of debris flying around in it.»
«Debris? What? Yeah — I guess so.»
«I was meeting with these nerds at ILM and SGI up in San Francisco before I went to Scotland. Their computers can do perfect flying debris and litter now. They're looking for a showcase for their new techniques and this sounds like just the thing. Story needs some work, though. Who's the writer?»
«One of these young turks — Ryan Something. He's boiling hot right now.»
«I haven't heard his name. Is there an auction on it?»
«We have the option to make a preemptive bid.»
«How much you think?»
«Five hundred.»
«Make it three. You feel good about this?»
«First script in years to give my brain a hard-on.»
«It's the first script you've
A bell rang, announcing somebody at the front gate. Ivan switched off the treadmill. «Come on, John-O, let's see who's here.» They walked around the patio, which was dripping with flowers and lush branches. Out front a police car was at the gate, one officer standing beside the car manning the intercom, another in the passenger seat. Ivan buzzed them in with a remote. The four of them formed a congress on the front steps.
«Officers?» Ivan said.
«Hello, Mr. McClintock,» the tall one said. «And you, too, Mr. Johnson. Do you have a moment, Mr. McClintock?»
«Call me Ivan. Of course. What's this regarding?»
«Doing a check. Do you own a white Chrysler sedan, license number 2LM 3496T?»
«Yes.»
«Were you driving the car last night around twoA.M . in Benedict Canyon?»
«That was me,» John said.
«Could you tell us where you were last night, Mr. Johnson?»
«Easy. I was getting tapes at West — West — West Side Video on Santa Monica.»
«What tapes?»
«About ten of them. Susan Colgate stuff —
The policeman shared a flickering meaningful glance. «What time would that have been, Mr. Johnson?»
«The guy was just closing the shop. Around oneA.M ., I guess.»
«What then?»
«Then I — went and parked in front of Susan Colgate's house. For about an hour.»
«Why was that, Mr. Johnson?»
«Is something wrong? What's going on here?» John was getting edgy.
«It's a routine check, sir. Why were you parked outside her house?»
«John-O,» said Ivan. «Just talk, okay? We're not cutting a distribution deal here.»
«She didn't answer my phone message. Susan Colgate. I thought she might be coming home late.»
«You live here, Mr. Johnson?» asked the shorter officer.
«In the house down there. With my mother.» The police looked down at the guesthouse, almost unchanged since the day John first saw it. «I lost my old Bel-Air tree-fort last year. You probably read about that in
«You didn't lose it, John,» said Ivan, «you gave it
«To the IRS. That's not me giving. That's
«Is that the Chrysler down there?» asked the tall cop.
«That's it,» John said, his stomach turning to slime as he remembered the shrine still in the back seat. «There's a — oh fuck. You'll see.»
The four walked down the hill, the police clicking into almost paramilitary action as they discovered the shrine in the back. One called HQ requesting something technical immediately. The other blocked John from the car.
«Am I under arrest? Do you have a warrant?» John asked.
«No. And we don't have to go through that
«John, it's my property,» said Ivan. «Go right ahead, guys.» He looked in the back seat. The white towel around his neck dropped onto the gravel driveway and he didn't pick it up. «John-O, there's a goddam Susan Colgate parade float in the back seat of the car — you
«Did you make the shrine in the back seat?» the cop asked.
«No. I bought it from the kid at West Side Video. I think it's one of those campy queer things.»
At this point Doris came out of the house, cloaked in shawls, her bunned gray hair a porcupine of flyaway hairs. «Oh Christ — it's my mother.»
«Morning, darlings. Oh my — the fuzz.»
«The
«I'm merely trying to be contemporary, darling. Officers — has there been a crime?»
There was mild confusion. A police photographer and forensics expert went over to the car. Ivan went back up to his treadmill and John phoned Adam Norwitz. «What the fuck is going on, Adam?»
«Susan's gone AWOL. She had a sixA .M. makeup call for a Showtime Channel kiddy movie and she didn't show up. So the producer phones and screams at me, and I go racing from my gym straight to her house and the doors are all open. There's nobody there, but her car's still out front. The coffeepot was still on, but the coffee was like tar, like it'd been on for twenty-four hours. So I called the cops.
«Compassion, Adam.»
«Yeah, right. Is she doing a project with you? Is she jumping into a bigger pond now — no more time for the little fish?»
«How can you make this woman's disappearance about you, Adam?»
«Spare me the melodrama.»
«Did you call the hospitals or anything?»
«That's the cops' job.»
Adam knew nothing. The police knew next to nothing. John refused to panic. Susan could be out on a tequila jag or maybe she was whipping one of those creepy Brit directors with birch fronds.
Chapter Sixteen
Their first flop was a love story:
Doris had other concerns. «A love story?
«You don't think I can do a love story?»
«That's not it, darling. Love stories need to be made by …»
«Yes?»
«Oh, I
«Love stories need to be made by … ?»
«They need to be made by somebody who's actually been
