Dead Famous (Danny Costello) Read online

  ‘She overdosed—at the Academy Awards—live on television?’ Crumbs of breakfast bagel came shooting out my mouth. I could see that this was a first, even by the long and damaged tradition of Hollywood stupidity—this was the career move to end all career moves. Too bad poor Saquina wouldn’t be around to take advantage of it.

  Joe confirmed the ugly story was true. ‘She dropped the statue out of her hand and croaked right there on the stage—’

  Speechless, I masticated breakfast bagel and puzzled over the implications of this momentous news, as one of Casa del Mar’s white-coated facilitators led us to our table. When I got there I nearly choked up at the ugly sight that was waiting to greet us. I looked over my black on black aviators and confirmed the portents were true—two dudes, one black, one white—both of them in Park Avenue suits, both of them sporting faces that would curdle milk at a hundred paces. There was no mistaking them: the lawyer and the executive. I said Halloo to the Lawyer first, because this particular blast from the past was Shark Tank Al Weinman, a sharp-toothed super lawyer with a reputation as most voracious legal predator in town.

  This was the very same Al Weinman who had bought himself a Ferrari and a swanky pad in Bel Air courtesy of the inhuman divorce settlement he beat out of me in favor of my charming ex-wife Kimberly.

  I paid Weinman close scrutiny over the top of my shades, ‘How’s it going Weinman picked over any good corpses lately?’

  ‘Always a pleasure Mr. Costello,’ Weinman was looking even oilier than I remembered him, with his Rodeo Drive lawyer clothes and spray-tan smirk.

  Weinman gave me a twisted grin, said, ‘I know we have had our differences in the past Mr. Costello, but I was hoping to effect an introduction that would allow us to let bygones be bygones. ’ He oozed out the words bygones, as though I was a performing seal he was about to throw a mackerel.

  ‘Weinman’s buddy was staring at me, like I had just dropped out of a horses ass, ‘This the fuckin’ guy?’ he asked roughly.

  ‘Allow me to introduce my client—Mr. Sly Barrington,’ gushed Weinman.

  I gave the client the look-see, and he gave me the look-see back.

  ‘You the guy that saved the President?’ He asked.

  I shot Joe a look and he stared back at me implacable, like he wanted me to tell these clown-show rejects the highlights from my Secret Service past. Not that there’s much to tell. I took a .38 shell in my Kevlar vest and broke some nut job politico into hospital-bed pieces, for the sake of my country, end of story. Any man working the day would have made the same calls. Difference was—it happened to me—on my watch, ipso-facto it would read national hero on my resume in perpetuity, whether I liked it or not.

  I didn’t like the look Barrington gave me, not one bit, but I figured it was best to play nice, because he looked like the kind of dude who had deep, money-filled pockets, and that kind of company cannot be given a careless dismissal, especially when there are trifles like company payroll, child support and big government taxes to be taken care of. I found it hard to talk about this episode, much regarding this particular episode in Secret Service history was sub-rosa. I could have gushed forth, told him that yes, I was indeed the guy who saved the President, but it wasn’t no big deal—I delivered the confirmation, without sounding too gee-shucks about it. Told him: yeah, that’s what they say.

  But Barrington gave me sulky, said: You should have let the motherfucker die you ask me—saved us all a headache.

  Funny guy. I split a grin of course, but I gauged how easy it would be to spin a move and kick Barrington’s head off his shoulders—wondered how far that spinning head would fly before it touched down. I figured with the wind just right I could kick that puppy as far of the ocean. Presto—one less celebrity sourpuss whining about our fabulous country.

  I restrained myself, saved the data for future reference, and chomped on my breakfast bagel. ‘My Partner tells me you been having problems Mr. Barrington.’

  Barrington gave me a stormy look—‘I take it you saw the awards last night?’

  Dead Famous 03

  Now, if there is one thing worse than babysitting a snot nosed celebrity at the Academy Awards, it is watching the show on television. Anyone who knows anything about what happens on Oscars night, will tell you that the real fun is to be had at sumptuous parties afterwards, that is where you will see all the big-game animals in the celebrity safari park mixing it together in one glorious booze-addled substance abusing cesspit. See them frolic at the watering hole: the lions and the zebras the crocodiles and water buffalo and if you are really lucky, you might even catch a glimpse of the ultra-rare, scimitar-horned Oryx, on it’s migration trail between Megacorp. studios Hollywood and a summer vacation in the South of France.

