The Rabbit Factory (20 page)

"Mr. Rose, this is Arabella Leone," she said. "I'm a shareholder."

"How many shares are you holding?" Ike asked.

"One," she said. "I'd like to buy more, but not based on my analysis of Lamaar's current financial picture. I have an idea how we might do business together and get the price of that stock where it should be."

"That sounds intriguing, Ms. Leone," Ike said. "Why don't I have my new business development team give you a call..."

"Ike," she interrupted. "May I call you Ike?" She didn't wait for an answer. "I heard you were smart, so I'm only going to say this one time. I don't need your new business development team. I know the business and I already have it developed. I'm looking for a partner at the level of Disney, TimeWarner or Lamaar. I called you first. You. Not your flunkies. I know you're a busy man, and I'm sure with your less-than-rosy financial picture, you're getting phone calls every day offering you all sorts of ideas on how you can keep the Lamaar Company from going in the crapper. When you're ready to hear mine, give me a ring. I'm listed in the Yellow Pages under Incredibly Successful CEOs."

She hung up.

He called her back the next day. They met in Vegas a week later. A car took him from the airport to the Camelot, and a private elevator took him to the penthouse floor. Ike imagined her waiting for him in a white, gold, and leopard skin Mafia Princess Suite. But the guard escorted him to a large, window

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The Rabbit Factory

less office, which had all the style and personality of a mid priced room on one of the hotel floors below. Arabella Leone didn't need Vegas chic to make a statement. All she had to do was stand when he entered the room.

She had lustrous olive skin, menacing brown eyes, and a kickass body six inches taller than his own. She was powerful, dangerous, and intensely magnetic. "Thanks for coming," she said, shaking his hand. "Have a seat."

There were four nondescript armchairs grouped around a faux-marble coffee table. He sat down in one of them. She sat opposite him. .

"Vegas has lost its fucking mind," she said. "Somebody got the bright idea that we could attract more people by becoming a family vacation spot. The casinos are spending millions to build theme parks, animal habitats, and video arcades. I think the only people they're going to attract is the fucking Brady Bunch who will ride the roller coaster, spend fifty bucks on the slot machines, go to bed at ten o'clock, and scare away the people who would have lost thousands playing craps till three in the morning."

"Sounds like you have a business problem," Ike said.

"Not me. The other casinos. I'm going to put a hundred million into a thousand more rooms, new restaurants, theatres, a state-of-the-art spa, and a string of high-end nightclubs. I've got the land, the financial backing, and the cooperation of every politician in Nevada. What I need is a creative partner who can conceive the clubs, theme the restaurants, dream up the shows, and bring in the big-name stars. I want the new Camelot to make the MGM Grand look as insignificant as a three-inch dick. You interested?"

Ike laughed. "You want Lamaar to makeover a Vegas casino?"

"Not Lamaar the cartoon factory. I want the Lamaar you're building. In the past six months you signed rap stars, rock groups and hip-hop promoters; you've cut deals with heavy duty writers and directors who never did a PG-13 film in their life; and you bought a company that makes blood-and-gore video games. You're smart. You know your business can't survive only selling family entertainment. You're going after young, sexy people who set trends and spend money. I want them too. Let's do it together. That's my pitch. I don't need a committee; I don't need lawyers. Just a handshake. You want in or not?" God, she was hot. He wanted in. Into the deal. And into her. He reached out and shook her hand.

They spent the next four years conceiving, designing, and fine-tuning their joint venture. In three weeks the new Camelot would have its grand opening. A new, young, hip, sexy vacation spot would rise from the Nevada desert, and Lamaar's stock, profits, and reputation on Wall Street would rise with it. "One shot of Scotch and you zone out on me," Villante said.

Ike opened his eyes and sat up in his chair.

"What do you plan on saying to Arabella?" Villante said.

"I'm gonna tell her about the two murders," Rose said. "If this is part of a plot to blow this deal apart, she should know." "Why?"

"Because I don't think those cops are on the right track. They're looking for someone who wants to hurt our company. I think we should be looking for the people who want to hurt hers."

The little voice inside my head was having a field day. Amy's apartment is in Westwood. She asked if you'd mind heading in that direction to have a drink. What do you think she's thinking?

