The Rabbit Factory (15 page)

"What about the Governor's theory that there's a connection

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I between Lamaar and the mob?" Terry said.

"What mob? That's a myth perpetrated by the conspiracy to defame Italian-Americans," Muller said, dropping a second fat folder on my desk. "However, if you believe some of the things you read, the mob is still alive and well and living large in Vegas. Did you ever hear of Meyer Lansky?" "Old-time Jewish mob boss," Terry said.

"He was pals with Bugsy Siegel. The two of them saw the future of Vegas back in the forties. They were backed by the New York, New Jersey and Philadelphia crime syndicates, but they decided Bugsy was stealing, so they killed him." . "I know," Terry said. "I saw the movie with Warren Beatty."

"One of the syndicate guys was Enrico Leone. He moved to Vegas in 1955 and opened his own casino, the Camelot. It's been family-owned and family-run for the past fifty years. The granddaughter, Arabella, runs the operation. It's basically legit. I mean as legit as it gets in Vegas. She's the one who made the joint venture deal with Lamaar." "Doesn't sound like a marriage made in heaven," I said.

"It's great for the casino. Lamaar's got the film, TV and rock stars who can do live appearances and draw the crowds. Plus they've got a squeaky clean image that's a nice counterpoint to the legacy of Rico Leone." "But why would Lamaar want to get in bed with lowlifes who are one degree of separation from Bugsy Siegel and Meyer Lansky?" "Duh, money. The company was hurting when the Japanese bought it. According to the Wall Street Journal this Vegas deal can take them from a nine-percent loss to an eleven-percent gain over the next five years. That's a twenty-percent swing. Big

business will get into bed with lepers for a lot less.

"There's another reason. It's in the Forbes article. Lamaar started as an animation company. They've made their fair share of decent grown-up movies, especially since Ike Rose took over, but they're still saddled with that cartoon kiddy image. Vegas attracts a young, hip crowd. They got money to spend, and they don't want to spend it on Mickey Mouse. Lamaar wants a piece of that market. This is a smart deal for them and a smarter one for the Camelot." "You think the mob had anything to do with the homicide?" Terry said.

"No. It's a win-win deal. It doesn't make sense for either player to screw it up. If anything, it would hurt them if it got out that Elkins was a pedophile." "You did a great job, Muller," I said.

"Yeah. Thanks for executive summary," Terry said. "Now we don't even have to wade through all this crap." "I didn't think you would, but I figured you'd be happy with a couple of pounds of paper to drop on Kilcullen's desk." "It'll help keep the Junior Crime Stoppers in Sacramento off our backs for a few days, so we can solve this case," Terry said. "We owe you one." "It was a lot more fun than researching pedophiles," Muller said. "Hey, one cool piece of Vegas trivia. You ever hear of Oscar Goodman?" "No."

"He was a lawyer who defended a lot of mob bosses, including Meyer Lansky himself. Anyway, guess where Oscar Goodman is today." "Leavenworth," I said.

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"Nah, I don't think the Feds nailed him," Terry said. "I'm guessing he knew too much, the mob got nervous, and now he's at the bottom of some lake wearing size twelve cement shoes."

"You're both wrong," Muller said. "Oscar Goodman, defender of the much-maligned Italian-American businessman, is currently the mayor of Las Vegas. It's a great country we're defending, boys. See you tomorrow."

Muller went home, and Terry and I left the Vegas file on Kilcullen's desk, along with a note summarizing why we didn't think it was a critical path to follow at this time. We had decided to spend another hour wading through the Elkins files, when my phone rang. Caller ID told me it was coming from Valley General Hospital. Not the case I wanted to deal with, but I answered.

"Hi, Detective Lomax. This is Jan Trachtenberg. I'm calling to thank you for returning my call, but I didn't call you this morning."

It had been a long day. The best I could come up with was, "What do you mean you didn't call me this morning?"

"I've been on Valium all week," she said, "but I'm functioning enough to know who I call. This morning I got my daughters off to school, and then I drove to Tarzana to pick up my Mom. She's moving in with us to help with the girls. I decided to work the night shift for a while. It's easier. I can't sleep nights anyway." She took a deep breath and let out a sigh. "I just got to the hospital a few minutes ago. This is my first day back since Alan was killed. I was really glad to hear that you've got more people trying to solve my husband's murder."

"I promise you, Jan, we will find the guy. Don't lose faith just because I can't figure out who called me from Valley General."

