Fall Out Read online

  He was heading for the white three-story house on the shoreline at the far end of Venice Beach, which was rumored to have once belonged to Dudley Moore. The only thing he cared about was being the last visitor to its current owner.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes after leaving the house, five envelopes safely in the pouches of the local delivery service, Sam was back. He unlocked the sliding glass door, ketchup oozing from the hotdog he had picked up on the way home.

  Wiping his hands on the paper napkin that came with his breakfast, Sam approached the Ken Done painting of a shoal of brightly colored fish that hung on his living room wall. He pulled it away to reveal a wall safe. Quickly turning the combination lock, he swung the door open.

  He pulled out the bank statement he had received a few months earlier showing a credit in his Santa Monica bank account of $300,000. That final revelation a few weeks later had lit his creative fuse. The bang! was FALL OUT.

  He stared at the statement. “Twenty years. You bastards.”

  * * *

  The cyclist reached into his backpack for a small double-jointed wooden-handled knife. With a flick of his wrist, a thin stiletto blade appeared. He quickly gashed his forearm. Impressive to look at, but no serious bleeding. Nevertheless, to minimize the chance of leaving behind any blood droplets, he pulled out an aerosol can of ‘liquid skin’ and sprayed it over the wound, sealing the cut with a transparent film. He calmly rolled his wrist once more, the blade disappearing into its handle as he returned it to his backpack. He stamped on and buckled the front wheel of his bike, then threw his cell phone to the ground, shattering its screen. He pulled the bicycle pump from its cradle below his seat and stuffed it in his bag, then walked towards a bright yellow front door.

  * * *

  Sam’s mind wandered back to his arrival in Hollywood with a manuscript for a historical thriller in hand. It got him an agent, Louis McConnell, but no publishing deal. Louis had, however, quickly secured Sam his first commission, a script for a low budget movie for a young producer in the UK named Marcus Riley.

  Making that film had been good fun, so Sam had been thrilled to get a call a few years later from Louis, asking if he wanted to work with Marcus again on a movie to be shot in the jungles of the Philippines.

  THE LAST COMPANY would be forever known as the ‘movie that never was’ because shooting ended abruptly halfway through. The name was still whispered in the canyons and corridors of Hollywood; like a ghost, it had haunted Sam’s career and those of most everyone involved.

  Sam now knew why THE LAST COMPANY had never been finished. They had stopped shooting for a reason. Part of a plan; cold and calculated. He had even vented at one of those he thought involved.

  He was startled by the buzzing of his front door intercom.

  “Wrong house, mate. Didn’t order a courier,” boomed the Aussie voice through the speaker while Sam inspected the image on the video screen.

  “Not a delivery sir. Just wiped out after hitting something in the road. Right outside your house. I’m sorry to trouble you, but I need some help.” The cyclist held his broken phone in front of the video camera. The gash in his forearm could clearly be seen. “Busted my phone, gashed my arm, bike wheel buckled. Can I just make a quick call?” He paused and then flashed a smile. “Even though I tripped over something by your house, I promise I won’t sue.”

  “Smart-arse,” smiled Sam and buzzed him in.

  The cyclist entered the hall as Sam came towards him. “Can I use your bathroom first? Clean this cut?”

  Sam hesitated.

  “I always carry Band-Aids in here.” The cyclist patted his backpack. “Don’t want to leave any blood on your floor”.

  “Sure.” The writer pointed at a door to the cyclist’s left, ten feet from the entrance.

  “When you’re done, come on through to the living room. Might as well have a beer, no more pedaling for you today. And help yourself to the phone.”

  Fool, thought the cyclist.

  Sam was never on alert. At well over 6 feet 6 inches tall, not much scared him. They had last met years ago, but with the wrap-around glasses, the small man was confident he would not be recognized… not in time anyway.

  The cyclist slipped into the bathroom. He quickly opened the bag and pulled out a large Band-Aid and covered the cut. He carefully put the two protective wings that covered the sticky underside of the dressing back into the bag.

