Baril de Singes [Barrel of Monkeys]

CHAPTER TEN

  Naked One in the Pool

  "The force is controlled by this button."

  I clinched shut my eyes, relishing the hot water rolling over and around my shoulders and neck, swirling about my submerged arms and legs as I rested against the lip of the massive pool's padded liner. The scent of eucalyptus, a reliable source of soothing comfort during visits to southern California, mingled with the fresh hillside breeze. Somewhere off to my left Joe Kose, sitting in a recliner floatie, sipped Coppola Rosso from a glass while operating the hot tub, pool and waterfall remote control.

  Beyond the garden-encased aquatic container where we reposed glowed the luminous valley far below, its assemblage of individual lights a constellation of reassurance indicating civilization was indeed at hand, regardless of the human disparity sloshing back and forth within its boundaries. I was pleased to be tucked in the security of the Kose compound, far removed from dangers associated with motorcycles, ocean liners and magic tricks.

  "And number seven does this."

  A shower of ice cold mist instantly rained down upon me. "Neeyug!"

  "And number fourteen," Kose laughed while punching his finger down on the controller. Streams of froth appeared from the bottom of the water, rising rapidly like champagne bubbles in a fluted glass. "Let's cancel that one."

  "This too?" I asked, waving a hand among the falling ice pellets while trying not to sound annoyed. "I was rather enjoying the warmth of the waterfall splashing through the coffeeberry bush."

  "That was a wake up call. I'm still disappointed you slept during the entire flight."

  "I apologize again for my exhaustion."

  "Here I was, going on for the better part of two hours before realizing you were not simply 'resting' your eyes, as you stated, but somewhere out in the forest sawing wood."

  My collapse had been a combination of several soporific factors. The bottomless mixed drink the famed director's assistant PA served me upon takeoff. The relief of having escaped the madness of Bridgework and those around him. Kose's uninterrupted polemic for casting me as the lead in a remake of Simpatico of the Circus, accompanied by his in-depth analysis of great Uncle Wark's Hollywood career. I drifted off into a splendid sleep, dreaming of Antoine presenting Jack, Angel and me with potent leaves a-plenty and our subsequent motorcycle excursion in the Indian sidecar to Machu Picchu under a brilliant blue sky.

  "You owe me this screen test, Baron. You won't be disappointed by the talent I've pinned on the wall for this production. Tampa Budd will costar, with lower billing and thirty percent fewer lines, of course. Speaking of lines, I.I. Goines will serve as wordsmith and --"

  "Goines?" I sprang to life, having previously believed should I successfully sabotage my audition, Kose would diplomatically release me from the hook and seek out a box office magnet such as Johann Depth for the role. "You've got Goines?"

  "Goines will be here in a little while," Kose said, slyly checking his watch as he paddled the floatie with his feet. "We're scheduled to discuss some scripts under consideration. Thought you'd like to meet him."

  "Like to meet him?" I.I. Goines was legend, the premier screenwriter of his generation. A gifted eccentric, he surrounded himself with Hollywood's finest stable of authors -- including Jon Two Lassos, Trudy Mugg and Esther Ounce -- to staff the Scriptorium, a round-the-clock intensive care facility for unhealthy screen and teleplays. His work was instantly identifiable by his notable custom of writing exclusively in capital letters while employing an overabundance of punctuation. "I'm not so sure I'm worthy."

  "That's the attitude! Goines will take to you right away." Kose scooted his makeshift raft in my direction. "If that isn't enough, I've lined up Tueur de Thon to score the film."

  "Impressive."

  "He might consider Simpatico if your porkpie is in the ring. Tonight we're reviewing I.I.'s storyboard for Blithering Nights."

  "I wondered who the caterers were setting up for," I remarked, glancing past the waterslides and main pool to the array of tables, chairs and food being laid out below. Bold signage and a sturdy partition had been erected to segregate a vegan patch from the reddish ambiance of the carnivore trough. "I must say if Goines and de Thon are stretching their muscles for a run with Simpatico, I'll give nothing less than my best for the casting director."

  "Casting associate," Kose corrected me while looking annoyed. "Were you planning on showing us less than the artist whose very bloodlines you carry?"

