The L.T. finished with the sergeant. He came over saying, "How'd Mr. Chili Palmer check out? They just happened to be having lunch?"
"He said it was to talk about making a movie. He says there's no connection from the past, any unfinished business he knows of, so I didn't see a reason to keep him. There some rappers I could look at, Sin Russell and his rascals. According to Mr. Chili Palmer they been giving Tommy Athens a hard time."
The L.T. said, "They give everybody a hard time," not sounding too interested, "just being who they are."
"Making their statement," Darryl said. "I spoke to Homicide, they say none of the witnesses recognized the shooter. They all agree—and that may be a first—he's a short, middle-aged white male, kinda funny-looking. Some of the witnesses said he was wearing a hair piece, as did Mr. Chili Palmer, who had the best look at him and gave us a partial on the license number. But now here's maybe a lead. Some of the witnesses have seen Tommy Athens different places with his secretary, a girl name Tiffany. But Tiffany is the girlfriend of this metal freak name Derek Stones. They say Derek beats on Tiffany he sees her friendly with another man, or he looks around the house and can't find his stash. Derek's in the file—busting up property don't belong to him."
"Derek Stones?"
"Yes sir, plural."
"Never heard of him."
"He plays loud, Lieutenant. Has a group call themselves Roadkill. We'll look him up, see if he knows a short white male wears a rug."
"The Russians aren't keeping you busy?"
"Man, those people," Darryl said. "I'm in the supermarket, one of 'em tries to push me aside to get at the hot dogs. Know what I'm saying? Like there's only one package of dogs left in the store." Darryl paused. "Tommy did say to Chili some people were trying to shake him down. Referred to them as ethnics. Like maybe he isn't sure if they're Russian or Ukrainian or Georgian. . . ."
"Talk to the secretary. What's her name?"
"Yeah, Tiffany, while I'm asking about Derek."
"What about the guy's wife, Tommy's?"
"I was coming to her, Mrs. Edith Athens, thirty-six, Tommy's second wife, married seven years. They live up the hill, off Mulholland. Homicide pays their visit, tells her how sorry they are to bring this terrible news, her husband being killed. She says, and they wrote it down, 'I guess it finally got him in real trouble.' They ask what she's referring to and she says, 'His dick.' They said she didn't cry or seem surprised."
"So he was fooling around," the L.T. said, "and his wife knew it."
"Yes sir, making us think this Tiffany might not be the only one, and some husband or boyfriend put a stop to the man's activities."
The L.T. seemed to give it some thought before he said, "We don't want to assume what we don't know as fact. I've seen women put on an act trying to tough it out. The guy's a bum, yeah, but he was still her husband, seven years together and now he's dead. For all we know she waited till Homicide left before she broke down."
"It's possible," Darryl said. "Though she did ask would they like a drink and told 'em to call her Edie."
3
* * *
"ARE YOU DATING anyone special right now? Or anyone that would prevent you from meeting other people?"
Chili was listening to the tape in his backyard, a clearing between the garage and a stand of old banana trees, sunlight gone from the yard in the early evening. He sat in a plastic lawn chair still wearing his suit, the tape recorder next to him on a stepladder he used to look for ripe bananas. He listened to Linda tell how the dating service had videos and written profiles of all their members, "so that once you've chosen someone, and they've seen your video and read your profile, a first date is more like a third date, you know so much about the person. It makes it more . . ."
He advanced the tape.
Now Linda was saying, "I can give you the cost, but please don't make a decision before you see how the program can definitely enhance your social life."
Chili thinking, as he advanced the tape again, what he'd always wanted, to get his social life enhanced. He came to where he asked if she worked the phone all day looking for lonely guys, and she told him her real life was music, that she'd had her own band up until last year, played guitar and sang. She got called every now and then to do backup vocals. "Once I did a guide track for a major star. Several places they used my voice instead of hers. I'm on a record that went platinum, but don't look for my name on it."
The tape came to Linda saying she appeared with a girl group called Chicks International whenever they had a gig. Linda, a black chick and an Asian chick, a Vietnamese. They played private parties and clubs around town, the Viper Room, Space-land, Jacks Sugar Shack, the Martini Lounge. "Look us up and stop by if you want a few laughs. We're Miki, Viki and Tiki on stage, only on stage. I'm Miki. Viki's the black chick; she used to be a Harlette, backing up Bette Midler. She has to get stoned before we go on. Tiki barely speaks English, she fakes the lyrics. I have to put my mind somewhere else, imagine fires burning in the night. That's how embarrassing it is."
He remembered when she said it thinking, why fires? And why didn't she quit if she doesn't like it?
The best part was coming up, Linda saying, "We do covers since we don't have any songs of our own. Mine wouldn't begin to work with this group." Chili heard himself saying it was a way to get started, do other artists' material, see how you work together. And then Linda's voice:
"If you want to get on the charts, or even live with yourself, you have to do your own stuff, man, with an attitude, something you believe in. Listen, it isn't bad enough we have to do covers, we're doing the Spice Girls, and those chicks can't even fucking sing."
