"Why didn't you just strip and jump on him?"
Vita turned to her.
"Oh, we got a thing going, have we? I don't blame you, girl, he's a fine big man. I don't see Raji giving him much trouble."
11
* * *
RAJI'S MAN ELLIOT WILHELM knew right where it was. The Hollywood Athletic Club, yeah, out Sunset before you come to Vine. Elliot said guys went in there to shoot pool and at night they had swing bands performed, one of them Johnny Crawford, the kid that used to be on The Rifleman on TV, Chuck Connor's kid. Elliot hadn't seen the series, it was before his time, but he knew about it. Raji couldn't remember if he had seen it or when it was on, but said, "Yeah, The Rifleman, it wasn't bad for what it was. You know what I'm saying?" Elliot drove the Town Car tonight, Raji next to him with a fat manila envelope on his lap.
"There it is," Elliot said, "on the left."
On the corner at Schrader. Raji thought it looked like an old-time country club, palm trees along the front, in trashy old-time Hollywood. Check it out, the famous crossroads of Hollywood and Vine, what it looked like now. It looked the same around here. Elliot turned the corner saying he'd been to the club a lot, he liked swing bands and loved to jitterbug. He asked Raji if he liked to. Raji said it wasn't his style. Elliot said it was cool, you got real sweaty. He said there were even old people in there jitterbugging away, man.
They could go in the parking lot behind the club, on the other side of a brick wall along Schrader, or they could go in the parking garage across the street. Which? Raji didn't say, not liking the idea of being inside or behind a wall. But then Elliot said, "There," as a car pulled away from the curb in front of them, someone leaving early, and Raji said, "Yeah, take that spot." This'd work, park on the street: it was dark, the wall was right there, the wall looking about six feet high; lights back by the entrance to the club, but not down here. Elliot parked the Town Car and they got out, Raji leaving the envelope on the seat. He told Elliot across the top of the car to stay here. Raji had already told him what he was to do, but then told him again. Elliot would nod, Samoan biceps like rocks with his hands raised in his tanktop, running his fingers back through his hair. Raji had a black Kangol cap on backwards and a shiny black leatherette jacket this evening. He walked off now toward the awning over the entrance, looked back to see his man Elliot on the sidewalk now, where he was supposed to be: Elliot slipping on a nylon jacket from the Big Man's Shop where he bought his clothes, Raji's showpiece bodyguard, exotic in his Samoan way but quiet, knew not to talk just to be talking.
Raji could hear dance music coming from inside now, that big band sound, but had no idea what the tune was or if he'd ever heard it before. Two guys smoking cigarettes stood apart by the entrance. Now the short heavy one looked over and came this way, Joe Loop in a dark suit of clothes, coat open showing his gut, white shirt, the points of the collar curling up, red striped tie and busted glasses.
"You're late."
"What, five minutes?"
Joe Loop turned to the entrance again. "You hear that? 'String a Pearls,' old Glenn Miller number. They just did 'Chattanooga Choo Choo.' "
"Damn, I wish I heard it," Raji said. "I like choo choo numbers. You want your money? Follow me, my man."
"I'm not your man, asshole."
No, but he wanted his money so he followed. Raji asked did he like to jitterbug. Joe Loop didn't answer, didn't speak till they were coming to the car.
"What'd you bring the creature for?"
"Elliot brought me," Raji said, "he's my driver," and called to him, "Elliot, the envelope, please." He said to Joe Loop, "My driver and payroll guard."
"Fuckin nigga queer," Joe Loop said. "One ain't bad enough."
"Elliot is Samoan, case you didn't know."
"Yeah, Alabama Samoan."
Elliot was holding the fat envelope now, raising his one eyebrow as he extended it to Joe Loop. The man snatched it out of his hand and turned to walk away.
Raji said to him, "You don't want to look at it?"
Joe Loop stopped and turned sideways. "For what?"
"I mean count it."
"Why would I do that? I trust you, Smoke. You wouldn't give me a package that's light, would you?"
He started off again.
And Raji said, "Man, wait a minute, will you? I got something I want to show you."
Elliot had opened the trunk of the Town Car. He brought out a baseball bat he handed to Raji, who held it up to show Joe Loop.
"I like that idea you mentioned, keep a baseball bat in your car? So I sent my man Elliot to get me one. Tell me what you think."
