Total Immunity (20 page)

“I fuck up whoever messes with Tim,” Mr. Winkie said, then gave his pirate cough/laugh.

“Yes, Winkles, that you do,” Mr. Tim said. “Just the other night, we had a small skirmish out there in the Valentine Room. A fellow accused me of sexually abusing his date, the remarkably endowed Sunny. Of course there were no witnesses to my said affront, but the fellow insisted on making an issue out of it, and Winkie had to severely discipline him. Choked him right down to bare carpet and tossed him out on the macadam. Ugly, but deeply efficient, and he left not one scar.”

“You can't have my job,” the giant said sadly.

“Well, certainly not,” Jack said. “But I thought I might assist you. 'Cause sometimes you might get double-teamed.”

“Winkie works alone,” the giant said.

He stood up and Jack saw the giant's shadow block out the light from the wall lamp. It was as though an office building had suddenly been erected in the room. Jack felt an appealing fear glowing inside of him.

“Listen, man,” Jack said, opening his palms in a gesture of conciliation. “No offense.”

Winkie took a quick step forward. His hands were not opened. Indeed, they had been turned into fists, which looked like dumbbells. And there was now a kind of sweet smell coming off him, a joyous and murderous lather.

Jack moved forward quickly, before the giant could raise his mountainous arms. His own hands were now clenched lightly, all except his pointer finger, which he now swiftly jammed into the soft flesh just below the giant's Adam's apple. The effect was immediate and extreme. Mr. Winkie gave a screeching choke sound, then fell to his knees making horrible sucking noises. The floor shook, and sentimental paperweights of vacations past fell from Andreen's desk.

Before the behemoth could recover, Jack kneed him in the face, knocking him over on his side. Blood squirted from his massive nose and sprayed all over Jack's shoes.

Winkie lay there quivering and gagging for some time.

Tim Andreen made a face and shook his head, as if to say “tsk- tsk.” He walked around to the other side of the desk, stepped over the gagging giant's body, and offered Jack his wrinkly right hand.

“That was fine work, Mr. Hopps,” he said. “I think I can find a place for you in our organization. Would you mind terribly if we discuss your salary tomorrow? It would seem bad form, given Winkie's humbled condition.”

“Not at all,” Jack said. “Would you like me to move him out of here?”

“Yes, and be gentle with him,” his new boss said. “Under that tough hide, Wink's very sensitive.”

“I thought as much,” Jack said. “Is he going to remain with your organization, or would you like him deposited in the Dumpster outside?”

“Oh, no, I could never fire the Winkster,” Andreen said. “He's been with me for lo, these many years. I feel very much like his guardian. Perhaps, you could teach him that deadly move you sprang on him. Bring him up to date with the latest methods of self-defense.”

“I'd be happy to,” Jack said. “He seems a little rusty.”

“Yes, and get him a drink,” Andreen said. “He prefers vodka . . . and pineapple juice. Have one for yourself, too, Hopps. On the house.”

“Thank you,” Jack said. “Do you want me to start now or tomorrow?”

“You've already started,” Andreen said. “Get yourself a sandwich or something. I like to treat my people well. The kind of work you do takes energy. Got to eat a balanced diet. Try our wheatgrass tequila infusion. Miss Rae will get you one.”

Jack smiled as the door opened behind him.

“Ahhh, look who it is,” Andreen said. “My dear, I want to introduce you to the newest member of our happy little family. Mr. Bobby Hopps.”

The woman stepped out of the door's shadow and into the light.

It was all Jack could do not to gasp openly. The woman was none other than Michelle Wu. Dressed in black tights and ballet slippers, she looked as if she was there to dance the night away.

“This is Michelle,” Andreen said. “She's our new singer. Michelle, this gentleman is Mr. Bobby Hopps. Our new employee in security.”

“Really?” Jack said. “Well, I'll look forward to hearing you.”

“I start this weekend, if you're still around,” Michelle said.

Her voice was cool, her Vicodin eyes bright with pinwheels.

“Oh, I will be,” Jack said. “I think I'm going to find working for Tim very interesting.”

