The Big Bamboo (33 page)

“I don’t quite know how to put this…” said Serge. He stuck the iPod in Ian’s face and grinned. “Holds ten thousand songs”—he pulled it back and fiddled some more—“It’s like the ransom note. Good news, bad news, so don’t overreact until you’ve heard both parts…”

“Oh, Jesus!” Ian flagged down their waiter. “Bring the bottle!”

“Right away, sir.”

“What the hell’s happened?” snapped Mel.

“Don’t rush me. I want to put this the right way…” Serge plugged a funky new speaker into the iPod. Except it wasn’t a speaker; it was a microphone. He fiddled some more and activated the record function. “Which do you want first? Bad news or good?”

“Dammit!”

“Okay,” said Serge. “I’m guessing you’re a bad-news-first type. People fall distinctly into the two categories. They say potty training—”

“What the fuck’s happened!”

“Promise you won’t be mad?” said Serge.

“Son of a bitch!”

Serge looked at Tori. “I’m not going to tell if he doesn’t promise.”

“We promise!” said Tori. “What’s happened?”

“Okay, here goes: Ally’s dead.”

“What!” yelled Ian. Every table turned.

“Tori!” whispered Mel. “Her death was just supposed to be a hoax!”

“It
was
supposed to be a hoax,” said Tori. She turned to Serge. “This isn’t funny anymore. Really, where is she?”

“I don’t know,” said Serge. “Depends whether you’re religious or not. Heaven, hell, worm bellies.”

“You’re not joking,” said Tori. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t kid about something like that.”

“But what happened?”

“What do you think happened? I killed her.”

“I know. I mean how?”

“My gun went off six times.”

“But why?” asked Tori.

“She knew my buttons and kept pressing them like an epileptic in an arcade. If it’s any consolation, I gave her fair warning.”

“Oh, my God!” said Ian, hyperventilating. “She can’t really be dead!”

Serge put a hand on his shoulder. “My experience is denial never solved anything. Right now, we need to band together like in the movies. I was thinking
The Seven Samurai,
if they only had five. Think I could get an office near yours? Something with a window if it’s available. I get cranky without sunlight…”

Ian’s head fell to his chest, shaking with sobs.

“Okay, forget the office,” said Serge. “I’ll work out of my car. I’m more productive there anyway.”

“We’ll get the gas chamber!” said Mel.

“You never asked me about the good news.”

Tears streaked down Ian’s face. “What can possibly be good about this?”

“I have a new plan!” Serge reclined and crossed his arms with self-satisfaction. “Aren’t you proud of me? After the mishap, I could have gotten down in the dumps, but no! I climbed right back on that drawing-board horse. That’s what you’re paying us for…”

“…We’re professionals,” said Coleman, a finger way back in his mouth scraping a tooth.

Both brothers weeping now.

“I thought you’d be happy,” said Serge. “Don’t you want to hear the plan?”

“Okay, I’ll shoot myself later for asking,” said Tori. “What’s the plan?”

Serge rubbed his palms together. “First, you give us two million dollars—”

“Two million dollars!” said Ian.

“Why do you need two million?” asked Mel.

“There’s two of us,” said Serge. “Me and him.”

They looked over at Coleman, the finger farther back. “Serge, I got a piece of nut stuck—”

“Coleman! I’m negotiating!”

“Sorry.”

“We need the money to leave the country and start new lives.”

Coleman examined a wet cashew chunk on the end of his finger, then flicked it.

“This is extortion!” said Mel. A nut chunk hit him in the eye.

“Think of it like spending on yourselves,” said Serge. “It’ll put us as far away from you as possible. But that’s not all! For two mil, you get the ultra-lux job. Right after leaving here, I’ll get to work making sure they never, ever pin this on you.”

“How are you going to do that?” asked Ian.

“By pinning it on someone else.” Serge motioned for all of them to huddle closer. “Here’s what I had in mind…”

Ten minutes later Serge sat back and smiled again. “What do you think?”

“Never work,” said Tori.

“Of course it’ll work,” said Serge. “I planned it down to the last detail.”

“You know, I think it
will
work,” said Ian.

