Dog Beach Page 3
“The bitch?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you fucking her?”
“Of course not, but if she catches you in here, I’ll be out on the street. She thinks I’m trading close-ups for blow jobs.”
“Well, duh.”
He got up, slipped into his Jams, gave her the shush signal. Giggling, she burrowed under the covers, popped back up, stuck her pierced tongue out at him. Like a magician, she was now holding and filling a tiny pipe with weed.
“Let me just get rid of her,” Troy said.
He shuffled out barefooted, fixed his tousle of hair. “Zee? That you?”
He heard nothing, turned the corner and yelled. So did the aging Chinese guy in tinted glasses standing in the hall.
“Can I help you?” Troy said.
“You are Troy?”
“Who are you?”
“Your name is Troy?”
“Yes.”
The Chinese guy shrugged innocently, then moved with deceptive quickness, laying a palm at Troy’s chest and driving him across the room, against the wall. He felt like he’d been hit by a heavy, breaking wave. “What the fuck, man?”
“Pay boss.”
“What?”
“Pay boss or I come back and break your legs.”
In the bedroom, Alexis heard the confrontation, hid under the covers for a moment, then sat bolt upright. Hearing the scuffle, she dropped her tiny pipe and grabbed for her cell, quickly dialed 911, and whispered, “Somebody’s fucking attacking my boyfriend. In his house. I don’t know the address. Las Flores Beach in Malibu, east of Duke’s. It’s the brown house next door to Gary Busey’s.”
Out in the living room, Louie kept an iron-like finger high on Troy’s chest.
“You understand me?”
“Who are you?”
“Never mind,” Louie said, spittle flying. “Big trouble, you don’t pay boss.”
Louie turned on his heel, hurried toward the door. It was done. Over.
“Wait,” Troy said, and Louie stopped. For a moment, panic danced across his eyes, swollen behind the amber tint of his glasses.
“Do I know you?” the kid said.
“What?”
Troy studied the face, knew he’d seen it somewhere. The loose jowls, thick head of black hair going gray, outsized sunglasses almost hiding a scar near the temple.
“No, you don’t know me,” the guy said.
“No, I think I do.”
Louie went a shade of alabaster. Troy erupted into a sound that made Louie flinch. “Holy shit. I know you.”
Louie fumbled for the door handle.
“No Wires, No Nets,” Troy blurted. “Am I right? The documentary. I watch it, like, once a month. You’re Mo Chen Liu, the stunt guy. Am I right?”
Louie threw a befuddled look Troy’s way. The damn antique brass door handle didn’t work, neither up nor down.
“Louie Mo, the stunt man. Shaw Brothers Studios.”
“You are crazy.”
“Shaolin Executioner. Five Deadly Venoms. You did the full-burn scene on the boat in City on Flame.”
Louie turned again. From this well-lit angle, Troy was almost positive now.
“Louie Mo, right?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“What are you doing here? Are you working with Avi or something? Are you on a movie with Avi?”
“How do you know all this Hong Kong movie?”
“Victor Lo tried to say he did his own stunts in Two Tigers of WuDang, but you did them all. Except for that big roll down the temple steps, I think that was Victor.”
“Bullshit,” Louie spat, then caught himself. Maybe, he reasoned, he was still napping in the passenger seat and this was some crazy wine-and-oxy dream.
“Wait a minute,” Troy said. “Did you say . . . did you say you were going to break my legs?” He laughed, incredulous.
“I’m not here.”
“You’re not here?”
“No, I’m here, but I’m not Louie Mo.”
“You’re not?”
Louie searched for an alternate escape, breezed quickly toward the French doors. “Wait,” Troy interjected. “Can I just give you something?”
“No. What you give to me? You don’t even know me. Just pay boss and let me go.”