  Sitting on the veranda of the Casa Del Mar, munching my breakfast bagel and fruit salad, I settled back in my chair and regarded Sly Barrington closely. He didn’t exactly look like he was grieving at the death of his biggest star, if anything he was upset for quite a different reason. And when he laid out his thoughts, I had even more reason for indigestion than I had when I spied this ugly duo from across the terrace.

  Barrington steepled his fingers, and angled his head to the side, then pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘Let me get this straight from the get go, I don’t like you Costello. The only reason you are here, spoiling my morning, is I got a bunch of boardroom suits riding my case about insurance liability.’

  For me it was a familiar story, many of my big money clients were forced into getting personal protection by the big money financial hounds who financed their corporate antics. If the moneymen withdrew insurance cover, it could put the freeze on a corporations business plans faster than you could say commercial liability. I regarded Barrington sympathetically over the top of my aviators, ‘Insurance liability—you got to be kidding?’ I eased back in my chair and said coolly, ‘You don’t seem too upset about the girl Barrington, her being your biggest star and all.’

  ‘You kidding me Costello, that bitch Saquina was so far past her sell by date, she was starting to stink. The best thing that dumb-ass broad ever did was gorge herself with dope.’

  ‘Mr. Barrington owns ninety-three percent of her publishing,’ interjected Weinman helpfully.

  ‘Wow, you are some kind of humanitarian Barrington, anyone ever tell you that?’ He stared at me impassively. I turned to Weinman. ‘So, who owns the other seven percent?’

  Weinman gave me an oily smirk, ‘There are various concerned parties here Mr. Costello, Mrs. Johnson’s estate for example—’

  ‘Cut the bullshit Weinman you got a stake in this, I can smell it.’

  Weinman smoothed down the line of his Zegna trousers smugly, said nothing.

  Barrington butted in, ‘Listen here Costello, I got a seven figure retainer says you are working for me now, so listen up.’

  ‘Seven figures sounds good Barrington —but that’s before the clock even starts running on this gig, and here’s the kicker—I get to follow your charming personality around twenty four seven—that clock is going to be spinning faster than a New York cab in tourist season.’

  Barrington looked like he was going to stand up and start shouting, but Weinman leaned in and spoke for him. ‘Your terms are acceptable Mr. Costello, but you will not be required to offer personal protection for Mr. Barrington.’

  ‘Well there’s a disappointment,’ I replied snappily, giving the duo the happiest smile in my repertoire.

  ‘Mr. Barrington requires you to look after his daughter.’

  I glanced at Joe—he shrugged like it was a no brainer. And that is where the deal would have been sealed, if it hadn’t been for the kind of intrusion I have spent every moment of my professional career preparing for. When it came it came fast, a body running in from left field.

  I moved on instinct, snapping moves so fast, the intruder had no time to react, couldn’t have, even if he had wanted to, because the sole focus of his attention was attacking Sly Barrington.


  The shrieking war cry of the assailant filled the air—SAQUEEEEEEENA!

  I caught the attacker on the ankle with a precision move, that used his momentum to up end him in a tangled heap. The power of the impact sent one of my flip-flop sandals flying into the air. I caught it snappily and clubbed the attacker across the face with the heel in a move designed to surprise rather than immobilize—that came next when I snapped an arm lock/choke combo so tight the attacker was out cold in seconds. Joe meanwhile, rose leisurely to his feet, and hogtied the assailant with plastic-cuffs before our newfound client could even draw breath.

  I sat back down to applause from diners. I popped papaya cubes into my mouth followed by a couple of grapes, ‘You sure make friends fast Barrington.’

  Barrington stared at the interloper with distaste. Dabbing at his lips with a linen napkin he said, ‘You are a pretty sharp operator Costello—whether you are as good as your punk assed reputation—we have yet to see, this fey little motherfucker you got corralled right here got any closer, I would have chopped his liver out with my god-damn spoon.’