  Next he pulled out the bicycle pump and a small aluminum thermos from the backpack. The cyclist unscrewed the top of the flask and upended the tube. A cloudy white cylinder about four inches long and an inch across slid out. There was a band of tape at the top and the bottom with smoke curling around the canister like a ghostly snake.

  He flicked open his knife and slid the thin blade along one side of the cylinder. It was two halves of dry ice, held together by the tape. Opening the cylinder revealed a hollow cradle in which lay a small black-jacketed bullet. The bullet itself was just a frozen mixture of water and sugar. The dissolved sugar in the ice gave the projectile density and mass.

  Next he picked up the pump. Pulling the handle up with a soft snick revealed a small chamber into which he expertly dropped the bullet. Pushing the top of the cylinder forward it clicked shut, dropping a small trigger at the same time. The gun crafted in his workshop was made from titanium, contained an air pressure of 3000 pounds per square inch, firing at over 1300 feet per second or twice that of a normal .22 air rifle. To prevent the bullet from melting from barrel friction, it was encased in a black nylon sabot. Checking again there was no evidence of blood from his wound, he left the bathroom and walked quickly and purposefully into the living room. Sam turned to greet him and smiled. He glanced quizzically at the pump then back to the cyclist. As a look of recognition flashed over Sam’s face, the cyclist fired. With a sharp clap, the bullet tore into the left ventricle of Sam’s heart, dropping the big man in an instant.

  The cyclist unclipped the iPhone from his belt and quickly plugged it into Sam’s music system via a cable from his bag. He reached up to the painting on the wall and pulled it back to reveal the wall safe. The information from his employer had been correct. Flipping the two earphones from the iPhone inside out, he attached what were really two microphones inside suction cups to the front of the safe and turned on the music system. As he slowly rotated the combination dial, the headset relayed the sounds of the tumblers falling into place through the massive speakers. The safe swung open in moments. He pulled the contents out and shoved them into his bag.

  Stepping over Sam’s body, he stopped and bent down to check that there was no pulse. Satisfied, the cyclist grabbed Sam’s watch, wallet and some cash, tossing them in the bag along with the black nylon sabot that had just moments ago housed the lethal bullet. He took out his blade and carefully eased it into Sam’s bullet wound. Sharply pushing it in the last inch, he twisted the blade and removed the remnants of the bullet, leaving what would appear as just a major stab wound. Standing up he purposely knocked over some furniture in the living room, disconnected the iPhone and its attachments and slid open the veranda door a fraction. Drawing out the knife once more, he inserted the blade into the door’s lock and with a twist broke the barrel inside. Looking around for anything else of value a thief would take, he picked up Sam’s laptop and the silver mug, also shoving them into the backpack. Evidence of a brief struggle, but nothing too dramatic.

  The cyclist exited the house and lifted up the damaged bike. He carried it down Speedway and rounded the corner onto Pacific Avenue where the black Range Rover he had left there earlier was still parked. He slung the bike into the back.

  He quickly drove down Pacific Avenue towards Quarterdeck Street, where he could clearly see the Grand Canal. Stopping the car, he slipped two diver’s weights into the brightly colored bag, tucked it into a slightly larger grey and green camouflage duffle bag. He never even considered keeping the cash. Money was not what drove him. Quickly checking that no one
was watching, his arm arced as he lobbed the bag containing the bank statement, cash, valuables and the laptop far out into the water. As it sank, the camouflaged bag faded from view long before it reached the bottom. He was confident it would stay buried for eternity in the silt of the canal.

  He got back in the car and disappeared into the warren of streets of Venice Beach.

  2

  HOLLYWOOD

  EARLIER, SAME DAY

  “So, are you going to pull the trigger?” Marcus Riley asked.

  His throat was dry and his heart was beating so hard he could feel it and was sure the others would. The two men looked at him impassively.

  “Are you going to answer that?” one asked, staring at him seemingly annoyed.