Joe Loop said, "A red bat?" He held out his hand and Raji tossed the bat to him the way kids did choosing up sides and would take alternate grips on the bat to see whose hand came out on top and would get to pick first. But they weren't choosing up sides this evening. Joe Loop stuck the envelope under his arm and took the red bat in two hands.
He said, "This is aluminum, you dumb fuck," and tossed it back to Raji. "You want a wood bat, the famous Louisville Slugger, not this piece a shit."
Raji held the bat with his hands together around the grip, studying the fat part. "My man Elliot paid a hundred and forty-nine dollars and some change for this bat," Raji moving closer so Joe Loop could see it good. "The man sold it told him it has the extended sweet spot, a nice thin grip."
"Yeah, but hit a hardball with it," Joe Loop said, "you don't hear that solid crack of the bat, you hear a ping, for Christ sake. What kind of sound is that, a fuckin ping? A kid uses this bat it fucks up his swing. You mention the extended sweet spot? That's what fucks the kid up, it lets him take a longer swing across the plate. You don't develop the quick hands you need in the Majors."
Raji was swinging the bat with wrist action now in short little arcs near the ground, like a golfer.
"How you know all that?"
"You mean I know something you don't? Listen, a kid can hit four hunnert in college with an aluminum bat, comes up the big league he can't hit shit, his hands are too slow."
"Yeah, but what I want it for," Raji said, "how fast do I have to be?" He brought the bat up waist high, cocked it and came around to crack the fat part across Joe Loop's knees, whacked him a good one saying, "That fast enough, you guinea fuck?" Cracked the man across the face as he stumbled, started to yell, and this one put him down, shut him up, too. Raji stood over him now, raised the bat high over his head and brought it down hard again and again like he was pounding a stake into the ground. Raised it again and Elliot said, "Man, that's good, that ought to do it."
Raji looked toward the club entrance catching his breath, the sidewalk empty. He poked Joe Loop with the aluminum bat saying to Elliot, "See if he's packing." Watched Elliot stoop down and begin going through the man's clothes, Raji saying now, "Man like him don't go to the toilet he don't have a piece on him."
He watched Elliot bring out Joe Loop's wallet, his car keys, cigarettes and—look at that—a burglar's pick. Elliot asked him what it was and Raji said, "It's what you pick locks with you want to break in a house. Lemme have it." Next Elliot brought out a claim check for the parking garage.
He said, "I've seen Joe driving an old Pontiac. You want me to check it out?"
"After," Raji said. "I take his legs, you take the other end and we pitch him over the wall."
Elliot didn't move, still hunched over the man.
Raji said, "Come on," and Elliot looked up at him.
"You know what? The man's still alive. Busted head, busted mouth, breathing out his nose."
Raji still had the bat in his hand. He offered it saying, "You want to hit him?"
"I think we ought to put him in the trunk," Elliot said, "like I mentioned in the first place. I lined it good with plastic bags. Take him someplace nobody's around and shoot him in the head. Be more ceremonial than beating the man to death."
Raji said, "What if there's no gun in his car?"
"I can get us a gun easy," Elliot said, "any kind you want. It's
whether you want to do it or not. The way I see it, after beating on the man like that, there ain't nothing to using a gun."
Raji said, "Let's do it," anxious now to get the man out of sight. They lifted Joe Loop into the trunk and tossed the bat in there with him. What else?
Elliot said, "The envelope," looking at it lying on the sidewalk. Raji said to leave it; there was nothing in it but cutup pieces of paper. "Nothing in it," Elliot said, "but my prints all over it," picked up the envelope and threw it in the trunk along with Joe Loop's glasses. He looked at Raji.
"What if he'd opened the envelope?"
"The man's all the way guinea racist nigga hater. Would never enter his head a brother'd try to fuck him over. You didn't know that? I thought you was smart."
Raji waited in the car while Elliot jogged across the street to the parking garage. It didn't take him long; five minutes, he was back. Elliot got in behind the wheel, in the overhead light giving Raji a wink and brought out a pistol from under his jacket.
"Beretta, man, nine millimeter, a serious piece."
Raji took it from him, racked the slide and a cartridge popped out. He raised the pistol now to sight through the windshield.
