A Good-Looking Corpse Page 12

  Mikey Echo is on my brain: a man with no boundaries except the ones he creates for himself. How do you stop someone who’s above the law without killing them? Can I stop him? Do I even need to? So what if he killed an actor? So what if he’s a grave robber? It’s not my job to worry about criminals—and if the police are powerless, what can I do? People get killed in terrible, unjust ways all over the world every day. I can’t do anything more about those people than I can make sure Alan Van receives justice—whatever that is. But it is Mikey who is interested in me—not the other way around. I am forced to consider him because he is more than capable of snatching my life from me like an eagle taking a frog in its talons. I can’t imagine that his obsessive need to control me is some sort of passing fancy; no, he isn’t that impetuous.

  Men like Mikey Echo have streets named after them because they achieve when others do not. Or will not. The suburbs and surroundings of Los Angeles are lined with roads named for people who acted in self-interest because self-interest builds society. Wilshire, Mulholland, Sherman, Robertson, Doheny, Van Nuys, Crenshaw, Figueroa, Slauson—all men who contributed to the building of Los Angeles as a byproduct of their world-conquering ways, their names now linked with some of the grander roads that make up Los Angeles. And divide it. Those same roads split the ghettos from the affluent districts. A single stretch of asphalt, all it takes to sharply divide property values.

  I reach the corner of Pass Avenue but am not ready to resume the sniping with Ivy, so I keep walking, turning in the direction of the Walt Disney Studios with their seven dwarves statues acting as pillars. A Hollywood landmark, the studios are actually firmly entrenched on Burbank soil. That is the real secret of Hollywood: “Hollywood” happens almost everywhere in Southern California except Hollywood. That is the metonymy of the word “Hollywood.” The studios are here in Burbank or out in Culver City, the filming of shows happens out in Vancouver, Canada, Santa Clarita or any number of other cities, and all the stars live in Beverly Hills, Bel Air, Pacific Palisades, Malibu—but not Hollywood. No, Hollywood is a run-down collective of tourist shops that shill the idea of Hollywood . . . Tinseltown. The phony city. Only the self-congratulatory Oscars actually take place in Hollywood proper, with the actors and actresses once a year stepping on a plush red carpet laid over stars inscribed with the names of those who came before them. This is Mikey’s world, the veneer. Or venereal perhaps. He governs over an illusion and the rest of us eat it up. Ivy devours it. But that doesn’t make it right. How many other people are going to pay with their lives, gunned down by Mikey’s ex-cons because he’s trying to get my attention? Can I allow that to go on? No, I decide. I can’t.

  Ramen isn’t at my office when I pull in the next morning, which concerns me slightly. I’d have expected him to be around after all that “sticking to me like a booger” talk. Come to think of it, he and Crozier hadn’t been around at Mikey’s after Mikey showed me the skull collection. Had that been a decoy to get rid of Ramen? Had I doomed the little Indian man? I call his cellphone but it goes straight to voicemail. Well, if he’s not dead, his phone is, I think. Or he could be in meetings—that’s the best scenario. After all, he does have a movie premiering soon.

  I decide to jump over to IMDB and scan the info for his forthcoming movie. I key in “Mikey Echo” and it takes me to his screen, where there’s a long list of credits. The picture of the producer matches the same one I’ve seen of him in the numerous Variety articles. Near the top, I find The War for Heaven, his new film. I click onto the link and it takes me to the page about the film. Here the screen image is those haunting eyes, the same ones staring at me from the billboard across the street. I see The War for Heaven is something dealing with Hell and the Devil. “Write what you know, Mikey,” I grumble to the computer screen and decline to click on a button that offers to let me watch a trailer. Scanning further, I look for Ramen’s actual name, Ragdesh, opting to look at the list for the full cast and crew—but it isn’t there. No one with a name close to Ragdesh or even vaguely Indian sounding is named under the list of assorted producers. They got to him, I realize. They’ve already scrubbed his name from the ranks like he didn’t exist at all.