Twenty minutes of head noise later, I followed Amy into the garage of The W Hotel on Hilgard. A young Hispanic with a head full of glossy black hair and a mouthful of white teeth peppered with gold welcomed us.

"You been here before?" Amy asked, as we headed upstairs to the lobby.

"Five years ago. The hotel was called The Westwood Marquis back then. Terry and I came looking for one of the bartenders. He was a suspect in a homicide. He never showed up, but I remember the bar, all oak and leather, dark and musty. Sort of like a private men's club. I loved it."

"In that case, I have bad news," Amy said, as we turned into the bar.

The new management had totally neutered the men's club. The oak was now stainless steel and glass, and the thick drapes

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and plush leather furniture had given way to wispy orange curtains and those little Asian seating areas that are the essence of L.A. chic. Our waiter, Randy, a thirty-something gay man with thinning blond hair and nice pecs, brought us a bowl of mixed nuts and our drinks. "I'll leave you two alone," he said, with a discreet smile. Amy got right to it. "So what's on your mind, Detective?"

"It looks like we'll be working together," I said. "Your boss assigned you to help the Department with the case. But in the next breath he asked you to do whatever you can to keep these murders from damaging the company." "He didn't have to ask. To me that would be Job One."

"I appreciate that you plan to do whatever you have to do to make your boss happy, but I'm concerned about you crossing the line." "What line is that?" she asked, taking a sip of her wine and leaving a bright red semicircle on the rim of the glass. "I don't know a lot about corporate communications, but I do know that people in your job have to lie through their teeth to keep the company from looking bad. That may be an acceptable business practice, but it's frowned upon in a homicide investigation." "It's my responsibility to look after the company's image," she said. "And I don't lie through my teeth. I massage the truth. But surely you can't believe that Ike Rose expects me to bullshit the cops who are investigating the murders." "Amy," I said, "Ike Rose just tried to pass off a high-powered attorney as his assistant. Smelled like bullshit to me." "Well, that was just plain stupid," she said frowning. "It was

completely Richard's idea. I told him it would never fly. I mean you're not that dumb."

"I'm sure there's a compliment in there somewhere. But this is what I was talking about. You're not concerned that your people lied to us; just that they did it badly. You may call it massaging the truth, but some judge may call it obstruction of justice, which is a crime whether you do it intentionally or not." I bit into a salted Brazil nut. It was hideously bitter. Not burnt. More like wormy. At home I would have spit it into the sink. The best I could do here was swill down some beer and try not to gag. Amy didn't notice. "Right now I'm between a rock and a hard place," she said.

"Want to talk about it?" I said.

"Like what? Like you're my shrink?"

"More like I'm the homicide cop who might be able to help you with damage control if you play it straight with me." "Lamaar is only the third company I ever worked for. After college I got a job at Geiger and Dennis, a PR firm in New York. I spent the next five years in Houston, working for Shell. Oil people are very secretive, very political. When I took the job at Lamaar, I figured I wouldn't have to be so evasive any more. II Turned out to be just the opposite. Ike Rose wants everything buried." "Even people getting killed?"

"Especially people getting killed. Can I go off the record for a minute?"

"Cops don't go off the record," I said. "Are you familiar with the phrase, anything you say can and will be held against you?" She downed her wine and hand-signaled Randy for another round. I polished off my beer, swishing the last few gulps like

mouthwash to make sure the wormy taste was gone.

"I'll tell you anyway," she said. "About six months ago four college kids were hog-riding Cosmic Cat's Space Plunge."

"Hog-riding?"

"It's what the kids call it, when they go on the same ride over and over trying to see how many times they can do it in one day."

"Isn't that sort of dictated by the lines?" I asked. "I mean, you wait on line for an hour, you get on the ride, and about three, four minutes later it's over, then you gotta get back on line for another hour."

"Not if the crowd cooperates. The word gets out that hog riders are trying to break the record, and the crowd lets them buck the line and move to the front. The record for the Space Plunge is forty-three times in one day."/> .

Terry and I had visited the ride on our second trip to Familyland. It consisted of sleek, chrome, bullet-shaped cars that travel along a plunging roller coaster track inside an enclosed amphitheater. The huge room is pitch black except for brilliant intermittent light shows that flare up at key turns. Essentially, it's a roller coaster ride in the dark, with lots of pyrotechnics.

