The Big Bamboo (32 page)

The Fullback snapped them off. He punched through the windshield with his right fist, reaching for Serge’s neck.

Serge leaned back. “Now we definitely have to report the car stolen.”

The Sebring headed down the canyon. Fingers grasped for Serge’s face, just out of reach. The Fullback tried pulling his arm back out.

“Looks like he’s stuck,” said Coleman.

“He is,” said Serge, hitting a blinker and turning onto Hollywood Boulevard. “Mustn’t know anything about safety glass. You can punch through, but the laminated epoxy layer holds it all together and you can’t get your arm back out. Like Chinese finger cuffs.”

With his free hand, The Fullback began ripping open the hole around his arm. Blood squirted everywhere.

“I think he figured it out,” said Coleman.

Ally leaned forward from the backseat. “I don’t like him up there.”

“Gee. I’m sorry,” said Serge. “I won’t put him there next time.”

“Get him off!”

“I’m working on it.”

A hand came through the enlarged hole in the glass. Serge swerved. The hand went back out.

“Coleman, what would they do in the movies?”

“If we were in Italy, you could take him out with a vegetable cart.”

“But it’s America.”

“Then you’re supposed to drive down an alley with a bunch of boxes and trash.”

“That’s Jersey.” The hand came through the window again. Serge viciously cut the wheel left and right. The hand went back out.

“He’s still there!” yelled Ally.

“Not now!” said Serge.

The Fullback had just gotten to his knees, preparing to lunge over the top of the windshield. Serge tapped the brakes. The giant flattened to the hood.

Traffic thickened as they raced toward the intersection in front of Grauman’s. Tourists snapped photos as the rental car whizzed by.

“Check it out,” said Coleman. “One of those double-decker tour buses.”

“I see it,” said Serge. “They look cool, but so much depends on your driver, especially if they do the PA thing. I once got a Teamster
way
too into Tallulah Bankhead.”

“Slow down,” said Coleman. “I can’t fire this joint.”

“Light it under the dash like you usually do.”

“Okay.”

The Fullback’s arm was through the windshield again, inches from Serge’s face.

“He’s still up there!” said Ally.

Serge leaned his head back as far as he could, The Fullback’s fingertips brushing his Adam’s apple. “Will you shut up back there!”

“Did you just tell me to shut up?” Ally grabbed Serge’s head from behind.

“What the hell are you doing?”

The Fullback grabbed Serge’s neck from in front.

Serge couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move his head. He desperately reached for the dashboard, but it was just out of range. The grip on his throat grew tighter. He became faint. He tried calling for Coleman under the dash, but no voice would come out. With the last effort in his body, Serge threw an elbow over his shoulder, catching Ally in the jaw. She released her grip and fell back, allowing Serge to reach the dash. He pressed the washer button, squirting The Fullback in the eyes with Serge’s Super Windshield Fluid. The Fullback screamed and clawed at his face. Serge swerved a final time, and the giant rolled off the Chrysler’s hood into the street.

Coleman sat back up, puffing a fully involved joint. “Hey, where’d he go?”

“We came to his stop.”

Behind them, a double-decker tour bus screeched to an emergency halt after a series of disgusting thumps. Passengers hung out the windows and looked down at the wheels.

Something hit Serge in the back of the head. “Ow! What was that for?”

“Pull over!” yelled Ally.

“What’s the matter?”

“Pull over this second!”

Serge made a left onto a dark side street. He parked and turned around. “What now!”

“I’m getting out!”

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“You hit me!”

“That was a defensive blow,” said Serge. “Technically, I’m guarding the plate.”

Ally swung a leg over the side of the car.

Serge pulled his pistol. “Don’t go any farther.”

“You’re not going to shoot.”

“I’m warning you.”

“Tori will find out.”

“Try me.”

“You’re bluffing.”

HOLLYWOOD—Abducted actress Ally Street is now presumed dead by police after ransom talks broke down during a series of bizarre telephone calls received at Vistamax Studios, according to an unofficial press release from a source close to the negotiations.