Mel nodded. “It’s worth a try.”

“I can’t believe you’re siding with him now!” said Tori.

“Me neither,” said Ian. “But it sounds like he’s got all the bases covered.”

“We see a lot of mystery scripts,” said Mel. “Even the best had more holes.”

“Great,” said Serge. “Just one more thing. I was kind of saving it until I’d won you over. A final condition of my employment. It’s nonnegotiable…”

Ford Oelman trotted down the stairs from his third-floor unit and opened the front door.

Police cars everywhere. Detectives waiting at the bottom of the steps.

“What’s going on?”

“We have a search warrant,” said Reamsnyder.

Babcock produced a pair of handcuffs. “And an arrest warrant.”

“But you already questioned me,” protested Ford, cuffs snapping behind his back. “You said you believed me.”

“Please step out of the way.”

An evidence team with crime-scene kits trotted up the stairs. The detectives stuck Ford in the back of a patrol car.

“What am I charged with?”

“Obstruction for now.” The door slammed.

Ford watched forensic experts making continuous trips in and out of the building. Clear bags of fiber samples, strips of latent-print impression, cardboard boxes with unknown contents. His heart began to pound.

The detectives were upstairs, going room to room. Cameras flashed. They passed the guy shooting video in the hall. Babcock flipped his notepad to the number he had written down from the caller ID at Vistamax. He entered it in his cell phone and told everyone to be quiet. They listened. Nothing.

Neighbors and passersby filled the street behind police lines. Gestures, gossip. Satellite trucks arrived. News crews zoomed through the back window of a patrol car, where someone was hiding his face.

Babcock gave the cell phone a couple more tries in different parts of the apartment. No luck. He left the building and stood next to the patrol car. He opened his phone again to call headquarters. He hit redial.

A muted ringing sound from somewhere.

Nobody was answering at headquarters. Hmmm, that’s weird. He hit redial again. The soft ringing started again. Where was that coming from? Babcock turned around and saw Ford’s car. He looked at the display on his cell. Of course. Headquarters was usually on redial, but not this time.

“Reamsnyder, come here.”

“What is it?”

Babcock didn’t answer, just walked slowly toward Ford’s car.

“Something’s ringing,” said Reamsnyder.

Babcock showed him the display on his phone. “Sounds like it’s coming from the trunk.”

“The car’s not in the search warrant.”

Babcock opened the back door of the police cruiser car and helped Ford get out. “Have any objection to us looking in your trunk?”

“I’m innocent. Look wherever you want.”

The detectives slipped on latex gloves. “Keys?”

Ford turned sideways. “Right pocket.”

Babcock hit redial again. The ringing started again. Reamsnyder unlocked the trunk. The sound got louder. The detective reached inside and gingerly picked up a ringing cell phone. “I thought you said it was stolen.”

“It was. How’d that get there?”

“That’s our question.”

“Look at this,” said Reamsnyder, holding up a pair of monogrammed women’s panties.
A.S.
“Bet we get a DNA match.”

Babcock put a hand on top of Ford’s head and pushed him back into the patrol car. “We have some new charges.”

The door slammed.

Serge had been sitting on the edge of the bed for fifteen minutes, staring at a half-empty prescription bottle with a faded, three-year-old label.

Coleman surfed the TV. “I thought you threw all that stuff out.”

“I did. Found this in a drawer six months ago. Don’t know why I kept it.”

“You said you hated taking that stuff.”

Serge nodded and unsnapped the cap.

“You’re not thinking of going back on it?” asked Coleman. “We won’t have any more fun.”

“I’ve got a big appointment in the morning.”

“That’s right. Your final condition of employment with the Glicks.”

“It’s something I’ve dreamed about my whole life. Now that I have it, I don’t want to screw up.” Serge stared at the bottle another moment, then closed his eyes and tossed a handful of pills down his throat. He opened his eyes. “No going back now.”

HOLLYWOOD—A former low-level employee of the Vistamax props department has been arrested and charged with the murder of abducted movie icon Ally Street.

