Bloodthirsty Chapter 2 of 11

If you’re looking to get rich, being a cop is not the way to go. Especially the honest variety.

Last year I made ninety-three grand working homicide for LAPD. My partner, Terry Biggs, who is one pay grade lower, managed to make eighty-eight with overtime. Not bad money. Except that my plumber cleared one-fifty. And he didn’t get shot at. Of course, I don’t have to snake toilets. Life is full of trade-offs.

Then one day the phone rings and some guy offers me and Terry fifty thousand dollars to option our last big homicide case for a movie. I hang up. It’s a con job. Ever since we cracked the Familyland murders and got our minute and a half of fame, every cop we know has been busting our balls.

The guy calls back. He swears he’s Halsey Bates, the director. “Sure, you are,” I say, as I Google him. “Where’d you go to college?”

“Penn,” he says.

“Wrong,” I say and hang up.

Next day Halsey Bates shows up at the station house, in the flesh. “You might have solved a big murder case, Detective Lomax,” he says, “but you don’t have a clue where I went to school.” He holds up his college diploma. “Universitas Pennsylvaniensis. Penn.”

“Hollywood Online says Penn State,” I tell him.

“They also say Clay Aiken’s dating a supermodel. Let’s talk.”

Two weeks later, Halsey hands us each a check for twenty-five big ones. “And that’s just your first taste,” he says. “This movie catches fire, and you boys will be building yourselves swimming pools.”

“I already have a swimming pool,” Terry told him.

“This one would be for your money.”

“What if I just drained the pool I have?” Terry said. “How long would it take you to refill it with cash?”

“Depends on how long it takes me to find someone with sixty million bucks to bankroll us.”

“I got three daughters. The twins are starting college in September.”

“It took ten years to find the money to make Forrest Gump,” Halsey said. “How were you planning on paying for college if I didn’t option your story?”

“Mike and I were going to stick up the Wal-Mart over on Crenshaw. My other choice was to sell a kidney, but Mike refuses to part with one.”

“Well, if you’re in a hurry, we could sell our souls to the devil,” Halsey said. “I have his home number.”

The devil, in this case, was Barry Gerber, a legendary industry prick. Over the years he made dozens of films, zillions of dollars, and zero friends.

“I hear he’s a real Hollywood asshole,” Terry said.

“That’s redundant,” Halsey said. He gave us both a big toothy smile and ran his hand through his thick, straight, dirty-blond hair. The hair is the only thing straight about him.

I’ve met a lot of schmucks in the movie business. Halsey Bates isn’t one of them. He’s a decent guy, with an ugly past.

Seven years ago he was directing a movie and met Kirk Jacoby, a struggling young actor who had the three basic ingredients guaranteed to make him a star. He was talented, great looking, and bisexual. Kirk would sleep with anyone if he thought it could help him get ahead in the business. They spent the day shooting at an LA country club, first on the tennis court, then the locker room, and finally the showers. Halsey was so hot for Kirk he wrapped early, and they drove to Halsey’s house, which was well stocked with booze, dope, and condoms.

Jacoby had one agenda. He wanted a bigger part. Halsey offered him a few more scenes, but Kirk wasn’t stupid. He knew they’d wind up on the cutting room floor, so he said goodnight and staggered toward his car. He was not only too drunk to drive; he was too drunk to walk. He cut across the lawn and fell into the koi pond. Halsey offered to put him up for the night, but Jacoby insisted on leaving. Absolut logic prevailed, and they decided that Halsey should be the designated driver. Jacoby flopped into the director’s Saab convertible and immediately fell asleep in the passenger seat.

He never woke up. They weren’t the only drunks on the road that night. Heading east on Beverly Boulevard they were T-boned by a young couple in a pickup running a light at Highland. Jacoby, unbelted, was thrown 120 feet and killed instantly. The driver of the pickup had his chest crushed and his girlfriend’s head was severed when she went through the windshield.

Even with the best lawyers money could buy, Halsey spent the next four and a half years in prison. But it was time well spent. From his jail cell he used his clout, his talent, and his inge- nuity to raise enough money to open a drug and alcohol rehabilitation center in downtown LA.

By the time he got out he had added a rescue mission and a battered-women’s shelter, and his charity, One Brick At A Time, had become as popular among the rich and famous as Japanese hybrids. Hollywood is nothing if not forgiving.

The day he got out was a media gangbang of O.J. proportions. TV crews from around the world were camped outside the gates. The first one to welcome him back was Barry Gerber. He announced that he was hiring Halsey to direct his first post-prison film. He then whipped out a contract and a pen, offered up his back, and the cameras rolled while Halsey signed on the dotted line. It was a great stunt, and the media gobbled it up.

“What’s the movie about?” half the reporters yelled at once.

Gerber just smiled. “I can’t say.”

It was an old Hollywood ruse. Tell them what you’re trying to pimp, and you’re lucky if they print a word of it. Don’t tell them, and they’ll invoke the First Amendment.

“Come on, Barry,” a woman from People demanded. “Give us something.”

Gerber held his hands up and shook his head. The man was a master at getting millions of dollars’ worth of publicity without spending a dime.

The press refused to take no for an answer.

Finally, Gerber acquiesced. “Alright, just a taste. It’s about a good-looking, charming, successful man who makes a terrible mistake,” he said, putting his arm around the good-looking, charming, successful man, who had spent four and half years paying for his own terrible mistake.

“What kind of mistake?” came the inevitable response.

Gerber grinned. “He kills his boyfriend.”

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