The Ticket Out (39 page)

I snapped—

It was something Tolback said. “Len and Jules are tight—Jules has money in PPA.”

I sat up. That was
it.
At some point Greta must have learned that Jules Silverman and Len Ziskind were friends. She knew then there was no hope at PPA. Ziskind and Nevenson hadn't lied: they never saw GB D
reams Big.
But Greta couldn't tell Phillips they were screwed—Phillips didn't believe Silverman was the bad guy. She tried to go around PPA by putting pressure on Jules with the spanking picture. Jules agreed to pay twenty grand but no more. So she tried a third blackmail with what she'd heard from Dorene Johnson.

I sat back. The nuttiness was pretty stark: Greta tried to force Jules Silverman to get her a deal for a script that resurrected an old murder involving him. It wasn't even clear that she wanted justice for Georgette Bauerdorf. It looked like GB
Dreams Big
was more important. It looked like Georgette was just Greta's ticket back into the movie business.

If that were true, I'd be very sorry.

Doug turned off Sunset down a side street and circled around to Fountain Avenue. I pointed up ahead on our right. He slowed the car.

He must have rethought his position on GB
Dreams Big.
My talk with Neil Phillips must have convinced him the script did exist. I was tempted to joke about winning our nine-hundred-dollar bet. But he was looking for parking, and I decided not to speak until I was spoken to.

He found a place and we walked up to Georgette's old apartment. Doug had his hand on my waist. I pointed at her front windows as we cut across the lawn.

He said, “We need a break because this is taking too long, and because I can't keep putting off the grand jury. While the case is hot, I can plead for time.”

I said, “Oh.”

We walked into the vestibule. It was dusk and the light was on. Doug stopped, stretched up, and touched the fixture. He was tall enough to reach the bulb with a few inches to spare.

I walked back to the alcove under the stairs. I hadn't noticed the color of the velour bench before; it was the sandy salmon of the walls. I started to tell Doug where Phillips had sat. Something caught my eye—

I dropped to the floor.

It was low on one bench leg, stuck to the velour in green tufts. Doug bent down beside me. I scraped off the fuzz and rolled it in my fingers. I opened my hand and poked the fuzz to show him. It was heavy and stiff like carpet fiber...

Doug was staring.

...but the Thalberg screening rooms didn't have green carpets. And the emergency exits had bare cement floors.

Doug looked at me.

The Casa de Amor and the Thalberg Building—both built in 1937. Louis Mayer's secret elevator. Movie executives buying extracurricular sex. The emergency alarms that didn't work. Footsteps inside Neil John Phillips's bungalow when no one saw him enter the Casa. The people who'd disappeared. Mrs. May's “They found it.”
The drawing of the floor plan in Phillips's garage.

I had thought it was a fantasy home/movie studio. It wasn't.

It was a tunnel.

T
HE ASSEMBLED
men crowded for a view. Doug said, “I can't tell you what or who we're going to find down there. Officially, this tunnel has been closed and nonoperational since the 1960s.”

We were standing in the side street by the Casa de Amor. There were ten of us: me, Doug, Smith, McManus, Gadtke, the two Casa surveillance guys, and three guards from the Sony lot, all ex-cops. Doug laid my sketch of the tunnel on the hood of his car. I'd drawn it on the back of a search warrant form, and he'd had Sony security make copies. The proportions were off, I knew. My lines weren't straight, and I couldn't remember all the labels on all the underground rooms. But it was good enough for a plan of attack.

Doug moved his finger along the sketch. “The north end of the tunnel starts at the rear of these apartments ... runs under the street ... and circles the foundation of that structure there.”

He pointed across Washington Boulevard to the wall the Thalberg sat behind.

The men all looked up. The building was floodlit at night and the light was visible over the trees. An LAPD patrol car drove by on Washington. Smith gave them the high sign.

He said to Doug, “One unit from West L.A.”

Doug nodded. West L.A. station had said it was shorthanded; one car was a victory. But he and Smith had mustered lots of non-LAPD help. The head of Sony's security was a retired Culver City PD captain. At Doug's call, he'd come from home to organize his night-shift crew and do liaison with Culver City police. What Doug had really wanted, and didn't get, was SWAT. He'd requested a full SWAT contingent with fear-sniffing search dogs. But SWAT only moved when a suspect's presence could be confirmed.

