and the pungent smell of garlic. The only thing out of place were the Mexican waiters, but this was true in French and Italian restaurants all over L. A. The maitre d' made up for it with greased black hair, a heavy Sicilian accent, and the traditional five o'clock shadow.
'Ah, Signor Parelli, benvenuto. Accogliere a Ciro's Pompadoro,' he purred, then led Shane and Gino to a booth in the back. The restaurant was only half-full, but it was just slightly after seven, so it was still early.
This time, Champagne Dennis Valentine was sitting in the best booth along the back wall. No postage-stamp loser's table for the Don's nephew at Ciro's Pompadoro. At this watering hole Mr. Valentine was a person of value, a made guy-a caporegime. He was wearing tan slacks, a blue cashmere blazer, and a silk shirt. Expensive getup.
Valentine was sipping from a champagne glass while an open bottle of Taittinger was icing in a bucket nearby. Shane slid into the booth as Gino went to his attack dog position at another table not far away, never taking his eyes off of them. Shane started to shake hands, but Valentine pulled away. He was going to have to break himself of that habit if he stayed in showbiz much longer.
'I'm glad you were smart and came,' Valentine said, smiling.
'It was a nicely worded invitation and in my favorite color.' Shane glanced around the restaurant. 'This is nice. Never been here before.'
'It's okay. That guy on the desk is new. He looks good but he's about as Italian as Danny Glover. He's just an actor doing the accent-you can't fool a real goomba. But it's okay. They treat me good here. Everything is prepared special for me. Great vegetarian lasagna, everything healthy.'
'Do they have a good veal piccata?'
'You wanna put meat in your system, Mr. Scully, you go right ahead. With all that's been written about cholesterol and animal enzymes, it amazes me how people eat these days. McDonald's? You might as well open a vein and pour in a quart a grease.'
'Right. But you gotta admit, the Beanie Babies in those Happy Meals were a classic.' Shane was just fucking with him now.
Valentine didn't say anything for a second, then shook out of it, and moved on. 'With me, it's healthy all the way,' he said. 'Taittinger has a twenty percent alcohol level, which on the surface is sorts bad, but it lowers stress and the vitamin and mineral contents are primo, so I figure, on balance, it's a big plus. I try and preserve my body; cut down on oxidants and free radicals, but I'm like almost alone in this, y' know. Everywhere people eat, I see problems. Take that guy over there with the plate a spaghetti and meatballs, the fusilli and ravioli…'
Shane turned to look, then nodded.
'Y' know what I see when I spot a guy eating shit like that?'
Shane shook his head.
'I see a giant digestive problem. Me? My furnace burns clean, run five miles a day, work out, take a cold swim. Back in Jersey, I'd run along the river, then when I was done, I'd dive into the water, right there by the George Washington Bridge. In the winter the water was forty fucking degrees, but after a run, you're hot, and the icy water makes your epidermis contract, forces the oil outta your pores. Real good for your skin and circulation. Healthy… y'know?' He smiled at Shane. 'What d' you do to stay in shape?'
'Well, recently I've been trying not to jack off as much as I used to. Other than that, not much.'
Valentine took a sip of his champagne. 'I know you're just foolin' with me, and that's okay, Mr. Scully, 'cause I gotta sense of humor. But don't waste your shots.'
'Always good advice.'
They sat looking at each other. Shane decided to wait him out, and finally Valentine spoke.
'I already ate, but you wanna order the veal piccata?' Shane nodded and Valentine waved the maitre d' over. 'Watch this guy. Lemme show you something.'
'Si, Signor Valentine,' the maitre d' said as he approached the table smiling.
'Carlo, per favore ci serva presto, abbiarno fretta.' Valentine rattled this in perfect Italian and Carlo blanched. 'Let me get Paolo over here to help.'
Valentine smiled as the maitre d' hit reverse and backed out of there.
'Fuckin' phony,' Valentine said softly. 'I can't stand phonies.'
'Then you better get out of Hollywood,' Shane deadpanned. 'What'd you ask him?'
'Nothing. I just told him to serve you quickly. Guys like that ain't got it. You can't play an Italian if you haven't lived it. Capisce? The attitude's gotta come from the balls.' Valentine reached out, grabbed the champagne bottle, and poured a glass of Taittinger for Shane.
'You probably wondered why I wanted to see you,' he said as he dropped the bottle back into the bucket of ice. 'Crossed my mind,' Shane answered.
'You're partners with Nicky Marcella, but I've known Nicky for a long time, so I also know he couldn't make a meatball sandwich without spilling half of it on the floor. So when I see you two guys having breakfast with Michael Fallon, I know this is not his doing.'
'Don't be so sure,' Shane said.
Valentine shrugged. 'After this morning, I checked you out with some of my sources, even read about you in the morning paper.' He reached down on the seat beside him, grabbed a copy of the L. A. Times, then flipped it open and dropped it on the table. Right there, above the fold in the Metro section, was the article that the LAPD Press Relations officer had planted yesterday under the headline: UNREST AT PARKER CENTER. Shane's picture was off to one side, along with Alexa's. He picked up the paper and shrugged. He'd been so busy, he hadn't seen it yet, but he knew more or less what it said, so he threw it back onto the table.
'Sounds to me like you and the little woman are getting screwed,' Valentine said.
'And believe me, when the LAPD does it, it hurts,' Shane grumbled.
'It surprised me, when Gino showed me this. I think you're a movie producer, next thing I read, you're a cop.'
'Was a cop. I quit. Last few years I've been meaning to pull the pin. Been optioning properties, getting some film deals lined up. I was looking to change careers anyway.'
'Cop to movie producer… pretty big jump.'
'Mr. Valentine, not that it matters, but a lot of ex-cops have become big players in entertainment. It's hardly unique.'
Valentine didn't seem too impressed with this remark, so Shane named a few: 'Joe Wambaugh, Eddie Egan, Steve Downing, Dennis Farina… the list is endless.'
'I'm not convinced.'
'Don't take this the wrong way, but who gives a shit? I didn't ask to meet with you. I'm still trying to figure out what you want.'
'I have plans, okay? Big plans. And I think this Michael Fallon film you and Nicky are making could fit into my program.'
'Really?' Shane smiled. 'Trouble with that is, you aren't gonna have one damn thing to do with it.'
'But we're gonna change that.'
'No, we're not.'
'If I want, Nicky will hand over his whole piece; all I gotta do is ask.'
'No, he won't.'
'Yeah? Why not?'
' 'Cause if he does, I'll kill the little prick.'
They sat there, looking at each other over sparkling glasses of Taittinger.
'I'm not used to hearing no.'
'Get used to it. No is the principal word in entertainment commerce.'
'How so?'
'Film executives are in the 'no' business. You hear a lotta no's out here 'cause a no usually doesn't hurt a studio exec, while a yes can ruin the guy's career.'
'That's ridiculous,' Valentine said. 'How's the studios gonna ever make a film if they say no to everything? Gotta be some yesses.'
'Few and far between.' Shane sipped his Taittinger. 'You gotta understand how it works…' Shane was now recalling some of the crash course Nicky had given him yesterday. 'You've got very young people of both sexes with very little experience in positions of great power at the studios. They've got money and Porsches; they get the best