Michelle bit her lower lip and looked down at the floor where Mr. Winkie's color was slowly turning from icy blue to salmon pink.

Then she moved past Jack and walked around the desk, and ran her long fingernails through Timmy Andreen's dyed black hair.

It was after three A.M. when Jack left the club. He'd hung out, met some of the club's regular patrons . . . a second-tier star named Simon Blazek from second-rate action movies, and Kitty Wedge and Gretchen Hipe, a couple of failed starlets, who were worn out playing “the girl” and thinking about becoming hookers or porn stars.

There was nothing going down; no one got out of hand. Jack's biggest fear was dealing with the grumpy Winkie, who occasionally looked over at him and offered a snarl/smile. This, Jack was certain, was only the first encounter with the great giant, who definitely desired revenge.

Now he waited a half block away, sitting in front of El Diablo, a grease-pit Mexican restaurant where married Valleyites came to rendezvous with their tennis instructors, drink margaritas, and play sex games beneath the table in the dark, moody bar.

Jack's nerves were frayed, and he felt sleep pulling him down, but he couldn't afford to sleep. Not yet.

Not until he talked to Michelle Wu.

She finally came out of the Valentine Club at four A.M., got into her Mercedes, and headed down Ventura toward the city.

Jack let her go by, then pulled a quick U-turn and seconds later pulled her over right outside of Terresushi.

“Jackie,” she said, smiling as they pulled into the empty parking lot. “Were you surprised to see me, baby?”

“Yeah, I was. What the hell were you doing there?”

“I told you I played around with the boys sometimes. Gambling, a little fun . . . that's all. And now Tim was giving me a chance to sing. You know I've always wanted to be a star, Jackie.”

“You're
already
a star, baby,” he said.

“True.” She leaned into him and smiled. “But I've got a great voice. Do you know I trained to be an opera singer in Hong Kong?”

“You're a girl of a million surprises,” Jack said.

“Now that you're working security, you'll hear me,” Michelle said. “I might start a whole new career. Do you think I'm pretty enough to be a singer, Jackie?”

She batted her eyes in a comical way, and Jack had to laugh.

“What
you
are is a piece of work,” he said. “You know why

I'm there, Michelle. You wouldn't give me away to Timmy-boy, would you? So maybe he'd help you in your new career?”

Michelle opened her mouth and gave a hurt little sigh.

“Jack, how can you say that?”

“Knowing you, it's easy,” Jack said.

“You obviously don't know me at all,” Michelle said. “You think I would ever do anything to endanger my Jackie-boy?”

She ran her finger across his lips, and Jack felt a surge of desire for her.

“You want me to do something to help you, Jackie? 'Cause I will . . . I'd do anything to help you, baby.”

“Is that right?”

“It is,” she said. “It's very right. Like you and me, Jackie. We're very right.”

“Yeah, we're practically family,” Jack said. “But don't forget, Michelle. I've got four stolen vehicles on you, and a couple more that I think you sold for parts in Mexico.”

“How could I forget that, Jackie, when you remind me of it every time I see you? Just tell me how I can help you, and maybe those old charges — all lies, anyway — could go away?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “Maybe they could.”

“Then we could have the kind of relationship we are capable of,” Michelle said. “I could take you to Hong Kong and show you my world.”

Jack laughed. She was dead-on charming, the greatest bullshit artist he'd met in twenty years. She was so good that he wondered if she believed it . . . at least, while it was coming out of her beautiful mouth.

“All right, I'll tell you what I need. I need to get into Timmy's office and check his computer. The sooner the better. I want to find out if he hit Zac Blakely and Ron Hughes. Maybe you could also divert him for a while. Are they open every night?”

“No. They're closed on Sundays.”

“He ever go in there to work then?”

“Not very often. I'm not sure, but I don't think so, Jackie. Trouble is, Winkie is on duty on Sunday.”

“All right,” Jack said. “This Sunday night. Think you can divert the goon?”

“Maybe I could possibly distract Winkie,” Michelle said.

“That's my girl! You could leave the back window to the office unlocked and crawl inside.”

“That sounds a little scary, Jackie. You get caught, they're gonna know I was in on it.”

