Chapter 25

“You are early.” The man’s disapproval was evident even through the intercom.

“Traffic was light. If you want, I can circle the driveway for fifteen or twenty minutes, but I have to warn you, I need a new muffler.”

The intercom was silent. Then Jimmy heard the elevator descending. The doors opened, and he stepped in. He could see the Pacific Ocean sparkling as he rode the glass elevator up eighty or ninety feet to Michael Danziger’s house, an ugly modernist assemblage of planes and cubes perched atop the highest of the Malibu Hills. He stood in the center of the private elevator, watching the ground rapidly fall away under him as he rose into the morning sun. When the doors slid open, he was still blinking.

A slim man cinched into a red jacket glared at him as the doors slid open, but Jimmy didn’t apologize. He liked being early for interviews. Sometimes he would be asked to wait, but usually he got ushered in, and the time dislocation slightly tilted the emotional playing field in his favor. The man in the red jacket turned on his heel.

Jimmy followed him along the outside of the house and out onto a huge redwood deck. He could see almost to Santa Barbara to the northwest, the dry brown hills shimmering with heat. L.A. was spread out across the southeast, wrapped in freeways, half hidden under a haze of smog, but Danziger’s house was serenely above the carcinogenic fog. West was the Pacific, dark and deep and teeming with cold-blooded life.

The man in the red jacket bent down on one knee, seeming to speak into the deck.

Closer now, Jimmy could see a twelve-foot-long rectangular jet-pool built into the redwood. A man was hanging onto the side, water churning around him.

The man flipped a switch, and the water stopped. He pushed his swim goggles back onto his forehead. “You’re early,” he said to Jimmy, smiling. “I hope you don’t mind if I finish my workout. Raymond will bring you orange juice or coffee. We can talk over breakfast when I’m done.”

Raymond tugged his jacket, shot Jimmy a dirty look, then headed toward the house.

Danziger hit the switch again. Powerful jets pushed him to the back of the pool. He trod water, tugged his goggles back into place, and started swimming against the artificial current.

Jimmy sat down at the patio table nearest the pool. Danziger was a strong swimmer, with a powerful kick and an economical freestyle stroke—his mouth barely cleared the surface of the water to take a breath. Raymond came out after a few minutes with a glass pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice and two thick cut-crystal tumblers, leaving as silently as he had come. Jimmy sipped at his juice, watching Danziger; he knew the jet-pool was an efficient way to get a workout, but Jimmy didn’t like treadmills. It made him feel like a gerbil. Not that the thermal yoga class at the Pro Sports Club was any more appealing—he could still see the water droplets running down the inside of the glass, Samantha Packard avoiding his gaze through the steam. He had waited in the parking lot, hoping that she would come out to her car alone, but Mick Packard had accompanied her, swaggering, one hand clasped on her arm. Jimmy thought he saw Samantha glance around as she eased into the car, but he couldn’t be sure. Maybe Michael Danziger could tell him what he needed to know.

Danziger had been head of production at Epic International, the studio chief who had hired Garrett Walsh to make Hammerlock after he won those two Academy Awards, the man who had greenlighted the film and okayed the budget—the man who had ultimately taken the fall for that debacle and several other high-profile failures. Danziger had been eased out five years later in a bloodless coup, given a cushy severance package and an independent production deal with the studio. He had produced three pictures since leaving EI, none of which had made money.

Jimmy finished his orange juice, slowly chewing the pulp. Restless now, he got up and walked to the edge of the deck, leaning against the railing. A hawk drifted overhead, riding the thermals, and Jimmy could see a woman horseback-riding along a nearby ridge, riding easily in jeans and a creamy white shirt, her long, dark braid flopping against her shoulders. Horses scared the shit out of him. They were too big, too strong, and just smart enough to sense that he was intimidated. He watched the woman until he heard the jet-pool suddenly stop, and turned back.

Danziger put his hands on the edge of the pool and easily launched himself onto the deck. He stood there dripping in the sunshine, goggles pushed back, water glistening across his tan. His bio listed him as fifty-three, but he was still broad chested, lean and muscular, an aging preppy, handsome as any of the stars of his recent flops. Raymond appeared with a white terrycloth robe and held it out while Danziger stepped into it, then knotted it insouciantly around his waist. “Nothing like a swim to get the blood flowing. You look like you work out yourself, Mr. Gage.”

“It’s Jimmy, and yeah—I play a little basketball.”

“I’m not much for team sports myself.” Danziger waved at the patio table. “Shall we?”

