The Big Bamboo (30 page)

Five years later The Tat was spending most of his time alone in an apartment with all mirrors and reflective surfaces removed. He channeled frustrations into a workout regimen that emphasized upper-body strength and the ancient disciplines of karate, double karate and anti-karate. He became an empty machine with an all-consuming purpose: hurt something. His income changed. Way, way up. To the degree that facial art was a drawback behind a cash register, its value couldn’t be underestimated in the intimidation industry. He’d found his calling. If you wanted the best, you knew where to look.

The Tat continued down the warehouse hallway, two more bodies behind him at the final guard station. He reached for the handle of the innermost door.

On the other side, a large oval table sat in the middle of the conference room. Five men in long-sleeved shirts filled briefcases with cash. More currency fluttered rapidly in a row of counting machines. One of the men had a green visor and a ledger. The others, guns.

The door opened. Everyone looked. Any other time, they would have said, “How did you get in here?”

Instead: “What the hell did you do to your face?”

The Tat was ice. “Mr. Yokamura wants his money.”

Stunned silence gave way to laughter and derision.

The Tat never raised his voice. “Give me the money.”

The counting machines were turned off. Men reached across their chests for pistol grips.

The Tat filled four briefcases with a methodical velocity, leaving behind cash that had too much blood on it. And five bodies. The official causes of death would be inconclusive because of overlapping gunshots, knife wounds and compound fractures.

The Tat snapped the last of the briefcases shut, grabbed two in each hand and headed for the door. He began hearing an electronic pulse. The theme from
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly
.

He put the briefcases down and pulled a cell phone from his pocket.

“Los Angeles?…I understand…. No, I won’t need any help.”

Standing room only inside a cramped dive on the 6200 block. The Frolic Room. A juke was going. Drinks flowed, clamor of conversation, everyone ignoring the TV on the back wall and the live helicopter feed of another freeway chase. An anchorman cut in with breaking news.

“Hey, look!” One of the patrons pointed up at the set. “It’s
Crazy About Movies!
”

If the bar was a boat, it would have capsized. Everyone stampeded to the end with the TV. Someone unplugged the juke. Two men in panty hose appeared on-screen in front of a marble wall. A boom box sat on the ground, playing the show’s new intro music by Bob Seger.

“…In those Hollywood nights!…In those Hollywood hills!…”

Serge reached down and turned off the music.

“We’re here today at Westwood Memorial Cemetery, where billboards for the latest releases rise above the palms. But the real attractions are the historic stars buried everywhere. Billy Wilder,
Natalie Wood, Dean Martin. They also have my favorite epitaph of all time…”
Serge held up a charcoal rubbing of a nearby tombstone:

Two stockinged heads turned around and looked at the crypt behind them. They faced the camera again.
“That was great,”
said Serge.
“We’ll be sure to have her back on…And now some things we hate: new special-edition DVDs that come out right after I bought the first ‘special edition.’”

“The price of weed,”
said Coleman.

“The guy in the Jaguar car ads who pronounces it Jag-you-are.”

Coleman:
“Yeah! Jag-you-are!”

“Kill that motherfucker!”

The bar began cheering.

“Celebs who are stuck-up…”
Serge looked off camera.
“…like Ally Street.”

“Jennifer Aniston isn’t stuck-up,”
said Coleman.
“She smokes weed.”

“Russell Crowe’s stuck-up, but Don Adams is a regular guy,”
said Serge.
“We caught up with him the other day.”

“He’s our bitch.”

“And now our next guest.”
Serge stood and began clapping.
“Let’s hear it for Juror Number Five!”

A chunky man in shorts and an untucked golf shirt walked on camera, talking into a cell phone.

Serge smiled.

The man sat down and continued talking on the phone.

Serge continued smiling.

The man finally finished his conversation and hung up.
“So, you wanted to get my take on that murder trial in Long Beach?”

“No,”
said Serge.
“I just told you that to get you on the show. You have no take. You’re an idiot.”

Coleman threw a coat over the juror’s head from behind, and they began beating the crap out of him.

The Frolic Room went wild.

