Jail Coach Read online

  Levitt unholstered a palm-sized thing and started touching screens on it.

  “I’ll check his schedule. He may have an avail sometime tomorrow.”

  “‘Avail’?” I asked Proxy.

  “Availability.”

  “Bullshit.” I meant that to get attention and it did. “He signed a contract, so his availability is now. Get his ass up here.”

  Talk about shock. Korvette, shyster, and shysterette all gaped at me like I’d given Superman a wedgie. Korvette had made billions of dollars playing with other people’s money in the currency-arbitrage racket and then used a sliver of it to buy New Paradigm Studios—but Saul Levitt was the most powerful person in the room. In the building, for that matter, and probably in Century City. The others couldn’t believe I didn’t know that.

  “What did you say?” Levitt demanded.

  “You heard me. Trowbridge made the mess, so he gets to help clean it up. Call him and tell him to take twenty minutes off from banging whatever starlet got the short straw tonight so that he can join the party.”

  Purple-faced and pumping himself up like a bantam cock, Levitt whipped every one of his sixty-four inches around Proxy and stalked up to me.

  “Now you listen to me, you two-bit thug. Kent Trowbridge is a star. He is Hollywood royalty. He doesn’t—”

  “Kent Trowbridge is a star, but Trans/Oxana is an insurance company. When insurance companies decide that stars aren’t bondable, they aren’t stars anymore.”

  It would have been interesting to see where Levitt went with that one, but the elevator opened and in came a female version of the escort who had accompanied Proxy and me. She was breathless. When her dove-gray blazer flew open I noticed that she was also something else: armed.

  “We have a situation in the parking area,” she panted. “With Mr. Trowbridge.”

  Chapter Three

  “So, is this like def-con five?” Proxy did not pant as she asked this question about three minutes later, even though we’d hustled to the scene at a pretty good clip.

  “My last time on def-con-five people were shooting at me. A bloody nose and bruised knuckles is just Saturday night in a Ukrainian bar.”

  Trowbridge had the bruised knuckles. The mangled nose belonged to a fresh-faced twenty-something guy with a parking valet gig in New Paradigm’s VIP lot. In Trowbridge’s general vicinity stood two beefy guys and two non-beefy girls, and I use “girls” literally. If 17 was the over/under, I’d have taken under for a thou. A bright yellow Lexus SUV, picking up highlights from the late-June sun, provided a nice backdrop.

  “It’s my car and I want my fob right now,” Trowbridge was slurring.

  That fit with scraps of explanation I’d overheard the escort give Korvette and Levitt on the way down. Something about Trowbridge demanding his car and the valet trying to stall him because he wasn‘t fit to drive off the parking lot, much less navigate his way to Malibu.

  “I want that car jockey fired,” Levitt had told Korvette as they exited the elevator.

  “He had express orders: if Trowbridge showed up drunk or high, he was to hold him up until someone could get down there and talk some sense into him.”

  “Then I want whoever gave those instructions fired.”

  “You got it. I’ll submit my own resignation to myself and then refuse it. If I were you I’d start thinking about how to make the valet happy. If he calls the cops, your boy is on his own.”

  That’s about where things stood when we reached the scene. Delivering the want-my-fob line was apparently an intense experience for Trowbridge, because he followed it up by bending over and vomiting. The beefy guys screened him while he blew supper, in case any paparazzi were around. One of the girls held his hair.

  With Proxy and me right behind, Levitt approached the valet. He put his hand on the shoulder of the guy he’d told Korvette to fire thirty seconds before. Wrapping a benjamin around one of his cards, he slipped it into the valet’s pocket.

  “Saul Levitt, kid. I put a word in for you with your boss and you’re okay. No one is blaming you. You did the right thing. And when that screenplay you have on your computer at home is ready, give me a ring.”

  I thought I was about to puke. Instead I glanced at Proxy, who was pecking away with grim determination at her iPhone.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “Dial a Designated Driver.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “LA is the only city I know of that has it. Get the fob.”

  I sidled up to Levitt as if we were best buddies and congratulated him on a class move. It probably came off as a little sarcastic. Then I turned my attention to the valet and caught his eyes.

  “I’m Jay Davidovich.” I handed him one of my cards. “I’m from the insurance company. Nice work. Looks like your nose did more damage to his hand than the other way around.”

  “Thanks.” He grinned. An ironic grin, but a grin.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Dex White.”

  “Dex, we can save your report for later, but right now I’d like the fob.”

  He handed it over faster than a process server delivering a writ in a mobster’s divorce. I pocketed the thing and strolled back in Proxy’s direction while Levitt marched over to Korvette. I figured I’d be the subject of that conversation but I didn’t pay much attention because I expected to have more pressing concerns in the next five seconds or so.

  I did. Beefy guy number one—ex-defensive tackle build, scar between his eyebrows, curly red hair that he hadn’t combed recently—sidled toward me. He was about three feet away and already had his hand extended, palm upward, when I spoke up.

  “Close enough, bro.”

  He took one more step before he stopped.

  “I need you to give me the fob for Mr. Trowbridge’s Lexus.”

  “Never confuse wants with needs.”