  I stared down at the attacker, a wiry dude in a hotel uniform. He had pomaded hair, and a sullen, demeanor with sunken cheeks—looked like a bus boy, or a lower echelon table wrangler who was having a bad day. I gave him an experimental dig with my toe and he snapped to life, like he had been goosed with an electric cattle prod. He writhed around a little, until he realized he wasn’t going anywhere, then twisted round so he could get a better look at the subject of his hysterical attentions: MURDERER, he squealed, high pitched and overwrought: MURDERER! That was the point that the hotel’s monkey-suited facilitators rushed the scene mob-handed. They scooped up the squealing attacker from the floor, and unceremoniously removed him from the terrace, as though he were a roll of carpet. Chattering diners looked on, bewitched by such excitement so early in the day. A teenager filming for posterity with a cell-phone panned in for a close up. I raised my eyebrows and gave him my best U-Tube smile.

  ‘It must be a constant blast to be so popular,’ I observed.

  Barrington wasn’t amused. He looked after the squealing kid with distaste, and said ‘Ain’t no big thing Costello, man in my position has to deal with crazies, time was I would have…’ He looked at Weinman and tailed off, gave me a sudden smile and said ‘I like your style Costello. Man of my reputation likes to take care of things his self—you know what I am saying, trouble is that candy-assed board want me to play nice for the insurance people. So we are gonna have to play along for the moment at least, make it look like we are taking their feeble-brained concerns seriously. You wanna earn that meat and potatoes retainer I told you about, you better be on hand to help me out.’ He gave me a hard enquiring look, ‘You gonna help me out Costello?

  ‘I thought you wanted me to look after your charming daughter?

  ‘My daughter ain’t no charmer Costello, that girl is a bitch on wheels, and that is part of the problem. No, what I am talking about is an operative— who is gonna accompany me on my engagements, make it look like I am playing it cool for the board, but who is smart enough to stay out of my way. Barrington gave Joe a top to toe look and said, ‘And don’t be telling me you are going to palm me off with your Marine Corps buddy here. I need glamorous help, make it low-key like I am playing it solo. You got anyone who fits the bill?’

  I smiled happily. ‘If it is glamour you are looking for I got just the girl for you.’

  Indeed I did. But Inez Santos was not going to be pleased—far from it.

  Dead Famous 04

  ‘So let me get this right Costello, you want me to babysit Sly Barrington?’ Inez sat in her neatly ordered office looking at me suspiciously, with her heavy lashed Latina eyes. On her desk she had her Glock seventeen dismantled, on a square of pristine gun-cloth.

  ‘Don’t thank me. I understand he is every girls idea of a dream date.’ I responded cheerfully.

  ‘If they are a teenage table dancer, who likes huffing crack cocaine he is,’ snapped Inez curtly, reassembling her pistol now, with impressive speed.

  ‘Owch, sounds like a stereotype to me. If you are going to make a paycheck on this one, you might want to reign it in a little with the political correctness,’ I yucked.

  ‘He is a vegetarian,’ offered Joe helpfully.

  ‘Vegetarian?’ Inez gave Joe an ugly look. ‘He has the reputation of being a world wide contender as the biggest dick in the entertainment business, and as you can imagine he is up against some pretty tough opposition—in this town, especially.’

  ‘He went to Harvard business school,’ said Joe.

  Inez pulled a face, ‘I heard he bought his way in selling crack cocaine.’

  Joe feigned shocked, ‘I am sure that is just an ugly rumor,’ he said. ‘ And just so as you know, Mr. Barrington requested that you play it low-key, make like you are his date or something—if you go out in public.’

  ‘His date? You fucking kidding me?’

  ‘It is an insurance gig—all you gotta do is be nice—we are talking thirty days tops. We get a renewal on this one—we switch you out with the help. But Barrington is major league, he gets nothing but partnership attention for the sweetheart period—you in partner?’

  Inez wordlessly completed the assembly on her Glock, then jacked a clip in the stock with ruthless precision. She looked at me hard, ‘That prick plays nasty, I won’t answer for the consequences. There will be injuries—serious injuries.’

  I gave Inez a shrug, you gotta do what you gotta do—all I ask is that you cut the corpse into pieces no one will find, should you find the need to go heavy.’ Dark humor, the employees love it.