  "Of course not," I protested feebly in an attempt to whitewash my gaff. "I hold the belief that Uncle Wark played Simpatico with a certain flavor of understated mawkishness. That is to say, you wanted to like him while at the same time beat him over the head with the bowling pins he was forever juggling. You see that, don't you?"

  "Baron, you're an a one fucking genius! Genius, baby! I love you!"

  I nodded knowingly while summoning an image of Uncle Wark in costume as the clownish character who, frankly, frightened me into fits of extended hysteria.

  "Mr. Kose, sir," the assistant PA called out, hacking his way through a miniature bamboo thicket dominating the east side of the cove we presently occupied. Breathless and sweaty, he shoved his nose between the oversized reeds. "Mr. de Thon has arrived and is making his way through the herb garden."

  "And Mr. Goines?"

  "He's in the kitchen searching for his favorite marinade."

  "I suppose," Kose groaned and slipped off his raft, tossing me the remote water control. "Hilda!" Within seconds of his reaching poolside, Kose was stripped of his swimsuit, towel dried and dressed in a simple but tasteful pair of khaki jodhpurs and wheat-colored button down shirt. He finished by adjusting the diamond-pattern ascot himself. "Swim over to the tables in a few minutes, Baron, and I'll make the introductions. Remember, underplay yourself. I'll have our starting lineup penciled in before the night's over."

  He strolled off confidently to the banquet area, surrounded by his staff and their assistants, the latter falling over themselves to greet their opposing numbers being shoved forth by the de Thon and Goines camps. For all conventional purposes, it appeared a gathering of religious missionaries preparing to issue their message of faith to the invisible masses. They mobbed together below, flagellating one another to reach the highest stage of superficial grace, allowing my thoughts to slip back to the matter at hand.

  Within forty-eight hours, the Gangrene would reach Los Angeles. In the interim, I had plenty of time to recoup within the Kose estate, while employing Kose Production security to be my eyes and ears on the shoreline. Bridgework was capable of mooring his ship in any of a hundred slips in Long Beach Harbor. I needed to quickly identify its location and make contact with Angel. Drawing out Bridgework would be another matter. With the CerebStix flash drive securely stashed in the Cromwell back at Manor, deception would be required when casting my lure.

  "Baron!" Kose danced about with joy in the middle of the suits and dresses. His round-rimmed glasses bobbed on his nose, resembling a miniature dumbbell being repeatedly jerked and cleaned. "Baron!"

  I timorously pushed away from the comforting shadows of the tropical themed water garden, well aware the ill-fitting Speedo on loan to me might advertise certain personal products which, at this moment, were better served by remaining shelved in my private stockroom. The sensation of having all eyes upon me was overwhelming as I waded across the hot tub and entered the translucent tube, approximately three feet in diameter and fifteen feet long, that angled down into the main swimming pool itself. Joe Kose had set up a grand entrance on my behalf and I, in turn, did not want to fail in delivering.

  In retrospect, it was fatigue which swayed my decision to slide headfirst down the connecting conduit and continue on without a care as the erstwhile swimsuit snagged -- then remained hung upon -- the exit lip of the tube. Indeed the very same lassitude made me oblivious to my own unsullied form, as I was idyllically unaware of my quite natural state of appearance.

  I completed an underwater arc al
ong the base of the pool and majestically broke the surface, extending my arms outward to greet the waiting throng, mistaking their laughter and smattering of applause as warm affection for welcoming the grandnephew of the esteemed film icon Wark von dek Horn.

  "Hey, a new member of SAG!"

  "I don't know. It looks like Oscar material."

  "His special effects department is understaffed!"

  "He's up for a small role in this one."

  "Mr. von dek Horn," a little person, waist high to his compatriots, poked out of the crowd at the edge of the pool. "Your grand entrance lacks for nothing."

  "Thank you," I replied earnestly, embarrassed by my trouble to readily identify him. "I have a nagging sense we know one another."

  "Pershing Cantilever --"

  "Of course!" Why I was so delighted to see Mr. Cantilever again I was uncertain, but delighted I was. "Carnaval Du Diminutif! How are you, my good fellow?"

