Sex and Violence in Hollywood (37 page)

“Yeah, yeah, she said he wasn’t there and she didn’t know where he was or when he would be back.”

Suddenly, the omelette took on an unpleasant flavor. Adam drank a couple swallows of weak coffee to get the taste out of his mouth.

“If this has something to do with Diz’s place,” Carter said, “it would have to be in the news, wouldn’t it? I mean, something that big? Especially if Mr. C. was telling the truth about his Hollywood connections. Reporters would be all over it.” He watched Adam. Waited for a response. “Well? Wouldn’t they?”

Adam stared at the slowly growing ring of moisture around the bottom of his sweating glass of ice water. He boarded a train of thought that took him places he did not want to go.

Carter went on eating as Adam drew inward for a few minutes.

“Maybe not,” Adam finally said.

“What? Maybe not what?”

“A raid on a place like Diz’s would be a big operation. It would involve the DEA, the FBI, not just local cops.”

“Shit, just like Floyd said, the FBI.”

“Maybe the BATF, too.”

“The BA what?”

“Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. If they didn’t want any press coverage, I’m sure they could avoid it. For a while, at least.”

“Why would they avoid it?”

“Think about it. Those Hollywood connections Mr. C. mentioned? Famous people, maybe even some important people. He’s probably got files on all of them. If the feds just wanted to close him down, they might make a big show of it. But if they wanted to get his clientele, too, they’d have to be very quiet. Otherwise, they’d have time to disappear.”

“You think maybe...the place has been raided?”

Adam shrugged. “It’s possible.”

“But that doesn’t mean they know anything about us, right? It’s not like we signed a guest book, or anything.”

“We did something worse than that. We walked around under all those damned security cameras.”

“So what? We were there once, and not very long. That’s not gonna connect us to blowing up—” Carter’s voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s not gonna connect us to anything else, right?”

Adam sighed. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe none of this has happened, anyway, right?” Carter was talking to himself as well as to Adam. “I didn’t recognize any of the names that detective read. Did you?”

As things fell into place in his head, Adam’s skin shrank. “Mr. C.,” he muttered.

“What?”

“One of the names on the list...Cunningham. What was it, Waldo? Waldo Cunningham?”

“So?”

“Maybe that’s the C. in Mr. C. Cunningham. And that other name...Mistress Montana...that one’s been bugging me ever since I heard it.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t know, at first. But I think I do now. Let’s go back to your place.”

They said very little on the way back. Listened to the news, but heard nothing relevant. At Carter’s house, they went straight upstairs to the studio. Froze outside the door and listened.

Someone grunted on the other side. Quiet but intense. Adam and Carter locked frightened eyes for a moment. Then Carter rolled his, opened the door and went in.

On the partners desk, Adam’s laptop was still online. A thin, pale, blonde woman sat cross-legged on an unmade, dirty-looking bed on the monitor. The stump of her right arm, amputated at the elbow, was moving in and out of a plump, rosy-complexioned woman with no legs who lay writhing before her.

“No problem,” Carter said. “It’s just the horny amputees.”

Adam sat at the desk and muttered, “Can’t leave them alone for a minute.”

“They’re such cut-ups.”

“That’ll probably cost me an arm and a leg,” Adam said. He typed the URL of a search engine that specialized in finding pornographic websites, waited a moment for it to open. Typed “Mistress Montana” and hit the
ENTER
key.

“What are you doing?” Carter asked.

“I told you about meeting Mrs. C. in the bathroom at Diz’s?”

“Yeah.”

“Did I tell you what she was wearing?”

“Oh, yeah. Scary”

“Didn’t Billy say Diz’s mom was a dominatrix? That she had a website?”

“I don’t remember. Why?”

Adam scrolled down, scanning the results of the search. Carter pulled his chair around the desk and sat beside him.

“Ah-ha,” Adam said. He clicked on a link that read “Mistress Montana’s Underworld.” Seconds later, a small window opened in the center of the screen informing Adam that no connection with the website’s server could be made. He tried again, with the same result.

“You think Mrs. C. is Mistress Montana?” Carter asked.

“It’s possible. If so, and Mr. C. is Waldo Cunningham...” He left the sentence open as he clicked on a link to another mistress’s site. It opened quickly.

“What’re you doing?”

“If she has a site, maybe she advertises somewhere. I want to surf around, see if I can find a banner. I want to see a picture of her.”

“You think her website is shut down?” Carter asked.

“If Mistress Montana is Mrs. C. and that boy farm out in the desert has been raided, yes, the website is down. Here.”

Carter looked over Adam’s shoulder. “The Dungeon Shop?”

“An online store. S and M supplies, sex toys. And links to kinky sex sites.” He pointed to a rectangular banner at the bottom of the screen. It was a link to Mistress Montana’s Underworld, and provided a picture of the mistress herself.

“Free Willy,” Carter said.

Adam’s cheeks bulged as he exhaled. Mistress Montana was Mrs. C.

Carter did not have to ask. The expression on Adam’s face was enough.

“What do we do now?” Carter asked.

“Nothing. We can’t do a Goddamned thing except wait. And see.”

THIRTY-SIX

Never before had time
moved so slowly for Adam. It occurred to him that the longest summer of his childhood had moved faster. That even Pearl Harbor had moved faster, and with a performance by Ben Affleck.

The news had never taken up as much of Adam’s time before. He listened to it on the radio, watched it on television, read newspapers, scanned news sites on the Internet. While searching for a story about a den of drugs, explosives, and child pornography being raided in the desert, Adam absorbed other news without even trying. Political and civil unrest around the world, natural disasters everywhere, political and show business scandals, murders, rapes, child molestations, and ominous drops in the stock market, as well as in box office receipts and television ratings. It was endless, all of it depressing.