Raymond ferried a carafe of espresso to the table, poured Danziger orange juice, then set a half-papaya dabbed with nonfat vanilla yogurt before each of them.

“If there’s anything you’d like, just let Raymond know,” said Danziger, spooning out papaya, stopping halfway to his mouth. “Did you get your invitation to the press screening of My Girl Trouble?”

“I did.”

“There’s been some negative buzz. I don’t know who starts these things, but I hope you’ll approach the film with an open mind.” Danziger smiled. “That sounds rather desperate, doesn’t it? In fact, I’m quite confident that the film will find its audience. We tested very well among single women aged twenty-two to thirty-six.” He blotted his lips with the napkin. “Still, anything you could do to help would be appreciated.”

“I’m not reviewing many films these days, but I’d be happy to mention it in my article.”

Danziger scraped the last of the orange-colored flesh away from the rind. “This article you’re doing . . .”

“It’s about Hammerlock. I’m using the production as a metaphor for the grand ambition and ultimate destruction of Garrett Walsh.”

“Hammerlock?” The water beaded along Danziger’s eyebrows gleamed in the sun. “Why would I want to rehash one of my worst failures?”

“I thought you got a bad rap on that.”

“Tell that to the board of directors of Epic International.” Danziger looked off toward the ocean, and Jimmy followed him.

Fishing boats bobbed in the far distance, heading out toward Catalina, and Jimmy thought of Sugar Brimley, wondered what he was catching today. Jimmy had called a couple of times in the last few days, checking in, hoping to prod the retired detective into sharing his files, but his calls hadn’t been returned. He watched the boats shimmer at the edge of his vision, losing definition until they were indefinable from the water.

“I’d be happy to help you with your article,” said Danziger. “I’ll have my office send you a press kit on My Girl Trouble too. Just in case.”

“Sounds good.” Jimmy pulled out a mini-recorder and set it on the table between them. “I’ve talked to some of the crew. They say the production was in trouble early on, and most of them blame the fact that the cameras started rolling before there was a completed script.” He looked at Danziger. “Wasn’t that a bit—optimistic of you? Okaying a ninety-million-dollar film without a script?”

“Optimistic?” Danziger shook his head. “It was insane, but after the success of Walsh’s first film, every studio in town was eager to hand him a blank check. He actually got better offers than mine from some of the majors, but Walsh and I hit it off. He said he thought he could work with me.” He leaned toward Jimmy. “And for your information, Hammerlock was originally slated for sixty-five million. It was supposed to be a six-months shoot; Walsh was arrested during the tenth month, and it still wasn’t finished.”

“I met Walsh just once. It was after he got out of prison, and he was pretty messed up, living in a rusty trailer, strung out on pills and booze. What was he like before?”

“Ambitious, egotistical, demanding, volatile, insecure.” Danziger stirred his espresso. “Brilliant, insightful, generous, and funny, God, he used to make me laugh. Garrett was the most talented individual I ever met. I’ll never forgive him for throwing it all away.”

“Were you aware that he was using when you signed him to direct Hammerlock?”

“If abstinence from drugs were a prerequisite, Hollywood would be run by Mormons.” Danziger shrugged. “I thought he had it under control. Garrett thought he had it under control. We were both wrong.”

“His arrest cost the studio millions, but you stood up for him at his sentencing. That took a lot of courage. I read the editorials afterward. The papers mocked you for pleading for leniency; they said you were hoping to salvage Hammerlock.”

“I stood up for Garrett because I believed in his talent. He wrecked my picture, he put my job in jeopardy, and he killed a young girl, but he was a great artist. The film business is filled with hacks who consider themselves artists, but Garrett was the real thing.”

“Walsh was working on a screenplay after he was released. Did he contact you about it?”

“Right after he got out. I told him he’d have to try someplace else.”

“I’m surprised.”

“So was he. I told him that even if I still ran a studio, I’d have a hard time selling a Garrett Walsh project to the executive committee. Not because he killed that girl. You know this town; we believe in second chances, as long as you put enough asses in the seats. No, Garrett committed the one unforgivable sin: he cost the studio money.” His eyes were cool, still faintly ringed with red from his swim goggles. “Maybe if I were still running EI, I could have thrown him a bone, a low-budget feature or a direct-to-video for the foreign market, but I don’t work there anymore. When I left the studio, I got a three-picture, first-look deal with them. That’s over now. I don’t even have a production office on the lot anymore. I had to raise the capital for My Girl Trouble from Europe.”

Jimmy looked around at Danziger’s mansion. “I guess the secret of being an independent producer is never to tap your own bank account.”

“One of them.” Danziger had a great set of choppers, white and flat, fakes so perfect that they looked natural.