“But I won't get caught. I find his password and I check his records. There ought to be something there . . . a payment, a date, phone records. They won't even know I was in there.”

She pushed her body into Jack's and kissed him on the cheek. Her lips were soft, and the kiss was as tender as a new bride's.

“Okay, baby. I do it for you. You know I love making plans with you, Jackie. I think we make a wonderful team.”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “There's no doubt about it. Just get Winkie out of there on Sunday.”

She smiled and kissed his cheek again.

“Of course I will, master,” she said.

Then she turned and walked away. Shaking her perfect little ass one more time for Jack, she slid into her blue Mercedes and drove down Ventura toward Chinatown.

26

IT WAS RAINING the day Nicki Sadler was buried, and though he was interred at one of the most famous celebrity cemeteries in the world, Forest Lawn in Glendale, the funeral didn't make the afternoon news.

The only mourners were Jack, Oscar, and a woman wearing a black veil over her face, circa 1953. There was a priest, with a bad comb-over and a melon-sized head. He worked for the cemetery. He said a few words about Nicki Sadler's various charitable donations and how Nicki worked in the land of “celluloid magic. Behind the scenes, yes, but no less of an important part of the wonderful world of Hollywood than the actors and directors.”

Oscar and Jack huddled under a half-dead eucalyptus tree. Oscar wore his old Dodgers baseball cap as the cold rain ran down their faces.

“That woman looks familiar,” Jack said.

“Yeah,” Oscar said. “That's 'cause she used to star in horror flicks. I saw her in
Beasteaters
and
Brain from Planet Jerry.
Name's Joyce Domergue.”

“Oh, yeah,” Jack said. “I remember her. Something about her nostrils. She had a perfect face, but her nostrils were too big.”

“Yeah,” Oscar said. “And she used to flare them to show she was sexually aroused. Looked like you could drive a dune buggy in there.”

“Great tits, though,” Jack said.

“Yeah, but not enough to overcome the monstro nostril factor,” Oscar said.

They waited until the minister had intoned “dust to dust,” then walked over to the retired horror starlet.

As they got closer, Jack silently reminded himself to be polite, and not to stare at her nose.

“Hey,” he said. “Excuse me, but aren't you Joyce Domergue?”

“Yes, I am,” she answered. “Let me guess. You're at Nicki's funeral, so you must be creditors.”

Jack laughed and shook her hand.

“No, ma'am. FBI.”

“Oh,” she said. “I knew Nicki was a bad boy, but not an international felon.”

She laughed and lifted her veil. Her nostrils looked almost normal, Jack thought. Maybe it was bad camera work. She had a few lines in her face, but she was still beautiful.

Jack introduced Oscar, and they walked with her toward her limo.

“Loved you in
Beasteater,
” Jack said. “When you killed the monster with that magic lantern . . . whoa!”

“It was actually a parking flare with some stucco bullshit on it,” the actress said. “Cost about twenty cents to make.”

“Yeah, but it looked like the real deal,” Oscar said.

“You guys are funny,” she said. “That movie was total shit. But I
was
great in it.”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “You were my favorite eater of beasts.”

“Thanks,” Joyce Domergue said. “You gonna put the cuff s on me now, boys?”

“Not yet,” Jack said.

“Oh, why not?” Joyce said. “I could use some fun.”

“We just want to ask you a little bit about Nicki Sadler's friends,” Oscar said.

Joyce Domergue put one hand on her hip and sighed.

“Honey,” she said, “that's a very short story. I mean, you're looking at 'em. Nicki was garbage. When I first got out here from Iowa, he tried hard to get me work. For a while. That is, until his various vices and unpleasant associates caught up with him.”

“We're thinking of the guy who might have done this,” Jack said. “Guy he collected information for. Information which led to the death of two federal agents.”

Joyce Domergue looked puzzled. “I don't know . . . There was a guy that he was worried about. Guy he always met at Musso's.”

Oscar looked at Jack.

“You ever meet him?”

Joyce shook her head.

“No, I didn't know him. But after one of their meetings, when Nicki and I had gotten a little sloshed on Reuben's martinis, he said the guy wanted some information that was hard to get.”