Body Copy - Michael Craven [78]
Next morning, the first person Tremaine called was a woman named Sally Kasmin. Sally was an old client and 244
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a sort of friend. She was a senior development executive at Paramount Pictures. She’d hired Tremaine some time back because people in her office suspected that someone was breaking in to get an advanced look at some of their projects. Their suspicions were correct; Tremaine caught a couple hired guns from a rival studio in the act, and that was that. The people who hired them went to prison. Did twelve months in a white-collar lock-up.
Sally was beautiful and single. Tremaine had never slept with her. Shame about that. Was that why they were still friends?
“Sally Kasmin’s office,” her chipper assistant said.
“Donald Tremaine calling for Sally.”
A few seconds later: “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Sally, how are you?”
“I’m good, Tremaine, I’m good. It’s been a while, but you know, I was just thinking about you the other day.”
“Were you in the shower?”
Sally laughed that Sally laugh. It was loud—it was amazing. She probably thought his little quip was funny, but her laugh made him feel like it was really funny. She was good, this one.
“I need a favor,” Tremaine said.
“Anything, babe.”
“I need to find out if an actress was in or was an extra in one or more of the following movies.”
“Okay, what are they?”
“Turnaround, Big Boy, Aliens in America, and Faster.”
“Sure, Turnaround was pretty big. Who’s the actress?”
“Her name is Kelly Burch. That’s Kelly with a y.”
“Is this about Neil Franks? He directed Turnaround.”
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“No. I’ll tell you later what it’s about.”
“No, you won’t.”
“You’re right. So, when will I hear about Kelly?”
“End of day, maybe.”
“Can I take you out for a drink to say thanks?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“I know this great little place called my trailer.”
Sally laughed that Sally laugh.
The next call was to Indio, California, information. Indio was a desert town about twenty-five miles east of Palm Springs. But it didn’t have the vibe of Palm Springs—the pink sweat suits, the Rolls-Royces, the enormous glasses.
It had its nice parts, but much of this small desert community consisted of unglamorous houses on bleak, sun-pelted streets. A town where it was so goddamn hot much of the time that you could only stand, mouth agape, and try not to melt. Or go inside, zip up the blinds, and sit in the AC.
If you had AC. And the people, they were different from the Palm Springs crowd, too. They were sun-beaten, crazy almost, roaming the hot streets in a zombie state.
“What city and state please?”
“Indio, California.”
“Name.”
“Angela Coyle.”
Kelly Burch’s sister.
Tremaine got the number. And the address. He got in his car and headed straight east on the Ten.
On I–10, Tremaine cruised through West L.A., through downtown—wonder what that bad ass karate guy is up 246
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to—then through the little towns that border downtown proper on the east side, then into the brown, bleak desert.
As he got past the clusters of towns outside the city limits, the landscape started to open up, and it was beautiful in its stark, monochromatic way.
Hot as shit, though, really incredibly hot, but stark and apocalyptic and interesting.
Palm Springs was about two hours, Indio about two and a half. But Tremaine was already at the windmills, about a half-hour west of Palm Springs; he was making good time. It had been seventy minutes at the most. Windmills everywhere, an enormous stretch of them. Tremaine drove down the singular stretch of freeway, the Ten, that ribbon of black through the tan desert. And windmills everywhere. Everywhere. Massive, modern, white windmills as far as he could see. Spinning all at different paces, and just massive, huge. When the road would get close to one, it was almost unbelievable how big the blades were, spinning round and round. Round and round. The desert wind propelling them.
If you weren