we’re shootin’ live for tape in two hours, but I’d like to extend an invitation for you to attend the taping. How’s that sound?”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“To find some common ground. This doesn’t have to be Atlanta. Why don’t you invest an hour and see if we can come to terms? Gee, the worst thing that happens is we go our separate ways. But in success, maybe you and your partner don’t have to become tragic secondary targets of my show.”
“Where’s the studio?”
“We rented a warehouse park on Pico near Century City. Follow Laura; she’ll lead you here.”
CHAPTER 17
The studio was in a new commercial park on Pico near Century City. Two concrete tilt-up warehouses faced each other across a hundred-car parking lot bordered by a nine-foot cement wall.
As we pulled through the guarded gate, I was surprised to see twenty
Once we were in the parking lot, I could see at least thirty crew walking back and forth between the two warehouses. One of the massive elephant doors was open and I glimpsed sets inside. Beside the door was a large sign that read: STAGE ONE. A huge sixteen-wheel TV remote truck like the ones I’d seen at televised football games was parked next to this stage with its generator running. Rubberized cables snaked out of the side and ran into the warehouse.
Laura’s van was just parking in front of me, so I pulled into a slot next to it. She was quickly out of the truck and stuck her head in my lowered passenger window. “Wait here,” she said, and was gone.
I decided to get out of the Acura and stood in the fully lit parking lot, watching the preshow activity. A camera truck was being off-loaded a few feet away and lighting equipment was being pulled off the lift tailgate.
I sensed someone approaching on my right and turned to find Marcia Breen walking slowly toward me. She still had that sexy model’s walk I remembered, placing one foot directly in front of the other, causing a decent amount of hip sway. She was dressed in a tailored blue suit with a skirt cut just above the knee, like the ones she used to wear during trials to distract all the drooling railbirds at the courthouse. Tonight, she also wore a sad, almost apologetic expression.
She put out a hand and said, “Hi. I was hoping to have a chance to try and explain myself to you before this got so far along.”
“Some setup,” I replied, shaking hands but not following her lead because I was still a little uncomfortable with our reunion and didn’t need to hear an excuse for her betrayal.
“I’m sorry this case happened to land on you,” she said.
“I’m a big boy.”
I was wondering how much I could say to her. We’d been friends once. Lovers. Of course, now that she was on Nash’s staff, I knew she had to be viewed as an enemy.
“Please don’t hate me for what’s coming,” she said unexpectedly.
I didn’t like the sound of that.
Then Laura Burke was back, full of kinetic energy. “Come on. Nix is in Makeup, but he wanted to see you before the taping.” She shot a look at Marcia. “They want you in show prep.”
“See you later, Shane,” Marcia said, then turned and walked off.
Laura led me past the control truck and into the main warehouse. As I entered Stage One, I saw a large, ornate courtroom set off to my right. It included a raised judge’s bench, jury panel, and large public seating area. We passed that and walked through another set that looked like a detective squad room, with big glass windows and a backdrop depicting the L.A. skyline. The room was full of computers and cubicles and looked a lot like our new space downtown.
I saw a retired homicide detective I knew named Frank Palgrave. He’d worked Metro but had pulled the pin two years earlier. It shocked me to see him there, sitting on the edge of a desk reading a newspaper.
“Hey, Shane,” he said, putting the paper aside.
“What’s going on here, Frank?”
“Life after death on the LAPD.”
Then I saw a retired FBI profiler from the 11000 Wilshire building in L.A. Like a lot of Feds, he was nondescript. A blond vanilla sundae with a comb-over and blue eyes. I couldn’t remember his name, but he stepped up and supplied it.
“Jimmy James Blunt. We did that Union Bank thing in Diamond Bar together.”
“Right, I remember. J.J., right?”
He nodded.
“Come on, Shane; you can meet the rest of the cast later,” Laura interrupted. “Nix has a preshow meeting in ten minutes. It’s now or never.”
I followed Laura out of the police squad room set, through a mock judge’s chambers, and into the large makeup room, which was located on the far side of the warehouse.
Nix Nash was sitting in a swivel chair in front of a built-in vinyl table that ran the length of the chair-lined room under an expanse of lit mirrors. He was wearing a blue velour running suit and, as we entered, he was chewing out his bone-thin, heavily tattooed makeup man.
“Come on, Greg,” Nix said sharply. “How many times do I have to go through this? You don’t line it; you dot it. Otherwise the top edge fades into my skin tone. You gotta use the number nine brown pencil, not the seven. Fill in the upper lip, starting right here.”
He was talking about his bullshit moustache. The makeup man leaned in with a fresh number 9 pencil and started making little brown dots along the top ridge of Nix’s moustache, filling it in, creating a fuller look. Then he saw Laura and me in the mirror behind him and swung his swivel chair around, brushing the makeup guy’s hand rudely away as he turned to face us.
“Hey, you made it. Gee, that’s terrific,” he said happily. “Just be a minute, Shane. Makeup’s already on. Just gotta let Greg finish the pencil work; then we can chat.”
I watched while the moustache achieved its lush TV makeover. Then Nix checked it carefully, holding up a hand mirror.
“Much better, Greg. You see what a difference it makes when you do it the right way?”
“Unbelievable,” Greg replied, and then went wildly over the top as he added, “Twenty years in makeup and that’s a new one on me. Great tip, Nix. It definitely goes in the book, man.”
Nix got out of his chair and looked at me. “I have a dressing room right onstage here. Come on.”
We exited the makeup area, leaving Laura in our wake, and walked about fifty feet to a walnut door that said: STAR on a brass plaque. Nothing too subtle about that.
Nix opened up and led me into a plush living room with wall-to-wall carpet, antique furniture, and a full mirrored bar. He went to the fridge, opened it, and poured himself a soft drink.
“I never booze before a show, but let me fix you something. Beer, wine, shooter? What’ll it be?”
“I’m fine,” I said, and waited to hear what he really wanted.
Nix took a moment to examine two beautiful tailored suits that were on a hanging rack near the bar. One was brown, the other blue. He pulled both off, turned, and extended them toward me, one in each hand.
“Can’t make up my mind. Blue is good for our set, but the brown goes better with my coloring. Which do you like?”
“I’m not a wardrobe consultant. How ’bout we get to what it was you had in mind.”
“To the point then.” He smiled as he hung the suits back on the rack. “What I’m about to say is just between us. No witnesses, so don’t make the mistake of thinking you can gain leverage by trying to use it against me.”