  "I'm feeling quite well in comparison. Are you here for the Blithering Nights roundtable?"

  "Indirectly, perhaps." I began to feel a bit put upon by the continued snickering echoing across the pool. "And you?"

  "Scheduled to lead the Village Midgeots, as they're described in the novel. Not one line shall be cut." He cupped a hand to his mouth and called forth in a loud whisper, "Say, you do employ a good publicist, don't you?"

  The uncomfortable moment of realization I was without the borrowed Speedo arrived. I raised my hands higher in the air, as would a choragus facing his choir in the Greek days of old, hoping the next statement out of my mouth would explain away the fact my costuming decision had been entirely unintended. Before I could begin, the crowd shuddered and released a collective gasp, as though I stood before them a demented warlock aiming to cast a final and fatal spell. Falling silent and huddling together in small groups, they cowered into the corner of the terraced patio. Kose, Goines and de Thon remained as the point trio to the trembling assemblage, their own shaky movements quite capable of registering an impressive score on the Richter Scale. Then came the marching click of heels from behind me.

  "Mr. Forrest Sherwood," a booming voice announced. I half turned to witness the fabled movie producer enter from the shadows by a large cluster of frangipani, his colossal sunglasses reflecting the thin flames of nearby tiki torches. My bowels weakened when I saw his entourage included Oz Moeziz, Rico and Staple and their stable of amply fed Holsteins. A petrified silence filled the air as the group, dressed in funeral black, halted short of the neatly stacked buffet plates.

  "Kose!"

  Our host reluctantly advanced a step from the confines of his guests. "Mr. Sherwood, sir. What a pleasure --"

  "This is no social call, rodent." Sherwood's voice was steady and cold. He brushed the lapels of his suit before flattening the tie against his shirt. "You've harbored an individual who has offended a very dear friend of mine. So deep is the affront that Mr. Bridgework himself requested I pay you a personal visit to express his dismay and unhappiness."

  Kose instantly emulated a deflating balloon, sputtering from one end while shrinking at the other. A minion, in a poorly disguised stage whisper, fed him an apologetic line which Kose started to repeat.

  "Silence! I want names and faces of everyone present here tonight," Sherwood advised his assistant and, on cue, another member of the mob immediately began filming the frightened crowd with a videocam. "Mr. Bridgework's associate has a few words for those gathered here. I strongly urge each of you to pay heed."

  Oz Moeziz stepped around the older man. The graying ponytail had vanished, replaced with jet black hair slicked back over his narrow, thin head. There was no mistaking the prominent beak of his nose, however. "Should any of you provide assistance or aid to one Baron von dek Horn, I personally guarantee your career in the industry will be terminated. Tonight. The closest you'll come to working in film again will be selling concessions part time at the weekend matinee in Oxnard. Understood?"

  A murmuring of agreement started low and rose to the level of a conforming pack of monkeys begging their handler to toss out a bunch of bananas.

  "We gathered to discuss I.I. Goines --"

  "Shut up, Kose! You of all people! You provided flight to von dek Horn today from Acapulco!"

  "Well, sir, I wasn't aware Mr. Bridgework and --"

  "Of course you weren't aware! But you are now." Moeziz sauntered forward, at his best when kowtowing a beleaguered opponent. "Every dime of production money you hope to have access to is going to dry up if you don't tell me where von dek Horn is this minute."

  "He's in the pool," Kose responded, offering me up faster than a collection plate making the rounds at a tent revival. "The naked one." This specific referral brought all eyes to bear upon me and I detected a hint of embarrassment -- or was it homicidal infuriation? -- in Staple's downcast expression.

  "Moeziz," I offered pleasantly, keeping my arms outstretched while nodding a greeting.

  "Clever masquerade, Baron." He shot a final blaze of scorn at the dumbstruck movie colony before squaring his lithe body at me. "You know why I'm here."

  "I can think of several reasons, old boy, but perhaps the aroma of fresh foie gras overwhelmed you," I replied, noting several of the more aggressive underlings falling over themselves to personally serve a plate and drink to Forrest Sherwood. The old timer, breaking away from the rabble of thugs, basked in the attention of the subservience and pointed at a heap of sushi as his starting point.

