5
It called itself the Andaz West Hollywood now, but in the old days it had been the infamous Riot Hyatt.
Jack had programmed the hotel’s address into his rental car’s GPS, but when he pulled into the rear parking lot an hour later, he realized he hadn’t needed it—except for the final hundred yards on Sunset Boulevard, he’d stayed on the same street, La Cienega, all the way from the airport.
The room was nothing much—a view of the traffic on Sunset, the House of Blues across the street, and the towers of downtown rising through the smog in the basin. But the hotel was special. He’d chosen the Riot Hyatt for its place in rock history, figuring as long as he had to make this trip, he might as well make it interesting.
Little Richard used to live here. Timmy O’Brien, one of Julio’s regulars, had told him he’d been out here on a business trip during his heyday in advertising and had seen him getting into a limo in the parking lot. Timmy had had the presence of mind to call out, “Hey, how’s it going, Mister Penniman?” which so pleased Little Richard he rewarded him with a pearly grin, a handshake, a pre-signed photo, and a couple of Seventh Day Adventist brochures. Timmy kept the photo, dumped the brochures.
The Hyatt gained the “riot” from all the rowdy rock bands that used to stay here when they passed through on tour. The Who and the Stones—those impetuous boys—threw TVs out windows. A member of Led Zep supposedly drove a motorcycle along one of the hallways.
Staying here had seemed like a cool idea last night when he’d been looking for a hotel, but now that he was here . . .
Meh.
So what? Big deal. Who cared?
He’d noticed that reaction more and more lately. Vicky and Gia aside, nothing outside the Conflict seemed to excite or interest him much. Maybe because he no longer felt that his life was his own, that he was being manipulated by forces beyond his control.
Wasn’t that the way a paranoid schiz would think?
But he wasn’t crazy, he wasn’t imagining all this. He’d seen and experienced things with no conventional rationale, understandable only as manifestations of the Conflict.
He wasn’t a free, independent individual, he was a backup plan. He’d been in the crosshairs since his conception—yesterday’s revelation of the Lady’s presence in his hometown as Mrs. Clevenger clinched that.
So who cared about the antics of a bunch of drugged-up, self-indulgent cases of arrested development, whose major accomplishment was turning up the volume to eleven?
Jack stared out the window at the art deco façade of the Argyle Hotel across the street. Cool looking place. Should have booked there.
He shook his head. This wasn’t like him. He used to enjoy life, used to put on his own personal film festivals built around a theme or an actor or director. When was the last time he’d done that?
On the subject of films, Kevin had gleaned from e-mails that Goren managed a film revival theater at night and worked at a hardware store during the day. The question was which revival house and which hardware store? The hardware made sense, given his construction background, but the revival house seemed out of left field. Unless he was a closet film buff.
What bothered Jack was that he had any job at all. If he was on the run and in hiding, the last thing he’d want to do was collect a check under his own Social Security number. He’d want another name, and that meant a new identity. Not easily come by in the post–9/11 world, but not impossible. You needed certain contacts, though . . . something a guy who’d spent the first half century of his life in construction was unlikely to have.
Unless he’d found someone who’d pay him off the books. Two someones: a hardware someone and a film revival someone. The film revival route seemed the way to go. Yes, this was L.A., but he figured that even here, hardware stores had to far outnumber film revival houses.
But where to start?
Well, this was a hotel and hotels hired guys to know stuff or be able to look up stuff.
The concierge was a short Hispanic guy who reminded Jack a little of Julio, but only a little. Julio was Puerto Rican, this guy had a lot of Olmec in the family woodpile. His name tag said HECTOR.
Right off the bat Hector knew of three revival theaters in greater L.A., and the computer spat out three more. Jack took the list and checked out the addresses. He had no idea where any of these places were, but his car’s GPS would find them.
But not yet. Goren’s e-mails had mentioned the theater as a night job. The sun was still high, leaving Jack hours to kill. And besides, he had to make a stop before looking for anybody. He showed Hector an address on Hollywood Boulevard.
“That’s in the Hollywood and Highland Center,” he said without having to look it up. “A big mall next to the Chinese.”
“Chinatown?”
His smile was indulgent. “No, sir. Grauman’s Chinese Theater.”
“I’d like to see that.”
“You can’t miss it.” He pointed and gave directions.