"I know who called you," she said. "It was Diana Tran

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tanella. She left me a voicemail too. She said she met you socially last night."

"That's true," I said. "Small world."

"Yes. Two widows, working together, calling the same police officer. She's very sweet. I think you and Diana will make a real cute couple." I was about to explain that Diana and I were a long way from being a couple, but for the first time since I met her, I could hear joy in Jan Trachtenberg's voice. I decided to let it go. "Thank you," I said. "I've got to get to work," she said. "Keep me posted."

"Jan, what happens between me and Diana is personal."

"I mean about my husband's murder investigation."

"Oh, that. Sure."

She actually laughed. "I'm not that nosy, Detective. Besides, anything that happens between you and Diana will be the hot topic in the Nurses' Lounge." "Well, then maybe you should keep me posted," I said.

She laughed again, which made me feel good, even if it was at my expense. We said good night, and I hung up. I looked over at Biggs, who was at his desk chuckling. "And you are laughing because...?" I said. "Because all I needed was your half of the conversation to figure out what's going on. But I think that's the best detective work I'm going to do all night. How about we bag this Elkins shit and go for a beer or three?" "Sure," I said. "What's the worst that could happen if we leave early?" I picked up my chunk of bowling ball, tossed it in the air, and caught it. Thirty seconds later, we were out the door. i

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The next morning at 5:15, the Twenty-Third Most Powerful Person in Hollywood pulled out of his driveway on Amalfi Drive in Pacific Palisades.

He could have had one of Lamaar Studios' drivers pick him up. Truth be told, he could have had one of Lamaar's Vice-Presidents pick him up. But Ronnie Lucas preferred to drive himself in his three-year-old Toyota Land Cruiser.

Today, as on every Wednesday, he was headed for the United Methodist Church's Homeless Shelter on Pico Boulevard and Fourth Street in Santa Monica.

Ronnie Lucas was an Industry Enigma. When the press asked him how it felt to jump from Number 87 to Number 23 in Entertainment Weekly's "Top 100 Most Powerful People in Hollywood" issue, he said, "You gotta put it all in perspective. Last year Katie and I only had our one son, Jeremy, and I was the Third Most Powerful Person in our house. This year, we had the twins, and we got a Springer Spaniel puppy, and I've slipped to Number 6."

Ten years before Ronnie had been a nobody, a young actor

from Munster, Indiana, surviving on his wife's small salary, waiting on tables and going to auditions. Then Joe Diggs died. Joe was the black comic who played the cantankerous old weatherman in TV Daze, a marginally successful sitcom.

The producers weren't about to replace one old black man with another. They had their reasons. It's just not done. Tends to draw comparisons. We already had the funniest black guy; we're not settling for the second funniest.

So they created a new character, Sonny Day, a twenty-something white guy who was totally inept at predicting the weather, but who was so sweet and lovable that the fictional TV station's ratings went through the roof.

Ronnie landed the part, and in a rare case of life imitating sitcoms, people were captivated by the blue-eyed, honey haired, boyish hunk-next-door, and the series shot straight to the Top Ten.

Ronnie Lucas went from, "Good evening, I'll be your waiter tonight," to the cover of TV Guide. Fame is addictive and Ronnie was hooked. He loved the parties, the fans, even the paparazzi. But Katie, his high school sweetheart and wife of three years, would have no part of it. One night shortly after he became Flavor of the Month, Ronnie stumbled home reeking of booze, pot, and perfume, and found a note on his pillow. "I've gone back to Indiana. I love you but I refuse to be married to a Hollywood asshole."

The next day Ronnie was on the porch of Katie's parents' house in Munster. He rang the doorbell, and when she opened it, he got down on one knee and said, "I'm sorry. If you come back to L.A. with me, I promise to be the biggest anti-asshole in all of Hollywood."

Katie came back and Ronnie kept his word. He settled into the role of genuine nice guy who loves his wife, his kids, and his work--hardly the stuff the gossip columnists write about. And while he didn't agree that he was powerful, he couldn't deny that he was popular. He had won a People's Choice Award three years in a row.

Ronnie made the transition from TV to movies, and, while none of them were Oscar contenders, they each got respectable reviews and phenomenal box office grosses. Any studio would have sold their collective souls, assuming they could find one, just to bring Ronnie Lucas into their stable. But so far he'd been loyal to the one company that gave him his first big break in television. Lamaar.