"Now you taking charge," Elliot said. "You hire that old man? What kind of job needs to be done me and you can't do it? Man, turn your cap around and be you, not somebody else no more. Be the man."
12
* * *
ELAINE CAME OVER in her stocking feet to give Chili a hug, told him she missed him and held his arm close taking him to her desk, Chili looking around at bare walls, cardboard boxes stacked by empty book shelves.
"This the same office you were in?"
"The guy who came after me turned it into a mission control center, full of electronic stuff, screens, computers. . . . I said, 'Just give me an office that looks like an office, okay? And a regular phone, no headset.' You know headsets are big now, they free your hands. You can draw pictures on the script while you're telling the producer it's a terrific read, but not what we're looking for at this time. All I do is talk on the phone and I hate it. I have to be looking at the person to tell if he's lying."
Elaine with her slow delivery and New York tone of voice. She was the smartest person Chili had ever met. Somewhere in her early forties, nice brown eyes—she could make herself more attractive without much trouble. Do something with her hair; it always looked kind of tangled. Her clothes, too, seemed an afterthought, tan suit with the sleeves pushed up over a V-neck T-shirt.
She said, "I go over to Universal, they put me in the Ivan Reitman Building."
"He's got a whole building?"
"You have to see it. I'm sitting in my office thinking, What am I supposed to do here, Looney Tunes? I couldn't concentrate, so I came back." She said, "Sit down," and walked around the desk to her chair.
"Where's your big ashtray full of butts?"
"Chil, this town, you can't even smoke in bars anymore, you have to go out behind the garage. So I'm trying to quit. If I can't I'll move to Barcelona. What about you?"
"Just cigars."
Elaine said, "Now that we've got that out of the way, where are we?"
"Late last night," Chili said, "a couple in Griffith Park are having a picnic. That's what the guy, Vernon, calls it. They go there to make out."
"I got that."
"They're lying on a blanket, relaxing, looking at the stars."
"Having a cigarette."
"I thought the same thing," Chili said, "but it's not in the report. They see a car pull into the trees not too far from where they're picnicking. Two guys get out, they open a trunk, pull a guy out—the couple watching think at first he's dead, he doesn't move or make a sound. But then the two guys lay him on the ground face-down. One of 'em takes out a gun and pops him in the back of the head, twice. They get back in the car, a big black one Vernon says that looked fairly new but he couldn't tell the make, and drive off. Vernon goes to his car and calls nine-one-one."
"Has a phone," Elaine said, "but takes his girlfriend to Griffith Park to get laid."
"They're married. Four kids at home and her dad lives with them, drives Vernon nuts, the guy never stops talking. They have to slip off for a late picnic to have any privacy. The cops arrive, they ask what the two guys look like and Vernon says they're colored guys. Now," Chili said, "just before I came here I'm at Artistry Records. I'm talking to an A&R guy named Michael Maiman and my police contact calls, Darryl Holmes. I have to tell him everywhere I'm gonna be so we can keep in touch. I mentioned Darryl to you, didn't I?"
"You said you have a friend with the LAPD, if I can believe that."
"He's a good guy. The L.A. county sheriff has jurisdiction on the guy that was shot in my house, this Russian bleeding on my fuckin desk. So Darryl acts like he's my agent, speaks up for me, gives the sheriff's people his report on Tommy's homicide. I could still be answering questions if it wasn't for Darryl."
"Does he want to be in the movies?"
"I'll tell you something, Elaine, I think Darryl's a natural."
"So he's in this treatment you're living."
"Treatment—I think we could go right to script, start it, anyway. Yeah, Darryl's in it, definitely. He calls, Michael Maiman the A&R guy hands me the phone with this tense look on his face. 'For you. It's the police.' Whispers it. Darryl tells me there was nothing on the Griffith Park victim to identify him. But as soon as Darryl saw him, this morning laid out, he knew who it was, Joseph Anthony Lupino. Darryl's Organized Crime, he has a file on any of those guys are still around. He asks me if I know him. No, but I know of him from days gone by, Joseph Lupino, they called him Joe Loop, a nasty guy but out here now, semi-retired. Do I know what he's been doing to make a living? No, but I wouldn't be surprised he's in the record business, doing promotions."
Elaine said, "You're kidding."