• • •
Out in the car, Dutch woke from a hazy nap. Sirens were whining closer. Two LAPD cruisers passed her, heading north then “flipping a bitch” as they say in the stunt world, swinging a wide U-turn and pulling in, one behind her, one forced to park on the highway. Lights were turning and it made her cortisol spike. When she saw two cops walking toward the same brown house that Louie had entered, she did the thing that meant she was ready for lockup. She slipped off her right shoe, freeing her bare foot and her ankle bracelet, the one with a tiny St. Christopher medal on it. Monkey foot was what she called her driving style, a closer connection between driver and pedal. Her hand edged deliberately to the ignition. “Fuck a duck,” she whispered.
• • •
“Would you read it?” Troy said.
Louie looked at the slim script in the kid’s hands then glanced over his shoulder at the sound of sirens outside.
“It’s called The Cage,” Troy said. “A onetime famous cage fighter who killed a guy in an illegal match down in Mexico. He gets out of jail after twenty years. Tries to find his family and live a normal life, but the brothers of the guy he killed hear that he’s out. They come after him.”
“You make movie?”
“Everyone is after him. All the young guys in MMA, all different styles of fighting. It’s like John Woo meets fifties Western noir meets Run, Lola, Run. It’s kick-ass, Louie, almost like one big shot that doesn’t let up. How cool would it be, Louie Mo in his first leading role? All his own stunts, not for someone else.”
“You’re crazy.”
“I can pay you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve got some cash from the production I’m on now. I can get you ten grand up front. Maybe another ten to finish and then some back end. Same as we just did for Eddie Morales on Slash.”
Louie stared, incredulous. Twenty grand to star in an action movie, not just doing stunts? He looked around the big living room, did a quick inventory of shabby-chic furniture and framed art. This was Malibu, maybe this kid was for real. Louie was taking in the seven-million-dollar ocean view when he saw the cop at the open porch door, hand on his leather holster. A second cop sidled calmly alongside the house, same position.
“Shit,” Troy said, “chick must’ve called the police.”
When Troy started toward the cops, they calmly ordered him to stay where he was.
“Is there a problem here, bud?” the first cop said.
“No, Officer. My girlfriend must’ve called.”
The cops were looking at the Asian man now.
“This is Louie Mo,” Troy said, almost bragging. “Hong Kong stuntman. Legend.”
When the cops angled unimpressed looks, Louie gave a slight nod.
“We got excited, about a script,” Troy said. “That’s all. There’s no problem, Officer.”
“Must be one hell of a script, bud,” the first cop said, “if your girlfriend calls nine-one-one.”
When the second cop saw Alexis peering out, he stared, expressionless. “Did you report an incident, Miss?”
“I thought,” Alexis said, “this guy was assaulting my boyfriend.”
The second cop scanned her through his Ray-Bans. “You from Charlie’s house?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought so.”
“You the home owner?” the first cop asked Troy.
“No. Avi Ghazaryan the film producer owns the house. I’m the tenant.”
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br /> The cops stayed on the porch for a moment, instructing Troy and Louie to stick around. Troy could tell that they were bored by the affair but were seizing the opportunity to loiter on a sunny Malibu balcony and catch a break from the freeway. After a few radio calls, they asked Troy again if there was a problem. Finally assured, they left.
Alexis, wearing nothing but Troy’s violet NYU tee and her Uggs, eased out into the room a wary step. “Troy, what’s going on?”
Troy ignored her, fixated again on Louie Mo. “Would you just think about it? We’d shoot the whole thing right here in L.A. in four weeks. I’ll cut my fee if you need more money.”
“Your name is Troy?”
“Troy Raskin. I had a film at Austin last year.”
“You make a very big mistake, Troy. I work for a man who collects money for people. I came here to tell you only to pay your bills.”
Louie left Troy in the hall, confused. Alexis hadn’t moved either. “Troy, what the fuck is going on?”
• • •
Out in the Chevy, Dutch felt a kind of vertigo as she drove. “He knew you?”
“I don’t know how; nobody knows me. Always I’m behind the action.”
“Is this a joke?”