“During the shooting of Hammerlock, the papers were filled with stories about the rapport between Walsh and Mick Packard. They supposedly liked going out together after work, street racing their Ferraris, and hitting the joints. I heard a different story from people who worked the shoot. They said the set was toxic, that Walsh and Packard hated each other.”

Danziger looked at Jimmy, amused.

“You can be as off the record as you want. I just want to know what happened.”

“Let’s just say that the publicist assigned to the project was paid six thousand dollars a week, and she was worth every penny of it.”

Jimmy picked at his plate, allowing the silence to sit there.

“The package looked good when we first were negotiating,” explained Danziger. “Mick had box office, but no credibility with the critics; Garrett had credibility, but had never worked on a big-budget film before. At first things went well.” His laugh was warm and confident. “But by the second day . . .”

“Did they have differences about the direction of the film, screen time?”

“Oh, there was more than enough ego to go around, but that’s true of any shoot. You expect the talent to butt heads. In fact, the most maddening aspect of the failure of the film was that Mick had never done better work. I got involved about midway through the shoot, and the dailies were incredible. Who knew Mick could act? Garrett did— the only chemistry between the two of them was bad chemistry, but Garrett got things out of Mick that no director had done before or since.” Danziger turned his face into the breeze from the west. He had a great profile. “The problem was tying all the footage together. Garrett kept reshooting scenes that were already perfect. It wasn’t that he was displeased with the performances—he just kept changing his mind about the plot. There were so many twists. I don’t think even he knew where it was going.”

“Is that why you started showing up on set? A studio chief that makes house calls—that doesn’t happen very often.”

“I had no choice. Garrett ignored my memos and barely spoke to me when I got him on the phone. I should have fired him, but we were in too deep by that point. When I showed up, I found all these useless people, Mick’s entourage, Garrett’s entourage. That software fellow who bankrolled his first feature—he was there, for God’s sake, and don’t ask me why. Eyeballing the starlets, probably. Garrett had so many of them lined up, he should have assigned them numbers—except that would have taken away the pleasure of playing them off against each other. Garrett and his little intrigues.”

Jimmy hadn’t heard about the software entrepreneur being on the set. “The women. Was there anyone in particular?”

“With Garrett? You must be kidding.” Danziger massaged an acupressure point at the base of his skull with a knuckle. “Are you referring to the coke whore?”

Jimmy had no idea what Danziger was talking about.

Danziger allowed himself a slight frown. “One of Garrett’s dealers had a girlfriend, a spectacular woman from what I heard. Evidently Garrett got a little frisky with the lady in question at a party, and the lady was . . . receptive. Shortly thereafter Garrett alerted studio security to double-check the passes of anyone wanting access to the set.”

“Are you sure she was the dealer’s girlfriend? Could she have been his wife?”

Danziger chuckled. “I don’t know. Do drug dealers have wives?”

“Did Walsh mention the dealer’s name?”

“Hardly.”

Jimmy didn’t like the way Danziger took pleasure in telling him no. He was probably a real thrill in a pitch meeting, getting a pedicure while some screenwriter crawled. “Walsh was pretty up front about his escapades. It sounds like he enjoyed his reputation. But did you ever hear of him having any secret affairs?”

“I didn’t keep track. I only know that he wasn’t fucking the blonde playing Mick’s sister, because Mick was already fucking her.”

“Is that why Samantha Packard wasn’t working on the film?” Jimmy tried to ignore Danziger’s amused expression. “I went over the call sheets for Hammerlock and couldn’t find any record of her.”

“You went over the call sheets?” Danziger applauded. “I wish my assistant were as thorough as you are. If you ever need a job, give me a call.”

“Did Samantha Packard know that her husband was screwing his costar?”

Danziger allowed himself a thin smile. “Samantha knows how the game is played.”

“She didn’t care?”

“Wives always care. The smart ones know better than to make too much out of an on-set romance, and Samantha was smart. She was supposed to have a small part in Hammerlock, but shortly after Garrett started filming, she was written out.”

“Whose idea was that?”

“I don’t know, but it was no great loss to cinematic history, I can assure you.” Danziger checked his watch. “I have to leave for my office shortly, but if the thrust of your article is sexual tension on the set, you might consider a sidebar on My Girl Trouble.” He inclined his head—it was supposed to look conspiratorial, but it came out wolfish. “Just between the two of us, Jimmy, I liked it better in the old days, when people were either hetero or homo and never the twain shall meet. Try getting anything accomplished with a cast of switchhitters. The permutations are dizzying.”