The Bequest (9 page)

Teri rode silently
in the passenger seat of Mike’s Mercedes SUV,
face pressed to the window, looking out at the world the same way she did
when she was a little girl back in the Texas Hill Country. By all accounts,
the premiere had been an overwhelming success. Bob was happy, and that
meant Mike was happy. The angels were happy, and that meant the studio
was happy. Everybody was happy except Teri. Oh, sure, she put on a
good face, smiling at everybody, laughing at all the right lines, and
accepting congratulations left and right, but the scraggly-haired man
haunted her.

“You sure you’re okay?” Mike asked. “You haven’t said two words
since the limo dropped us off back at the hotel.”
“I’m fine. Just tired. It’s been a long night.”
“It was that guy on the rope line, wasn’t it? What did he say to you?”
“It wasn’t anything he said. It was just...”
“Just what?”
“He reminded me of somebody, that’s all.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
Mike blew a puff of air through pursed lips. “You’re not making a
damn bit of sense. This should have been one of the biggest nights of your
life—it’s your comeback, for God’s sake—and you act like you’ve seen a
ghost.”
“Maybe I have.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Like I said, I’m just tired.”
Not another word was spoken until Mike pulled into the circular
drive in front of Teri’s house. He put the vehicle in park, then turned the
key to shut off the engine.
“I’m going to bed,” Teri said.
“I’ll come in with you.”
“Alone.”
Mike looked at her, creases forming on his forehead as he scowled. “I
don’t get you. We should be celebrating.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I just don’t feel well.”
He placed his hand on her cheek, but she pushed it away. “Please,
Mike.”
“All right, fine.” He started the car and looked straight ahead.
“Please don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad.”
She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. He made no move
away from her, but he kept staring out the front windshield.
She opened the door to get out then looked back at him one more
time. “What if something goes wrong with the movie?”
That got his attention. He looked at her, eyebrows raised. “Like
what?”
“I don’t know. Just something.”
“Is that what this is all about? Fear of success?”
“You’ve got a lot riding on this, don’t you? You and Bob, both.”
“A lot of people do.”
“So what happens if it all goes bad?”
“Now you’re just being crazy. You saw everyone tonight. A hundred
million the first week; I guarantee it. Even if it tanks after that—and I’m
not saying it will, but if it does—it’s still a home run. Nothing can go
wrong. We can’t lose. You can’t lose.”
She nodded at the words, which all made sense in her head, yet at the
same time didn’t make sense in her heart, where she knew something,
indeed, could go wrong. And she worried that she was about to find out
what.

The night crew at Hollywood Luxury Cars and Limos had its work cut out
for it. The limousines had returned from the premiere of Teri Square’s
comeback movie
The Precipice
and, by all accounts, everyone had had a
good time. Washing and waxing the exteriors of the cars wasn’t nearly as
demanding a chore as cleaning the interiors, which were stained by
everything from alcohol to seminal fluid. As Pablo Hernandez went to the
next car in line, all he could think about was how money can buy just
about anything except class.

He opened the front passenger door and quickly wiped down the
dashboard. He glanced over toward the back seat, ready to be repulsed at
what he might find but saw that it was remarkably clean. He slipped out of
the front, opened the back door, and crawled inside. The dome-light
illuminated black leather, which appeared spotless. Either this limo had
gone unused or it carried AA members or married couples. Not a single
spot of alcohol or splash of bodily fluids to be found. A sober, chaste
evening was had by the passengers.

Pablo took a clean cloth from his back pocket, sprayed it with a
leather care product, and began wiping the seats. As he leaned across to
the far side, he saw the corner of something sticking out from beneath the
seat. He pulled it out and found it to be a folded headshot of the famous
actress Teri Squire. He admired her picture. She was beautiful.

But the greasy fingerprints on the glossy photo seemed out of place.
Whoever had put them there had not been in this car, because there were
no such greasy prints anywhere on the seats or windows.

He turned the photo over and saw something scrawled in an uneven
handwriting: CRESCENT HOTEL 324.
Strange. Very strange, indeed.
He backed out of the car and headed for his supervisor’s office.

Sleep wouldn’t come
to Teri. The scraggly-haired man haunted
her every time she closed her eyes. At last, at nearly two a.m., she got up
and turned on her laptop then connected to the Internet. A few minutes
later, she had directions to the Crescent Hotel. Dressing hastily in jeans,
tee-shirt, running shoes without socks, and a green “University of Hawaii
Rainbows” baseball cap from her most recent trip to the islands, she
grabbed her purse and left the bedroom. She stopped in the den just long
enough to transfer her .22 from the coffee table to the purse then she went
to the garage, started her SUV, and backed out.