  Marcus realized his cell phone was vibrating loudly, grimaced, apologized, and let the call go to voicemail.

  “You first,” Marcus said as calmly as possible. “Is the movie green lit; are we a go?”

  Marcus was in the President’s office of a major Hollywood studio, far from home in London. A few months ago he had mortgaged everything to buy the film rights to a new trilogy that had surpassed the success of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo series. The books had been released anonymously on the internet. Against fierce competition from the major studios, he’d won the bidding war. Then disaster struck. The author was outed as a pedophile, and the books went from red hot to radioactive. One by one the studios that had originally competed with him, and in true Hollywood style of compromise had then seemed eager to be his partner, had walked away. This meeting was his last throw of the dice.

  * * *

  “Marcus. As you know it’s a committee decision, but I wanted to tell you myself. I’m afraid it’s a pass.”

  Marcus desperately tried not to show this news was a body blow.

  “The project is just not right for us now,” the President continued with genuine compassion in his voice.

  “Looks like we missed a bullet,” added the junior executive wearing a purse-string smile. The meeting was over.

  Marcus’s face was expressionless as he left the room, desperate to get out of there and be alone but the younger man followed him to the elevator. When the doors opened, he looked at Marcus and murmured dripping with condescension, “Fingers burnt, huh, playing with the big boys? You should have stayed on your side of the pond making Godfather knock-offs with a cockney accent.” The man extended his hand towards Marcus.

  Straightening up to his full height, Marcus looked down at the outstretched hand. “Do you validate?” he asked dropping his parking ticket into it.

  * * *

  As Marcus drove his cheap rental out through the wrought iron studio gates, he went over his options. There were few. The best seemed to be to get blind drunk. He was teetering at the tipping point; nearly broke, his judgement was suspect, and he’d just been dismissed by the entire Hollywood system. He pulled into a liquor store parking lot.

  “A bottle of Chivas Legend Special Reserve,” he said, pointing at the most expensive whiskey in the shop.

  “Celebrating?” the girl smiled.

  “Death of my career,” replied Marcus. “Just want to give it a good send-off.”

  Two hours later he collapsed fully clothed onto the thin mattress of the bed of his motel room.

  It was dark when he woke up with a hangover so bad his hair hurt. He sat up checked his tousled brown locks in the mirror and pulled his long fingers down the sides of his cheeks. He stuck out his tongue and pulled down his eyelids, the green iris flecked with brown, but the whites of his eyes were bloodshot. Not a good look at twenty. Bad in your forties.

  “Great career farewell,” he murmured.

  He gulped down a glass of water and four Tylenol and picked up the phone to check his emails. A voicemail icon flashed reminding him of the badly timed call from that morning. He dialed to retrieve the message.

  “Hi Marcus, Sam Wood here. Tough out here, eh? They tell me you’re not staying quite at five-star hotels these days,” said the broad Australian accent. “So, I am sending you my latest script… see what you think… if it rings any bells, jogs any memories. Oh, and Balzac was right.”

  Sam Wood. Marcus was in shock. At the very moment his world was collapsing around him, one of the most successful writers in Hollywood had sent him a screenplay. Sam was the last person on earth Marcus expected to hear from, let alone receive a script. Twenty years ago, he and Sam had been almost brothers, but on a typhoon-lashed movie set, their bond had been broken by death and violence. They had not spoken since.

  He stood stock still for a moment trying to absorb the enormity of that call. A beat, then he rushed down the thinly carpeted hallway to the reception desk.

  “You have anything for me?” he panted as he reached the reception desk.

  The young girl on duty looked up startled by the tall disheveled Englishman.

  “I’m sorry. No manners,” Marcus took a deep breath. “Please, did anything come for me by courier today, while I was…out?”

  She handed over a manila envelope. “I knocked on your room, but you were…no answer…,” she trailed off as Marcus gave her his last twenty dollar bill as a tip and ran back up the corridor.

  Shutting the door, Marcus ripped open the envelope. Inside was a screenplay, titled FALL OUT, with a handwritten note attached.

