable money. A dead
screenwriter showed up at my door and demanded a cut of the movie.
Your investors told me to meet with the dead guy, who ended up dying all
over again. Someone tried to run me off the road. Someone tried to shoot
me. Someone nearly killed Mona.” She kicked the trashcan over, sending
the shards across the floor again. “And now you’re here asking stupid
questions.”

“What do you want from me, Mike? Do you really think I know why
people are trying to kill me?”
“It’s just—”
“If I knew, I’d tell you. If I knew, I’d tell the police. Do you think I
want to get killed? Do you think I want Mona to get killed? If I knew
anything that would prevent that, I’d take out a full-page ad in the trades
and announce it to the world.”
Mike stayed silent.
“I’ll tell you one thing I do know,” Teri said. “I don’t trust Doug
Bozarth.”
That loosened Mike’s tongue. “Are you telling me you think he’s
behind all this?”
“I’m just saying he’s got a lot to lose here. Maybe more than any of
us. My reputation was already trashed, but he’s got money on the line.
Money that’s been put at risk by the resurrection of Leland Crowell, but
now that risk has been taken care of. Awfully conveniently, if you ask me.”
“Assuming that’s true, why would he want to kill you?”
“Because questions about the rightful ownership of the script put the
whole project under a microscope. I’m starting to wonder what will show
up if that happens. I don’t think he can afford that to happen. It’s better
for him to just get rid of anything or anyone that draws scrutiny, then sit
back and rake in his winnings from the box office.”
“You don’t think the death of the lead actor would draw scrutiny?” he
asked.
“Only if it can be connected to the movie. If it’s just another
unfortunate Hollywood tragedy, it ends up
as a
segment on
cable
television, everybody clucks their tongues and says, ‘how sad,’ but it’s
over. And, oh, by the way, it beefs up the box office.”
“God, when did you get so cynical?”
“When did you not?”
Teri pivoted and walked through the door frame, stepping over the
jagged shards at the bottom, onto the deck. She leaned on the rail and
gazed at the hills, as if banishing Mike to invisibility.
He watched her for a few seconds, then turned and left.
Teri waited until she heard the opening and closing of the front door
before turning back around. Tears glistened in her eyes.

Bob Keene sat rigidly at his desk, cell phone clutched tightly in his right
hand, a pose he had maintained since returning just minutes ago from the
impromptu meeting down the street. No thoughts troubled his mind. His
senses had all but shut down, oblivious to the ringing of phones and hustle
of bodies moving by outside the glass doors of his office. His own phone
rang. He put it to his ear, listened briefly, then put it in his side coat
pocket, pushed his chair back, and stood.

Moving stiffly, almost robotically, he stood. Arms at his side, not
swinging, he walked around his desk to the door, opened it, and stepped
out into the hallway. The latest addition to the mailroom, an MBA from
Stanford, nearly bowled him over with the mail cart as Bob walked
directly into his path, before turning sharply ninety degrees and heading
toward the elevators.

“Sorry, Mr. Keene,” the MBA said, but Bob ignored him. Never even
moved his head, as if he had neither seen nor heard the mail cart, even
with its squeaky rear wheels.

Bob moved on to the elevators. He pushed the down button, then
stood with his feet together, arms at his side, and faced the doors. Several
of his colleagues passed behind him, most saying nothing, but a few
uttering his name in greeting, accompanied by nods, but getting no
response. No one acted as if his lack of cordiality was any kind of
aberration. The interactions spoke volumes about Bob’s relationship with
his fellow workers, most of whom viewed him as the head of the agency—
a view he certainly held of himself—while others just considered him the
old guy who made too much money and that, as soon as he was out, his
share would flow down to them.

A bell sounded, the down light glowed, and the doors opened. Bob
stepped on, turned to face the front, and pushed the button for the ground
floor even though it was already lit. A young woman carrying her smart
phone to her face, as if having difficulty seeing, shuffled to the side to
make room for him directly in front of the doors. She never looked up,
nor
did
he
acknowledge
her
presence.
The
elevator
continued
its
downward descent, an express to the ground floor.

When the doors opened again, the woman with the smart phone
stepped toward the door, accustomed to being allowed to proceed ahead
of men. Chivalry was apparently not dead, even in Hollywood. It was,
however, dormant on this elevator. Bob cut her off, his eyes straight
forward, still not acknowledging her presence. She huffed, a disgusted
exhale of breath, as he stepped out of the elevator ahead of her. His head
never swiveled her way, nor did his eyes track her. He had no idea she was
even there.

He turned sharply ninety degrees and headed across the lobby,
toward the front door. As he passed the security desk, a blue-jacketed
security guard, his close-cropped gray hair testimony to a military career
prior to taking a cush position sitting on a padded stool and watching
movie stars go by, called to him. “Afternoon, Mr. Keene.”

Bob continued on a direct route to the revolving doors, oblivious to
the greeting. And oblivious to the next words that escaped in a softer tone
under the guard’s breath. “You tight-assed sonuvabitch.”

He exited the building mechanically, as if marching with a precision
drill team. The sun fell on his face and directed his attention skyward. It
was the first time he had moved his head, much less re-directed his line of
sight in any direction other than straight ahead. He stood for a moment,
staring skyward, directly into the sun. But he never blinked.

A couple in shorts and matching aloha shirts, the man clutching a
digital camera, passed by in front of him. The man looked skyward.
“What’s he looking at?”

The woman glanced upward, and then at Bob. “Nothing. Let’s just
keep moving.”
They moved on down the sidewalk, lone pedestrians other than the
man in the expensive suit staring at the sun. There were no other walkers,
but a steady flow of traffic on Century Park West, just a few feet from
where Bob stood. Tourists walked, but Angelenos didn’t; they drove.
Walking was so...pedestrian.
Bob cranked his head back down, his gaze once again straight ahead,
but seeing nothing, his dilated pupils blinded by the sun. He swiveled his
head to the right, then farther, looking back at the building. He squinted,
as if struggling to regain his vision to focus on something, then he looked
forward again.
He stepped forward until he was perched on the edge of the curb.
Stood stock still, arms at his side, eyes front. A delivery truck rounded the
corner at the edge of the building, accelerated as it hit the straightaway of
Century Park West, in the curb lane, approaching the spot where Bob
stood.
Just as the truck reached his perch, Bob stepped directly into its path.
The driver blared his horn and slammed on his brakes, but physics
dictated the result. Had it been going faster, it might have sent Bob
skyward and curbside. Had it been going slower, it might have simply
knocked Bob forward and down, then come to a halt before him. But it
was going at the perfect decelerating speed to knock Bob upward, to slam
into him as he was airborne, smacking his head against the windshield,
splattering it with blood, and then ricocheting him onto the pavement
where one front wheel rolled over his torso, flipping his body over and
askew as the rear curbside wheel crushed his skull before the truck came
to a stop.
The driver jumped out of the truck and ran to the rear. He took one
look at the body, gray matter oozing from the skull like egg white from a
cracked egg. Without warning, he vomited on his shoes.
The male tourist in the aloha shirt ran back up the sidewalk, his
female companion trailing him. He pulled up short when he reached the
scene. His companion let out a cry, like a dog in pain.
“Holy shit!” he said. Then he did what tourists do: He snapped
pictures with his camera.
The security guard from the building rushed to the edge of the curb,
cell phone to his ear. He stopped short and stared at Bob’s body. “You can
still send the ambulance, but I think it’s too late.”
He snapped his phone shut and tucked it into his side jacket pocket.
He shook his head and mumbled to himself. “I guess you got nothing to say
now, either, you uptight sonuvabitch.”