Twenty minutes later she found herself trolling parts of Los Angeles
that she had heard about only in news reports, usually involving stories of
murder, mayhem, and gang violence. Storefronts were gated and barred,
topped off with gargantuan padlocks. The rare buildings unmarked by
graffiti stood out, conspicuous by the absence of street artwork, just as her
SUV was conspicuous by its newness. Even at the late hour, gangbangers,
mostly Hispanic, milled about on street corners and greedily eyed her
vehicle as it passed. Fortunately the windows were tinted or they would
have been able to see a lone, terrified Anglo woman behind the wheel.
That would have been like ringing a bell for Pavlov’s dogs.

Up ahead, a “vacancy” light flashed in purple and green, beneath a
larger sign that proclaimed “Crescent Hotel,” along with a sliver of a moon
outlined in fluorescent paint. The light in the office was on. As she turned
in, she looked through the glass doors at a man who appeared to be either
asleep or dead at the front desk, facedown on the counter. She hoped it
was the former.

Barely idling, she drove along one wing of the hotel, scanning the
doors for numbers. Just as she neared the end of the building, she spotted
324 upstairs. Lights were on behind thin curtains. The fabric pushed back
and a man looked out. Waiting. Watching. She couldn’t tell much about
the man’s features in the darkness, but she knew it was the scraggly-haired
man. And she knew the scraggly-haired man knew it was her.
She
wondered how many times he had looked out tonight before she arrived.

There were no stairs at this end, so she circled about and headed back
toward the office, where she parked her SUV at the foot of a flimsy steel
staircase. She locked the doors but kept the keys gripped tightly in one
hand. In the other, she carried her purse by gripping the outline of the .22
inside, finger pressed against the trigger guard. The material was flimsy
enough that she would be able to fire the weapon without even removing
it from her purse.

At the top of the stairs, she turned slowly and approached the room
at the end. The door opened before she reached it. She closed the last few
feet then stood in the doorway and looked inside. The scraggly-haired man
stood by the bed, shirtless, but at least wearing pants. She glanced at his
forearm at the football helmet tattoo. It appeared a little smeared, but that
fact didn’t register.

“Well, well, well,” he said. “If it isn’t my favorite beneficiary.” He
bowed and gestured
in a grand
sweeping motion for her to enter.
“Welcome to my humble abode.”