“He know so much. Every movie. Every fight. Chinese names. Even my real Chinese name.”
“I don’t even know your real Chinese name. What’s that in your hand?”
“Script.”
“What?”
“He give to me. The Cage. Wants Louie Mo. Not just fighting. Star, twenty thousand dollars.”
Dutch pulled over just before the overpass. She had her iPhone, double-thumbing. She grabbed the Jack in the Box napkin and Googled the name Troy Raskin and the word “movies.” Halfway down the screen, she began to read:
“Troy David Raskin. NYU whiz kid wins Special Jury Mention at Austin Film Fest with offbeat heist drama.”
“See? Believe me now?”
“NYU whiz kid,” she said again. “Film school dude. Maybe he does know who you were.”
“Knows more Chinese movie than me.”
“Did he really say twenty grand? Don’t fuck around, Louie.”
“Cut his own fee, he said. If I do movie.”
“Louie, this is insane.”
“I know.”
“You go in there to kick him in the balls and he offers you a movie deal?”
“I know.”
She stared at him for so long, he wanted to shake her. Then she heard her phone chime a text. “Shit, we’ve got a taker on the football,” she said, scrolling. “Baseball card dealer in Thousand Oaks.”
She shifted into drive. Louie held the script like he was holding rare porcelain. He thumbed through it, not reading, just thumbing. He could tell, already, it was good. It felt good in his hands. Light. Not heavy like Once Upon a Time in China 2. That one took two years of his life and ruptured his spleen. And still, no one knew his name.
No one but that kid Troy on Las Flores Beach.
6
HERE COMES JESUS
The jaundiced guy with the sideburns and gauze taped across his damaged nose stood on the deck of Banazak’s forlorn yacht, watching the ex-footballer rinse out a cooler. Coastal wind teased his thinning hair. “I’d never do anything to hurt you, J-Zak,” he said.
Banazak didn’t look at him. “What were you doing in the hotel room with these dirtbags selling my shit?”
“I was there trying to buy your stuff back. This fucking Chinese dude barges in and goes Bruce Lee on everyone.”
“You were my agent, Tommy. Longer than Chasman was.”
“I’m just in there, getting close to a deal. The guy hits me in the face. He grabs the jersey and the football and runs out. I had nothing to do with it. I just want you to know, man, I was there trying to buy back your stuff.”
Banazak stared at him with those flat, dead eyes. “What did you say?”
“I was just there trying to buy back your shit.”
“No, about the Chinaman. He took the jersey and the what?”
“The football. The game ball from the Super Bowl. It was on a stand, but he left that, just took the ball.”
“He delivered the jersey. I’ve got that back. He didn’t bring no ball. He said he couldn’t find it.”
“Oh, he found it. Had it under his arm when he was walking out. I remember because . . . the stupidest thing went through my head while I was lying there, my nose busted, covered in spaghetti. I thought: He’s not protecting the rock. He can get stripped. Fumble waiting to happen.”
Tommy laughed, but he was a nose-laugher and the snorting hurt his busted cartilage. “Stupid things that go through your head, you know, in the moment.”
“He didn’t deliver no rock.”
“Check the security tape. They’ll show you,” Tommy said.
“The guy is going down the hall with the jersey under one arm and the football in the other.”
Banazak’s pupils dilated. He breathed in salt air, listened to chinkling boat chimes and gulls scavenging over near the Cheesecake Factory. “The jersey’s a jersey. I ripped a dozen of them, gave a dozen to little kids. But that rock, man. That was a tipped ball at the line of scrimmage in the red zone. My big, lumbering ass took that ball eighty-seven yards to pay dirt. On national TV. My father fucking cried. Only game ball I was ever awarded. My whole career is in that ball.”
“Yeah, well. Now some Chinaman probably has it on eBay.”
Banazak kicked the cooler. The cover split a hinge, the tank slid off the boat into a slick of motor oil. “Here comes Jesus,” he said, and he went down into the galley. The hair bristled on Tommy’s nape. Those words. That’s what J-Zak used to say aloud when he broke through the line and went after a quarterback with intent to kill. “Here comes Jesus.”
