Fun and Games - Duane Swierczynski [44]
Hardie thought more about Them. Tried to climb inside their minds and guess what they’d be doing next.
Then he remembered what one of them had said.
“Lane.”
“Uhhhh.”
“Lane, you still with me?”
“Just want to sleep.”
“I need you to tell me who we’re really up against.”
Lane’s eyelids slowly lifted.
“I told you. I don’t know.”
“I told you I met the lady with the one eye, right? Topless Cyclops?”
“Yeah.”
“She told me that you deserved this. That I should ask you why.”
Lane blinked as if she’d been slapped. She made a show of recovering. Huffing, shaking her head.
“Of course she’d say that.”
“Yeah, I understand that. But I still don’t think you’re telling me everything. And while I’m sure you have your reasons, we might die in here. Because of something you didn’t tell me. You tell me that you have no idea why they’re trying to kill you, yet you seem to know an awful lot about them.”
Lane stared at the wall.
“What, is it that you still think I’m one of them?” Hardie asked. “If that’s the case, then—”
“No, it’s not that…. It’s…”
“What?”
Lane started to rub her eyes to wake up a little and remembered that it really hurt. She tasted the inside of her mouth and found that it was absolutely foul. She stretched and then looked at Hardie.
“Okay, listen, this might sound a little insane. Like I’m telling you about the boogeyman. But an ex-boyfriend was the one who told me about these people. I thought he was full of shit and he was just teasing me. I didn’t believe they were real until this morning…. God, this is going to sound stupid.”
“Highly doubtful.”
She hesitated again.
“In L.A. you hear stories. Rumors about killers who go after famous people and make it look like accidents. You joke about these killers like kids joke around about the boogeyman—but inside, you’re scared to death the rumors are true. Some drunk guy at a party will tell you he knows how Marilyn Monroe really died, or how John Belushi’s OD wasn’t really an OD. And then everybody will get quiet, because everyone else will have heard the same things.”
Hardie felt himself easing back into cop mode. Commenting as little as possible, listening to everything. Evaluating.
“Anyway, my ex once told me—swore to me—these people were real. Said they had protection at the highest levels, that they were bankrolled by the richest people on earth. They clean up the messes. That’s how he put it. After a while he’d start joking around with me. Don’t make me call the Accident People.”
“So you think he called them for real.”
Lane was stunned.
“No! Not my ex. Point is, I believe what he said. He’d be in a position to know.”
“So, he’s what—an actor?”
Lane nodded, said his name.
It was the BLOND VIKING GOD.
Everybody knew the BLOND VIKING GOD.
The entertainment press gave this particular actor the sobriquet after his first gig—a supporting role in an Oscar-nominated war flick. From there, it was indie thrillers, then a big-budget superhero role, and then finally his own producing arm. Everything he touched turned into golden celluloid. He was as famous as famous could get. A $40 million–dollar man in a downsized Hollywood where nobody—nobody—could command those kinds of numbers. He could open a flick. Open it big. Guaranteed.
His name was uttered at least once every few minutes all across America, usually in the form of a punch line like, “Well I’m no BLOND VIKING GOD, but…”
And for a brief while, he used to date a cute actress from a bunch of romantic comedies named Lane Madden.
Lane put her fingers to her temples and lowered her head.
“It’s not like I have proof to show you. But he swore to me they were real, because he met them once.”
“What happened?”
“He didn’t tell me much.”
“What happened?”
Lane sighed. “Four years ago—before we even met—he was at this party out in Malibu. Things got out of hand. Too much booze, too much coke. There was a stupid fight. Someone ended up dead. Another actor. Somebody who was kind of over, you know? But the party had a bunch of people who weren’t over, who were worth a lot of