  Backing out from that page, I note that Mikey also has his name attached to two other films that have been announced for the next year. One is a superhero origin story that I don’t recognize, the other: L.A. Rotten. “Son of a bitch,” I exclaim and scan the plot teaser just to be certain: “True story of an ex-con janitor who goes to war with a serial killer.” “Son of a bitch,” I say again, lower, but this time with more emphasis.

  Scanning the Internet briefly, I find the phone number for Mikey’s production offices on the Fox lot. A quick call and the female voice, a sultry-sounding English girl named Sylvie, confirms that Mikey is not in the office at the moment. I take note though that the address for his office is not the Fox Plaza building. So whose office is it?

  Typing in “Fox Plaza address” gets me 2121 Avenue of the Stars in Los Angeles. I add “34th floor” and after digging around some information confirming that Ronald Reagan did have an office there after he left the presidency, I find a little blurb about a talent manager named Brandon Craig having an office on the floor. Opening a new window, I type in the name and am unsurprised to find that he was Alan Van’s manager. Maybe just the type of person I can persuade to turn against Mikey?

  With everything in the warehouse spotlessly clean and no calls on the docket, I decide to pay Mr. Craig a visit.

  Parking the Trauma-Gone truck distinctively in front of the building with the emergency flashers going, I get out, clipboard in hand, and begin inspecting the sidewalk, grass, and up at the metal eaves of the building’s open-air awning from where Alan Van had bounced. Considering the severity of the bounce, the body cleanup was actually mostly in the inlet where my truck was currently parked, but that didn’t matter too much. This was mostly a superficial bit to get me inside. It was a rare event that I had reason to go back to a site once I’d finished with it, so I actually do train my eyes around the points of impact to search out any spots I’d perhaps missed. Everything looks good though—there is no indication that a death had ever occurred here. Which also means that building security is likely on order to actively remove any fan tributes as soon as they appear. As if on cue, a building security guard, an older black man in a cheap dark suit is outside the glass entrance doors surveying me suspiciously. “Do you have business here, sir?” he asks, not really meaning the “sir” part.

  “Trauma-Gone,” I say officiously, gripping at the embroidered logo on my polo shirt to show him like it’s a police badge. I’m clipped and dismissive when I say it, and then I go back to surveying the area, taking it all in and jot some notes onto the service contract tacked to my clipboard.

  “Can I help you, sir?” the guard persists, his tone equally clipped and dismissive. I look up at him with a slight grin because I like that he hasn’t been cowed by my attitude. Frequently, when you take a hard line with security personnel the same thing that kept them from being actual police officers flairs up and they back off—or better yet, become a sort of eager-to-please lap dog. When that happens, they practically fall over themselves to help you with whatever access or information you need.

  “I’m checking for any residual staining,” I say, switching my tone to casual to accompany the grin. Now I’m just a regular bullshit joe, out doing his regular bullshit job. “I did the Alan Van cleanup last week. I’m just out here again to check both the grounds and the jump point to ensure there wasn’t anything nasty that got missed. Standard protocol.”

  “Nothing was missed, sir,” he assures me, too wily to easily be swayed. Either the guard’s a hard-ass diamond in the rough or the Fox security team is used to people playing angles to gain access to the building.

  “Look, hoss,” I say, switching back to dismissiveness but upping the swagger. “I appreciate you keeping a lookout for me, but there’s a reason I do what I do and you do what
you do. I can appreciate that a lot of big business goes on here but I just need to check the grounds here and upstairs and get the hell back to my side of the tracks and have a cold one.” They are his side of the tracks too, I’m guessing.

  “I hear that,” the guard says, finally cracking, and he scans a badge to pull open the door slightly for me to come on up and enter.

  He inconvenienced me though and so I want to play this out further. “Couple seconds more, hoss.” I say and get right up to the support beams for the awning, checking close. “Yeah, looks good here. Okay, let’s see the upstairs.”

  I bound up to the doors and give him a courteous nod as I pass. The receptionist at the broad curved desk out front has witnessed our interaction and caught at least a part of the conversation through the glass doors. Along with my truck and its side panel decal, and she’s already accepted my presence. “Thirty-fourth floor,” I say to her, not bothering with the intro. She points to the elevator bank just beyond the lobby and I make my way to them.