Hopes were high for the star of the indefinitely shelved All That Glitters when officials received a cheerful ransom note. But the mood quickly soured during jumbled conversations that indicated Ms. Street’s kidnappers were either international terrorists or local drug abusers. The shocking and exclusive revelations of the terrorist angle came to light during one of the cryptic calls. While the captors made no political demands, they reportedly read a brief statement protesting a recent spate of police brutality before referring to a cache of grenades and anthrax.

In a related development, detectives were observed leaving the home of TV and movie personality John Goodman. Repeated knocks on Goodman’s door went suspiciously unanswered, and police would only say it was “just a cordial visit.” Caught outside a trendy Brentwood eatery, Goodman’s publicist said he had no knowledge of the police visit, but was confident that all the facts would come out.

Although Goodman’s name came up numerous times during the hostage talks, police theorize that the actor had only limited and incidental contact with the abductors, who were dropping his name to score points. When asked about their theory, an official police spokesman said, “That’s not our theory.”

By nightfall, hundreds of fans could be seen leaving flowers outside the Vistamax gates, where a well-attended candlelight vigil lasted past midnight and featured touching performances by many top musicians on the vigil circuit. While few of the mourners actually knew Street, most whom we spoke with said “we felt as though we knew her” or “we wished we had known her” or “how’d you like that notepad shoved up your ass?”

Meanwhile, Street’s publicist and agent Tori Gersh called a hastily arranged press conference to demand an official inquiry into the source of the police leaks. “Each new detail is so painful,” said a tearful Ms. Gersh. “Like the fact that they were withholding food and water.”

Police had no response to Gersh’s accusations, but word that the department had been accused of something prompted sporadic looting in several neighborhoods and tied up traffic leaving the Lakers game.

Lush leaves and primrose blooms filled the courtyard. Tori and the Glicks huddled around a small café table under the warm California sun. A folded-over copy of the
Hollywood Tattletale
lay between them. Tori’s wine had a couple of sips missing, but the brothers’ glasses were already empty, and they waved for the waiter as if they were marooned.

People at other tables leaned and whispered.
“…The Glicks…”
A snappy waiter arrived, towel over his arm, and poured Merlot with ceremony.

Mel grabbed his glass with both hands. “I can’t take the stress.”

Ian grabbed his chest. “I can’t breathe.”

“Drink your wine,” said Tori. “It’ll help you relax.”

Ian guzzled and motioned the waiter for a refill. “How can you be so calm?”

“Because it’s over,” said Tori, reclining in her chair and savoring another sip. “A few loose ends, but the hard part is done. Instead of heart attacks, you should be celebrating.”

Her confidence became contagious. “You really think so?”

“Absolutely,” said Tori, swirling the wine under her nose. “I’ll admit it got pretty hairy for a while. You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t feel it. But that’s all done. You two have been worrying so long you’ve forgotten to stop.”

“She’s right,” said Ian. “We’re making ourselves crazy for nothing.”

“That’s more like it,” said Tori.

Mel nodded. “What can possibly go wrong now?”

“Nothing,” said Tori. “We’re completely in the clear.”

Excited yelling erupted from the hotel. All heads turned. Two waiters blocked the doorway to the Polo Lounge. “Sirs! You’re not dressed—”

“Get the fuck out of my way! Do you know who we are? I know the Glicks personally…Hey, Ian! Mel! Be right with you!…”

The brothers strained to see what was going on.

Two waiters stumbled backward. Serge and Coleman marched quickly toward the table. Tori covered her eyes. “Holy Jesus!”

“What’s shakin’?” said Serge.

A flustered maâtre d’ ran over and began apologizing to the Glicks. Two beefy security guards arrived seconds later, grabbing the intruders.

“Let me go!” yelled Serge. “You’re making a big mistake! We know them!”

The maâtre d’ looked at the brothers. “You know them?”

The stunned Glicks shook their heads.

One of the guards jerked Serge by the arm. “Okay, fella, get moving…”

“We’re the kidnappers!”

Ian screamed. Mel dumped wine on himself. “We know them! We know them!…”

“Is everything all right?” asked the maâtre d’.

“Yes,” said Mel.

“Just go away,” said Ian.

The maâtre d’ nodded for guards to release them. Then he backed away from the table, bowing.