Then the silence. And when she came on again it was back to business. Though only for a moment.
"I'm really sorry, it just slipped out. I'll put my supervisor on if you want to make a big deal out of it." Then telling him, "But don't, okay? I can't wait tables anymore, this is the best I can do and get by." He asked her name and she said Linda, Linda Moon. He asked if it was her real name and she said, "Real enough."
The tape continued to run, Linda saying, "I asked your name when you called. . . ."
"I wasn't sure I wanted my social life enhanced."
There was a pause.
"Well, do you want to tell me now?"
He heard his voice say, "It's Ernest Palmer," hiding behind his given name. But then she asked him what he did for a living and at this point he decided to be honest with her.
"I make movies, features."
"Oh? Any I might've seen?"
She didn't believe him.
"You see Get Leo?"
Again, a pause and Linda saying, "Wait a minute. You're Chili Palmer? You are—you were on Charlie Rose at least a half hour. He got you to admit your name's Ernest, and I recognize your voice. I've read all about you—the interviews, the ones that asked if it's true you were a gangster in Florida? Or was it Brooklyn?"
"Both."
"I loved Get Leo, I saw it twice. The only thing that bothered me, just a little—"
"The guy's too short to be what he is?"
"Well, that, yeah. But you know going in Michael Weir's short."
"What was it bothered you?"
"He's so sure of himself. I can't stand guys who think they know everything. What other movies have you done?"
He listened to his voice come on after a pause. "I did Get Lost next." Admitting it.
When she says, "I still haven't seen it."
He tells her, "A sequel has to be better'n the original or it's not gonna work. Right now I'm between productions, playing with an idea, seeing if it goes anywhere."
"Can I ask what it's about?"
"So far I have a girl who works at a dating service."
"You're kidding."
"But her real life, what turns her on, is music."
Another pause before Linda's voice comes on again. "You got one of our flyers and you called. . . . How long've you been working on this idea?"
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"I guess since I opened my mail the other day and started thinking about it. An idea has to start somewhere. Then as you keep going, one idea leads to another."
"I'll bet they do." Linda sounding careful now, almost cold. "What's next? You're gonna make me a star?"
"The girl from the dating service could be the lead, yeah, but at this point I don't know what happens till it happens. It's hard to explain, how I work. Can I ask how old you are?"
"How old you want me to be?"
With an edge now that he liked.
"I'd say the ideal age would be between twenty-five and thirty. Around in there."
"I'm twenty-nine, born in Odessa, Texas, the day Janis Joplin died. Do I get the part?"
Giving him the source of her accent, West Texas, still with that edge. He heard kind of a laugh in his voice as he explains, "I'm not casting, Linda, I'm looking for an idea. Honest."
Linda: "But you do wonder what I look like."
He was curious enough to say, "You want to tell me?"
She did, too, let him have it, saying, "You'll be glad to know I'm a fucking knockout, five-nine in heels, a neat ass, light-brown hair. . . . You want it blonde? I'll have it colored. The way it works, Ernest, you promise the chick anything she wants and if she's dumb enough you get blow jobs till she finds out you're all talk. You want to know what I want?"
He should never've told her his real name. But then got in deeper saying no one called him Ernest, okay? Or Ernie. His ex-wife used to call him that— "Ernie, while you're up, will you bring me my pills?"—and it was one of the reasons they got divorced. Kidding around with her in a serious way. And she comes back with:
"You want to know what I want, Ernie, or not?"
A lot of spunk there. He liked the sound of it so he was patient, telling her, "Look, the way I work, I begin with a character instead of a plot, someone in a job that a plot might come out of. A girl that works for a dating service. Is that the situation? She meets lonely guys and falls for one of 'em? I don't think so. This girl wants a career in music. But she's stuck with a group that does Spice Girls covers, bubblegum pop disco, and she resents it because she has her own style, with an attitude, and here she is doing a take-off on a group that was invented, like the Monkees, and has about as much talent. At best, she's hidden away in a studio doing backup vocals while these little girls are megastars, out there making millions, selling records like crazy."
Linda: "To other little girls, teenyboppers."
Chili: "They work hard, don't they? They're the ones make it happen."
Linda: "By the numbers. They do what they're told."
Chili: "But who says you have to have talent to be a success, hit it big?"
Linda: "That's not the point."
Chili: "It may not be, but it's the way it is. So tell me what the girl from the dating service wants more than anything."
Linda: "To do her own songs, with her band."
Chili: "Why doesn't she?"
Linda: "You don't know the business."
Chili: "Why doesn't she leave the chicky group?"
Linda: "It's a long story."
Chili: "Will it go a hundred minutes?"
He hears her say, "Shit," sounding like herself again. "My boss is coming. I think she's been listening in."
The line goes dead. End of tape.
* * *
CHILI WENT through his house turning on lights, dark in here even during the day, that big hedge in front and the banana trees blocking out natural light.
