The Starshine Connection (18 page)

They had successfully dammed the bleeding from Ortiz’s nose. Close inspection would have revealed that his nostrils were stuffed
with toilet paper, his nose was still skewed to the left radically, and his eyes had an almost catatonic cast. But the purpose
Ortiz was about to serve denied the time required for such a spot check.

The door cracked open and a voice said, “Get your ass in here; don’t just stand there like a dummy!”

Slayton put a hard fist into Ortiz’s shins as he staggered against the door. Ortiz plunged forward, throwing the door wide
to immediate cries of protest from within. Before he hit the floor, Slayton and Lucius bounded up and inside. Slayton rolled
Ortiz clear with a quick motion of his foot and slammed the door.

They had everyone’s attention in seconds.

A burly man wearing a leisure suit, the one who had opened the door, clawed immediately inside his jacket for a gun. Lucius
was faster, both hands on his immense, intimidating Magnum. “Hold it right there, Robert Hall!” he yelled. Everyone inside
froze like children playing swinging statues.

There were four people yawing to and fro atop a water-bed, looking at a distance like a freeform relief sculpture of arms
and legs. A man lay beneath a woman kneeling before another man, with another woman mixed into the combination in a most acrobatic
pose. Slayton almost smiled. Good old American heterosexual pornography!

There was one sound man and one cameraman who also apparently doubled as a grip. They both looked like UCLA film school rejects,
with petulant annoyance pasted whitely across their faces. They would be no problem. Slayton tore open the box in his hands
as he assessed the remaining members in attendance. Behind him, Ortiz had oozed up onto hands and knees, though he was clearly
stunned. Lucius let Slayton know it with a quick nod. His aim never wavered; the man in the leisure suit dropped his gun,
barrel-first and very gingerly, into a bucket of water sitting by the bedside, seemingly for the purpose of wetting down the
actors to make them look more sweatily passionate on film.

The balding dude in the Adidas sweatshirt, wearing his sunglasses inside the dark room, had to be Hill. It looked as if his
creative impulses had gotten the better of him and he had decided to ride herd on this epic production personally, playing
director. This was big-time stuff, and he wanted to let everybody know it. After two brisk seconds of outrage, he bolted from
his chair, whipping the glasses off like a television news commentator making a lucid point.

“Are you with the Los Angeles Police Department or are you affiliated with any—”

He shut up primarily because Slayton had now unpackaged Chispa Ortega’s spectacular shotgun, jacked both hammers back with
a metallic
click
that made everyone’s hackles rise, and pointed the formidable equalizer directly at the face of the man in the Adidas. With
his free hand, he unslung the heavy, nickel-plated .45.

His voice remained the same deadly, almost subaural whisper. “Are you Brian Hill?”

“Jesus goddam Christ, fella, just who the hell do you think you are busting in here like that! I ain’t saying
nothing
to you, punk! You can take your goddam hardware and—”

“Does this idiot belong to you?” Slayton pointed toward Ortiz, who was doggedly bobbing to his feet again. “He’s part of the
Starshine protection ring, isn’t he?”

“I’m not saying anything! I want my lawyer! What right do you think you have—say, who the hell
are
you, anyway? You can’t be Kalinsky! No, dammit, I paid off Kalinsky on Monday! What the hell do you want; you ain’t no goddam
cop!” The man’s bluster was largely fabricated. He was not able to take his eyes from the shotgun, and everyone else in the
room bounced their gaze from him to Slayton and back again, like spectators at a tennis match where a hand grenade is being
used as the ball—with the pin out and the time ticking away.

“Two questions, Mr. Hill,” said Slayton, making the automatic assumption. “Answer two questions for me, and you may get to
finish your version of
Cleopatra.”

Slayton almost admired the ballsy irony of Hill’s answer. “I ain’t answering nothing. I’m calling the cops!”