He had gone from doing television for Lamaar to making movies and personal appearances for them, and they had just signed him to another five-year, five-picture deal. Lamaar loved Ronnie, and the feeling was mutual.

With Katie as his moral compass, Ronnie remained as unspoiled as the day he left Indiana a decade ago with two hundred and six bucks in his jeans.

This morning, he was feeding the homeless. By 6 a.m. Ronnie Lucas was piling food onto shiny plastic plates and joking with the regulars. He wasn't quite as big an attraction as the free breakfast, but they all knew who he was. And they respected the boundaries he had established early on. No autographs; no photographs. Ronnie wanted to be treated like any other church volunteer.

"Buenos dias, Manny," he said to a dark-skinned Mexican man, whose forty-eight-inch belly was spilling over his size 42 sweat pants. "Como esta usted?" ,

"Yo tengo una hambre canino," Manny bellowed. It was the same repartee every time. "I am hungry as a wolf." Ronnie dished up three heaping spoons full of eggs, covering most of the plate. "Just what you need, Manny," he said. "A little more cholesterol." "I was reading the trades amigo, and I see you got like fifteen million dollars for your next picture."

"No kidding. I don't read the trades myself," Ronnie said.

"Truss me," Manny said. "Es verdad. So I am thinking, maybe you could spare four, five million, so I could buy a nice house in your neighborhood." "Good idea. Have your people call my people, and we'll work it out."

"Ah, my peoples," Manny said, shaking his head. "The problem is my peoples, they got no telephone." They both laughed. Two regular guys. One living in a ten-million-dollar house; the other in a GE refrigerator carton. A black woman in faded Levi's and a yellow Old Navy sweatshirt was next. Beatrice Templeton was thirty-six years old and had spent twenty of those years on the streets of L.A. She held out her plate in her left hand. Her right hand covered her mouth. "You ready for this, honey?" Ronnie put one hand on his heart. "Yes," he said. "I can't wait."

"Teeth!" Beatrice screamed and pulled her hand away, revealing a mouthful of brand new white teeth. A few heads looked up from their breakfasts, then quickly went back to plying their plastic forks. Screaming was part of the dynamics of the room. "I finally got me some teeth." "Beatrice, you look absolutely beautiful," he said. His blue

eyes gave her a loving look that millions of women would kill to get.

Tears streamed down her weathered face. "I feel beautiful. God bless you, Ronnie. You are my White Knight. I can't thank you enough." "Cut it out," he said. "My friend Sandy is a dentist. He loves doing this kind of thing."

"Oh, yeah, he does Halle Berry, JLo, Janet Jackson, and now he can tell everybody he just added Beatrice Templeton to his list of famous patients." "Hey, I bet he's bragging about you all over town," Ronnie said, scooping eggs onto her plate.

"You think?" she said, striking a Hollywood pose and flashing her teeth.

"Sure. Anyone can make those other women look gorgeous. You were a real challenge."

She let out a high-pitched whoop. "Oh, Lord, that's a good one! I love you, Ronnie," she said, as she moved on.

He looked up at the next person in line. Way up. The man was tall. A white guy, fortyish, road-weary. He hadn't seen a razor or a bottle of shampoo in a week. He wore dirty chinos, a plaid shirt, and a raincoat that was grungy enough to embarrass Columbo. Ronnie had never seen him before. "Hi, I'm Ronnie. Welcome to the Shelter." "Mark," the man said, looking down at his feet.

Like most actors, Ronnie studied people's speech patterns and body language. It had always intrigued him that his agent, Syd Resnick, was five-foot-two, yet whenever he entered a room, he strutted in with his chest puffed out and his head high. Syd was short, but he didn't think short or behave short.

Mark, on the other hand, was like a lot of the big guys in the room. His head drooped and his shoulders slouched as if he were trying to make himself less noticeable. "First time here?" Ronnie asked.

The man grunted a "Yeah," but he still wouldn't look Ronnie in the eye. "Eggs, please," the man said, anxious to move along. But Ronnie's brain was already on a Rescue Mission. This man needed help, and Ronnie never gave up on newcomers. "Where you from?" he asked. "Munster."

"Munster, Indiana? You're kidding. I grew up in Munster. My Mom and Dad still have a house on Hohman." "I know. I taught Phys Ed at Munster High. It was after you left, but they talk a lot about you. You were already on that TV show when I started." "My wife and I are going back for the Munster High reunion in June."