He'd bought the house three years ago, right after Karen Flores starting acting different, either quiet or too polite, finally telling him there was someone else: a guy it turned out, who had golden retrievers that matched his hair and smoked a pipe—not a bong, a regular pipe—a screenwriter, for Christ sake. Chili couldn't believe it. But then Karen was weird anyway, having been in all those horror flicks, the series about the slime creatures, and now and then looked like she was about to scream for no reason. Or he'd catch her watching him when they were making love instead of throwing herself into it—like she was afraid to close her eyes when he had his hands on her. Or, what it amounted to, for some reason she felt more comfortable with a guy who had golden retrievers than she did with a former Miami Beach shylock. Who knows?
He told the real estate woman he wanted something for around three hundred, he wasn't sure how long he'd be out here. The real estate woman said, "That price range, try South Central L.A., find a nice place wasn't burnt to the ground in the riots." Cheeky little Jewish woman. She found him the miniature hacienda behind the hedge for four forty-nine and interior-decorated it for him herself, no charge, with close to thirty grand worth of retro furnishings and a desk, all from her brother-in-law's design shop on Melrose. The house wasn't bad, but smaller than he'd had in mind. Standing in the living room full of furniture he said, "You want to turn around you go out in the hall, uh?" She told him to be grateful, there were people in the movie business, ones that used to have big homes in Beverly Hills living in their cars. Right after Get Lost was released she called to ask if he was ready to sell.
He hadn't lost any money on the picture; he had his producer's fee and residuals coming in for Get Leo, about a mil and a half in IRAs and Treasury bonds, enough to buy a property and get it into development. Except that a person in the movie business investing his own money in a movie was a mortal sin, almost unheard of.
Chili poured himself an ice-cold vodka, dropped in a few anchovy olives and the phone was ringing, on his desk in the living room. He thought, Linda Moon. Because she was on his mind. The phone rang three times before he got to it and said hello; but whoever it was had hung up. Chili put the phone down and the doorbell rang. He couldn't think of anyone this time he wanted it to be as he opened the front door, and there was Darryl Holmes.
Darryl saying, "This place a hideout or your home? Man, it's hard to find."
"You stop by," Chili said, "to see how I live? I don't have any stale coffee, but I can offer you a drink."
"Only need a minute of your time," Darryl said, not moving from the doorway but letting his gaze roam over the mismatched furniture in the living room. "Just want to ask if you know Edith Athens, wife of the deceased."
"I've met her a few times, that's all."
"What kind of person would you say she is?"
"You want to know if she fools around? All I can tell you is not with me."
"You're saying she does, though, with other guys?"
"I'm not saying anything, Darryl. Edie's none of my business."
"How 'bout a young woman goes by the name of Tiffany? Tommy ever mention her?"
"His secretary. Now you want to know if Tommy cheated on Edie. You talk to people you might find out he did, but you won't hear it from me."
"Gonna stick to the code, uh?"
"Respect for the dead," Chili said. "If Tommy did anything he's ashamed of, let's hope he had time with his last breath to make a good Act of Contrition. But that's something we'll never know, will we?" Chili maintained a solemn expression watching Darryl staring at him, Darryl trying to decide if he was being put on, or if he wanted to discuss spiritual values at this time. When he didn't comment, Chili said, "Tiffany? Yeah, Tommy mentioned her, but it was more like off the top of his head. We're talking about a girl who could be in his movie."
"Didn't say he was playing with her?"
"He wasn't even serious. He says, 'How about a broad with a Mohawk?' I was already leaving the table, on my way to the men's."
"To take your lucky piss. That was the last thing he said to you?"
"I'm walking away, he said think of who's gonna play him, in the movie."
"Were you serious about making this movie?"
"More now, to tell you the truth, than I was then."
"Since the man got popped, uh?"
"It's not a bad opening."
"But if the movie's about him—"
"You flash back to find out why he got popped and t
hat's the movie. Or, it isn't about him, it's about a girl singer trying to make it, and the guy playing Tommy's in the one scene."
"What happens next?"
Chili shrugged. "I wait for characters to show up, ones I can use."
"You know Derek Stones?"
"Never met him."
"But you know who I'm talking about?"
"The rocker, yeah. Guy with the ring in his nose."
"And pierced titties," Darryl said, "he hangs chains and shit from. You understand why they want to pierce themselves like that?"
Chili said, "Your people use to do it."
It got Darryl frowning at him. "What you talking about, my people?"
"Natives, from Africa. Stick bones in their ear lobes. Cut tribal scars on their bodies. How about the ones stretched their lower lip out, like a duck's bill?"
Darryl came back at him saying, "Oh, your people never decorate themselves?"
"Some tats, yeah, but black guys have 'em too."
"Never painted up? Like Mel Gibson in Braveheart, painted half his motherfuckin face blue?"
"That was in Scotland."
"I don't care where it was. He's white, he's your people."
"I'm Italian, for Christ sake, with some Spanish Puerto Rican in there on my old man's side."
Darryl said, "I don't know about Italians, but if you're P.R. then you got a good chance of having some African heritage in there too, man, 'less you pure Español, which I doubt. So don't give me no shit about you people."