Slayton turned, let the .45 drop down, and put a Light Special slug through Ortiz’s left leg. It blew cleanly through and
drilled into the floor. Three people in the room screamed, and Ortiz crashed down to never-never land again. The blood instantly
evacuated from Hill’s face; Slayton could see the man’s legs quivering to support him as he moved closer. The others in the
room, save those on the roiling waterbed, had mashed themselves against the wall as far away from the lunatic with the guns
as they could. The people on the bed had disengaged themselves from each other, but clung to each other like castaways on
a leaky life raft. Lucius ignored Ortiz and moved in to cover them closer, while Slayton concentrated on Hill. Ortiz lay on
the floor, blood pumping out of his leg. At the last minute, Slayton had decided on his leg instead of his arm, which he might
have blown off completely in fury at this close range. Only his marksmanship assured that Ortiz would keep the leg after hospitalization.

But his purpose had been achieved. Brian Hill was clearly terrified of being ventilated.

Slayton moved closer to the film setup. “I am going to ask you two questions,” he explained, releasing the pan drag knob on
the camera and turning it so Hill was in frame. He checked the focus and locked the camera down. “You are going to answer
them to the best of your ability.” He stowed his .45, and lifted the camera remote on its cable from the carpeted floor. Hill
was frozen in place, eyes bulging, sweat now dripping freely off his chin and gleaming on his bald pate.

Slayton nestled the belled mouth of the shotgun just beneath Hill’s chin. He released the remote switch and the whir of the
camera seemed to be as loud as a waterfall. “This is a take, Mr. Hill. You will tell me exactly what your connection with
the Starshine ring is, and how it is financed. And you will reveal to me precisely who your contacts are in Washington, who
pays you, and who administrates. If you don’t, then I will present to the suspects this film, which will feature your head,
in a starring role, in a narrative about its violent and messy departure from your body. At which point you will be unconcerned
about residuals. I’m afraid this is your only audition, Mr. Hill, and you’d better not blow it.
Action!”

Hill could not talk enough. He babbled long, and hard, and loud, trying his damndest to sound sincere. He played the role
as if his life depended on it.

In fifteen minutes he was finished. He ran dry only a few seconds before the film magazine did. Slayton unloaded the film,
tore the spool of tape from the Nagra recorder, and handed them both to Lucius.

“Thank you, Mr. Hill. Wasn’t he great, folks?”

The huddled mass of paranoia in the corner nodded and bubbled frantically.

“Mr. Hill, would you please go join your public? Go on,” Slayton said, sweeping his hand toward them and indicating that he
had nothing to fear. Hill scuttled over and snuggled like a child up against the bustier of his two starlets. Slayton and
Lucius backed toward the door like bank robbers.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” Slayton said, lifting the shotgun to arm’s length. “You’ve been too kind.”

At the door he jerked the gun away from the group and fired in the direction of the bed and camera setup in the now-empty
part of the big room.

The antique weapon went off with a blast like a Titan missile, stunning Slayton’s arm to numbness with its mule-kick recoil.
White smoke erupted from both ends of the barrel, snaking from the breech and billowing from the mouth, as the solid loads
exploded and drove dozens of balls of heavy shot out in a blinding yellow flash.

The camera head shell disintegrated into broken geometric shapes and plastic shrapnel. The mechanized guts followed the head
shell in its insane scatter as more lead stitched across the far walls, punching fist-sized holes in the plaster and skinning
the paint from the surface. Severed tufts of carpeting floated briefly in the air. Knobs and bits of gear from the camera
and other equipment showered across the room in a spray of hail that shattered the dresser mirror and destroyed every window
in the western wall of the place. Mahogany spears leaped away from the waterbed headboard and stand with thin crunches, as
miniature geysers spouted up from the drilled plastic bag of water. The bed heater shorted violently out and filled the room
with pungent electrical smoke; almost instantly a breaker popped and the lights went out. Slay-ton backed out and slammed
the door. The last thing he saw, in the shaft of daylight pouring through the blackout drapes, was the skeleton of the wrecked
camera spinning around and around on its heavy pedestal from the concussive force of the blast, dropping bits of junk as it
turned.

“Holy mother of
Christ—!”
Lucius exclaimed. “Isn’t that what you call overkill, Ben?” He was not completely sure whether Slayton was still sane, and
eyed him suspiciously as they walked, with an almost leisurely pace, back to his car from the Marina.

“So much for the little fish,” he said, dangling his tingling right arm limply and using his left to balance Ortega’s artillery
over his shoulder as he walked. “Now for
El Mero Mero.”

