Jonathan Kellerman - True Detectives

“Stud like that,” said O'Geara, “you'd think he'd be texting, getting texted nonstop by chicks, the studios, producers, whatever. What I got for the last ninety days is he calls Movie Line, Blockbuster, Beverage Warehouse. And, oh yeah, he does communicate with Dement's kid's cell. Ax, huh? Chop chop. Ax calls for lots of takeout, likes Italian and Thai. Book's only other high-frequency contact is someone named Rory Stoltz who I first thought was a chick but then I looked him up because he's also got an account with us-paid for by Book's business manager, as a matter of fact, and the middle name listed on the account is Jeremy. So that's three guys yapping. We talking gay?”

Aaron said, “How often do Book and Stoltz talk?”

“Once, twice a day, sometimes as much as six. Sometimes late, like three, four a.m. Let me in on it, Foxy, we talking Queerios in a bowl with milk and sugar?”

“What else you learn, Barret?”

“Holding back, huh? Meaning Book really does bat for the other team, all that studly stuff is pure bullshit? Oh, man, there's nothing to believe in anymore.”

“You're way off.”

“Then what's the deal?”

“You don't want to know. Look up Rory Stoltz for the last year and get back to me A-sap.”

“Whoa whoa whoa,” said O'Geara. “First of all, you know I never trace past ninety days because after ninety everything's encrypted and sent to a separate data bank at our headquarters so the Feds can snoop on anyone they damn well please. Second, another romp is gonna cost you another five C.”

“Cut the comedy,” said Aaron. “It's all part of the same assignment.”

“Who's joking? Everything's recorded here, man, it's worse than the CIA. Each time I log in, I'm putting my job in jeopardy. Not to mention my nonfelony status and subsequent ability to vote in national elections for the sleazeball of my choice.”

“It's the same gig, O'Geara.”

“Says you.”

“A hundred more, period.”

“Five brings it alive.”

“Hundred fifty,” said Aaron. “You jerk me around, we're through.”

“Hear that sound?” said O'Geara. “It ain't rain, it's my tears.”

“Suit yourself,” said Aaron, clicking off.

Three minutes later, Merry still hadn't shown up when O'Geara called from a different number. “Two seventy-five or it's splitsville and I demand alimony.”

“Two even and get back to me yesterday.”

“Two twenty-five and would you settle for right now?”

“You've already got it?”

“Two twenty-five says I might-”

“Spit it out, Barret.”

“I managed to go back four months, don't ask how, but the picture doesn't change much. Back then Book's still getting a few calls from CAA, but then the agent yak dies. Stoltz and Book keep chatting regularly and, guess what, Stoltz sometimes calls Ahab Dement, I knew this was some faggot thing. Because the only other high-freq number for Stoltz is at the Peninsula Hotel in B.H., the three of them are obviously surfing the chocolate pipeline in some fancy suite, right? Am I gonna read this on Drudge tomorrow, meanwhile you sell the info and get a Ferrari?”

“No and no,” said Aaron. “Do one more thing, no charge.”

“Oh, sure-”

“Look at it this way, Barret: seven fifty in cash is coming your way unless something goes wrong with the mail.”

“You're threatening me? I did the match, you owe the scratch.”

“Bye, Barry.”

“Getting overly familiar,” said O'Geara. “Why do I sense you're intending to screw me over?”

“There's no reason for conflict, Barry, just do something simple. Seeing as you work so fast, I'll stay on the line.”

He spelled out the assignment. Cursing, O'Geara relented. Just as the info came back, Merry Ginzburg stepped into the restaurant, saw Aaron, waved.

Aaron said, “Check's in the mail,” cut the connection, switched off his cell. When Merry reached his table, he got up, did the double-cheek-peck bit.

Merry was thirty-seven, short and curvy and pretty with luxuriant auburn hair and the saddest blue eyes Aaron had ever seen. Once a Calendar reporter for the Times , she'd been hired by the network affiliate to cover the Industry, delivered occasional gossip bits at the tail end of slow-day news broadcasts. Budget cuts had led to a buyout of her contract in eight months. She hadn't been on camera in ages.

Which explained the pink Juicy Couture sweats, no makeup, hair tied up with a scrunchy.

“Sorry, handsome. Sudden meeting with suits.”

“Back in business?” said Aaron.

Merry's headshake was long and mournful. “Just the opposite, they're trying to whittle down my buyout. You believe that? Three months of negotiations just to get to the current state of being reamed and now they want to start all over again.”

“Bastards,” said Aaron.

“What is it about the Industry that attracts sociopaths? I know why they're doing it. They figure I'll have to hire a lawyer, which will chew up most of the money, so I'll cave.” Jabbing a middle finger in the air, she said, “Think again, corporate assholes.”

The redheaded stick ambled over. “Everything okay, Ms. Ginzburg?”

“Everything sucks. Bring me the albacore on sprouts, medium rare, on a multigrain roll, no mayo, no mustard, no any other crap. But I do want a ramekin of blackened tempeh bits and some soy sauce on the side.”

The redhead pouted. “I'll have to get my pad.”

When she was gone, Merry said, “Like that's so hard to remember? We should've gone to Mickey D. So what's up-hold on, Ectomorpha's returning.”

Red said, “Okay.”

Merry repeated the order. “And throw in some avocado.”

When they were alone again, Aaron said, “Ax Dement.”

“Probably an utter shithole like his daddy.”

“Probably?”

“He's not even Z list, Aaron. He's a waiter so why would I care?”

Aaron said, “Which restaurant?”

Merry cracked up. “Not as in wannabe actor, darling. As in waiting for Daddy to die. Trust-fund baby?”

“Big trust fund?”

“I don't know, dear, I'm theorizing. Daddy pulled in half a bill on that blind-faith abomination. Unless he hates his kids, why wouldn't he dribble a little into their grubby little waiter palms?” She looked over at the klatch of idle servers. “Hey skinny folk-yeah, you. Can a person get some water?”

Puzzled stares. No one moved.

“Water? H-3-0? Oh, Jesus.” She got up, filled a glass from a pitcher.

Whispers among the cabal. When Red emerged from the kitchen, they said something to her and Red frowned and approached the table.

“Still or sparkling, Ms. Ginzburg?”

“Tap. And more hot water for Denzel Washington.”

The cabal began buzzing, as if plugged into a socket.

Red stared at Aaron. Aaron grinned. “She's kidding.”

Red's frown said she wasn't sure who to believe.

Merry said, “Hot? Wa-wa?”

When the fluids arrived, Aaron said, “What do you know about Dement Senior?”

“He's richer than God because of that holy-roller crapathon, but no one will work with him.”

“Because of the anti-Semitism?”

“You know, honey,” said Merry, “Hollywood wasn't started by the Irish. That said, if the upside was big enough, Dement could be Hermann Göring and someone would rationalize a reason to finance his next flick. Lem's problem is he considers himself an artiste. Now that he's rolling in dough, he wants to be creative.”

“Uncommercial projects.”

“Wacky projects, from what I hear. As in a Druid musical. Or more pseudo-documentaries on sexy topics like colitis-I'm kidding about that, but the Druid thing could be true. Bottom line, if Dement had come up with anything marketable in the last three years, he'd be shooting right now.”