  He rolled his eyes. Then he took another step. He might have lifted his arm. If he didn’t, he would have. The next thing he did for sure was stop cold and sink down to his knees, hugging his midsection. He did this because I’d just buried the first two knuckles of my right fist an inch deep in his solar plexus. Brought the fist back under my right armpit, fingers up, and then rotated it in a snap-punch as I shot it straight forward. Takes about a quarter-second and hurts like a sonofabitch. Sucks the wind right out of you.

  Standard protocol in the muscle trade called for him to get back up and come after me just for pride’s sake. He had no excuse for existing except to shove people around, so his future couldn’t look very bright from his present vantage point. I could tell he was thinking about it. Two gray-blazers saved him by scurrying over, with Korvette in their wake. Korvette instantly got in my face.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing? This isn’t some goddamn Ukrainian whorehouse.”

  “You’re right about that. A self-respecting Ukrainian whorehouse wouldn’t have underage girls—and Hulk Hogan here wouldn’t have gotten in.”

  “Get the hell off my lot. And I mean now. Right fucking now.”

  “You got it.”

  I did a parade-ground about-face and started walking toward the entrance, which I guessed was maybe a quarter-mile away. Korvette thoughtfully told a gray-blazer to go along with me to make sure I didn’t get lost. I waited to see if this guy would do something obnoxious, like grab my arm, but he didn’t. Instead he started talking in a let’s-be-friends voice that struck me as pretty real.

  “Nice punch.”

  “Yep. Dumb-ass forgot the first rule of AWT.”

  “‘If the enemy is in range, so are you.’”

  So the gray-blazer not only knew the first rule of AWT, he knew that AWT stands for “Advanced Warrior Training.” Which meant he’d served in the military and, other things being e
qual, probably liked me more than he did Korvette.

  “Does New Paradigm have a lot of cartel money floating around, or do you guys just carry those cannons to impress the tourists?”

  “I don’t know much about the money side.” If my question offended him he didn’t show it. “The drug money and the mob cash usually show up in financing individual pictures. Not so much in the capital structure of the studios.”

  “No kidding?” I’d learned something new today. “How long do you think before they remember I have the fob?”

  Something in his ear squeaked.

  “On a wild guess, right now.”

  He touched the thing in his ear and barked his last name. I stopped because I figured we were going to have to retrace every step we took anyway. He nodded, touched the thing in his ear again, and looked up at me.

  “I’m supposed to bring the fob back.” He had the grace to look sheepish.

  “Let’s go.”

  I started walking back the way we’d come. He didn’t.

  “They’d rather I brought it back without you.”

  “Ain’t gonna happen.”

  “Yeah, I figured.” He joined me in my return trek. “Just thought I’d ask.”

  We’d gotten almost all the way back when a miniscooter whizzed past us. I saw a woman and a little girl on the thing. The little girl was wearing a helmet, but the woman wasn’t. The scooter zipped around the crowd and the Lexus, then came to a stop just behind the SUV’s lift gate. Korvette was now yelling at Proxy while jabbing a finger toward me.

  “I want that asshole off my account, as of now.”

  What you don’t want to do with Proxy, ever, is try to shove her around. She can sometimes be finessed, but blustering guarantees you worldclass push-back.

  “You don’t have a vote.” That would be Proxy pushing back. “As long as the policy is in force, Trans/Oxana decides who’s on the account. If you want to cancel, get it to me in writing by tomorrow and we’ll refund fifty percent of the premium.”

  “Who’s your superior?”

  “Harrison Balk. I’ll email you his number.”

  “Do that. Because he’s going to hear from me.”

  “He’s working on a matter right now with one-point-two billion at risk, so he may not be immediately available. He makes a point of returning calls within one business day, though, so I’m sure he’ll give your views prompt attention.”

  Scooter lady picked that moment to sashay up with her little one in tow. I guessed the girl was eight or nine. She had her mom’s blond hair and grayish-blue eyes, although she didn’t yet have the generous breasts and well-rounded buns of steel that mom’s cycling leathers very imperfectly hid.

  “Who called DDD?”

  “I did,” Proxy said.

  “Who the hell are you?” Korvette demanded.

  Mom put her hands over the little girl’s ears and glared at Korvette.

  “I’m Katrina Starr Thompson, with Dial-a-Designated-Driver.” She spoke with a West Texas drawl that dared you to make a crack about it. “Who are you?”

  “Mark Korvette. Until fifteen minutes ago I had the impression I was running this studio. If we need chauffeur service here—”

  “It’s okay.” Everyone looked at Kent Trowbridge, who spoke the line with professional aplomb. He didn’t seem quite as plowed as he had before retching. “The insurance drones might be right. Maybe the safest thing to do is to have Miss Thompson give me a ride home.”

  He stepped forward to offer her his Hollywood-royalty hand and flash the smile that could launch a million ships if American females between fifteen and fifty-five ever amass that many.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Kristina.”

  “Not ‘Kristina.’” She shook his hand. “Katrina. Like the hurricane.”