“Well, well, well. Uncle Ben. I was wondering when you’d turn back up.” The voice was trilling and pleasant. Slayton turned
around and found himself bandage-to-nose with Roxanne Drake, her eyes the cobalt blue of authentic Ming Dynasty porcelain.
“Who are you with for the affair?”

“Busy?” said Slayton.

“Not now,” she said, fully prepared. “Hey, it looks like your trick didn’t work. The one where you stop the fist in front
of your nose. Shame on you; you let one get through. Was it my so-called mummy? Are you going to admit you two got into some
radically heavy petting, eh?” She did a fair Groucho waggle of the eyebrows. As usual, Roxy was dressed to kill, and the testimonial
dinner was another social safari for everyone in attendance.

“I’m here representing Drake Industries,” she said. “I heard all about your phony story—Avatar Limited, that’s a bit much,
don’t you think? Hardly grown-up.” She linked into his arm and they walked across the ballroom to a free balcony. Behind them
they left the gaggle of administrators and industry people who had turned out for their social fix in the guise of interested—indeed,
concerned—people in positions of power. The theme for the evening, and the title of the keynote speech, by the Filibuster
King himself, Franklin O. Reed, was “Those Who Can, Must.” Help, presumably. Slayton had forgotten exactly which charity this
blast was supposed to buttress. But Hamilton Winship was there, and, to keynote for Slayton (if for no one else) the basic
importance
of his appearance, Cornelia Winship had pulled his tuxedo out of mothballs. Winship had not been lying when he expressed
his dislike for such affairs; he disliked them so much that Cornelia needed to show him around the people present and generally
guide him so he did not feel as foolish as he might have. Ben Slayon liked Cornelia Winship, Ham’s spouse of some thirty-five
years, very much. He could see the pair milling through the throng behind them. He and Winship both knew the score on the
Star-shine case. It was about to play out to its conclusion—the difference was, Winship was unsure of how the climax would
resolve itself; Ben Slayton had planned it and thought about it for most of the red-eye flight back to Washington, D.C.

“That
woman
and Daddy are in, Europe,” Roxy said, leaning over the stone balcony rail and staring out at the lights of the Capital City.
“She try to get in touch with you again?” She tried to make it sound offhanded, but did not succeed.

“I don’t know; I suppose she might have,” said Slayton. Roxy had no knowledge that Slayton had ever left Washington.

“Bitch,” she whispered. “She’ll sleep with anything in sight; I’m just sorry she got her hooks into
you.
She’s very good at it, you know, stealing men from me.”

“Funny. She said almost the same thing about you. Listen, Roxy, nobody stole anybody. We’re all free agents; at least, the
lies we use to maintain the illusion of the thing we conveniently refer to as ‘freedom’ are intact. Your mother’s resentment
of you has nothing to do with your personality. All women with savvy are a threat to her and yes, you should consider that
a compliment. She’s fighting to compensate for an inadequate life; you see, nobody ever told her that money is
not
the be-all and end-all of life. For somebody with less class, money is all there is. Your stepmother has more depth than
that, and that’s the source of all the anxiety she tries to stave off every day.” He pretended to catch himself. “Sony. I’m
on my soapbox again.”

“It’s okay.” Her expressions were liquid, fast-changing. She had learned long ago that a moving target can’t be hit as easily,
and refused the easy pain. “Do you
know
that I really did want to be with you the other night? Really. I took Daddy home and then cried. Classical romantic.”

“Don’t fret it,” Slayton said. “I’ve done things and seen things in the past few days that make me want to shed a few self-pitying
tears myself.” His thoughts were of Mercy, under the horrible fluorescents of the interview room at the Los Angeles bureau.

“Like your nose?” she said, eager to be sympathetic.

“Yeah,” he lied. “Like my bloody nose.”

The bandage would be there, impinging on his vision like blinders on a Clydesdale, for a while yet. It would remind him punctually
every morning and stare at him every night. Unless he did something, the scene it reminded him of would never leave his mind’s
eye.

“Everything she told us is one hundred percent,” Lucius had said, rubbing his hands together in the white-tiled corridor at
bureau headquarters. “If she ran a number on you, she didn’t do it in there, man.”