Fun and Games - Duane Swierczynski [66]
“They never caught you,” Hardie said.
“They never caught us,” she said, “because of the Accident People.”
He called his manager.
His manager gave him shit right away—Lane could tell, even hearing just one side of the conversation. But Blond Viking God put the manager back in his place and made his wishes explicitly clear:
GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF THIS.
See, the Blond Viking God could not be wrapped up in a manslaughter trial. The Blond Viking God had a full slate, and nothing could stop that without the risk of losing a ridiculous amount of money. Even Blond Viking God’s death wouldn’t stop the production of the next six films—two of them summer tent-poles—because, by God, the money men would find a way to reanimate his fucking corpse to finish them.
And the manager understood that.
So the manager advised his client:
HIDE
And then he called the studio’s lawyers, who got word to the top, and it was deemed important enough to bring in the Accident People.
By then Blond Viking God had taken them all the way out beyond the San Bernadinos; they were directed to a garage in Chatsworth. The car would have to be destroyed; the studio was already arranging for a duplicate to be delivered to Lane’s Venice address. They were cleaned up, given new clothes. They were told to never, ever speak of this. Because it didn’t happen. It would be erased.
The Accident People asked the Blond Viking God for his precise route. A third car was procured—same make, same model, same color. Two actors were hired. They drove around Sherman Oaks recklessly, then disappeared.
By seven p.m. they were having drinks at the Standard, having arrived there in Blond Viking God’s own car (which had been delivered from Santa Monica). Cameras flashed; the music was throbbing. Friends were there. They asked how it felt to have a day or two off, wow, what did you do? They told their friends what the Accident People had suggested: just fucking around all day at Lane’s place in Venice.
Lane was quiet but compliant. She drank and tried to will her hands to STOP SHAKING.
At the same time, the duplicate car, with stand-ins, was cruising around Studio City. The Accident People listened. The police received calls—reports of someone driving a vehicle like a maniac around their neighborhood. The hit-and-run was huge news. The victim, an eight-year-old boy, had died at the scene. The description of the car had gone out wide. Police vowed to catch these “animals.”
The Accident People took care of the loose ends with piles of cash. The car dealer: silenced. The director: silenced—and he didn’t even need the incentive. There was no upside to having your movie’s star arrested for manslaughter.
Lane’s hands didn’t stop shaking for days.
Not long after, she and the Blond Viking God split. She stopped calling him, he stopped wondering if she’d call. Still, they were considered a “hot couple” by the various celebrity mags for the next nine months.
Lane went to her manager, told him she didn’t know if she could do this. The manager said there wasn’t a choice.
The studio threw a ton of work at her. Action movies. Something different for her. Lane thought she’d hate it. Turned out she loved it. Loved the preparation, the intensity, the physicality, the mindlessness of it all.
She did that for two years.
Then, about a year ago, she caught sight of a billboard for a new reality show:
The Truth Hunters.
It was America’s Most Wanted 2.0—a fugitive-catching show mashed together with Unsolved Mysteries and forensic supercop and cold case dramas. All of it one hundred percent true. Each installment had a single sponsor. The sponsor gave a pile of cash. The producers handpicked cases. The cash was used to reopen the investigation and get things done. Stage new forensics tests. New lab