Jonathan Kellerman - Self-Defence

New Times Productions was located in a twenty-story black tower on Avenue of the Stars. A hit movie a few years ago had featured a building just like it, under siege by terrorists. In the film, a rogue cop had vanquished the bad guys using guile and machismo. Most of the actual occupants of the real-life building were attorneys and film outfits. In real life, the terrorists would have been offered a deal.

The production company took up almost all of the top floor, the exception one office belonging to an outfit named Advent Ventures.

The New Times entry was two huge glass doors. I pushed one of them, and it opened silently on a skylit waiting room. The floor was black granite, the furniture Lucite, white leather, and iron, powder-coated deep blue. Variety and The Hollywood Reporter were piled up on tables. Big frameless black-and-white paintings hung on gray wool walls.

A girl who looked about eighteen, in a white T-shirt and second-skin jeans tucked into spurred black-and-white cowskin boots, sat behind a deskette. Her long straight hair was buttercup streaked with ebony. A diamond was set into one nostril. Despite bad skin, she had a great face. I stood there awhile before she looked up from her cuticles.

"Uh-huh?"

"I'm here for Mr. App."

"Name."

"Sandy Del Ware."

"Are you the chiropractor? I thought you were tomorrow."

I handed her a card.

She wasn't impressed. The place was silent; no one else seemed to be around.

"Do you- uh- have an appointment?"

"I think Mr. App would like to see me. It's about Sanctum."

Her lips rotated a couple of times, as if spreading lipstick. If there'd been a pencil on her desk, she might have chewed it.

"I've only been here a couple of weeks… He's in a meeting."

"At least ask him," I said. "Sanctum. Buck Lowell, Terry Trafficant, Denton Mellors."

She agonized, then punched two numbers on a see-through Lucite phone.

"It's some producer. About Santa and Dylan- uh- Miller… I'm… What?… Oh, okay, sorry."

She put the phone down, looked at it, blinked hard.

"He's in a meeting."

"No problem, I can wait."

"I don't think he wants to see you."

"Really?"

"Yeah, he was pretty bent about being interrupted."

"Oh," I said. "Sorry. The meeting must be with somebody important."

"No, he's all by-" She touched her mouth. Frowned. "Yeah, it's important."

"Is a big star in there with him?"

She went back to her cuticles.

To her left was a hall. I strode past her desk and went for it.

"Hey!" she said, but she didn't come after me. Just as I rounded the corner, I heard buttons being punched.

I passed gray wool doors and movie posters depicting gun-toting huge-busted women of the receptionist's age, and leathered, four-day-bearded, male-model types pretending to be bikers and soldiers of fortune. The films had names like Sacrifice Alley and Hot Blood, Hot Pants, and several had recent release dates.

The drive-in circuit or instant video.

At the end of the hall was a big tooled brass door, wide open. Standing in the doorway was App.

He was around sixty, five-six, maybe a hundred and twenty. His Caesar cut had been reduced to a few white wisps tickling a deep tan forehead. He wore a custard-colored cashmere cardigan over a lemon-yellow knit shirt, knife edge-pressed black slacks, and brown crocodile loafers.

"Get the fuck out of here," he said, in a calm big-man's voice, "or I'll have your fucking ass thrown out."

I stopped.

He said, "Turn yourself the fuck around. "

"Mr. App-"

He cut the air with both hands, like an umpire calling a runner safe. "I've already called Security, you fucking jerk. Reverse yourself, and you just might avoid getting arrested and your fucking paper sued from here to kingdom come."

"I'm not with any paper," I said. "I'm a freelancer writing a biography of Buck Lowell."

I put a card in his face. He snatched it and held it at arm's length, then gave it back to me.

"So?"

"Your name came up in my research, Mr. App. I'd just like a few minutes of your time."

"You think you can pop in here like some fucking salesman?"

"If I'd called would I have been able to get an appointment?"

"Hell, no. And you're not getting one now." He pointed to the door.

"Okay," I said. "I'll just write it up the way I see it. Your optioning Command: Shed the Light. Bankrolling Sanctum only to see it collapse a year later."

"That's business," he said. "Ups and downs."

"Pretty big down," I said. "Especially on Lowell's part. He took your money and funded guys like Terry Trafficant and Denton Mellors."

"Denny Mellors." He laughed without opening his mouth. "She said something about Santa Claus and Dylan Miller. You know who Dylan Miller is?"

I shook my head.

"Grand prize asshole- and that asswipe rag he works for. Every other week we've got droves of assholes just like him, fucking paparazzi creeping around the building like roaches, looking for stars. The other day Julia Roberts was on the twelfth floor for a meeting and they were sweeping the bastards out with brooms. There's no end to it."

"Maybe you need better security," I said.

He stared at me. This time his laughter came with a flash of capped teeth.

Pulling up the left cuff of his cardigan, he peered at a watch so thin it looked like a platinum tattoo.

I heard footsteps behind me. App looked over my shoulder, then leaned against the doorframe.

Turning, I saw a big, heavy Samoan security guard. The name on his tag was long and unpronounceable.

"Some kind of problem, Mr. App?" he said in a tuba voice that made App's sound prepubescent.

App moved his eyes back to me and studied my face the way a casting director would. Smiling, he put a hand on my shoulder. "No, Mr.- Del Rey and I were just having a little chat."

"Delondra called down."

"A misunderstanding. We're going to take a meeting, Clem. Sorry to bother you."

I smiled at the guard. He sucked his teeth and left.

App called out, "Delondra!"

The receptionist came over, taking Geisha steps in her skin-tight jeans.

"What, Mr. App?"

App reached into his pocket and drew out a wad of bills clamped by a sterling silver monkey paw. Peeling off five, he held them out to the girl. Hundreds.

"Thanks, Mr. App, what's this for?"

"Severance pay. You no longer work here."

Her mouth opened. A small smooth hand closed around the bills.

App turned his back on her and said, "Come on in- was it Sandy? Let's hear what's on your mind. Maybe we can conceptualize it for film."

Two walls of his office were windows; the other two, bleached maple burl. The windows showed off L.A. County the way a hawk would see it just before it swooped. The wood showcased a Warhol silkscreen of a smiling Marilyn Monroe and transparent plastic shelves full of bound scripts. Some of the screenplays had titles hand-lettered on their spines, others were blank.

App took a seat behind a blue, triangular marble desk, with nothing on it but a blue marble phone, and offered me the only other chair in the room, an unupholstered, black, straight-backed thing. At his feet was a large marble wastebasket full of more scripts.

"So," he said. "What else have you done besides this book?"

"Journalism." I threw out the names of a few magazines, betting he didn't read much.

"What made you want to write about Buck?"

"Fall from grace. The whole notion of genius gone bad."

"No kidding. Giving him money wasn't one of the brighter things I've done. You can write that."

"What led you to option poetry?"

"Soft heart," he said. "Everything was collapsing around the bastard." He touched his chest. "Got a soft spot for creative types."