Three new people entered the dark, narrow pub and walked up behind the hooting crowd. “The best dive in L.A.,” said Serge. “Opened in 1930 as Frank Fink’s. The
F
on the sign is the same. Cozy, after-hours hangout of the early stars, who slipped over from the legendary Pantages Theater next door. That mural’s a Hirschfeld of past customers. Groucho, Bette Davis.” He put his hand on a stool. “And this is where Kevin Spacey sat in
L.A. Confidential
. The whole place oozes Chandler.”

“That dude from
Friends
?” asked Coleman.

“Raymond.
The Big Sleep, Lady in the Lake.
”

Coleman shrugged.

“People think of him as the king of the noir mysteries, but he was really a great humorist. Wrote classic private eye lines like, ‘I’m an occasional drinker, the kind of guy who goes out for a beer and wakes up in Singapore with a full beard.’”

“Who does that remind me of?” said Coleman.

“He did hard-boiled the way it was meant. Today there’s way too much soft-boiled.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Like in a hard-boiled, people spike horse and get their jaws broken with brass knuckles. In soft-boiled, the mystery is solved by some lady’s cat.” Another cheer went up in the bar. Serge tapped the shoulder of the man in front of him. “What’s all the excitement?”

The man pointed at the television. “
Crazy About Movies!
is on.”

“…Things we dig: Mark V Limited, Dicker and Dicker of Beverly Hills, Spiegel Catalog, Chicago 60609…”

“I love that show,” said Serge.

“Me, too.” The man gave Serge a double-take. “Have we met?”

“Don’t think so.”

“No, you definitely look familiar…” The lack of panty hose threw him off, but then he noticed Coleman and Ally, and all the tumblers fell into place. “It’s them! Hey, everybody! It’s Ally and the
Crazy About Movies!
dudes!”

Ally glowed as she was mobbed for autographs. Serge and Coleman, too.

“We love you guys!…”

“You’re the greatest!…”

Ten different people slipped Coleman drugs. The bartender offered free drinks and a stack of pages. “About a bartender with special powers from a plutonium leak…”

Serge hurriedly signed autographs. “Guys, we need to get out of here. We’re attracting too much attention.”

“Serge!”

“Dallas!”

Dallas pointed at the TV. “You didn’t tell me you had a show.”

“We just got picked up.”

“So what are you doing here?”

“Trying to get out.”

“I have a limo,” said Dallas. “We’re heading to a party. Very exclusive, discreet. You won’t be bothered.”

The curtains were drawn on a massive condo penthouse overlooking the Gulf of Mexico.

Inside, no light but the seventy-two-inch big-screen TV. Bone-rattling Dolby surround-sound, subwoofer under the couch. The quarterback took the snap.

“He’s open! He’s open!…Damn…”

The pasty man in a crimson bathrobe was right on the edge of the overstuffed sofa, like he hadn’t already seen the ’92 championship game five hundred times. “Pick up the strong safety! Pick up the strong safety!…”

The phone rang. He ignored it.

It kept ringing. He checked caller ID.

A red football helmet flew across the room. “You better be calling to tell me everything’s fixed.”

He listened.

“What do you mean they’re dead, too?…What happened this time?…You trying to tell me they were killed by a bunch of seals?…Oh…Look, enough fucking around. I want The Fullback!…You already did? You should have said that in the first place!”

Another
Hard Day’s Night
chase, this one up Hollywood Boulevard from the Frolic Room. Serge, Coleman, Ally and Dallas dove in the back of a waiting limo and locked the doors. People beat on tinted windows as they took off.

Serge stared back out the opera window as the crowd grew small. He turned around. Coleman was snorting something off the back of Dallas’s hand. The stretch took a skirting route along the hills until it passed through imposing iron gates and up a long sloping drive to an English estate. Women in bikinis pranced across the lawn. Others played volleyball on trucked-in beach sand. More antics in the lagoon.

Dallas got out. “What do you think?”

Serge froze and grabbed Coleman by the arm. “We’ve made it to the mountaintop.”

“Where are we?”

“The Playboy Mansion.”

“All right!”

Low-grade race-car drivers and tennis stars immediately glommed onto Ally. Servants issued them swim trunks at poolside cabanas.