"Anyway," Amy said, "the Space Plunge cars are like fourman-bobsleds with a divider in the middle. Two people sit in front, two in back. These kids took turns sitting in the different seats, but by about the twentieth time around, they had a brilliant idea. Squirm out of the restraining bars and have the guys in front switch seats with the guys in back before the ride was over."

"Isn't the ride designed to make it impossible to do that?" I asked.

"Right," she said. "And the Titanic was designed not to sink. Family parks like Disney World, Universal, Six Flags and Lamaar go out of our way to protect our customers. But you can't protect them from their own insanity. For obvious reasons, we don't sell alcohol in the park, but these boys had smuggled in enough booze to get totally shit-faced. And on a sharp turn at forty-five miles an hour, Justin Erickson, a nineteen-year-old sophomore from USE, tried to switch seats, got thrown from the car, and fell sixty feet. He was killed on impact."

"When did this happen?" I asked.

"About a year ago."'Ś:.

"I never saw it in the paper. Never even heard about it, and cops hear a lot more than civilians."

"That's my job. Avoiding headlines like Student Plunges to His Death on Lamaar's Space Plunge.

Randy showed up with the next round. "Everything alright?" he asked. Amy nodded and waited for him to leave before she went on with her story.

"Within minutes of this kid hitting the ground, Operation Buddy Longo went into effect."

"Brian mentioned that. It's code, like yelling 'Hey Rube' in the circus."

"Brian has a way with words," she said, "but it's a little more sophisticated than that. More like being on Apollo 13 and saying, 'Houston, we have a problem.' An entire organization goes into Crisis Management Mode. Ike Rose set it up when he became CEO. Whenever a major incident takes place in the park--a heart attack, a serious injury, or something as disastrous as this was--a page goes out on beepers and the PA system. 'Buddy Longo, please report to Cosmic Cat's Space Plunge.

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Thank you.' There's no urgency attached to the page, but employees know that 'Buddy Longo' means fatality or life threatening injury. 'Tyrone Short' is the code phrase for a lower level accident."

She took a swallow of wine. "The Lamaar SWAT Team, which is trained for these disasters, swept in. Within minutes the ride was closed for quote, unquote, repairs, and the people who had been waiting on line were given a twenty-five-dollar gift certificate for the gift shop. It helps reduce the resentment factor.

"At the same time, the police, the coroner, and the State Amusement Park Safety Investigators were called in and taken to the scene of the accident via the underground tunnels. No press. Now, here's where it gets interesting. In less than twenty four hours the accident was determined to be the fault of the victim. A team of attorneys visited with the dead kid's family and the three surviving friends. Each boy got $200,000 and the Erickson family got $1.5 million for their total silence. Their other option was to have the offer withdrawn and then try to prove wrongful death on the company's part. Pretty difficult considering their kid was drunk. Ike Rose is willing to go to great lengths to avoid negative publicity. And so am I. That said, I heard what you said. I'll do what I can to help the company, but I won't obstruct justice."

She tossed down her second drink. "Can we have one more?" she said.

"I'm not much of a drinker. This second beer could last me all night."

"How about you finish it at my place?" she asked. "I could make you a mean bowl of chili to go with the beer."

The voice inside my head screamed like a sportscaster calling a hockey game. 'Yes! There you have it folks! The hat trick. Chili, beer, and sex with a real piece of ass. What a night it's been for Mike Lomax.' If only, I thought. Then I said, "That's a very attractive invitation. But I can't."

"Spoken for?" she asked, dropping all pretense that it was about the chili.

"Recently widowed," I said. "But that's not it. We're working together."

"Lomax, this is Hollywood. In my business, people who work together sleep together." She leaned over and rested her hand on top of mine. "It's no big deal. When you asked me for a drink, you said it was business, but my ego took over and I just assumed you were interested. Driving to this bar, I had these fantastic flashes of the both of us naked, well, almost naked--you were still wearing your gun. We had just smoked a joint, John Coltrane was on the stereo, and you were fucking my brains out on my new Calvin Klein sheets."