“Must be some sort of revenge hit,” a third officer said, wondering what, or who, could have done such a thing. He toed one of the cleaner bills lying on the floor. “You want a taste of this before we bag it? No one’s gonna miss a few hundred bucks.”
“Nah, I ain’t touching that blood money,” the older officer growled, then spat on the apartment floor, showing his disgust at the fucking waste of it all.
OVERNIGHT
1
DEAD.
No lights. No warmth. A charcoal-colored sky, moonless and dense. The whole night was just … dead.
Pete looked around the parking lot. Wondered why the overnight lights hadn’t popped on. He could hardly see twenty feet. And he was alone. The day guards long gone, home to their families, to dinner. To a beer and some television. Pete now responsible. He shrugged, stomped his feet. It’s okay, he thought. He decided to walk around once, check the cones. Make sure everything was tight.
So, he walked, and wasn’t worried. The base camp was extensive but contained. All the trailers in a row along the back edge of the lot, the honeywagon, makeup and hair, wardrobe all locked up, their generators off. He sniffed and kicked a cone over a foot, lined it up with the others. An orange border between the public and the crew. A border he was paid to secure. He made it to the edge of base camp, looked around at the scrawny trees and overgrown bushes that patched the downslope, the single-lane road below hardly visible, a winding black fissure in the green bramble that covered the hill. He knew State Road was down there somewhere, and a bit north of that, Mulholland. He thought he may as well be on the moon for all the life he could see or hear. Imagined the abandoned office park on a meteor travelling through endless space, he the sole passenger. Forever guarding trucks, cables, and cones. He laughed, his breath not quite frosting the January air, but he could sense it crystalize. Typical L.A. winter: fifty degrees and damp.
Pete was prepared. He wore thin, but warm, leather gloves, his insulated security jacket, military-grade boots, a black knit cap. He’d even busted out wool socks for the overnight because he hated cold toes.
He kept up his walk, strolled past the trailers, toward the catering setup. The tables were hidden beneath blue vinyl tents, and he figured that’s where he’d end up before the night was over. Maybe the tent guys had left a gas heater he could crank up, stay warm at least. He’d look later, it wasn’t too bad yet. Moving around helped. Besides, he was used to it. He liked the overnight shifts. The other guys, they always wanted the day shifts so they could eat with the crew, hang with the actors, pretend to be big shots. Pretend to be important. Pete knew the real deal. Guards were nothing but hourly watchdogs. Security for inanimate objects. A deserted set, empty trailers, working trucks, a run of cables. I mean, really, who’d ever steal a bunch of electric cables? Still, you never knew. The world could surprise you with its greed.
He passed around the working trucks—grip, electric, camera, props—all buttoned-up and silent. Everything looked good.
He sighed, and this time did see a cloud of breath in the air. He shook his head. It would be another dead night watching trucks sit around in a parking lot. Just like always.
PETE DUCKED OUT OF THE catering tents. He’d taken his flashlight in, looked around, but no dice on a heater. Inside he’d found nothing but a bunch of plastic chairs and eight-foot folding tables waiting for a crew to come feed on their backs. He’d hoped a big-budget movie like this one would spring for a few heaters, but like all shows, they cut the most practical things first, then spent crazy money putting a hundred crew members into overtime because an actor was taking a nap.
He came out carrying a plastic folding chair, walked it to a corner of the base camp where he had good sightlines of the two driveways that entered the lot and the building itself. If someone wanted to climb up that slope through all that bramble then good on them, he wasn’t gonna walk around in circles all night.
He debated pulling his Honda around from crew parking, crank up the heat and turn on the stereo. But Marco had warned them not to sit in their cars at night. Pissed off the location guys. It would be okay if Tommy hadn’t been found sleeping by one of the keys arriving early to open the set. The dude had gone ballistic and threatened to replace King with another company. Tommy got scolded and pushed onto another show and Pete slid into his slot, with a warning: Don’t sit in your car.
So what. They’d never know in a million years. And Pete never fell asleep on the job. Not once in six years. Still. Marco was a little sneaky, and it wouldn’t surprise Pete if he showed up at four or five in the morning, all stealth-like, just to check on ….
“Excuse me?”