  * * *

  Dear Marcus,

  THE SECRET OF A GREAT SUCCESS FOR WHICH YOU ARE AT A LOSS TO ACCOUNT IS A CRIME THAT HAS NEVER BEEN FOUND OUT, BECAUSE IT WAS PROPERLY EXECUTED.

  -Honoré de Balzac

  You’ve got an eighteen-month free option. Sam

  * * *

  An hour later and with shaking hands, Marcus put down the screenplay. His body was pumping pure adrenaline. FALL OUT was far and away the best thing the Australian had ever written. A gripping plot with box office smash written all over it. It was exactly what Marcus needed.

  “Ha-le-goddamn-lujah,” he breathed in relief. He didn’t care why Sam had sent him the script. He just knew that this was a lifeline, and he was grabbing it with both hands and his teeth, if necessary. He looked at his watch. It was nearly midnight.

  “Too bad it’s late,” he muttered as he punched in the number listed on the note. Nothing.

  Despite the hour, he picked up his car keys and headed for Venice Beach.

  3

  SANTA MONICA, CALIFORNIA

  It was raining hard and the worn-out wiper blades on Marcus’ car just smeared the screen rather than cleared it as he headed towards Sam’s house.

  Marcus barely noticed. He was deep in thought, going over and over various permutations of what he could say to show he wasn’t desperate, but, of course, he was. In his heart he just hoped Sam had reached out to his former friend in the Englishman’s hour of need; willing to build a bridge over the torrent of resentment from the past.

  He pulled up across the street from the house he had once visited so often. A dim light came from downstairs. He rang the bell. No reply. He rang it again.

  “Sam, it’s Marcus,” he shouted, banging on the door. He noticed a neighbor’s blind twitch. Not deterred he yelled out “A drink, at least?” Nothing. He was about to leave but stopped. He remembered from drunken nights together that Sam liked sitting out on the deck. He went around the back and saw the verandah door open, so he clambered over the balustrade and wandered in. Marcus froze. The big man was lying on the floor, a crimson ring of half dried blood under his chest. He looked around the silent room. The only light was above the Ken Done painting, which tilted away from the wall revealing a safe.

  Marcus’s immediate reaction was to call the police, and he reached for his cell phone. But at that moment he saw a piece of paper on the floor beneath the desk with his name on it. Puzzled, he reached down. It was a list of names and addresses in Sam’s writing. Along with his name were the names of Cara Baines, Stefan de Turris, Robert Kelso, and Louis McConnell. A shudder. Had Sam sent the script to all of them?


  Before Marcus could decide what to do next, there was a screech of tires and red, blue, and white lights flickered outside. A knock at the door.

  “Mr. Wood? LAPD. Are you OK, sir? We got a call…” Every sense of self-preservation was screaming at Marcus to leave, but he hesitated. He owed his friend and did not want to desert him. However explaining to the cops about why he was here, and the screenplay was going to be messy.

  Flashlights waved like light sabers, spearing through a window into the room. A moment later the door crashed open and two policemen ran in.

  “Freeze,” yelled one. “Hit the deck, now.”

  As Marcus kneeled down to do exactly as he was told, he slipped the scrunched up scrap of paper into his mouth and swallowed it. Moments later a knee thudded into the small of his back and handcuffs clamped over his wrists.

  The next morning, the local news on KTLA 5 ran with the story of the death of a successful writer following what appeared to be a struggle with an intruder during a break-in. A suspect was in custody. Charges seemed imminent.

  4

  SANTA MONICA POLICE STATION, CALIFORNIA

  All Marcus could think about was Sam and his screenplay. “So, Mr. Riley, let’s go over this one more time, shall we?”

  As he repeated his version of events, Marcus’s mind was working on why Sam had chosen to send him the script. And why had he sent it to the others? Would they say anything to the police or stay quiet? The five of them shared a dark history, and Marcus did not want to be hooked back to a cold case murder enquiry. He needed to speak to the others soon.