  "You're in no position to play coy."

  "To the contrary, I'm in my element." I tapped the surface of the water with my fingertips. "I hazard you'd like to inquire about a certain CerebStix flash drive."

  "Out of the pool. Now."

  "Obviously, as you can very well see, I don't have it on me." I waded to the near side, exiting up the wide steps within a close distance of the belligerent boyos. Having earned persona non grata status, there was no cadre of Kose employees to greet me, not even so much as a used towel tossed my way. In fact, the group of partiers ignored my plight and broke into a rousing version of Hooray for Hollywood with Tueur de Thon conducting at uptempo pace. "Nor is it with me here at the Kose estate," I continued, shaking drops of water from me as would a dog emerging happily from a dip in the lake.

  "The long and short of your predicament, Baron," Moeziz sneered, kicking a chair to the side as he spoke, "is this. You have twenty four hours to deliver the flash drive to me."

  "And when I don't?"

  "There will be a new Angel in heaven." His sneer cleverly turned to a smirk then back again.

  "Angelica Formica de Corcoran Bridgework Shumway? But that's his daughter!"

  "His adopted daughter."

  "Still his daughter!"

  "His daughter who betrayed him. She was never family in any formal definition of the word."

  "You're wrong!" My urge to attack him was leveled by sheer numbers. I had not an ally in the house. "She's a dear, sweet young woman."

  "You would know."

  "The remark of a cad, to be sure. But you're right in one respect, Moeziz. The fact Angel isn't a blood relation of Bridgework is evidenced in her moral integrity, her entirely different view of humankind than that of the Eternus Spiritus seeker."

  "Your righteousness is heartwarming, von dek Horn. Use it when determining whether Angel lives or dies with your choice to deliver the flash drive."

  "You can have the bloody thing as long as Angel is turned over to me. Alive and in one piece."

  "Not your terms, nudist." Moeziz withdrew a cigarillo from his vest pocket, prompting Rico to produce a lighter. "The flash drive to me first. Once I'm satisfied it's authentic and hasn't been tampered with or duplicated, you'll be told where to locate Angel."

  "Moeziz, if you possessed a modicum of common sense --"

  "No proposals from you. I just told you how it plays out. You get the flash drive and answer your cell phone. Instructions to follow. It's all very simple, Baron. Remember, if you screw this up,
Angel gets her wings."

  "I don't believe Bridgework would allow this! Not for a minute!"

  "Believe what you will. These people did," he said, blowing smoke at the swinging revelry on the lower end of the patio. "It'd be a lot easier on my part to off you right here. No one would dare say a word. As foolhardy as you are to swim bare ass before the Hollywood elite, I know you're just as clever to safeguard the CerebStix from Bridgework."

  "Natural instinct."

  "Two things I knew I could count on. I told Wayland we'd find you here without the flash drive. I told him there's no way you'd ship it to Tumultuous Manor. And I told him you'd trade it for Angel in a heartbeat."

  "That's three items," I said furrowing my brow.

  "No, only two. You're here without the flash drive."

  "What about my not shipping it to the Manor? Or swapping it for Angel?"

  "Technically, those are two additional things. I'm counting on those, too." Moeziz flicked a row of ashes into the pool. "I could have you detained while we tear up your beloved Manor, but that'd be a waste of valuable time. Besides, your man Budgie --"

  "Smudgely."

  "Is a crack shot, as I recall. Someone on our side is bound to get hurt, then the local authorities stick their noses into a private matter and a whole lot of unnecessary questions need to be answered. Besides, I rather let you twist over the ethical dilemma of weighing a digital storage device against a human life. You'll do the honorable thing, Baron, like you always do."

  "I wish I could say there's comity between our states of being, Moeziz, but it doesn't exist. You're nothing but a lecherous blackguard!"

  "High praise coming from a Trotters boy." Moeziz drew on the cigar and, glancing downward, briefly assessed my self-effacing appendage. "You best get a move on before it gets any colder."