Serge straightened out his shirt. “That’s better. I’d heard good things about this place, but I was beginning to wonder…” He scooted a chair up between the brothers for a tight fit. “So, this is the inner sanctum.”

“Tori!” Ian demanded. “What the hell are they doing here?”

“We were never supposed to meet them!” said Mel. “That was the understanding.”

Tori turned to Serge. “What
are
you doing here?”

“Gellin’ like a felon.”

“Dammit,” said Tori. “You were supposed to call me this morning!”

“Change in plans.” Serge took a small canvas bag off his shoulder and set it in his lap. “I’ve learned that whenever there’s a possibility for misunderstanding, it’s better to take the time and meet face-to-face. Shows respect.” Serge raised a finger to the waiter. “Your finest water.” He pointed at Coleman. “Beer, right?”

Coleman nodded, digging a fist into the bowl of mixed nuts on the table.

“Tori!” whispered Ian. “We’re not insulated anymore!”

“That’s the only reason we agreed in the first place!” whispered Mel. “You guaranteed no contact with lowlifes!”

“Lowlifes?” said Serge, bolting up straight. “You must be thinking of other kidnappers. Me and my partner are all about culture.” Serge surveyed the courtyard. “Like this place. We could get used to meeting you here.”

“Serge!” said Tori. “You’re scaring me. What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

“Give me a minute,” said Serge. “I have to set up.” He reached in the canvas bag and placed his iPod on the table, connecting it to portable speakers. “I can’t believe I’m actually here! Wanted to come my whole life, but never thought I’d get the chance.” Serge worked the click-wheel to his L.A. soundtrack. Music started. “Thousands of people have been made and destroyed in this very courtyard. I’ll bet you two guys have all kinds of juicy stories! Were you here way back before cell phones? Did waiters really used to carry the old rotary jobs to your table when you got a call?” He leaned forward on his elbows and grinned. “I’m all ears!”

“We just have drinks.”

“…Welcome to the Hotel California…”

Serge sat up and frowned. “That’s no fun.” He pulled a hanging vine toward his face and sniffed a flower. “Did you know this used to be a wasteland of undesirable real estate? Until they opened this joint in 1912. They said they were crazy! Then Pickford and Fairbanks built nearby and the rest of Hollywood followed…”

“…Such a lovely place…”

“What really blows my mind is there’s no traffic-light eyesore at the intersection out front. And it’s a five-way fucker, too. Now
that’s
class. If this was Miami, you’d be hosing glass and blood twenty-four seven. But out here you just take turns. Because you’re civilized…”

The maâtre d’ hovered nervously. “Sir, I’ll have to ask you to turn off the music.”

“It’s my soundtrack.”

“We don’t want any trouble.”

“You should have thought of that before you let the Eagles put a picture of this place on the album cover.”

“Sir, please…”

“
Alllllllll
right.” Serge reluctantly pressed the stop button. “There. You happy? Is it true you can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave?”

The maâtre d’ backed away, bowing again.

Serge leaned to Ian. “Another fashionable Eagles-hater. Probably heard
The Long Run
a million times at his frat house, and it pushed him off the ledge.”

The next table was staring. Serge turned and grinned. A sixtyish woman had dangling earrings that belonged on a chandelier. She sneered back.

Serge began singing to her:
“Woooo! Hoooo! Witchy Woman! See how high—”

Tori grabbed his arm. “Will you stop that!”

“Has anyone been to the gift shop?” said Serge. “Went looking for a souvenir pin, but they just had a bunch of junk out of my price range like baseball caps with the hotel’s name in diamonds…Oooo. I…spy…souvenir…
matches
!” He snatched the pack out of the ashtray, dropped them in his shirt pocket and threw his arms up. “He shoots! He scores!”

Mel shielded his face. “Everyone’s looking!”

“Yes, sir,” said Serge, looking up at trees draped in strands of white Christmas lights. “I could get used to noshing here with you on a regular basis.”

“We’re never meeting again!” said Mel. “If we had known—”

“You don’t have a choice,” said Serge, fiddling with his iPod. “The change in plans. It’s pretty complex so we’ll have to start seeing a lot of each other until it sorts out.”

“Tori! Do something!”

“What’s changed?” she asked.