the Prostitutes' Ball (2010) (16 page)

I pulled up across from a very large two-story Georgian. The fron
t l
awn was almost an eighth of an acre of beautifully manicured rolling grass. I could see the Carrera parked under the porte cochere that overhung a sweeping circular drive.

From the look of it, this place had to be worth a lot more than three million, which was the rumored number around the water
-
cooler at the LAPD.

I fought back a wave of jealousy, got out of the MDX and walked up the steps to the large front door. Some kind of progressive jazz was playing from a sound system inside the house.

Before I could bang the brass lion s-head knocker or ring the bell, the large oak door was opened by a barefoot African-American beauty in her midthirties, wearing cut-off jean shorts, a tie-dyed T-shirt, and a commercial-looking chefs apron.

"So you're the infamous Shane," she said, smiling.

"I must be putting off a strong vibe," I answered. "I usually have to introduce myself first."

"Hitch saw you coming. We've got video." She flicked a thumb toward the porch surveillance cameras. "He couldn't come out cause he's in the kitchen, crisping the chickens, and that's the most critical part. We're making galletto alia piastra. He said I should bring you back. I'm Crystal Blake."

We shook hands. She had an athlete's grace and a dancer's legs, which I couldn't help but admire as she led me into the expensively decorated entry, across a carved plush pile rug, and through a beautiful living room where the walls were rose and the trim white.

The furniture was eclectic and tasteful, the artwork expensive but not overdone. Hitch had obviously spent a fortune decorating.

Off to the right, through plate glass, I could see the lights of the city winking and blinking like a carpet of jewels. A big wood deck overlooked the view. I could see patio umbrellas and expensive deck chairs out there along with a king-sized Jacuzzi that was bubbling like a witch's brew.

Damn, I thought. Maybe I should take this movie stuff a bit more seriously.

The kitchen was big and professional. There was a center island with a huge leaded skylight overhead, burnished stainless-steel appliances, and spacious, oiled wood counters.

Hitch was in Bermuda shorts, flip-flops, and a tank top that showed he was staying in shape. He was pressing an aluminum-wrapped brick down on some filleted chickens.

"Hey, be right with you, hoss. Crys, hand me the black pepper and that dish of chopped rosemary and sage leaves."

She grabbed a huge pepper mill and a glass dish with the chopped herbs.

"This is the tricky part." He grinned. "Can't take my mitts off these little gallettos 'til they're seared."

"How'd the shooting review board go?" I asked as he cooked.

"Only took an hour. It's closed. Not even going to call you to appear. Came down as an in-policy shooting because my three shots were determined to be IDOLs." He was talking about rounds fired in immediate defense of life mine. "Your support statement clinched it," he added, sprinkling chopped herbs on the chicken.

"This is some place," I said, trying to keep the awe out of my voice. It's one thing to hear he bought an expensive house in the Hollywood Hills, it's another to actually see it.

"Check it out, homes." He pointed at the range he was working over. "Wolfgang Puck doesn't even have one of these. Ten burners. This is the NASA Space Orbiter of commercial grills." He grabbed another brick wrapped in aluminum foil and placed it carefully on top of the other two chickens, glancing at his thirty-thousand-dollar Corum watch.

"Three minutes, we flip 'em. Hardest part is to resist the temptation to peek."

"You want them to be golden brown ," Crystal said. "If you lift them and peek it ruins the color. The bricks hold them close to the grill so they'll sear, but if you go too long they burn. Whole process, both sides, takes about seven minutes."

"Crystal knows her stuff. She's the pastry chef at Lucques. You should taste her desserts. Killer."

She put an arm around him and leaned a hip into his side. They were an affectionate, attractive couple.

"I thought you were a dancer," I said. "You move like one."

"Used to be," she said, but added nothing more to that.

Seven minutes later Hitch was pulling the four spring chickens off the grill and wrapping them in a cloth, which he explained was to soak up excess marinade.

"We're also having pasta ripiena, but it's lagging a bit. Crystal, can you keep an eye on this while I fix Shane a drink?" She nodded and he turned to me. "Let's go into the other room. I'm assuming you'll stay for dinner."

"Yeah, I guess," I said. "It smells great."

He led me out of the kitchen into the large den area, where a movie poster for Mosquito and half a dozen framed shots showing Hitch on the set with Jamie Foxx were hung behind the wet bar.

"I called Records," I said. "I understand you took the hard-copy evidence boxes for the Vulcuna case."

"Yeah, I did. But before we go through them, you and I need to get a few things worked out."

"That was gonna be my next suggestion," I said.

"Good. What are you drinking?"

"Beer's good."

"All I got is imported lager. I got a great Paulaner from Germany, okay?"

I nodded. He uncapped two beers and handed me one. We went out on the deck that overlooked the city. The view was priceless.

"Okay, homes," he said, "time to get a few things out in the open."

"You're right, cause this still isn't quite working."

"We need to make some important partnership decisions."

"Exactly. Like how we go about doing this case without losing our badges or killing each other."

"Well, that wasn't exactly what I was talking about," he said. "We got more important issues to discuss."

"What's more important than that?"

"The back end on the movie. What we will accept as our definition of net profit. How many profit points we each get, stuff like that. If we do this now, before it gets too pregnant, we'll be cool. If we wait 'til some studio dumps a bunch of cash on the table, it inevitably turns into a brawl. You should have seen the mess my homicide table at Metro got into over the profit split on Mosquito."

"I don't want to sell this to the movies."

"Too late. This afternoon I sketched it out to my guys at UTA, who called me back an hour ago. They already have serious interest from Spielberg, Bruckheimer, and Joel Silver. This has just become the greatest of all the Hollywood nirvanas, the Weekend Auction. That's where you have three or more prime players fighting to control a hot project before start of business on Monday.