"Tommy Athens was a mob guy and he got in the record business. Nicky Carcaterra's another one, connected when I knew him, now he's a record promoter. There's a lot of money in it, Elaine, so the promo guy's a hustler, a talker. He gets next to the radio station program director and becomes his buddy. Gets him tickets to the Super Bowl, gets bands to the station for on-air interviews. He might loan the program director money he doesn't have to pay back. He makes a condo available in Jamaica. They become such good friends the program director has time for the promo guy when he drops in, but doesn't have two minutes for the label rep. They can reach a point where if the promo guy doesn't bring it in, the record doesn't go on."
Elaine said, "Are you talking about payola?"
"Whatever it takes. How does a label get its record on the playlist? You get on Billboard's Top Ten you're gonna sell a million CDs. Hy Gordon tells me how it used to work. He says, 'You know how many wives of programmers got washers and dryers from me? How many of their hospital bills I paid?' Another reason Hy says the promo guy does so well, the label exec who hires him could be getting a kickback. Hy says, 'Where you think these indie promoters come from, Harvard Business School? No, they're from the street. Guys that know a hustle when they see one.' "
"But what if the promoter," Elaine said, "isn't able to sell the record?"
"He'll sell it. The only thing he can't do is guarantee a hit. But the promo guys only handle priority records, the ones with money behind them. They get them on the playlist and that keeps other records, like the ones from small independent labels, off the air. You listen to what the promoters want you to hear."
"Knowing all that," Elaine said, "how're you going to sell Linda Moon?"
"I'm hoping the old-fashioned way, on her voice and her music. Linda calls it pure American rock and roll and that's how I think we'll sell it. It's rock, but with a twang." Chili brought a CD in a sleeve from a side pocket of his suitcoat. "You can hear what I'm talking about." He brought a video from the other side pocket. "And see what the band looks like. There's some music in it, but basically it's a home movie." He glanced around the office. "You don't have a TV set.
"
"Why would I want to watch television," Elaine said, "while I'm working?"
"You run out of comic book heroes," Chili said, "you make a feature out of an old TV series. 'Hee-Haw—the Movie.' "
"You think you're kidding," Elaine said, picking up the phone and saying into it then, "Jane, can you get me a television set and a VCR? . . . No, for here, in the office. . . . There must be one somewhere in the building, don't you think?" With her slow delivery.
Chili said, "And a CD player."
"Jane, and a CD player. See what you can do."
Chili sat back in his chair. "You ask how I'm gonna sell Linda. I went to Artistry where she used to have a contract, see if they remember her. I mentioned I was there when I got the call from Darryl? I'm talking to the guy who signed Odessa originally, over a year ago, Michael Maiman." Chili paused. "You ever notice how many Michaels there are in the entertainment business, in high places? This Michael's prematurely bald and has a stringy little ponytail to make up for it, but he's eager and he's got the words. I said, 'Michael, you remember a group called Odessa?' He goes, 'Odessa, Odessa,' looking at the ceiling. 'Yeah, "Church of the Falling Rain." As I recall their songs have the hook but lack lyric communication.' I said, 'Then what'd you sign them for?' and he goes, 'We did?' I said, 'Linda Moon, formerly of Chicks International.' 'Oh, that Linda Moon.' He says yeah, Car-O-Sell has Linda under contract. I tell Michael not anymore, Linda quit, she's back with Odessa. I can see he goes for the idea but doesn't want to sound, you know, encouraging. He says the problem right now, there's a swarm of female singers out there, more than we need. I tell him yeah, but Linda can kick half their asses and he knows it. Linda's the real thing, and you know why? Her songs evoke an emotional response that triggers a memory."
Elaine stared at him. "Where'd you get that?"
"My mentor, Hy Gordon. Next I ask Mikey what the royalty agreement was on the original contract. I mention to him I know the advance was a hundred and fifty thousand. He says fifteen percent. I say to him, 'So if you price the CD at fifteen bucks the royalty would come to two and a quarter a record. Sell a hundred thousand you owe 'em another twenty-two five. Am I right?' No, not quite. Michael explains that, first, the hundred and fifty thousand is an advance on royalties based on eighty percent of total sales. The twenty percent off the top covers the record company's nut, 'Our being here,' Michael says. 'It represents our ability to offer you not only a contract but our full support.'