He spent as much time alone as he could. His worries turned him inward, made him quiet and brooding. He did not want to inflict that on anyone else. When he was with Carter, they spoke very little. When they did, it was usually to rehearse their planned stories should the worst happen. When they did not, their silences were clamorous with dread.

Since Wyndham’s visit on Thursday, he had been unable to sleep. No nightmares, but only because he could not sleep long enough to have them. Just long enough to drool on his pillow a bit before jerking awake. He woke Alyssa each time.

He did not want to chase her away, but feared she would start asking questions. He knew his behavior was probably normal under the circumstances, but was still afraid it would give him away, somehow reveal his guilt.

He supposed smoking marijuana did not help the paranoia he already felt about possibly being arrested, going to prison, being sentenced to death. But that and Xanax were all that kept him from ripping out his hair, screaming his head off and crawling out of his skin like a shedding snake.

Somehow, Alyssa sensed he needed to be alone. She made excuses for not coming over the next few days. Adam loved her for it. No one had ever read him so accurately, known him so well.

But how would she react if he were arrested? The question haunted him. Adam did not care what anyone else thought of him. He knew if he were arrested, it would be all over the news and most of the world would assume he was guilty, but he didn’t care. His only concern was Alyssa. Would she be able to continue caring for someone who was capable of having his own father killed, as well as the other five people in the immediate area? Or would she turn her back on him, try to forget she had ever known him, and live the rest of her life darkened by the shadow of their relationship?

The second possibility made Adam feel cold.

While Alyssa gave him some time alone, Rog dropped by the Brandis house on Sunday afternoon to talk with Adam. They sat on the patio at a table under a large blue umbrella, Adam in denim cutoffs and a burgundy T-shirt with Bela Lugosi as Dracula on the front, Rog in a peach Versace suit, a tall glass of iced tea in front of each of them.

“Have you given any thought to what you want to do with the house, Adam?”

“What I want to do with it? Why, is it making trouble? Should I have a talk with it?”

Rog chuckled. “Have you thought about selling it?”

“No.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Why?”

“It’s a big house. Costs a lot of money to keep it up. Staff, security, property taxes. Watering the lawns alone costs a small fortune. You need to start thinking about it. If you’re going to be on your own—”

“Wait a second, why should I sell the house? With the money he left me and the interest on his—”

“I’m not telling you to sell the house this week, Adam. I’m simply saying you need to think about it.”

“Already?”

“I don’t see any point in putting it off. The money and investments your dad left you...I know it sounds like a lot, but it won’t last unless you make some changes. With no income, the house and property will eat that money up fast, and you won’t—”

Adam became impatient. “What do you mean, no income? Dad said he never had to work again if he didn’t want to. He’s still got money coming in from the first hit he ever had, how can there be no income?”

“Your dad said a lot of things. It’s true, he could have stopped working and lived on his residuals and investments if he wanted. But he couldn’t have lived like he’d been living. To live like that—the house and the boats and all his cars and parties and everyone he employs—he had to keep selling scripts for big bucks. And now...well, he’s not around to do that.”

“Maybe I’ll start selling scripts,” Adam said. It had come out of his mouth before forming as a thought. He was about to take it back when Rog leaned forward with interest.

“Are you serious? Do you have a script?”

“Well...no.”

“Your dad always said you had a real talent for writing.”

Like he would know, Adam thought.

“He told me you’d written some great short stories and he thought you had a knack for screenwriting,” Rog went on. “But he said you weren’t interested. Have you changed your mind?”

A cold hand closed on Adam’s throat. He took a drink of tea.

“You okay?” Rog asked.

Adam nodded, composed himself. “He said that? About my writing?”

“Oh, yeah. Talked about it a lot.”

“When did he ever read anything I wrote? He wasn’t interested in my writing.”

Rog chuckled. “Maybe you never showed it to him, but he read everything you wrote. Probably some you didn’t want anyone to read. He used to sneak into your room while you were gone and read your stuff on the computer. He’d kill me if he knew I told you that.” He looked down at his drink, half of his mouth smiling. “I mean...if he were around.” Lifted his head again. “He said you’re a wonderful storyteller. That your style is very visual. That’s why he thought you’d make a great screenwriter. Have you changed your mind?”

Adam was numb all over, afraid if he moved, he would knock something over, or hurt himself without realizing it. A storm of conflicting emotions crashed inside him.

“Adam? You okay?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

“If you have a script, I can give Barry a call. He’d be happy to represent you.”

Barry Venin had been Michael’s agent. An anaconda with a weave.

Was it possible his dad really had been interested in his writing? That he had liked it?

“Adam? Are you feeling all right?”

He had no idea what kind of expression he wore on his face. He could feel nothing. “Yeah. Fine.”

“You’re sure? I didn’t mean to upset you.”

As Adam spoke, his voice gradually dissolved to a whisper. “I’m not upset, I’m just...I didn’t know Dad had read anything I’d written. I didn’t think he was interested.”

“Well, you know how your dad was. Not too big on praise. He was always afraid he’d give somebody a bigger head than his. Couldn’t have that. But he was a fan of your work and hoped you’d take up scripts. You know what his dream was?”

Adam did not move or speak.

Rog’s affectionate smile showed off shimmering orthodontal artistry. “Well, you know, ever since Paul Verhoeven butchered Thugz, your dad’s wanted to direct his own scripts. Writing and producing just weren’t enough after that. I dropped in on him one night at the cabin in Vancouver when he was working on Eviscerator. We shared a bottle of tequila, got fractured and sentimental. He said he wanted the first movie he directed to be from a script written by his son.”