He sat on the end of the bed, expectantly. Teri stepped inside, purse
and keys still tightly clutched in her hands.
“Close the door,” he said.
“I think I’ll leave it open.”
“Well, that’s really not very safe. Not in this neighborhood. I’d hate
for something to happen to you just because some pervert saw a beautiful
woman like you standing in the open doorway to a hotel room.”
Good point. Teri cut a look outside to the street below. She closed
the door but stood with her back pressed against it.
The man reclined on the bed, propped on one elbow. His eyes
scanned her from head to toe and back again, lingering on both passes at
her breasts and her crotch. He was obviously having fun toying with her.
“You ever talked to a dead man before?” he asked.
“What do you want?”
”Well, for starters, I want to know if you’ve ever talked to a dead
man before.”
“You’re not dead.”
“Not now. But I was. My mother even has the death certificate to
prove it.”
“It won’t be the first time a death certificate was wrong.”
He laughed. “No, I suppose it won’t. But past mistakes will pale in
comparison to this one.”
“Whose body was that they fished off the rocks?”
“Why, didn’t you hear? That was me. Leland Crowell.”
“Maybe it wasn’t. Or maybe you’re not.”
“Didn’t Mom show you my picture?”
“Pictures don’t mean anything.”
He pointed at the dresser on the far wall. “My wallet’s right there.”
She glanced at it but remained frozen to the door. The last thing she
wanted to do was move any farther into this snake den.
“Go ahead,” he said. “It won’t bite.”
Teri tucked her keys into her pocket, then hustled over, grabbed the
wallet, and returned to the door. Awkwardly, using one hand since the
other still clutched her purse, she flipped the wallet open. Sure enough,
the scraggly-man’s unsmiling face stared at her from a California driver’s
license, which bore the name: Leland J. Crowell.
“J for Joseph,” he said.
“Again, doesn’t prove anything.”
“Boy, you’re a tough nut.” He leaned his head back, as if deep in
thought. Then he rolled across the bed and grabbed an olive green
backpack on the floor next to the nightstand on the far side. In one
motion, he swung it upward and tossed it toward Teri. It landed at her
feet with a soft thud.
“Feel free to look in my filing cabinet,” he said. “You’ll have to
forgive my filing system, though. I’ll admit it’s not very organized.”
Teri bent at the knees, laid the wallet on the floor, and opened the
backpack. She reached in and pulled out a stack of paper clipped together
at the top. A screenplay:
The Precipice
. She dropped the screenplay on the
floor and two pages fluttered loose. She picked them up one at a time and
looked at them. One was a certificate of registration for the screenplay
with the
Writers Guild of America. The
other was a
certificate of
registration from the United States Copyright Office.
She looked from the copyright document to the man on the bed.
“You can ask your lawyers, but I think that does prove something,” he
said. “In fact, it’ll be all I need when I walk into court to get an injunction
to stop the release of your movie.”
“It doesn’t prove you’re Leland Crowell.”
“You got any proof I’m not?”
Teri stood silently, pondering how best to answer that question. In
fact, pondering if she had any answer at all.
“Then I believe we’re at a stalemate” he said. “Or maybe we’re not.
I’m not a lawyer, but I don’t think it’s gonna be my job to prove I’m me;
it’s gonna be your job to prove I’m not. And who’s a judge going to
believe is best suited to say who Leland Crowell is? Me, the California
Department of Motor Vehicles, and dear ol’ Mom? Or you?”
Teri remained mute. She had no good answer to that question,
either. Damn if he didn’t ask some good ones.
“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” he asked.
Still nothing in response. After all, what could she say?
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he said. “Then again, maybe we can
work something out.”
So that’s what this is all about, she thought. Money. And isn’t it
always?
“How much do you want?” she asked.
“Who says it’s about money?” It was as if he had read her mind.
“Maybe I want my fifteen minutes of fame.
Or maybe
I want a
screenwriting career. Or—”
“I can give you that. Under a different name, though. I have a new
studio deal, and I can use the writer of my choice.”
He smiled, showing brown teeth. “Or maybe you were right all
along. Maybe it is money I want.” He gestured around at the room.
“Maybe I want a nicer place to live. I could use an upgrade, don’t you
think?”
He sat back up, perched on the edge of the bed. “Or maybe it’s all of
the above. The options are limitless, and I’m in the catbird seat.”
“Cut the bullshit and just tell me what you want.”
He stood. She hadn’t realized how tall he was until he did. She
certainly hadn’t noticed it at the theater.
He moved forward a few steps, until he was a mere arm’s length
away. Something on his chest caught her eye for the first time. A tiny
rivulet of dried blood tracked down from his left nipple. As she looked at
it, something below his waist brought her glance downward, but her eyes
immediately bounced back to his face, repulsed by the bulge in his jeans.
“This is kind of romantic, don’t you think?” he asked. “You and me,
alone in a hotel room. I’ve never had a movie star before.”
“And you’re not going to start now.”
He reached forward and ran his hand through the hair on the side of
her head. “Are you sure?”
She pulled the .22 from her purse and pressed the barrel against his
solar plexus. “You’ve got three seconds to tell me what you want or I’m
leaving.”
He backed up then looked down at the small red circle the gun barrel
left on his chest. “Now look what you’ve done.”
“Two seconds.”
“Why would someone like you have a gun?”
“I’m from Texas; it’s a birthright. One second.”
He backed away farther and sat on the edge of the bed again. “You’ve
got quite a dilemma, don’t you? You’re about to open a movie that was
made from a screenplay you don’t own. My screenplay.”
“You willed it to me.”
“So now I am Leland, huh?”
“If you say so. And you willed it to me.”
“But I’m not dead. You don’t get it unless I die.”
She waved the gun at him then aimed at his face. “Easily enough
done.”
For a moment, she thought she’d broken him. She thought she could
smell fear emanate from him. Until he laughed at her.
“Priceless,” he said. “Just priceless. You almost had me going there.”
“What makes you think I won’t shoot?”
“Let’s see. What makes me think you won’t shoot an unarmed man
in cold blood? How about because you also don’t get the bequest if you
kill me.”
“Who’s gonna know it was me?”
“You know, there’s a solution to this whole thing. For both of us. I
keep on letting people think I’m dead and—”
“How much do you want?”
“I want a cut.”
“How much?
“Fifty percent.” He paused, then added, “Of the gross.”
Teri was stunned. Was he kidding? Or merely negotiating? “You’re
crazy.”
“And you’re a thief. You stole my screenplay. So we’re right back to
my injunction.”
“A judge will never let you get away with this.”
“I’m willing to risk it. What have I got to lose? But how about you?”
Teri lowered the gun. She had blinked first, and he knew it.
“Fifty percent,” he said. “You’ve got twenty-four hours to decide.
After that, I go to the courthouse.”
“Do I get in touch with you here?”
“How about I get in touch with you? I may be moving soon.”
He smiled, and she looked away. She stuck the gun back in her purse,
opened the door, and bolted outside into the fresh air.
Panic overtook her as she raced along the landing to the stairs. She
had her head down, trying to concentrate on the concrete stairs lest she
miss one through the blurring of tears forming in her eyes. She didn’t see
the black Mercedes SUV pull into the space by her Highlander, nor did she
see the tall man in blue jeans and tennis shoes get out and quietly ascend
the stairs to meet her.
It was only when she nearly plowed right into him that she looked
up. She immediately burst into tears.
Mike wrapped her in his arms and pulled her to his chest.