“Coleman, over there!” said Serge. “I’ve wanted to see that my whole life!”

“What is it?”

They trotted past a large picture window in the back of the manse. Hef was sitting at an octagonal table in silk pajamas, playing gin with his regular gang from the old days.

One of the players lit a cigar. “I don’t know why you’re still so sore.”

“I’m nobody’s bitch.”

“That’s not what I heard on TV.”

Serge splashed down a watery staircase until the pool level was up to his chest. Coleman and Ally followed. It grew dark.

Coleman looked around. “We’re in a cave.”

“The infamous grotto. Mere mortals can only hope.”

“What do we do in the grotto?”

“Mingle.” Serge splashed his way over to a bare-chested Miss September. She ignored him with an askance gaze that said he was plankton in her world.

Serge coughed on purpose.

She continued staring off, but this time the look said he was a nematode.

Serge tapped her on the shoulder.

She turned.

Serge waved energetically. “Howdy!”

“Uh…hi.”

Serge took a seat on the boulder next to her. “So, you like to mingle?” He began idly kicking his feet in the water. “I love mingling. And hate it. Oh, I’ve got the start down pat. Just jump right in and go to it: ‘Hey, Bill, golf handicap, the Dow, will you look at the size of this honkin’ kitchen! Blah, blah, blah…’ And suddenly you find yourself at The Point. We all know The Point. Like when you’re on the phone with someone you don’t know very well, and you’re both politely trying to end the call but can’t get the timing right. And you become more and more self-conscious and finally say something really stupid: ‘Listen, anyway, I got this thing. So, like, bye.’ And you hang up and smack yourself: ‘Jeez! I sounded like such an idiot!’ Then you start resenting
them
because they have something on you. Know what I mean? Ever have that happen? Huh?”

“It’s been nice,” said the centerfold, “but I think I see someone I know—”

“I’m sure you do,” said Serge. “So back to us: We’re at one of those points now. Actually, way past it, if you want to split hairs. And there are two conversations going on: the one between me and you, and the other one inside my head: How the hell do I get out of this? What a mistake. I thought you might have something interesting to say, but you’re just all tits and—…Wow! Now what does
that
shocked expression mean?…Anyway, for me, that’s how mingling is all the time. So, like, bye.”

Serge splashed his way over to two older men with gray hair and gold chains who looked like Peter Lawford and Joey Bishop, but weren’t.

“Howdy! My handicap’s down to fifteen, the Dow’s killing me and every house I’ve ever owned could fit in that fucking kitchen.” Serge grinned.

They smiled uncomfortably.

“I’m naturally insecure,” said Serge, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “When I was back there watching you guys talk, I started imagining all kinds of things, like you cats are hatching another plan to rape our retirement accounts, and I’m not on the CC
:
list…”

Dallas splashed into the grotto. “Serge. Found another party. But it’s a tight window.”

Serge smiled at the guys in the gold chains and pointed back out the entrance. “Anyway, like, I got this thing…”

A closet in the props department.

“Who are those lunatics?” yelled Ian. “I thought they were going to blow everything!”

“Could you believe those ransom calls?” said Mel. “Now the cops think she’s dead and…Tori, why are you smiling?”

“Because of our incredible luck.”

“Every time shit happens, you say something like that!”

“Don’t you see?” said Tori. “Death sells. Imagine the coverage after my press release. Then, in a few weeks, an even bigger wave of publicity when she makes the harrowing escape. This is better than before!”

Mel grabbed his stomach. “Why doesn’t it feel better?”

Tori opened her cell phone and punched numbers. “We just have to make sure she stays completely out of sight while she’s supposed to be dead.”

Serge’s cell phone began ringing. He didn’t hear it.

“Al-ly! Al-ly! Al-ly!…”

A chugging contest.

The cheering crowd formed a giant ring around her and Coleman. They were up in the Encounter Restaurant. Most people don’t realize it’s a restaurant, but almost everyone recognizes the futuristic building on spider legs that serves as the airport’s architectural signature. The restaurant is so tall and distinct that you can spot it from any point at the airport, like through the long line of picture windows at the international gates, where spurts of incoming passengers filtered through Customs.