  Chapter Four

  The scooter was the slickest thing I’d seen since I’d come back from Iraq. Thompson flipped a couple of handles, turned a knob, and folded the thing up into a tidy metal bundle about the size of a dismounted M-60 machine gun—and a lot lighter, judging from the almost effortless way she humped it into the SUV’s cargo bay. Then she focused her eyes like two blue-gray lasers on Trowbridge.

  “Would it be a huge problem if Lucinda rode up front with me?”

  “I think I can handle that. The other ladies and I will ride in the back.”

  “Also—and the customer is always right, so if the answer is no then I totally understand; I’m just askin’—but if you all could possibly manage the trip without smoking…”

  “Deal.” Trowbridge smacked a comely, silk-clad rump with each palm. “The ladies were just telling me about how they were planning to go smoke free.”

  Trowbridge’s performance fascinated me, and I’m a tough crowd. A miniature director inside his skull had hollered “Action!” and suddenly Trowbridge was ON. Someone who’d just walked up wouldn’t have had the faintest idea that he was drunk. The timing of his body movements was a shade off, but he seemed steady on his feet and you really had to be listening to notice any slur in his speech.

  The two palookas glanced at each other as Thompson, her little girl, Trowbridge, and his eye candy piled into the Lexus. It was pulling away before the muscle could even think about hitching a ride. The temporarily flat-nosed valet needed five minutes to come up with the rental Ford Fusion Proxy and I were using, so the Lexus was nowhere in sight by the time we pulled out of New Paradigm. We were at the mercy of the rental’s GPS.

  LA traffic isn’t as horrible as people in places like Utah and Wisconsin think it is, but even so Proxy and I had a healthy trip in front of us. Her opening line sounded musical to me.

  “In case the question ever comes up, I saw that ape getting ready to take a swing at you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So what are the chances Aaron and Erin get Trowbridge off without a trip to the slammer?”

  “Zero.” I replayed the shyster-speak in my head and parsed Epstein’s bet hedging. “Lawyers usually low-ball their chances so that they look good if they win and their clients can’t call them on it if they lose. But talking about a well-defended three-point shot is way beyond low-balling. Aaron and Erin think they’re facing longer odds than Sarah Palin for president of Mensa.”

  “So Trowbridge is going to do some county time. And if Korvette is right, that long a stay behind bars will leave him a broken man without a prayer of ever bringing off the debonair hero number again.”

  “Could be alarmist.”

  “Big chance to take.” Proxy shook her head as rain—rain in LA!—started spattering the windshield. “Robert Mitchum did thirty days for marijuana possession in the late ’forties and came out of it okay, but he had a genuine toughness about him that I don’t see in Trowbridge. Besides, thirty days is one month, not nine. Nine months is ten years in movie-star time.”

  “So it won’t exactly break your heart if Korvette takes you up on your hint that he cancel the policy.”

  “If Korvette cancels our policy I’ll put that on the year-end memo I write about how big my bonus should be.”

  “But we have to assume he won’t.”

  “He won’t. He got to be a billionaire by being a jerk, not an idiot.”

  “Okay.” My turn to sit and think, which I did for ten seconds. “I guess we need a jail coach.”

  She shot me a puzzled look. I’d stumbled on something relevant to an insurance risk that Proxy Shifcos didn’t know. This was one for the highlight reel.

  “What’s a jail coach?”

  “It’s someone who can train a soft, well-educated, upper-income felon in the skills he’ll need to survive a stay in prison and come out with a reasonably whole skin. Started showing up after Watergate, when the courts began sending bushels of politicians and high-level executives t
o prison.”

  “How do you get to be a jail coach? I mean, is there, like, an associate degree you can get at a community college or something?”

  “I expect you start by going to jail. That way you can say you’ve been there, looked at other people who’ve been there, and you have the credibility to guide someone else through it.”

  Proxy clicked off a good ten miles of streaming windshield time while she thought about that. She’s smart and she has enough self-esteem for a Harvard Law School class reunion but, excuse me, she’s twenty-seven years old. She joined Trans/Oxana thinking of insurance as the most Rotarian gig in the world. And up to three-million bucks or so, it is. When the stakes hit eight figures, though, insurance turns into an intersection between high finance and organized crime.

  “How much does a jail coach cost?”

  “Not sure, but it’s gotta be less than one percent of thirty-six million dollars.”

  “Where do we find one?”

  “I don’t have the faintest idea.”

  “Well,” she sighed, “if it were easy Aetna could handle it.”

  Chapter Five

  The first thing I saw in Trowbridge’s sunken living room was Trowbridge snoring on a California Mission-style couch that looked a lot pricier than anything a Franciscan missionary would ever use. The eye candy had decided that Luci—that was apparently what Lucinda went by—was just the cutest thing in the world. They were on the living room floor with her, solemnly discussing her doll’s adventures with Dora the Explorer. Levitt and the bruisers hadn’t shown up yet.

  Trowbridge must have collapsed before he could play Gracious Host. Thompson was foraging in the shelving of a wet bar, which told me that she didn’t frequent circles where people had wet bars. It took me about three seconds to spot the liquor cabinet concealed behind a panel in a California Mission-style false beam just behind her under the ceiling. I didn’t even have to jimmy it. A little push inward and it popped open.