Opposing linemen were said to void their bowels when they heard those words. Because few quarterbacks ever played another game; some never walked again.
7
FIRE IN THE HOLE
Down between Garfield and Garvey, in the area known as Downtown Monterey Park, Louie Mo sat inside a crowded little house, speaking Cantonese to an old woman named Mother Celery. The English translations that some Chinese chose for their names forever baffled him. “Louie” was transnational, but “Celery”? Still, he wasn’t going to tell Mother Celery that. The house was full of Chinese laborers, the surrounding area boasting the largest concentration of Chinese in any municipality in the United States. That’s why he lived there. He could hide. Blend in. Relax, almost.
On the days or nights he went to work for his “agent,” a Czech loan shark he called Boss Jim, he’d come back to the house tired and sleep in a room he shared with four other Chinese men. When they sat about and spoke Cantonese, Louie would tell them he washed dishes in South San Gabriel, didn’t say much more. When the Chinese people of Monterey Park would see the white girl in the Chevy come to pick him up, they never asked about it.
For the past two days he’d been resting his hip at the communal house, eating the old woman’s soup, reading Troy’s script, and taking solace in the fact that he made two grand in a matter of days. Half came from selling the “superball” to a dealer in Thousand Oaks, half from the elbow he put on the kid Troy in Malibu. Of course, he split the fee on both with Dutch. After paying Mother Celery for room and board he had a little more than nine hundred dollars inside the backpack that contained everything he owned: a red sweat suit, a pair of ostrich-skin loafers, a shaving kit, his passport, and several changes of socks and underwear.
Sometimes he felt like one of the Chinese emigrants who came to America to work on the railroad. Living day to day, paycheck to paycheck. A “coolie,” Dutch told him they were called. One day Mother Celery set down his rice and said, in Cantonese, “Man with secrets. Who do you hide from?”
“Two ex-w
ives,” he confided. “But you know, Grandmother, they have pills for female problems.”
The old woman frowned then said in throaty Cantonese, “A man doesn’t hide the way you do when he’s just running from women who want his money.”
Louie changed the subject, plying her with so many compliments about her soup that she eventually smiled with her termite’s den of teeth, ladled him more, and let the conversation die. But it had troubled him. There were times when he’d almost forgotten he was a wanted man in Hong Kong. But the kid Troy had disturbed him and he wondered again if this was now some kind of clever trap. Could the kid be a plant? Even the story line of the kid’s script seemed to be a subtle threat: A character trying to find peace but hunted down by men from his violent past. Then again, if this kid was, like Dutch said, a walking database of kung fu movies, it wouldn’t be unusual to write something like that—a silly white boy’s notion of a cool Hong Kong flick.
Louie struggled with the English prose in the script, but the dialogue read cleanly. There wasn’t much, except for a big speech right where the script dead-ended, unfinished. Some monologue about “the cages we build around ourselves.” It sounded ridiculous, not the way real people talked. But who cared? Twenty thousand dollars was a winning lottery ticket right now. Shoot the movie in four weeks, tuck away the cash, and maybe go with Dutch to Las Vegas.
Louie was trying to read through that monologue now, but the Cantonese around him was getting too heated. Some drama was unfolding outside, some chatter about a little girl and her bicycle chain. No one could fix it. She blamed her little brother and bit him; he was wailing in the kitchen.
Finally, Louie slipped the script into the net pocket on his rucksack and lugged it with him outside. He entered the near hilarious circle around the girl’s bike and he took a knee, saying nothing. As a stuntman on low-budget Hong Kong films, Louie had done it all. He’d rigged explosives, hung cable, chambered squibs, and even saddled horses. Fixing a little girl’s bicycle chain was easy. When he looked up and saw her smiling through dried tears, he felt something he had become distant from. Pride. Just a hint, maybe, but it felt good.