Pete jerked his neck around so fast that he felt a muscle tweak, a spurt of internal warmth and pain spread from just above his collarbone. He shot up off the chair, heart thumping.
A man stood at the top of the driveway, no more than ten feet away. How did I not hear him coming? Pete thought, shaken. Did he walk up that road?
The man stepped closer, a ghostly white blur in the dark. Pete pulled the flashlight from the pouch on his belt, clicked it on, and shone it at the stranger. His free hand touched the other pouch on his belt, the one holding a canister of pepper spray. Pete studied the man closely, waiting for any sign of threat, his fingers primed to pull and spray if needed.
The stranger wore an oversized, white hooded sweatshirt and military-style camouflage pants. Black high-tops. Dodgers cap under the hood, which shadowed his face. As Pete took this all in, he became suddenly very aware that he was alone up here, miles from people or steadily passing cars. Miles from help. Fuck this, he thought and moved his hand off the pepper spray, pulled a cell phone from his jacket pocket.
“Whoa, whoa ….” the man said, seeing Pete’s phone screen light up, the digital keypad numbers bright orange. Nine-one-one was as close as three quick taps of Pete’s thumb. “Hey man, I’m … there’s nothing going on here. Dude. I just wanted to ask … I mean, I walk up here, okay? I live right over there.”
The man pointed down the slope, toward State Road. Pete didn’t think there were many houses down there, but he wasn’t sure. He could see how a neighbor might walk up the hill, a good workout. Yeah, okay, Pete thought, relaxing a touch. But his thumb still hovered above the nine digits, and the grip on his flashlight was still tight. Still aimed at the man’s face. But what the fuck do you want?
“This is private property,” Pete managed, not liking the man or the situation. Something was off here. Pete had been around enough shitheads to know a shithead when he saw one, and this guy stank of trouble. “I’m sorry, you can’t be here.”
“Dude,” the man said, and pulled the white hood back and off his head. He had long, curly black hair that spilled out from beneath the blue cap. Black beard. Thick glasses. He held his hands up to Pete in a comical, loose I give up gesture. “I’m just walking. Relax, man.”
Pete lowered the light so it wasn’t in the man’s face, but kept his phone poised. “I’m sorry, you can’t walk here. This is private property, and this whole parking lot is being utilized for a private event.”
“Oh, yeah? What event?”
Pete liked the man even less when he smiled, showed his teeth. “You need to leave,” he said as an answer. “I’m sorry. If you don’t, I’ll have to call Van Nuys PD.”
The man took a step closer, arms still up. “Buddy,” he said, smiling even more broadly. “It’s cool. I get it. Movie shoot, right?”
Pete said nothing. He tried to judge the man’s body. How big was he under that hoodie? How fit? Was he soft or was he a weekend boxer? Pete was big, six foot, two-twenty last he checked, broad-shouldered with a thick neck and arms. He figured he had twenty, maybe thirty pounds on the guy. At least three inches. He could likely take him, assuming he wasn’t a jiu-jitsu master or something. Pete didn’t feel like fighting. Hated the idea of it. He’d done a lot of fighting when he was a kid. A dumb kid on his way to a future behind bars. Gang shit. Vandalizing, breaking and entering, weapon dealing … man, he was lucky as hell to be out of all that. Out of the street scene and all that gangster shit. He still had the tats, of course. His chest and neck covered in loyalty and stupidity. But Noemi had changed that. Changed him.
“Come on, man,” the stranger continued, breaking Pete’s thoughts. “Look. Just tell me what movie it is and I’ll… I’ll leave. I’ll be on my way and you’ll never see me again. Okay? Deal?”
Yeah, deal. Relaxing now because he was ready to fight. Because he’d decided that he could take this guy. Beat the shit out of him, call the police, get it all cleaned up. Now that he’d made the decision, he wasn’t worried anymore. Wasn’t scared anymore. Part of him was hoping the guy did something stupid. Part of him, having given in, wanted the fight.
He put the cell phone in his pocket. He was gonna fuck this guy up. He was ready. “Can’t say.” Pete gripped the light, ready to get in the first blow with the heavy metal base. He was deciding where he was gonna plant that swing. Chin? Temple? Nose? Yeah, nose. He was gonna break this fucking guy’s nose.
Pete smiled.