"Each of those guys will be desperately trying to keep it from the others, driving our sales price through the roof. A high-dollar auction like this only comes along once or twice a year in Hollywood. I predict Prostitutes Ball is gonna be even bigger than Mosquito."

He reached out and clicked my beer bottle with his.

"You're gonna be rich, dawg."

Chapter
27.

"Hitch, I really don't want to be in the movie business," I said.

"Doesn't matter. I'm selling this story whether you like it or not. I got two back-end points on Mosquito. My agents at UTA say, because that was such a monster hit, I should be able to negotiate seven on this. Because you're my tight and because I always take care of my posse, I'm gonna carve out two of my seven points for you. That way you'll get the same on this as I got on my first movie."

"I don't want movie money for doing my job."

"You can set the money on fire or give it to charity. I don't care. But that's our split, seventy-thirty."

"And I got nothing to say about whether we sell it or not? Isn't this story half mine?"

"I don't need you to sell my side of the story. You can't stop me
,
because I own the rights to my own life. You can also sell yours if you want, but you'll get bupkis because nobody in the biz has a clue who you are. With no Hollywood representation you have no path to the market."

"1 don't believe this."

"Believe it. I'm gonna try and convince you not to be stupid here. Your best play is to go in with me so I can help you maximize your profit."

This was coming at me so fast I was a little stunned.

"My guys at UTA think we can get five hundred grand for the story rights, then another half mil as a production bonus when it starts shooting." He went on, "I intend to get Jamie to do this as a sequel to Mosquito, and if that happens we could end up making millions more on the back end. He plays me, we get Brad Pitt or some other handsome asshole to be you. If I set this up right, Brinks will back a truck up to your front door and start unloading cash."

I sat in his lush house with his midnight blue Carrera parked out front, looking at his spectacular view and getting more confused by the minute. In that second, I realized it's very hard to say no to potential millions. You like to think your knees won't buckle over money and that, on principle, you'll be true to your code, but I have to admit, I was struggling.

"The reason I'm getting five points and you're only getting two is because, in essence, you can take a ride on my past success. Because of Mosquito, I'll get a big piece this time and I already have killer agents to hammer the deal points. That's the only reason we don't split fifty
-
fifty." He was selling this hard to me. "Seventy-thirty is eminently fair."

Crystal came out of the kitchen holding a big pasta fork. "The ripiena is cooling," she said. "You guys get your business sorted out?"

"Shane is having second thoughts about selling his part of Prostitutes Ball" Hitch said.

"You should do it," Crystal advised me earnestly. "There's nothing wrong with it. Hitch knows the ins and outs of Hollywood and, as he's certainly proven, selling a movie concept doesn't stop you from staying on the job and being a highly respected cop."

"Not for nothing, but Hitch is not a highly respected cop. Even though he's obviously smart as hell he's also turned himself into a joke. The sole reason for that is all this movie BS."

Hitch frowned. "That may be a little harsh, Shane. I think it's probably worth noting that jealousy can often manifest itself as sarcasm and ridicule."

"I thought we were still in Act One," I said to change the subject, trying to keep myself from taking a dive. "I thought you told me we didn't have anything until we found that big, dark, scary complication that was hiding under the surface that suddenly reared up and changed everything in Act Two."

"It's already reared, dude. Act One is the whole Vulcuna mess in eighty-one. That's why we gotta get busy and figure that out. Then our complication comes in Act Two with the whole Karel Sladky thing culminating with three new murders. Then Act Three is going to be the breathtaking resolution that brings these two murder cases together in a spectacular conclusion that nobody in the audience sees coming."

"Act Three? You mean there's more? What the hell is going to be in Act Three?"

"We ain't quite got that yet, but once we do, then all that's left is we throw in a bunch of gun-wielding assholes in a helicopter, some shoulder-mounted Stingers to give us that Michael Bay factor, and, voila, you got yourself a hundred-million-dollar domestic gross."

I started rubbing my eyes. I wanted to say no, but damn it, a million dollars is hard to walk away from. I put that thought on hold, hoping that events would submarine this whole thing and make the decision for me.

I thought my price for selling out would have been much higher than a few measly million, or better still, perhaps even be nonexistent. Apparently I lacked that kind of principle or moral fiber. It was a moment of sad realization.

"I'm not doing this," I whimpered, but quite frankly, as I sat there listening to the bubbling Jacuzzi and the distant strains of Dave Brubeck on his jazz piano, it sounded like a feeble protest even to me.

Hitch was up here on Apollo Drive living like a god on Mount Olympus, while I was in the flatlands on Anchor Way, living like an aging cop in a developer's scaled-down version of Venice, Italy.

The twinkling lights of L
. A
. graced Hitch's spectacular view.

A few plastic mossy-bottom gondolas greeted mine.

Was that fair? Shouldn't I be getting more perks in life?

"I think we should stop talking about it and let it settle in your mind," Hitch said. "I'm gonna assume you'll eventually come to your senses. In the meantime, we need to flesh out Act One and get working on Vulcuna."

He got up and walked into the house, leaving me with the lovely Crystal Blake. She was still holding the long-handled pasta fork. She looked beautiful in the gentle outdoor lights spilling out from under the eaves of the overhanging roof, throwing a rose glow across the deck and her life with Hitch.

"Thanks for being his friend," she said.

"Huh?" I replied, sounding like a stoned guest at one of Brooks Dunbar's parties.

"It's hard for Sumner. He has big dreams. But underneath it all he's always striving to live up to a higher version of himself. Nobody ever gave him anything and look what he's accomplished. But despite the money and fame, he's still that little boy hiding under his uncle's car trying not to join a gang."