The intercom was silent. Then Jimmy heard the elevator descending. The doors opened, and he stepped in. He could see the Pacific Ocean sparkling as he rode the glass elevator up eighty or ninety feet to Michael Danziger's house, an ugly modernist assemblage of planes and cubes perched atop the highest of the Malibu Hills. He stood in the center of the private elevator, watching the ground rapidly fall away under him as he rose into the morning sun. When the doors slid open, he was still blinking.
A slim man cinched into a red jacket glared at him as the doors slid open, but Jimmy didn't apologize. He liked being early for interviews. Sometimes he would be asked to wait, but usually he got ushered in, and the time dislocation slightly tilted the emotional playing field in his favor. The man in the red jacket turned on his heel.
Jimmy followed him along the outside of the house and out onto a huge redwood deck. He could see almost to Santa Barbara to the northwest, the dry brown hills shimmering with heat. L.A. was spread out across the southeast, wrapped in freeways, half hidden under a haze of smog, but Danziger's house was serenely above the carcinogenic fog. West was the Pacific, dark and deep and teeming with cold-blooded life.
The man in the red jacket bent down on one knee, seeming to speak into the deck.
Closer now, Jimmy could see a twelve-foot-long rectangular jet-pool built into the redwood. A man was hanging onto the side, water churning around him.
The man flipped a switch, and the water stopped. He pushed his swim goggles back onto his forehead. "You're early," he said to Jimmy, smiling. "I hope you don't mind if I finish my workout. Raymond will bring you orange juice or coffee. We can talk over breakfast when I'm done."
Raymond tugged his jacket, shot Jimmy a dirty look, then headed toward the house.
Danziger hit the switch again. Powerful jets pushed him to the back of the pool. He trod water, tugged his goggles back into place, and started swimming against the artificial current.
Jimmy sat down at the patio table nearest the pool. Danziger was a strong swimmer, with a powerful kick and an economical freestyle stroke-his mouth barely cleared the surface of the water to take a breath. Raymond came out after a few minutes with a glass pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice and two thick cut-crystal tumblers, leaving as silently as he had come. Jimmy sipped at his juice, watching Danziger; he knew the jet-pool was an efficient way to get a workout, but Jimmy didn't like treadmills. It made him feel like a gerbil. Not that the thermal yoga class at the Pro Sports Club was any more appealing-he could still see the water droplets running down the inside of the glass, Samantha Packard avoiding his gaze through the steam. He had waited in the parking lot, hoping that she would come out to her car alone, but Mick Packard had accompanied her, swaggering, one hand clasped on her arm. Jimmy thought he saw Samantha glance around as she eased into the car, but he couldn't be sure. Maybe Michael Danziger could tell him what he needed to know.
Danziger had been head of production at Epic International, the studio chief who had hired Garrett Walsh to make Hammerlock after he won those two Academy Awards, the man who had greenlighted the film and okayed the budget-the man who had ultimately taken the fall for that debacle and several other high-profile failures. Danziger had been eased out five years later in a bloodless coup, given a cushy severance package and an independent production deal with the studio. He had produced three pictures since leaving EI, none of which had made money.
Jimmy finished his orange juice, slowly chewing the pulp. Restless now, he got up and walked to the edge of the deck, leaning against the railing. A hawk drifted overhead, riding the thermals, and Jimmy could see a woman horseback-riding along a nearby ridge, riding easily in jeans and a creamy white shirt, her long, dark braid flopping against her shoulders. Horses scared the shit out of him. They were too big, too strong, and just smart enough to sense that he was intimidated. He watched the woman until he heard the jet-pool suddenly stop, and turned back.
Danziger put his hands on the edge of the pool and easily launched himself onto the deck. He stood there dripping in the sunshine, goggles pushed back, water glistening across his tan. His bio listed him as fifty-three, but he was still broad chested, lean and muscular, an aging preppy, handsome as any of the stars of his recent flops. Raymond appeared with a white terrycloth robe and held it out while Danziger stepped into it, then knotted it insouciantly around his waist. "Nothing like a swim to get the blood flowing. You look like you work out yourself, Mr. Gage."
"It's Jimmy, and yeah-I play a little basketball."
"I'm not much for team sports myself." Danziger waved at the patio table. "Shall we?"
Raymond ferried a carafe of espresso to the table, poured Danziger orange juice, then set a half-papaya dabbed with nonfat vanilla yogurt before each of them.
"If there's anything you'd like, just let Raymond know," said Danziger, spooning out papaya, stopping halfway to his mouth. "Did you get your invitation to the press screening of My Girl Trouble?"
"I did."
"There's been some negative buzz. I don't know who starts these things, but I hope you'll approach the film with an open mind." Danziger smiled. "That sounds rather desperate, doesn't it? In fact, I'm quite confident that the film will find its audience. We tested very well among single women aged twenty-two to thirty-six." He blotted his lips with the napkin. "Still, anything you could do to help would be appreciated."
"I'm not reviewing many films these days, but I'd be happy to mention it in my article."
Danziger scraped the last of the orange-colored flesh away from the rind. "This article you're doing…"
"It's about Hammerlock. I'm using the production as a metaphor for the grand ambition and ultimate destruction of Garrett Walsh."
"Hammerlock?" The water beaded along Danziger's eyebrows gleamed in the sun. "Why would I want to rehash one of my worst failures?"
"I thought you got a bad rap on that."
"Tell that to the board of directors of Epic International." Danziger looked off toward the ocean, and Jimmy followed him.
Fishing boats bobbed in the far distance, heading out toward Catalina, and Jimmy thought of Sugar Brimley, wondered what he was catching today. Jimmy had called a couple of times in the last few days, checking in, hoping to prod the retired detective into sharing his files, but his calls hadn't been returned. He watched the boats shimmer at the edge of his vision, losing definition until they were indefinable from the water.
"I'd be happy to help you with your article," said Danziger. "I'll have my office send you a press kit on My Girl Trouble too. Just in case."
"Sounds good." Jimmy pulled out a mini-recorder and set it on the table between them. "I've talked to some of the crew. They say the production was in trouble early on, and most of them blame the fact that the cameras started rolling before there was a completed script." He looked at Danziger. "Wasn't that a bit-optimistic of you? Okaying a ninety-million-dollar film without a script?"
"Optimistic?" Danziger shook his head. "It was insane, but after the success of Walsh's first film, every studio in town was eager to hand him a blank check. He actually got better offers than mine from some of the majors, but Walsh and I hit it off. He said he thought he could work with me." He leaned toward Jimmy. "And for your information, Hammerlock was originally slated for sixty-five million. It was supposed to be a six-months shoot; Walsh was arrested during the tenth month, and it still wasn't finished."
"I met Walsh just once. It was after he got out of prison, and he was pretty messed up, living in a rusty trailer, strung out on pills and booze. What was he like before?"