The apprehension of stalker-turned-killer Ford Oelman came during a coordinated raid on his Alto Nido hideout near Ivar and Franklin, where police intercepted the suspect just as he was attempting to flee the jurisdiction. He is being held without bail in the theatrical wing of the county jail.

Discovered during the raid was the cell phone used during ransom negotiations as well as an unidentified piece of apparel rumored to be of a sexual nature. The clothing item has since been scientifically linked to Ms. Street, according to LAPD Detectives G. Babcock and P. Reamsnyder, who spoke on the condition of anonymity.

Investigators are still unclear on motive, but studio sources describe a disgruntled employee who was fired for erratic behavior including bursting into the private office of Vistamax owners Ian and Mel Glick.

“He was insane,” said Ian.

“I feared for my life,” said Mel. “I hope he gets the help he needs.”

After being terminated, Mr. Oelman was overheard making threats against the entire studio before having to be physically removed by security. Court records also show hundreds of civil filings against Vistamax by the former employee.

“That’s a red flag,” said an unnamed attorney at the studio. “He was clearly obsessed. We could barely keep up with all the paperwork he was generating.”

Police initially suspected Mr. Oelman amid reports that he had been stalking the actress at Skybar just hours before her abduction. He was briefly taken into custody for questioning during early stages of the investigation, but was soon released based on what now appears to have been a bogus alibi.

“Would Ally still be alive if the police hadn’t made a mistake?” asked Mel Glick. “Who knows? You can drive yourself insane with questions like that.”

Second-guessing the police dominated all local newscasts. A handful of buildings burned to the ground.

“I don’t blame the detectives,” said Street’s distraught agent Tori Gersh. “I blame the sick bastard who took Ally!”

Meanwhile, at the county jail, celebrity attorneys were lined up around the visiting room for a chance to take on the no-win case. In a late-breaking development, however, Mr. Oelman has made the highly questionable decision of retaining legal newcomer Rodney Demopolis, who has never been on a talk show.

Mr. Demopolis’s first press conference is scheduled for noon.

Serge parked in front of a sleek professional building and took the elevator to the tenth floor. Vistamax Development Division. He entered an office. The walls were covered with autographed movie posters in expensive frames. Eastwood. Pitt. Gibson.

The receptionist was wearing a telephone headset. “…Have a seat, Mr. Storms.”

Serge had just started picking up a magazine when a door flew open on the other side of the waiting room. Two men waved furiously. “Serge! Get in here, you maniac!” “We’ve been dying to meet you!”

Serge entered the largest office he’d ever seen, made even more spacious by the lack of furnishing. Just two swivel chairs facing a white leather couch. It helped showcase the view: The wall opposite the sofa was a single, giant floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the Hollywood Hills. Serge could see the sign.

They all sat at the same time, Serge on the couch, the two men in the chairs. The chairs were the retro kind that looked like carved-out eggs. The development guys had to swivel to see each other. Serge didn’t have a problem confusing the two. The one on the left was muscle-bound with a shaved head, blue warmup pants and a sleeveless workout jersey. The other wore the traditional business shirt and tie in a slightly mussed fashion like the drummer for Cheap Trick. They had notepads and anticipating smiles, waiting for Serge to say something.

Serge sat, eyes moving back and forth between them.

A chair squeaked as the muscular one swiveled toward his colleague. “That’s so cool. He’s the writer and he isn’t saying anything.”

“You’re the writer. You can say anything,” said the drummer. “But the fact that you’re not saying anything says a lot more.”

“The Glicks are high on you. They absolutely insisted we take a meeting.”

“Told us great things.”

“They did?” said Serge.

“In theory. It’s a thrill to meet!”

“We have huge plans for you!”

“You’re the next big thing!”

“Which means we have to act fast, because the next big thing is tomorrow’s yesterday’s news.”

“One day we love you, the next we can’t take your calls.”

“Sorry, those are the rules.”

“Need anything? Espresso? Biscotti?”

“I’m fine,” said Serge.

“Heard about your asymmetrical conjoined twins treatment.”

“Love everything about it.”

“Just a few tweaks for the market. But in strict fidelity to your vision.”

“You’re the writer.”