“How far?”
“A couple of miles.”
Was that all? Hell, he’d walk it. And as a bonus he’d get to see Grauman’s Chinese Theater.
Might as well be a tourist for the afternoon. Might never be back.
He remembered seeing Hollywood Boulevard on the revival list and took another look. Sure enough . . .
“Where’s this Egyptian Theater?”
“Keep walking past the Highland Center,” Hector said. “Cross Highland and you can’t miss it. It’s even older than the Chinese. The first Hollywood premiere was held at the Egyptian in 1922.”
“Yeah? What film?”
“Robin Hood with Douglas Fairbanks.”
Cool. Jack knew it well. He had a thing for silents. He’d be checking the place out even if it wasn’t on the list.
He stepped out of the lobby onto Sunset and took a left. He passed some interesting looking eateries and watering holes interspersed among Starbucks and McDonald’s. He came upon the Chateau Marmont, which did indeed look like a chateau. He strolled up the short, steep driveway. The lobby was small and elegant and the AC welcome after the heat of the street. He was tempted to ask if he could rent the bungalow where Belushi bought it but passed.
The environs became a little rundown as he continued east. Where was the glamour of Sunset Boulevard? Where was Erich von Stroheim driving Gloria Swanson’s limo? Where was the Whiskey a Go-Go? Maybe he was headed in the wrong direction for that sort of thing. He found Hollywood Boulevard and soon stood before Grauman’s Chinese Theater.
The famous red columns and huge circular forecourt were even more impressive than he’d expected. The place delivered on its reputation. He hung out for a while, checking out the footprints and handprints of the film industry’s icons—from Jack Benny to John Woo, Cantinflas to Clint Eastwood. He grinned when he found Gene Autry’s along with Champion’s hoof-prints.
For half an hour he took a vacation from reality and enjoyed himself. Then he moved on to the mall.
Abe’s instructions had been to find the Mailbox Centre at this address.
No problem there, but he didn’t go in right away. He hung out to see if anyone was watching the store. Overly cautious, maybe, but he had no schedule. Ten minutes of observation satisfied him.
He checked the combination Abe had given him: R10—L22—R13. He went to box 367, entered those numbers, and the door popped open. Inside he found a padded envelope. He slipped it out, closed the door, spun the combo dial, and headed back to the street.
A neat way to transfer merchandise: Abe’s contact rents the mailbox; when he needs to make a delivery, he opens the door, adjusts the combination to a prearranged number, then sticks the package in with the junk mail already present. The buyer opens the box, removes his purchase, and takes off. Completely anonymous.
If Abe’s contact was true to his word, the envelope should contain a Glock 27 loaded with .40-caliber Speer Gold Dot JHPs. The weight felt about right, but he’d have to wait before he knew for sure.
He continued east on Hollywood Boulevard, crossing Highland, until he came to a dramatic sandstone block façade. A side sign said “Egyptian” but “American Cinematheque” arched over the entrance in wrought iron. He strolled along the lines of stately palms, passing pharaoh heads and other Egyptian bric-a-brac. The sign over the inner entrance said “Grauman’s Egyptian.” Grauman again. Taste aside, you had to admit the guy had style.
Hokey as it was, Jack loved the place. Other than an exotic setting, what did ancient Egypt have to do with movies? But who cared? The place had a genuine wow factor. Back then they knew how to do these places up right. Better than the shoeboxes that passed for theaters today.
Gia’s recurring comment came back to him: You were born in the wrong generation. You don’t like anything modern.
Not quite. He hefted the package in his hand. He loved modern weaponry.
The Egyptian looked too legit to be paying off the books, but Jack had walked too far not to give it a shot. He asked to speak to the manager and soon found himself in the company of a slender man in his forties.
“Is Ernie working here tonight?”
Jack didn’t expect Goren to be using his surname, but he might have kept his first.
The manager frowned. “Ernie? We have no Ernie working here.”
“Older guy, sixtyish, gray hair. He’s the night manager.”
His head shake was emphatic. “No one like that working here, certainly not as night manager.”
Well, it had been worth a try, and he’d eliminated a stop from his list.
He had a bad thought as he headed back to the street. This was Goren’s daughter’s first night in from the east. Wouldn’t he want to spend it with her? Even if Jack found the right theater, he might not find Goren.
Swell.