“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I understand you’re a movie star these days.”
“How do you understand that?”
“I have a widespread network of surveillance equipment and personnel, and I like to keep tabs on you. I might need you someday.”
“Or vice versa.”
“What are you saying?”
“A little matter’s come up. I could use your assistance.”
“My assistance?”
“Well, the assistance of your widespread network of surveillance equipment and personnel. I’m looking for a young man by the name of Nigel Hightower the Third, reportedly here in L.A.”
“You can’t find him yourself?”
“Hey, I’m a movie star. I’ve got my hands full.”
“Ah, the price of fame.”
“Fuck you, Mike. I’m one guy juggling multiple identities and trying to help Peter Barrington make a picture. This Hightower thing is a favor for a friend. It’s important, and I need it done fast.”
“My firm’s in New York. You think I’m the best man for the job?”
“I know you are.”
“You want to tell me why this is so important?”
“No.”
“Suit yourself. Say hi to Peter for me.”
“I won’t be telling him.”
“It’s like that, is it?”
“Don’t jump to any conclusions.”
“I never do.”
“Call me as soon as you find him.”
“What makes you think we will?”
“I have a gut feeling.”
19
Teddy was crouching on a ledge outside a fourteenth-story hotel room window when Mike called back. Luckily his cell phone was on vibrate or he might have ruined the shot. He was also lucky they were filming on the soundstage on the back lot of Centurion Studios and he wasn’t the main focus. The ledge he was crouching on was part of the set they had built to shoot the hotel room scene between Tessa and Brad. Teddy was literally window dressing. He could occasionally be seen in the background ducking down in the window if Brad or Tessa came his way. The actual scene of Teddy on the ledge, plus his perilous climb to get there, would be filmed on location on the fourteenth floor of a hotel in downtown L.A. A call during the sequence would have been really inconvenient.
Teddy called back while Peter was giving notes between takes. Peter always gave notes between takes. Brad was the type of actor who needed notes.
“What’s up, Mike?”
“A young man answering the description of Nigel Hightower the Third has a habit of getting high on coke and leaving most if not all of his bankroll in an illegal hold ’em club in Chinatown.”
“How’d you find that out?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“I’m paying for it.”
“That’s why you don’t.”
“Now you’ve made me suspicious, Mike. What’s going on?”
“My men are out canvassing, touching base with their informants, and a hooker happened to recognize him. She said the kid had paid for her company of an evening, but was so high on coke he couldn’t cut the mustard, if you know what I mean.”
“Where did the hooker make the acquaintance of this young man?”
“At an underground club—both figuratively and literally. Ringtone Lee’s place, in the basement under a noodle shop.”
“‘Ringtone’?”
“I assume it’s a nickname, but apparently there is such a guy. Anyway, we got him. Nigel plays every Friday night. I’ll put triple coverage on him and follow him home.”
“No,” Teddy said.
Mike was surprised. “No?”
“Don’t follow him home. Pull everybody off him. When he leaves that club, I don’t want an agent anywhere near the place.”
“Uh-oh,” Mike said.
20
Nigel Hightower III was winning, which was not unusual. Nigel often won in the beginning, before flushing his entire wad of cash on an ill-considered bet. But tonight he’d been winning steadily for hours, and built his original stack of two thousand dollars up to five. Visions of moving into more desirable living quarters danced in his head. Sure, he owed the landlord six months’ rent, but that was under the name of Harvey Wilson, and if that notable deadbeat were to skip town, who would even think twice about it? He’d be able to afford fifteen hundred bucks for a sham ID and credit rating, and he could make a new start. After all, didn’t everyone deserve a new start?
Nigel hit pocket threes and limped into the pot. If he hit on the flop he could clean up; if he missed, all he lost was the big blind. The game was dollar, two, no-limit, so he was basically risking two dollars for the chance to mint money.
Nigel hit a third three on the flop. He checked, slow-playing the hand, cunningly lying in wait for the money to come in.
It did. Two players bet up the pot. One folded after the turn.
The other guy, who had just bought into the game with a huge stack, made a big bet on the river.
Nigel went all in and he called.
The son of a bitch had a straight.
Nigel had him covered, which meant he had more money than his opponent, but not much. After paying him off, Nigel had only a hundred and eighty dollars left. He could have kept playing, but it had taken him a long time to build up his stack, and a hundred and eighty dollars was hardly enough to buy in. Not when he was angry enough to shove it on the first hand.
Nigel knew better than to make a scene. It was not done. If you lost, it was no one’s fault, just the luck of the draw. You accepted the outcome, or you didn’t come back. Nigel remembered the schmuck who had lost five hundred dollars on a single hand and had smashed a glass. Ringtone Lee’s bouncer didn’t look like much, but the man was fast. The asshole was out the door before he knew what hit him.
So even with the nagging suspicion in his mind that Ringtone Lee had sent the guy who won the pot into the game to take him down, Nigel wasn’t about to complain. It didn’t matter. Nigel was playing great and a high roller was just another chance to double his chips.
Or lose them all.
The bouncer led Nigel out and walked him up the long, narrow stairs to the street. The basement steps would have been heaven for muggers, who might be waiting outside the battered metal door. Not that players leaving Ringtone Lee’s often had much money, but even so.