Doug went on. “The tunnel has a number of rooms attached, you will notice, and covers a substantial area. There might be nobody down there, or as many as four people. With assist aboveground from studio security and Culver City PD, we have the lot perimeter sealed and watched as best it can be.”

I studied the cops' faces: even
I
knew the lot was a sieve. It was too big. Guarding the gates and patrolling the streets around it was no guarantee of anything.

Doug laid four DMV head shots next to the tunnel drawing. He pointed out Neil John Phillips, Scott Dolgin, Isabelle Pavich, and Mrs. Florence May.

“Consider these individuals potentially dangerous. We may be looking at a conspiracy or a hostage situation—we don't know.”

Smith said under his breath, “We ask for SWAT and get squat.” McManus glanced at him; they both looked tense.

Doug had picked the most experienced guys for the tunnel. Before he started on specifics, he'd gone over the shooting rules with them. He'd turned the review into a sort of motivational talk. The talk had helped but the tension was still there. I could feel it in the cops. I could feel it in me—and all I'd been asked to do was hold a flashlight on the drawing.

Everyone studied the DMV photographs. Gadtke was serious for once. He hadn't produced a single joke prop since he arrived.

Doug indicated the head Sony security man. He was a potbellied guy with a bland face. Doug said, “Captain Yamada grew up in this area.”

Yamada nodded. “My parents worked for the old MGM. My father was a gardener and I played in the tunnel as a kid.”

Doug said, “He also knows our guy Phillips. Between his information and Miss Whitehead's, I think we're good on logistics.”

He forgot to credit Erma and Neil Phillips's projectionist buddy. Once we'd guessed tunnel, it was amazing how many people knew about it or had heard rumors about it.

The men huddled over the sketch; they were concentrating. Doug pointed to the north entrance.

“This is located in a walkway between two garages. It's sealed permanently—no one can get in or out. The restaurants—called ‘commissary' here—are locked for the night. That leaves the south entrance, the west entrance, this spur off the north entrance that comes out in Phillips's bedroom—and two ground-level exits from the building's basement.”

Yamada said, “We've searched and secured the upper floors of the Thalberg. The elevators and interior stairwells are locked.”

Smith jabbed a pen at the exits I'd labeled. He said, “So, five possible escape points.”

Doug said, “There is also the secret elevator. Although the door appeared to be sealed, we assume that the abandoned shaft functions as access from the tunnel. We can block escape by covering the two ground-level exits.”

He let that sink in. “I'm taking the north spur. My partner wants the south entrance.”

Smith nodded. “We found Dolgin's truck on Madison south of Culver Boulevard. Captain Yamada tells us the entrance is inside a shed behind the house where the truck was found.”

Yamada said, “The shed is marked ‘DWP' but Water & Power doesn't own it.”

Gadtke spoke up. “They did a half-assed job of closing this death trap.”

I looked at Gadtke. Everybody was thinking it; someone had finally said it. A few of the cops laughed. It was a nervous sound.

Yamada didn't smile. “The studio was in trouble at the time and wouldn't spend the money to do it right.”

Doug folded up the tunnel drawing. He gave it to me and started pairing people off. He asked one of the Sony guards to go with Smith. He asked McManus and Gadtke to take the west entrance. He asked Yamada and the third Sony guard to cover the ramp to the Thalberg basement. He asked the surveillance guys to cover the emergency exit at the back of the Thalberg.

McManus and Gadtke and the surveillance team headed for their cars. I watched them pull out shotguns and bulletproof vests. Smith opened the trunk of his car. He had a shotgun inside, two bulletproof vests, walkie-talkies, flashlights, and a stack of LAPD windbreakers. He handed three windbreakers to Yamada and asked him how the Sony guys were fixed for vests. Yamada had borrowed some from Culver City.

Doug walked to the back of his car. Opening his trunk, he pulled out a bulletproof vest, dumped his jacket, and slipped the vest over his head.

Smith passed out walkie-talkies; he tossed one to Doug. Doug pressed a button and coughed into the mouthpiece. I heard the amplified noise come out all the walkie-talkies.