  A series of business offices in an air-conditioned and upscale hallway with thick commercial carpeting are waiting for me when I step off the elevator onto the thirty-fourth floor. Impressed at the quickness with which it scurried me up into the air, I look back and give it an appreciative nod, much the same as I did the security guard. Everything in the building has an efficiency to it. I find Brandon Craig’s talent offices easily; they’re the ones right at the front of the building, exactly where Alan went down from.

  Barging in through the front door of Craig’s office like I run the place, I catch the receptionist, a pretty brunette circling open audition calls in Variety. Just another wannabe actress, struggling to get that brass ring. It reinforces my stance on Hollywood eating its own.

  “Can I help you?” she asks, sheepish, as if being caught with her panties down.

  “I think so,” I say, skipping the dismissive tone to go right into the slight grin. I too can be mechanical and fake, Hollywood. “I’m here to see Brandon.” I throw a glance around the office, instantly bored by the neutral tones and framed movie posters that seem to be a constant in all Hollywood decorating motifs. It’s as if they have to remind themselves that they were involved in the pictures.

  “Is he—” she begins, but I cut her off, smooth.

  “Expecting me? No, but I’m here on behalf of Mikey Echo.”

  As anticipated, Mikey’s is a name that opens doors here. And windows. “I’ll let Brandon know you’re headed back,” she assures me, blushing. I push on through the tan office door and into the offices. There is a conference room to my right, and I look past the expensive boardroom table and out the broad picture windows that offer up a view of the Los Angeles skyline in the distance. It’s an impressive view and under different pretenses, I would love to sit and stare out the window at the city some time. It looks deceptively serene from far away.

  Brandon’s door is closed, but I push on through, confident. The talent agent is at his desk, just hanging up his phone and fixes me with an uncertain smile.

  “Hello?” he says, inquisitive. He’s young—late twenties/early thirties like Mikey and Ramen, and like Mikey, polished and handsome. His hair is starting to thin, but he’s got it slicked down with product to hide the widow’s peak. His phone sounds a short buzz—the receptionist—and he snatches it up. “Yes, Jessica,” Brandon says, shaking his head and gesturing to the phone for me. “I see the man; he’s clearly standing in my office already.”

  When he drops the receiver back in its cradle, I make a point to close the door with a hard click, instilling a sense that we are closed in together.

  The two floor-to-ceiling windows that adjoin his desk look undisturbed, each with a healthy ficus in front of them to give the office a green look. The window on the right has recently been replaced though—its molding the fresher of the two.

  “I’m Tom Tanner,” I say, sitting down at one of the chairs in front of his desk.

  “Okay . . .” he continues, unimpressed, wanting more.

  “I’m checking into Alan’s homicide and I wanted to see what you know about it.”

  “Wait—homicide?” he asks, momentarily caught off guard, but still well rehearsed.

  “Spare me the act,” I say, leaning forward to put my two closed fists together on his desk. I am just unkempt enough in life to appear capable of being insanely violent. “Mikey told me Crozier dropped him. What I want to know is . . . what’s your part in it?”

  “Mikey told you that?” Brandon sputters, more confused than ever. “Who did you say you were again?” He glances at his telephone but seems afraid to reach for it.

  “I’m Tom Tanner.” I force my knuckles together to make them crack. A guy I was in prison with used to do it. Done correctly, the quick ripple of sharp pops is intimidating as fuck. And judging by Brandon’s face, the sound works. “What do you think about Mikey killing your star client?”

  “I-I don’t know,” Brandon stammers, his short glances toward the door betray his fear that the police will come busting in any moment.

  “Mikey is untouchable, you know that. But you don’t have Mikey’s status, do you? So start playing ball with me, or I start talking to the cops about what you do and don’t know.”

  “They have it sorted as a suicide,” Brandon bleats, his last salvo of resistance.

  “You want to waste my time? Fine,” I say and don’t even have to stand before he starts spilling his guts.