  She stood up now, leaned on the desk, wearing tight black pants and a Dior blouse that forced me to play my feelings close. She holstered the Glock in a belt clip holster and gave me the look. The look smoldered, with the kind of heat that would burn the paint of your Ferrari quicker than a San Fernando summer. ‘So what are you two genius’s going to be doing while I am babysitting the worlds most cretinous impresario?’

  ‘Glad you asked that sweet-cakes, we got our work cut out.’ Joe leaned back in Inez’s big-money guest chair and put his feet on the edge of her desk. Inez bought her chairs from some fancy pants designer store in Beverly Hills. She didn’t like people to sit in them, in case they “wore out”. She looked calmly at Joe’s feet, as they sullied the edge of the immaculate desk and said brightly, You better get those hooves back on the ground where they belong Lieutenant, before you accidently get stabbed in the foot with my Kunai pen.

  ‘I have heard that is very painful,’ I offered helpfully.

  ‘What in the hell is a Kunai pen?’ asked Joe

  ‘You don’t want to find out—trust me.’ I said.

  Inez narrowed her eyes. ‘Nice try Costello, you are changing the subject, but this isn’t my first rodeo with you two goofballs, so don’t think you are going to slope off in JR’s cock-rocket cruise-liner for a lame-assed fishing trip, while I do all the work.’

  ‘OK, officer friendly, you got us. We are looking after the daughter, if you must know. Satisfied? We will probably have to spend the next four weeks mall shopping for Hallo Kitty merchandise.’

  Inez smiled. ‘No I don’t think you will JR. far from it.’

  Joe shot me a look. ‘What’s she talking about Costello?

  I shrugged amiably.

  ‘If you watched anything other that sports on television, you will know that Roxy Barrington has just finished probation for a string of offences including possession of narcotics and vehicular mayhem. The kid is out of control crazy.’

  ‘Vehicular-mayhem?” said Joe, ‘I am liking the sound of the her already—that’s not bad form for a snot nosed little mall brat.’

  ‘Roxy Barrington is twenty-two years old, with more money than Croesus and the brains of a cupcake. She also happens to be very beautiful.’

  ‘You say that like it is a bad thing,’ laughed Joe.

  Badinage. It made
the team. And quite a team we were. Joe I had known since our high-school days in Canoga Park. He had been a good ball player even in those days— good at all sports come to think of it. But Sunday league baseball was his thing, his one true love. It got him drafted to the Angels. Man, the guy could hit, and consistent with it too. Crack a baseball right out the park, like it was the easiest thing in the world. But things went bad and quick. Joe didn’t fit with the politics of the gig—too opinionated, always has been. A locker room flare up with management sealed his fate, a final disciplinary violation that the higher ups had been itching to throw at him. Didn’t matter how good he was on the field—It was a pitch he had no place to come back from. You ask me it was the worst mistake the Angels ever made and they have made quite a few. So Joe took a fall from the sport he loved and followed my brother Ryan into the United States Marine Corps. The Marines taught him discipline. They taught him weapons systems—they taught him how to fly helicopters. Joe likes helicopters almost as much as he likes baseball, but he is a Dodgers fan these days. Think blue.

  As for Inez, I found her at USMS, The United States Marshals Service, through a joint task force job I was working in Washington—back in the day. A Secret Service gig—yeah, Secret Service, less glamorous than it sounds. The long hours of servitude put paid to my marriage, I was just too blind to see it at the time. Working long hours to safeguard my country I could handle. Working long hours to safeguard the welfare of corn-fed politicians while they whored and gorged their way through taxpayer funded expense junkets was less of a thrill. The president was cool however. Good man too, no matter what the media says. I worked the presidential detail just long enough to know it wasn’t for me. I was working an exit strategy, when I caught a bullet to the vest from a foreign attaché. They hushed it up of course. That’s all part of the job. No big thing if a secret service foot soldier takes a couple of close range .38’s to the chest. Didn’t feel like no big thing at the time though, let me tell you—I made the move on instinct, covered my man then took out the shooter. Trouble was I didn’t get him fast enough—he loosed off two in the mêlée. I got off light: cracked-ribs, shrapnel in the arm. Put it down to experience. I don’t like guns—never did. I never needed a gun to take some one out. My hands are my weapons, my feet too. You can always lose a gun in an assault, have it jam or run dry. But if you know how to handle yourself, you are always locked and loaded, no matter what the odds.