Doug called, “Listen up.”

The men crowded close again; they stood in sets of two. Doug pointed to each pair. He said, “These guys have five choices—only four are smart. If they're smart, and they're down there, they're coming at one of you.”

He pointed at Smith, and McManus and Gadtke. “Secure the junctions, like we discussed, then signal me and we'll decide our next move. I'll make as much noise as I can. I'd like to squeeze them out your direction. Partner, you'll be opposite the secret elevator—you might catch somebody there.”

Smith nodded. Doug pointed at Yamada, and the surveillance pair. “If they resist at ground level, force them back into the basement if you can. We don't want them loose outside if we can prevent it.”

Doug checked the time. “I have 9:05. We go in ten.”

Heads nodded. Everybody checked their watches. McManus said, “Good luck,” to no one in particular, and Gadtke made his chicken face. Smith took off at a jog. The men followed him across Washington Boulevard, jogging. A Culver City patrol car braked to let them pass. They jogged along the wall and turned the corner toward the lot entrance.

Doug leaned into the trunk and got his shotgun. He checked to make sure it was loaded. I'd never seen a police model .12 gauge. It was a sinister object, with its flat black finish and rubber stock.

I said, “What about me?”

He looked up. “You're going to gather the tenants and stay with them until this is over.”

I reached into the trunk and pulled out a vest. My Colt revolver and a new box of shells were sitting underneath. I didn't hesitate—I leaned in to get them. Doug saw what I was doing. He stopped my arm and held on.

I said, “But I have to help you.”

He shook his head.

“Are you speaking in your official capacity? It's way too late for that.”

He shook his head. “If anything happened, I'm responsible.”

“I know I'd be a danger to you in the tunnel. But I can cover the entrance once you're down.”

“You can't manage a weapon with your injured hand.”

“I shoot with my left okay.”

He thought a second, then let me go. “Will you obey orders?”

I nodded.

“All right.” He talked fast. “Put the vest on while I load your gun. Round up the tenants and assemble them in one place. If Mrs. Johnson is still out of it, put the ladies with her. I'm going to check the garages again. You join me at Phillips's place.”

I climbed into the vest; it was big enough for two of me. Doug took the Colt and turned his back. I heard the chamber click as he loaded the shells.

He passed me the Colt, a flashlight, and a walkie-talkie. I tucked the walkie-talkie and the flashlight inside the vest. It was true: my right hand wasn't good for much. Doug dropped extra shells into my pocket. I held the Colt barrel down next to my leg.

Doug grabbed a pair of wire cutters, slammed the trunk, and took off. I ran around to Dorene's bungalow. She'd passed out again on the couch. I ran to Erma's and explained what Doug wanted, and how fast. Erma wolfed her candy bar and came to help. There were only three bungalows to clear. We went door-to-door and pried the old girls away from their bottles and TV sets. I let Erma be the bully. She herded everyone across to Dorene's. I told her to lock Dorene's door, then ran to make sure the other bungalows were locked. I ran back to Phillips's place. I saw Erma pouring drinks as I passed. I knocked on the window and told her to shut the blinds.

I waited for Doug beside Phillips's porch. The door was open on its chain. Doug ran up the path and jumped onto the porch. One snip with the wire cutters: the chain broke. He walked into the bungalow, me close behind. Doug flipped the lights and headed for the bedroom. It was like the other Casa bedrooms—matching bed and vanity from the '30s. Doug went to the closet and opened it. Erma had told us where to look.

The hanging clothes were all pushed to one end of the rod. It revealed a door in the back wall: we saw the rectangle outline. Doug stepped into the closet. He bent down and found a lever on a built-in shoe rack.

He tripped the lever. There was a metallic snap. The door in the wall cracked open. Doug reached and pushed it in. The hinges made no noise.

I moved closer. The light was low but good enough to see by.

I saw a landing and a wooden staircase leading down. Wall sconces provided the light. The landing was furnished with a love seat and a standing ashtray. Moths and mold had eaten the upholstery. The walls were two-tone cream. The carpet runner was green, mildewed, and worn to the nap in spots. Empty brass urns flanked the love seat.