  “Look, I was furious, okay? Alan wasn’t just a client, he was a friend. A good one. I was furious when Mikey told me what was gonna happen. But what could I do? He’s Mikey-fucking-Echo! I just went into the conference room and cried while that gorilla of an assistant Mikey has went about slicing out my window with a switchblade. They called Alan from my office. There was nothing I could do or they were gonna throw me out too. And you know how Mikey spins things, right? All the papers would read about me and Alan as ‘star-crossed lovers’ or something. My granny would drop dead over that, believe me.”

  “If he was your friend though, why didn’t you make a stink about it?”

  “You said it yourself, Mikey’s untouchable. It’s all about his father. His father owns this town.”

  “So that’s it? Mikey wants to kill your client and you let him? Not a great business model.”

  “Mikey promised me that he’d give first look to my other clients for his pictures. It’s about as sweet an offer as I could hope for, considering that it was a take-it-or-feel-your-brains-mash-down-on-concrete thing. Real Godfather-type stuff.”

  “A man dies and a whole town knows the truth and no one cares?”

  “Welcome to Hollywood. We all sold our souls a long time ago. It should be stamped on the fucking city limit sign.” Brandon is exasperated now, and the sweat is making the gel from his hair leak down toward his face, where he has to continue swiping it away before it stings his eyes.

  “You can change that,” I offer, handing him a tissue from the corner of the desk. He takes it. “You were there when Alan died, you know the truth. Go outside the Hollywood media. The public loves dirty gossip, right? Let them know what happened. Make them aware and Mikey will have to be held accountable.”

  “You really don’t know anything about this town, do you? We like Mikey—Mikey makes this town interesting. Without Mikey, this town would be nothing but neurotics, Jews, and the flamers.”

  “Don’t forget the narrow-minded assholes,” I point out.

  Finally, realizing I ain’t a cop or anyone of particular power, Brandon regains his moxie. “Not for nothing, pal, but when Mikey hears we had this conversation—and he’s gonna hear—you’re as good as fucking dead.”

  Chapter 12

  Now I don’t have to worry about getting ahold of Mikey, I think as I head back to L.A. proper. He’ll probably want to get ahold of me.

  “Well, that was a bust,” I say aloud. I close my eyes in the dead-stop traffic and concentrate on the faces of the people I
saw surrounding his fighting pit that night. Brandon Craig was among them, cheering. So was fat Doug, the media guy. He was also there during Alan’s murder. But do I risk paying him a visit? He seems like he’s drinking the Mikey Echo Kool-Aid pretty hard and getting laid for his troubles. No, if I’m going to bring Mikey down, I need Ramen. If the producer is even alive still . . .

  The SUV driver behind me lays on her horn hard, blaring it, shaking me alert. I open my eyes, and realize the traffic ahead has moved forward roughly six feet. I pull forward the tiny bit and this satisfies her. She goes back to her cellphone, cigarette, and grande Starbucks iced coffee, still giving me the stink eye.

  I’m just nearing the office when I get a call. I expect Mikey, but it’s the service, informing me of a call back at the Roosevelt Hotel—a nonfatal stabbing. The Roosevelt is back up in Hollywood. I sigh and make for an exit. Life would be simple in Los Angeles if only you could pull a U-turn on the freeway.

  I leave my phone in the truck and go deal with what amounts to a hell of a bloodbath on the fourteenth floor. Both queen beds and their linens down to the carpet are stained in a trail that leads out into the hallway and along the walls where the guy had evidently staggered and collapsed. One long train of crimson-colored biohazard, so thick I even have to reaffirm that the man didn’t die.

  “He was alive when the paramedics loaded him into the ambulance,” the bellhop assures me before asking if I’m hiring. I consider it for a moment, based on the sheer amount of work it will take to lug the two mattresses and carpet down the service elevator and out to the truck. But the kid’s got a necklace with an atheist symbol on it—an “A” inside a circle. Which means he’s pretty outspoken about his beliefs. Which means I’d probably have to listen to that shit. I don’t believe in God either, but I don’t rub it in people’s faces. The hard-core atheists are about as annoying as anyone who is hard-core religious. And the sweet part of me owning my own business is I don’t have to work with anyone I don’t want to.